Darkwitch Rising by Sara Douglass

Tall and graceful, fair hair blowing in the wind.

“Marguerite,” Charles muttered, and started forward at a jog.

By the time he topped the hill he was breathing hard, and Marguerite Carteret, twenty-year-old daughter of the governor, laughed at him as she held out her hands.

“Oh, would-be-king-of-England, if only your subjects could see you now, all red-faced and sweaty!”

He took her hands, then kissed her on the cheek. “Mother Ecub,” he said. “I had never thought you ever to be young, and delicious.”

Marguerite’s light brown eyes snapped with humour. “You only ever knew me as an old woman. Even then, I had been young, once.” Her mouth curved a little. “But, my, look at you. So dark and handsome, so vital. I imagine every girl in England mourns your loss.”

He let her hands drop. “What do you know?”

“What do I know? Why, that the sun shines, and that the wind is gentle, and that the lord my prince has managed to escape his minders so that—”

“Damn you! What do you know?”

“That you are too impatient a young man, and that this exile shall doubtless encourage the growth of patience and circumspection without which you shall never regain England,” she snapped back at him.

He drew a deep breath, and Marguerite felt instantly contrite when she saw how it caught in his throat.

“What do I know?” she said softly. “That we are all back, and that many of us, this time, are exiled. But I know also that we shall return, and that you are the one about whom we shall coalesce.”

He nodded, accepting that statement as if his right. “And Cornelia?” he said. “Where is she?”

“In England. Not in London. Safe, for the moment.”

“For the moment.” Charles turned away. “I should be there for her. Damn it, Marguerite, I love her.”

“What can a sixteen-year-old boy do for her, Charles?”

Now he swung back to her. “I am far more than a sixteen-year-old boy!”

“And where has that ‘far more’ got you in this life thus far?”

Charles gave no answer to that. He stared beyond Marguerite to where the sea foamed, then he suddenly reached into the pocket of his breeches, and pulled forth a dried piece of dirt and turf.

Marguerite drew in a sharp breath. “What is that?”

He said nothing, but held it out to her in his open hand.

She reached out, and touched it briefly. “It is land.”

“Asterion shall not have me exiled entirely.” He pocketed the piece of turf, Marguerite’s eyes following it hungrily, knowing that some day, somehow, that piece of turf would be very important to them. “Asterion is stronger than ever,” Charles said.

“Aye, I can feel him, even from here. Whispering evil into the hearts and minds of Englishmen.”

“Cornelia—”

“Cornelia shall have to shift for herself. She is not so weak and helpless that you must spend every waking moment fretting for her. She has strength, too.”

“To face what confronts her?”

“Aye,” said Marguerite. “To face even Asterion. She can do it.”

Charles sighed again, this time easier. “Aye. She can do it, but she will need aid.”

“Thus I, here and now. All of Eaving’s Sisters will gather to you, Charles. The more of us with you, the greater your power.” She studied him, a slight frown lining her forehead. “You have greater power than ever before, Charles.” Again her mouth curved. “Very heady indeed. I can see that I shall enjoy your company.”

They stood for a long moment, staring at each other, thinking of all that had gone before, of all the opportunities that had been lost, and all the mistakes that had been made.

And of all that could be accomplished, if they could manage to wield their powers.

“All of us will gather to you, Charles,” Marguerite said again. Her hands slipped behind the back of her gown, and Charles realised she was loosening the laces that bound her bodice. “Somehow we will find a way to aid Cornelia-reborn. Until then, there is but you and I, and all we can do is to wait, and to comfort each other.”

A thrill went down his spine at her words, but still Charles held back from her. “Everything I do is noted. We must be circumspect.”

“To a point.” The gown slid free of her shoulders, and Charles saw that the fair skin over her shoulders and the rise of her breasts was dusted with soft freckles. “Asterion will expect nothing less of you. Brutus has ever gathered women to him. Charles, if you worry that…well, Cornelia will not mind.”

“I know that.” The gown was about her waist, now catching about her hips before she shook herself free of it.

She wore no chemise or underskirt. “I am the first of Eaving’s Sisters to come to you. Will you accept me, Charles?”

He stared at her, hardly able to reconcile the Ecub he had known in his two previous lives with this beautiful, sexual creature.

“For the love of England, man, how long are you going to stand there and think about it?”

He laughed. “Ah, there speaks Ecub!” He put his hands gently about her waist, pulling her towards him, and this time when he kissed her, it was no chaste peck on the cheek. His hands slid upwards to her breasts, and Ecub tipped back her head so he could run his mouth down her neck.

“Cornelia once told me,” Marguerite said, laughing a little breathlessly now as he lowered his face to one of her breasts, “how good a lover you were.”

He laughed, then let her go and stood back a little as he stripped away his clothes. “Now you can judge her truthfulness for yourself, Ecub.”

She leaned forward, putting the palm of her hand flat against his mouth. “My name is Marguerite. We need to be careful.”

Naked now, he pushed away her hand and pulled her back to him. “Not this afternoon,” he said. “Not here.”

Easthill, Essex

NOAH SPEAKS

I think I puzzled the entire parish of Easthill; I know I certainly puzzled my parents. What was this child, they thought, who seems so unchildlike? I remember lying in my cot, a baby only a few months old, and knowing. Remembering all that had gone before. This life, praise all gods who lived, I remembered. I would not repeat Caela’s mistakes.

I think I distressed my mother with my un-babyish gaze. I recall her leaning down to study me, bewilderment all over her honest, lovely face. I didn’t cry, I didn’t burble. I rarely laughed.

I watched.

My father, a local vicar, insisted I be named Noah. He’d wanted a son, desperately, and the disappointment of a daughter was not enough for him to abandon his cherished name. In any case, he loved me despite my femineity, and I loved the name. Noah. Survivor. I hoped it boded well for the future.

So I grew through my childhood, puzzling everyone who beheld me. I took part in no children’s games; I played no mischief; I did not cry; I rarely laughed (who could laugh, remembering Asterion’s grip on my flesh, and his taunting words, “Not God’s Concubine at all, but mine!”)?

I learned to read faster than any child hitherto, and displayed an uncomfortable knowledge both of Greek and of Latin.

How could my poor parents have known I drew on the knowledge of two previous lives to aid me in traversing this one?

My mother faded away when I was four. I felt sadness for her, but more for my father who had loved her dearly. He continued another nine years, writing his sermons in the sunlit front room of our parsonage, distributing the parish poor relief as best he could, and all the while lost in puzzlement at his strange, unsettling daughter.

Poor father, what would he have felt if I had said to him one day over our lonely supper table, “Father, I am far more than just Noah Banks, daughter of Parson Banks of Easthill. I am Eaving, mother goddess of this land, inheritor of more troubles and sorcery than you could possibly imagine.”

But I could not say that. I merely watched as he, too, faded away. He died in the early summer of 1646, peacefully and gently: that, at least, I could grant him. He had tried, and I had loved him in my own way.

I was given into the care of Bess Felton. Mistress Felton was…oh, I suppose she was the local parish “goodwife”. She concerned herself with everyone’s affairs, which could be a great irritant, but she aided and advised and was a comforting presence. I certainly did not mind when she bustled me away from my father’s grave into her own home (the parsonage could no longer be my home, for my right to its comforts died with my father).

I could not long stay there, for Bess had a husband and five children, all packed into a three-roomed cottage, but Bess made me welcome and as soon as I was seated before the grate, began to make plans to ensure my future.