Darkwitch Rising by Sara Douglass

“I know,” she said, finally smiling a little at him.

“I could not let you go without—”

“I know.”

There was a silence, then John looked at Marguerite and Kate. “Will you look after her well? I cannot bear to think of her suffering for her loss of home.”

“For every loss of home, another is gained,” said Kate. “We will watch her well, John Thornton, and we thank you for such care in farewelling Noah.”

“I have loved her,” said John, once again looking at Noah, “and will do so again, should she allow.”

Noah was now close to tears, and so patently incapable of replying that Marguerite did so for her. “You are a man with farseeing eyes,” she said. “You shall live a charmed life.”

Thornton’s mouth twisted sadly. “Without Noah? I cannot think it.” Then he suddenly leaned forward, kissed Noah very softly on the mouth. “Farewell, beloved. May the land rise to meet you.”

Marguerite’s eyes glowed at this remark, and, as Thornton turned abruptly to go, she reached out a hand and stopped him. “You will live a charmed life,” she said. “Believe it.”

Thornton looked once more at Noah, as if he wanted to commit her face to memory, then turned and ran lightly up the steps and into the Abbey.

“He is a good man,” Noah said softly, watching his retreating back, “and I have treated him poorly.”

To that neither Marguerite nor Kate had anything to say.

Woburn Village, Bedfordshire

NOAH SPEAKS

Such love and comfort! I revelled in it. The depth of companionship between women beloved of each other is so vastly different to that which exists between a man and a woman that, I must confess, I allowed myself to luxuriate within it.

I chatted with Marguerite’s two children as we rode towards Woburn village (there was a third, an older girl, but she was happily ensconced within her father’s court and had not accompanied her mother to England), and held Kate’s baby. For the first time since learning of my own pregnancy, I felt relaxed and happy. I felt safe. Not merely physically secure, but safe emotionally. Marguerite and Kate and their children represented only joy and loving and companionship.

Their children delighted me. They had so much of their father within them that they were a pleasure merely to watch. They had his darkness of hair and of eye, even Kate’s tiny baby daughter, and I was joyful, not only for their mothers, but for Charles as well, that he had children such as these. “Bastards” they might be in this world’s tiny, cramped morality, but they came of a line so kingly, so powerful, that I knew they would consistently shine in every aspect of their lives. Blessed, indeed.

“I cannot think that your father could bear to allow you out of his sight,” I said to the boy, and he grinned.

“He would not disallow us this adventure,” he replied, “and he said we had mothers who could keep us safe through whatever travail might beset us.”

“Aye,” I said, smiling now at Marguerite and Kate, “you have extraordinary mothers, indeed.”

And so, in warmth and love and joy, we arrived at our house. Woburn village was one of the prettiest English villages I had ever seen, and it was no tragedy for me that I should now find myself living there. The house stood on the gently sloping main street, two doors up from the church: a large, substantial brick and stone building of some three floors that could accommodate with ease all of us—Marguerite, Kate, myself and all our children born or still waiting for birth. The earl had sent along two servants for us, but Marguerite told me she sent them back to the Abbey.

“We three women can manage for ourselves nicely,” she said as we drove into the village. “And besides, what we shall manage within the house, no Christian eyes should witness.”

I smiled, content, and took Marguerite’s hand as we walked into the house.

Marguerite and Kate had travelled well. They had brought with them a vast expanse of books and fabrics and carpets and chests and lamps and everything that might make a home.

“Where did the coin come for all of these riches?” I said, aghast, for I had heard of Charles’ penury, the difficulties of his life in exile, and I did not want to think that he had sent himself even further into poverty that we three might live in comfort.

“Not Charles,” said Kate, “but Louis de Silva. His own father was generous with him, even though Louis is himself a bastard, and so Louis was generous with us.”

“He said,” Marguerite said, and I turned my head to regard her, “that he would do anything for you. Anything. This,” she spread a hand, indicating the vast expanse of opened chests and coffers, “is but a fraction of what he says he gifts to you.”

“And for England?” I whispered. “What will he do for this land?”

Anything. Everything.

I heard the words whispered in the air about me, and I shivered.

Marguerite took my hand again, then she and Kate showed me the house. They had only just arrived themselves, so that all was in chaos, but it was easy enough to see how comfortable we should be. There were two large reception rooms, a kitchen, pantry and two small storerooms on the ground floor, while the two higher floors each held several large rooms which we would use as bedrooms for the children and ourselves.

The children shared one large room on the second floor, and Marguerite, Kate and I resolved to share the largest of the rooms on the third floor. We would not be parted, Marguerite and Kate and I, and were grateful that the chamber contained a bed large enough to hold all three of us, as well as Kate’s baby (and, I had no doubt, Marguerite’s two children when they came to wake us each morning with their shrieks of joy).

The three of us, in bed, sharing love and warmth and companionship and, I hoped, enough power that we might form our own Circle.

As Eaving I had hardly touched my powers during this life. I was waiting, I think, for whatever lay down the road ahead of me.

Now, with Marguerite and Kate close and loving, and already habituated in the Circle, I could do more. Enjoy more.

On that day we merely settled ourselves, fed and loved the children and set them to bed as the sun sank, and then retired to our own chamber high in the house, there to disrobe and crawl into the vast bed.

“I can feel him on you,” I whispered as we sat, our bodies lit only by the guttering flame of a single candle set on a chest. I ran my hands slowly over Marguerite’s naked body, then Kate’s, exploring the curves and bounties of each one, observing with pleasure the marks of their children on their bellies. “I can smell him on you.”

Kate was nervous at this. “Do you mind?”

“No. I do not. I am glad that you and he both have managed to find some comfort. But, oh, how I envied you when your Circle reached out and touched me! I could feel the closeness between you, and I wished it so much for myself.”

“And thus John Thornton,” said Marguerite. She had stretched out on the bed atop the covers, close to both Kate and myself. One of her hands rested warm on my thigh where I sat cross-legged, the other on Kate’s hip. We were all so close, so together.

“Aye,” I said. “Thus John Thornton.”

“Was he a good lover?” asked Kate, and I think the expression on my face was enough answer for her and Marguerite for they both laughed, and Kate clapped her hands.

“He wishes this child was his,” said Marguerite when she sobered, and her hand slid from my thigh to my belly.

I shuddered at its gentle movement. “Oh, aye. He begged me to allow him to acknowledge it.”

Marguerite said nothing, but her hand slid back and forth over my belly, as if feeling the child within.

“You shall start to round out soon,” she said.

I put my hand over hers and pressed it against my flesh. “Kate, do you remember when you were Erith, and you and Loth took me to Mag’s Pond?”

Kate grunted, no doubt remembering also the debacle of that occasion.

“I conceived my daughter that night, and lost her to Genvissa’s ill will seven months later.”

I stopped, and they said nothing, waiting.

“This is she,” I whispered. “Reconceived.”

“Eaving,” said Marguerite, “are you sure?”

“Oh, aye. I can feel it. My daughter, returned.”

Kate, who, as Erith, had witnessed my sorrow at my daughter’s earlier death, reached out a hand and very gently caressed my face. “Ah,” she said, “this is good news, truly. A promise, for the future.”