The cauldron effect, p.23
The Cauldron Effect, page 23
“I must attend to His Grace,” the man sputtered.
“And you may,” Lady Hancock said in sympathetic tones. “Tomorrow. The church reopens then. Good day, sir.”
“I will not leave the archbishop unattended. He needs my protection!”
“Inside a church?” Lady Hancock asked with a raised eyebrow. “With the rector accompanying him? Also, that was a physician who helped carry him. Be assured, all of His Grace’s needs are being attended to.”
The man fumed and fussed but eventually he left, muttering that he would return with reinforcements. Lady Hancock waited until he retreated to his carriage before she turned to give Mrs. Dunstan the signal she was free to act.
That lady gave a gracious nod of thanks and she and her younger companion ascended the steps.
“Mrs. Dunstan really is a witch!” Bessie whispered in an excited voice. “She must have put a sleep spell on His Grace.”
“Some nights my husband tosses and turns, keeping me awake. I would love to have the ability to wield such a useful spell,” Joanna murmured in a wistful voice.
The idea that her neighbor was a witch did not amaze Lady Hancock at all. In fact, she had suspected as much for years. Just as she believed every tale she’d ever heard about elves and brownies and such, despite Merryn Pendraven stubbornly refusing to confirm any of her suspicions for all these years. Still, to have the staunchly proper Mrs. Dunstan come to her and admit she was a witch to her face and then to request her help had left Lady Hancock feeling extremely privileged.
She’d quickly confided all to her two closest, like-minded friends and gained their support to rescue His Grace from a coercive spell.
“I find it fascinating they’re not merely witches but people from another world,” she murmured aloud.
“Terrible about their entire world being destroyed,” Joanna said. “I’m glad they chose to settle in Cornwall.”
Lady Hancock squeezed her friends’ hands before releasing them. “God does teach us, my dears, that charity begins at home. Now let us finish what we began and raise some funds for our beloved church. Saint Agatha, too, needs our aid.”
WITH CALLINGTON COVEN’S best healing witch, who was another of her nieces, at her side, Morwena stopped before the church's porch doors. She looked up at the statue above the doorway. “Saint Agatha, we mean neither you nor those under your charge any harm. May we enter?”
Saint Agatha didn’t respond.
“She seems upset,” her niece whispered.
“Everyone’s upset, Boo-Boo,” Morwena said to her teenage niece. Though only sixteen years old, Morwena trusted Grace Adair, or Boo-Boo to her close family members, to be up to the task she’d been set. Boo-Boo was a healer extraordinaire. “We are in a hurry. My spell on the archbishop will not last long.”
Her niece shifted restlessly. “What if Saint Agatha won’t let us in? I heard she’s been cantankerous and argumentative since the boy went missing. She’s refused to allow any witch to enter the church since Merryn left Callington. Though why we should be interfering in warlock activities, especially if it involves the archbishop, is beyond me.”
“Shush!” Morwena said. “That argument is old and I’ve no more time to debate it. You will do as I ask and not question your high sage on this matter.”
Morwena studied the statue of the saint holding her severed breasts. “Saint Agatha, we’ve come to help the archbishop. To cure him of whatever malice the warlocks have imposed on him. Will you please give us permission to enter this holy place?”
The saint bent her head to look at Morwena. “That was an archbishop who was carried inside?”
“Yes.” Morwena gave a silent sigh of relief. At least the saint was talking to them. That was surely a good sign. “His name is Charles Manners Sutton.”
“The Archbishop of Canterbury?” Saint Agatha asked.
“The very same,” Morwena said. “He’s under a spell.”
“Is that why he was unconscious?”
Morwena hesitated, tempted to say, “Yes,” but then she remembered Merryn’s advice that it was time to ask for help. That this was not their fight alone.
“I made him sleep,” she said, looking straight at the saint’s marble eyes. “My healer must work on the spell he’s under without his objections. Will you help us?”
“Yes,” the saint said. “Anything for His Grace.”
“Thank you.” Morwena said and ushered her niece inside.
Before the door shut, Saint Agatha said, “Will you tell him I’m a good saint?”
Morwena came back outside. “I beg your pardon?”
“Will you tell His Grace I’m a good saint?” Saint Agatha asked. “And ask him to pray for me?”
Morwena frowned at the obvious worry in the saint’s voice. “Have you done something sinful?”
“I’m the guardian of this church. I allowed a child who came here for God’s blessing to be endangered.”
“That was not your fault,” Morwena said. “The dark fae attacked the church.”
“I should have withstood their attack.”
“You did your best.” Morwena couldn’t believe she was consoling a saint. “The Maker understands that none of us are flawless. Not even saints.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I’m sure of it, my dear. Be calm. You’ve done an excellent job of safeguarding this church since it was built.”
“I’m weak,” Agatha whispered. “So very weak. My resources have been stretched to their limits and now I haven’t the strength to protect myself. Will you help me?”
“How? And from what?”
“The dark fae. One is here now. Underground. He tries to enter through the old ways. I do not know how much longer I can keep him out. He’s not alone. Others come. With great ill intentions toward me. They are all determined to gain entry and steal my treasure.”
“What treasure?”
The saint’s eyes flared open and then she clamped her mouth shut and stood straight, looking across the horizon.
Realizing she would get no more from the statue, Morwena went inside. Could Merryn be right that this church held the secret to where Trystan could be found?
She looked around inside the entryway to see if the Scottish brownie Merryn spoke of was anywhere near. The surfeit of dust balls and cobwebs in the corners of the church suggested the little fae had departed in search of safer terrain.
Wishing she could do the same, Morwena instead checked on her niece. The girl worked diligently on the archbishop, with the rector hovering nervously beside her.
Morwena left them to it and went in search of the stairs that led into the bowels of the church. If something was indeed attempting to enter these hallowed grounds, Saint Agatha needed help holding it at bay. At least until Merryn could arrive to lend a hand.
She opened the door to the east tower and found the stairs leading down. Shoulders back, and head up, she descended the narrow stairs.
The steps ended abruptly before a brick wall. No amount of prodding or poking at the bricks would open a doorway. Using a finger, she drew a large imaginary oval, her height. “Seal me not, open for me.”
The bricks fell over into a dark room on the other side. A wave of her hands scattered the fallen bricks and puffs of dark moldy smelling clouds, forming a clear path ahead. Lifting her hem, she climbed through the impromptu doorway.
The rectangular room she entered mimicked the layout of the church above, with center and side aisles, and columns supporting three elegant arches on the left and right. A half-buried crypt at the far end drew her forward. She gauged that directly above would be the church’s current altar.
Morwena checked for signs of a rude entry into the chamber but all seemed still and undisturbed. The crypt was sealed. No recent disturbance in the dust.
She held out her arms and closed her eyes, turning her sight inwards and then beyond the four walls. Abominations swarmed toward the church. Heart racing, she turned and ran toward the opening she’d created.
Before she could reach it, the fallen bricks rose and slammed into their original places, the dust settling into the crevices until Morwena was trapped inside the cellar in the dark.
The church walls trembled and Morwena thought she heard Saint Agatha whimper, “Dear God, help me.”
Amen to that!
“Surely you weren’t thinking of leaving yet?” a woman murmured from behind Morwena. “When the entertainment is about to begin?”
Morwena turned slowly, every nerve in her body quivering in terror. Light shone from above. One corner of the ceiling was emitting a steadily increasing sickly green glow, like a gate opening.
A beautiful dark-haired woman in an ethereal emerald confection entered through the glow and lounged on the tomb. Her legs were casually crossed and she leaned back on outstretched, slender, white arms and watched Morwena with a hard, golden gaze.
Three hellhounds followed next and sat hunched by her feet. Eyes red, hackles raised, they let out low warning growls.
“So, you are Morwena Dunstan. How do you do, my dear? I’ve met one of your sisters. Lovely witch. I’ve been meaning to discuss with you what happened to her. Perhaps it would be more enlightening to allow you to experience her fate.” She laughed, a malicious, venom-filled sound.
From inside the glowing gate, snakes with deformed human heads slithered out, falling to the crypt floor with slaps and thumps. Snapping at each other in impatience, they crawled and slid over anything in their path in obvious eagerness to reach their prey.
Morwena sent out a desperate mental call, MERRYN! Then she raised her arms and readied to do battle.
Chapter 15
Alice and her best friend, Elizabeth, resided inside the walls of Saint Agatha’s church. Today, unusual chatter drew the pair of mice to a hole above the niche where the statue of Saint Agatha was set.
While Alice remained safely within the church wall, Elizabeth, the braver of the two, ventured outside to sit on Saint Agatha’s right shoulder and peer at the people gathered below.
“Alice, this doesn’t bode well,” she called back.
No longer able to contain her curiosity, Alice poked her head out of the hole. “Looks like a tea party.”
She didn’t normally care for crowds. Men had a way of stomping on a mouse without particular care, while the women screamed and struck with their parasols.
“Look around.” Elizabeth pointed with her front paw. “They’re everywhere.”
Craning her neck, Alice leaned out for a better perspective. “In the back as well?”
“The witches are. The front, sides, back.”
“Why?” Alice whispered, now truly concerned. “What does it all mean?”
“Trouble, Alice. And there’s more.”
“What more could there be?” Alice’s legs were trembling. “What else, Lizzie?”
“That.” She pointed toward the sky.
Alice squinted until she spotted a dark shape looming overhead. She squealed and pulled back. “Is it an eagle?”
“Too big to be an eagle.”
“A dragon?” Alice breathed out the terrifying word.
“Big enough to be one and it’s coming straight for the church!”
Her friend swung around and scrambled up the saint’s marble head to reach the hole where Alice hid. Her friend ran past her so quickly, Alice found herself spinning around to follow her progress.
She hurried after Elizabeth who streaked down the rood beam, skirting the base of the cross.
Her heart palpitating, Alice paused to take a much-needed breath on the far side of the Lord’s bound and pierced feet.
“Come on, we have to hide,” Elizabeth shouted back. “Not in the catacombs though. I heard something burrowing there earlier, trying to gain entry. It was digging. I think it was one of those hellhounds again.”
Alice scampered after her friend. “Saint preserve us!”
“Better pray higher than our saint,” Elizabeth said. “I showed you what happened to that poor warlock boy who came to be baptized. We don’t want that happening to us.”
Alice shuddered at a memory she’d valiantly tried for days to banish, and failed. She looked nervously toward the church altar where the boy had once bravely stood beside his mother. “I’ve not been happy since he was brought here. The church feels creepy now. I wish we could leave.”
“Too late.”
“Then what are we to do, Lizzie?”
“Hide. In the deepest, darkest hole we can find.”
THE CARRIAGE LANDED with a clatter of hoofs, jingling harnesses and neighing horses and Braden bounced hard on his metal seat. “Next time, padded seats,” he said to Merryn.
“There’s going to be a next time?”
“With you, my love, I wouldn’t doubt it.”
“Milord.” Garth ran up to them. Or more precisely, he ran around the front of the carriage. “I almost didn’t believe my eyes when I looked up and saw a carriage soaring through the sky.” He sounded more excited than shocked.
Braden jumped down, trying to ignore his sore rear end and his sword’s suddenly agitated call from where it was strapped across his back. The other creatures from the carriage roof descended around them. He reached up to help Merryn down.
She slid trustingly into his hold. “Something’s wrong.”
“I know. Agamore’s vibrating and I’ve not summoned its power. Garth!”
The little man, who had been petting the horses and shaking the postillion’s hand as if to ensure he was real, hurried to his side. “Milord, you came back in a flying carriage! How does it work?”
Braden kept his arm around Merryn, for she looked decidedly shaken. “We can discuss the intricacies of flight another time. What’s happening here?”
“Archbishop of Canterbury’s inside Saint Agatha’s church. A healing witch is working on breaking the spell cast on him. The rest of the witches mingle among the crowd. The church guards are here, too, led by a warlock. One of the archbishop’s servants went to speak to them. They’re in a terrible pickle about something,”
“Breathe,” Braden ordered.
Garth took a gulp of air and continued. “A group of warlocks have also arrived. They’ve gathered to the east, by the grocer.” He pointed to the opposite side of the church grounds.
"They came," Merryn said, sound astonished.
"Yes," Braden said. "The question is why."
“The plan to keep all outsiders from gaining entry into the church appears to be working,” Garth continued. “No one’s attempted to approach the people of Callington who effectively guard the building with their tables and chairs. Mrs. Dunstan surmised that shades of Bedfordshire keep both the warlocks and church guards back. On the fundraising front, their cakes, sugarplums and strawberry fritters are selling well. Though expensive, those tidbits are tasty.”
“Enough,” Braden said.
Garth took another breath.
“Where’s my Aunt Morwena?” Merryn asked.
“Inside, Miss Pendraven. She lingered by that statue over the church for the longest time. I think she spoke with Saint Agatha herself.”
He sounded so awed, Braden couldn’t repress a smile. Garth was getting a taste of what Braden had suffered while in his remarkable footman’s company. Good! Now he’d realize how uncomfortable it felt to be around people who could do things more extraordinary than one ever believed possible.
Thunder cracked and all of them jumped in fright. Dark clouds gathered overhead and Agamore shuddered with barely suppressed frenzy.
Braden put a hand on the hilt to settle the sword. Be calm, he ordered. The weapon hummed within his grip, as if trying to communicate.
The Fishguard sage turned herself from a hare into her human self beside Garth.
He squealed in fright and sidled to Braden's side.
Braden had to strain to push the man away. “Garth, kindly get a grip on yourself instead of me.”
“I sense Dewer approaches,” the Fishguard sage said in a dire tone.
“Then we’ve little time to spare.” Merryn called the Fishguard witches to her. “Move among the witches here, but be inconspicuous. We do not want to alarm the warlocks before we’re ready. Spread the news that momentarily a barrier must be raised around the church. Everyone, especially the people of Callington, are to be on the inside of the circle when I give the word. Go!”
She gave Braden a concerned look. “I’m worried about Aunt Morwena.”
Aunt Gwen came up to Merryn’s side. “Shall I search for Morwena?”
“No, please stay with me.” Holding her delicate hand, Merryn gave Braden a pleading look.
“I’ll check on your aunt and the archbishop.”
She kissed his cheek, her hauntingly memorable scent covering him in a blanket of gratitude before she hurried away.
“Garth, stay with me,” he said and headed toward the church.
Danger below! a clear and crisp voice said.
Braden stopped and looked around. “Who said that?”
“Who said what, milord?” Garth asked.
Seeing no one else nearby meant one thing. “Garth, Agamore’s speaking to me.”
“If you say so, milord.”
The skepticism in his footman’s tone irked him. “You believe a carriage can fly but not that my sword speaks to me?” He headed for the churchyard where tables laden with goods acted as a physical shield.
“You disapprove of magic, milord,” Garth said from directly behind him, sprinting to catch up. “If I were the sword, I wouldn’t dare speak to you.”
He gave the footman a dark over-the-shoulder glare but before he could reply, someone tugged at his sleeve.
“What’s happening?” An elderly gentleman stood by a table of crocheted pillow covers, his hand cupped around his right ear.
“Go toward the church steps, sir,” he advised the old man.
“Has the attack on the church begun?”
Braden gave the elder a gentle nudge. “Hurry.” A thunderclap accented his instruction.
He checked on Merryn but she was too busy to notice. He didn’t feel right leaving her but she wouldn’t be happy until her aunt was safe. The quicker he saw to that matter, the sooner he could return to lend her a helping hand.
“And you may,” Lady Hancock said in sympathetic tones. “Tomorrow. The church reopens then. Good day, sir.”
“I will not leave the archbishop unattended. He needs my protection!”
“Inside a church?” Lady Hancock asked with a raised eyebrow. “With the rector accompanying him? Also, that was a physician who helped carry him. Be assured, all of His Grace’s needs are being attended to.”
The man fumed and fussed but eventually he left, muttering that he would return with reinforcements. Lady Hancock waited until he retreated to his carriage before she turned to give Mrs. Dunstan the signal she was free to act.
That lady gave a gracious nod of thanks and she and her younger companion ascended the steps.
“Mrs. Dunstan really is a witch!” Bessie whispered in an excited voice. “She must have put a sleep spell on His Grace.”
“Some nights my husband tosses and turns, keeping me awake. I would love to have the ability to wield such a useful spell,” Joanna murmured in a wistful voice.
The idea that her neighbor was a witch did not amaze Lady Hancock at all. In fact, she had suspected as much for years. Just as she believed every tale she’d ever heard about elves and brownies and such, despite Merryn Pendraven stubbornly refusing to confirm any of her suspicions for all these years. Still, to have the staunchly proper Mrs. Dunstan come to her and admit she was a witch to her face and then to request her help had left Lady Hancock feeling extremely privileged.
She’d quickly confided all to her two closest, like-minded friends and gained their support to rescue His Grace from a coercive spell.
“I find it fascinating they’re not merely witches but people from another world,” she murmured aloud.
“Terrible about their entire world being destroyed,” Joanna said. “I’m glad they chose to settle in Cornwall.”
Lady Hancock squeezed her friends’ hands before releasing them. “God does teach us, my dears, that charity begins at home. Now let us finish what we began and raise some funds for our beloved church. Saint Agatha, too, needs our aid.”
WITH CALLINGTON COVEN’S best healing witch, who was another of her nieces, at her side, Morwena stopped before the church's porch doors. She looked up at the statue above the doorway. “Saint Agatha, we mean neither you nor those under your charge any harm. May we enter?”
Saint Agatha didn’t respond.
“She seems upset,” her niece whispered.
“Everyone’s upset, Boo-Boo,” Morwena said to her teenage niece. Though only sixteen years old, Morwena trusted Grace Adair, or Boo-Boo to her close family members, to be up to the task she’d been set. Boo-Boo was a healer extraordinaire. “We are in a hurry. My spell on the archbishop will not last long.”
Her niece shifted restlessly. “What if Saint Agatha won’t let us in? I heard she’s been cantankerous and argumentative since the boy went missing. She’s refused to allow any witch to enter the church since Merryn left Callington. Though why we should be interfering in warlock activities, especially if it involves the archbishop, is beyond me.”
“Shush!” Morwena said. “That argument is old and I’ve no more time to debate it. You will do as I ask and not question your high sage on this matter.”
Morwena studied the statue of the saint holding her severed breasts. “Saint Agatha, we’ve come to help the archbishop. To cure him of whatever malice the warlocks have imposed on him. Will you please give us permission to enter this holy place?”
The saint bent her head to look at Morwena. “That was an archbishop who was carried inside?”
“Yes.” Morwena gave a silent sigh of relief. At least the saint was talking to them. That was surely a good sign. “His name is Charles Manners Sutton.”
“The Archbishop of Canterbury?” Saint Agatha asked.
“The very same,” Morwena said. “He’s under a spell.”
“Is that why he was unconscious?”
Morwena hesitated, tempted to say, “Yes,” but then she remembered Merryn’s advice that it was time to ask for help. That this was not their fight alone.
“I made him sleep,” she said, looking straight at the saint’s marble eyes. “My healer must work on the spell he’s under without his objections. Will you help us?”
“Yes,” the saint said. “Anything for His Grace.”
“Thank you.” Morwena said and ushered her niece inside.
Before the door shut, Saint Agatha said, “Will you tell him I’m a good saint?”
Morwena came back outside. “I beg your pardon?”
“Will you tell His Grace I’m a good saint?” Saint Agatha asked. “And ask him to pray for me?”
Morwena frowned at the obvious worry in the saint’s voice. “Have you done something sinful?”
“I’m the guardian of this church. I allowed a child who came here for God’s blessing to be endangered.”
“That was not your fault,” Morwena said. “The dark fae attacked the church.”
“I should have withstood their attack.”
“You did your best.” Morwena couldn’t believe she was consoling a saint. “The Maker understands that none of us are flawless. Not even saints.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I’m sure of it, my dear. Be calm. You’ve done an excellent job of safeguarding this church since it was built.”
“I’m weak,” Agatha whispered. “So very weak. My resources have been stretched to their limits and now I haven’t the strength to protect myself. Will you help me?”
“How? And from what?”
“The dark fae. One is here now. Underground. He tries to enter through the old ways. I do not know how much longer I can keep him out. He’s not alone. Others come. With great ill intentions toward me. They are all determined to gain entry and steal my treasure.”
“What treasure?”
The saint’s eyes flared open and then she clamped her mouth shut and stood straight, looking across the horizon.
Realizing she would get no more from the statue, Morwena went inside. Could Merryn be right that this church held the secret to where Trystan could be found?
She looked around inside the entryway to see if the Scottish brownie Merryn spoke of was anywhere near. The surfeit of dust balls and cobwebs in the corners of the church suggested the little fae had departed in search of safer terrain.
Wishing she could do the same, Morwena instead checked on her niece. The girl worked diligently on the archbishop, with the rector hovering nervously beside her.
Morwena left them to it and went in search of the stairs that led into the bowels of the church. If something was indeed attempting to enter these hallowed grounds, Saint Agatha needed help holding it at bay. At least until Merryn could arrive to lend a hand.
She opened the door to the east tower and found the stairs leading down. Shoulders back, and head up, she descended the narrow stairs.
The steps ended abruptly before a brick wall. No amount of prodding or poking at the bricks would open a doorway. Using a finger, she drew a large imaginary oval, her height. “Seal me not, open for me.”
The bricks fell over into a dark room on the other side. A wave of her hands scattered the fallen bricks and puffs of dark moldy smelling clouds, forming a clear path ahead. Lifting her hem, she climbed through the impromptu doorway.
The rectangular room she entered mimicked the layout of the church above, with center and side aisles, and columns supporting three elegant arches on the left and right. A half-buried crypt at the far end drew her forward. She gauged that directly above would be the church’s current altar.
Morwena checked for signs of a rude entry into the chamber but all seemed still and undisturbed. The crypt was sealed. No recent disturbance in the dust.
She held out her arms and closed her eyes, turning her sight inwards and then beyond the four walls. Abominations swarmed toward the church. Heart racing, she turned and ran toward the opening she’d created.
Before she could reach it, the fallen bricks rose and slammed into their original places, the dust settling into the crevices until Morwena was trapped inside the cellar in the dark.
The church walls trembled and Morwena thought she heard Saint Agatha whimper, “Dear God, help me.”
Amen to that!
“Surely you weren’t thinking of leaving yet?” a woman murmured from behind Morwena. “When the entertainment is about to begin?”
Morwena turned slowly, every nerve in her body quivering in terror. Light shone from above. One corner of the ceiling was emitting a steadily increasing sickly green glow, like a gate opening.
A beautiful dark-haired woman in an ethereal emerald confection entered through the glow and lounged on the tomb. Her legs were casually crossed and she leaned back on outstretched, slender, white arms and watched Morwena with a hard, golden gaze.
Three hellhounds followed next and sat hunched by her feet. Eyes red, hackles raised, they let out low warning growls.
“So, you are Morwena Dunstan. How do you do, my dear? I’ve met one of your sisters. Lovely witch. I’ve been meaning to discuss with you what happened to her. Perhaps it would be more enlightening to allow you to experience her fate.” She laughed, a malicious, venom-filled sound.
From inside the glowing gate, snakes with deformed human heads slithered out, falling to the crypt floor with slaps and thumps. Snapping at each other in impatience, they crawled and slid over anything in their path in obvious eagerness to reach their prey.
Morwena sent out a desperate mental call, MERRYN! Then she raised her arms and readied to do battle.
Chapter 15
Alice and her best friend, Elizabeth, resided inside the walls of Saint Agatha’s church. Today, unusual chatter drew the pair of mice to a hole above the niche where the statue of Saint Agatha was set.
While Alice remained safely within the church wall, Elizabeth, the braver of the two, ventured outside to sit on Saint Agatha’s right shoulder and peer at the people gathered below.
“Alice, this doesn’t bode well,” she called back.
No longer able to contain her curiosity, Alice poked her head out of the hole. “Looks like a tea party.”
She didn’t normally care for crowds. Men had a way of stomping on a mouse without particular care, while the women screamed and struck with their parasols.
“Look around.” Elizabeth pointed with her front paw. “They’re everywhere.”
Craning her neck, Alice leaned out for a better perspective. “In the back as well?”
“The witches are. The front, sides, back.”
“Why?” Alice whispered, now truly concerned. “What does it all mean?”
“Trouble, Alice. And there’s more.”
“What more could there be?” Alice’s legs were trembling. “What else, Lizzie?”
“That.” She pointed toward the sky.
Alice squinted until she spotted a dark shape looming overhead. She squealed and pulled back. “Is it an eagle?”
“Too big to be an eagle.”
“A dragon?” Alice breathed out the terrifying word.
“Big enough to be one and it’s coming straight for the church!”
Her friend swung around and scrambled up the saint’s marble head to reach the hole where Alice hid. Her friend ran past her so quickly, Alice found herself spinning around to follow her progress.
She hurried after Elizabeth who streaked down the rood beam, skirting the base of the cross.
Her heart palpitating, Alice paused to take a much-needed breath on the far side of the Lord’s bound and pierced feet.
“Come on, we have to hide,” Elizabeth shouted back. “Not in the catacombs though. I heard something burrowing there earlier, trying to gain entry. It was digging. I think it was one of those hellhounds again.”
Alice scampered after her friend. “Saint preserve us!”
“Better pray higher than our saint,” Elizabeth said. “I showed you what happened to that poor warlock boy who came to be baptized. We don’t want that happening to us.”
Alice shuddered at a memory she’d valiantly tried for days to banish, and failed. She looked nervously toward the church altar where the boy had once bravely stood beside his mother. “I’ve not been happy since he was brought here. The church feels creepy now. I wish we could leave.”
“Too late.”
“Then what are we to do, Lizzie?”
“Hide. In the deepest, darkest hole we can find.”
THE CARRIAGE LANDED with a clatter of hoofs, jingling harnesses and neighing horses and Braden bounced hard on his metal seat. “Next time, padded seats,” he said to Merryn.
“There’s going to be a next time?”
“With you, my love, I wouldn’t doubt it.”
“Milord.” Garth ran up to them. Or more precisely, he ran around the front of the carriage. “I almost didn’t believe my eyes when I looked up and saw a carriage soaring through the sky.” He sounded more excited than shocked.
Braden jumped down, trying to ignore his sore rear end and his sword’s suddenly agitated call from where it was strapped across his back. The other creatures from the carriage roof descended around them. He reached up to help Merryn down.
She slid trustingly into his hold. “Something’s wrong.”
“I know. Agamore’s vibrating and I’ve not summoned its power. Garth!”
The little man, who had been petting the horses and shaking the postillion’s hand as if to ensure he was real, hurried to his side. “Milord, you came back in a flying carriage! How does it work?”
Braden kept his arm around Merryn, for she looked decidedly shaken. “We can discuss the intricacies of flight another time. What’s happening here?”
“Archbishop of Canterbury’s inside Saint Agatha’s church. A healing witch is working on breaking the spell cast on him. The rest of the witches mingle among the crowd. The church guards are here, too, led by a warlock. One of the archbishop’s servants went to speak to them. They’re in a terrible pickle about something,”
“Breathe,” Braden ordered.
Garth took a gulp of air and continued. “A group of warlocks have also arrived. They’ve gathered to the east, by the grocer.” He pointed to the opposite side of the church grounds.
"They came," Merryn said, sound astonished.
"Yes," Braden said. "The question is why."
“The plan to keep all outsiders from gaining entry into the church appears to be working,” Garth continued. “No one’s attempted to approach the people of Callington who effectively guard the building with their tables and chairs. Mrs. Dunstan surmised that shades of Bedfordshire keep both the warlocks and church guards back. On the fundraising front, their cakes, sugarplums and strawberry fritters are selling well. Though expensive, those tidbits are tasty.”
“Enough,” Braden said.
Garth took another breath.
“Where’s my Aunt Morwena?” Merryn asked.
“Inside, Miss Pendraven. She lingered by that statue over the church for the longest time. I think she spoke with Saint Agatha herself.”
He sounded so awed, Braden couldn’t repress a smile. Garth was getting a taste of what Braden had suffered while in his remarkable footman’s company. Good! Now he’d realize how uncomfortable it felt to be around people who could do things more extraordinary than one ever believed possible.
Thunder cracked and all of them jumped in fright. Dark clouds gathered overhead and Agamore shuddered with barely suppressed frenzy.
Braden put a hand on the hilt to settle the sword. Be calm, he ordered. The weapon hummed within his grip, as if trying to communicate.
The Fishguard sage turned herself from a hare into her human self beside Garth.
He squealed in fright and sidled to Braden's side.
Braden had to strain to push the man away. “Garth, kindly get a grip on yourself instead of me.”
“I sense Dewer approaches,” the Fishguard sage said in a dire tone.
“Then we’ve little time to spare.” Merryn called the Fishguard witches to her. “Move among the witches here, but be inconspicuous. We do not want to alarm the warlocks before we’re ready. Spread the news that momentarily a barrier must be raised around the church. Everyone, especially the people of Callington, are to be on the inside of the circle when I give the word. Go!”
She gave Braden a concerned look. “I’m worried about Aunt Morwena.”
Aunt Gwen came up to Merryn’s side. “Shall I search for Morwena?”
“No, please stay with me.” Holding her delicate hand, Merryn gave Braden a pleading look.
“I’ll check on your aunt and the archbishop.”
She kissed his cheek, her hauntingly memorable scent covering him in a blanket of gratitude before she hurried away.
“Garth, stay with me,” he said and headed toward the church.
Danger below! a clear and crisp voice said.
Braden stopped and looked around. “Who said that?”
“Who said what, milord?” Garth asked.
Seeing no one else nearby meant one thing. “Garth, Agamore’s speaking to me.”
“If you say so, milord.”
The skepticism in his footman’s tone irked him. “You believe a carriage can fly but not that my sword speaks to me?” He headed for the churchyard where tables laden with goods acted as a physical shield.
“You disapprove of magic, milord,” Garth said from directly behind him, sprinting to catch up. “If I were the sword, I wouldn’t dare speak to you.”
He gave the footman a dark over-the-shoulder glare but before he could reply, someone tugged at his sleeve.
“What’s happening?” An elderly gentleman stood by a table of crocheted pillow covers, his hand cupped around his right ear.
“Go toward the church steps, sir,” he advised the old man.
“Has the attack on the church begun?”
Braden gave the elder a gentle nudge. “Hurry.” A thunderclap accented his instruction.
He checked on Merryn but she was too busy to notice. He didn’t feel right leaving her but she wouldn’t be happy until her aunt was safe. The quicker he saw to that matter, the sooner he could return to lend her a helping hand.
