Chapter 4
THEN
Newbrough
‘Meggie!’
The voice was a low hiss. Meggie turned, unsure as to where it had come from, her skin prickling with recognition, even as she heard it. She stopped, dread filling her soul.
It could be guaranteed that the owner of the voice would not show themselves willingly.
It was often like that for Meg. A few villagers were suspicious of her gifts, and some were openly mocking.
Emory’s childhood name for her had been whispered around Newbrough for years and it had stayed with her: she was Meggie Noble, the Snow Witch.
Her hair had not darkened, and her skin was as milky-white as it had always been, and she roamed the moors in all weathers, haunting Coventina’s Well and harnessing nature for her remedies and tinctures, so it was unsurprising, really.
And it made Meg smile – she was as far removed from a witch as she could possibly be.
But she didn’t mind. She enjoyed helping people; it was her reason for existence – that and Emory, and soon their child – and those villagers who needed her help conveniently forgot the fact that they were asking for the assistance from a so-called witch.
And in certain cases, when they needed her help, they did not usually want other people to know.
Today, she had just left her cottage and was hurrying through the village, her shawl pulled tightly around her, when the voice summoned her. Her stomach churned and she made a great effort not to curl her lip.
‘Charles.’ Her greeting was abrupt. This was not the person she wanted to see.
‘Meg.’ Charles Milburn appeared out of an alley, smug and self-satisfied as always.
Her eyes roved across his face, and she did not trust him one bit.
She never had done. Charles Milburn, Emory’s so-called ‘brother’, had lost his mother years ago and his father twelve months ago.
He was now twenty-six years old and head of the most powerful family in the area, and Meg had no choice but to acknowledge him.
The two men were very different from one another.
Emory was dark and passionate, whereas Charles was fair and coolly calculating.
Emory’s emotions were writ all over his face, bubbling just under the surface, ready to erupt into laughter or temper; Charles reminded Meg of the adders she sometimes found in the grass – silent and ready to pounce, quietly evil in their own special way.
She could never have imagined being as uninhibited with Charles as she was with Emory.
Laughing until she cried, loving until she lost her breath – she was one with Emory and one with the landscape they called their own.
The only things that made each man remotely resemble the other were their eyes and the faint outline of their chins.
They both had a look of Charles’ father about them, and the rumours had spread that Emory was the child of a Romany woman and Mr Thomas Milburn, brought home to Milburn Hall to be raised as Thomas’ son.
And as much as Meg adored Emory, as much as her love for him was almost a physical pain, her hatred for Charles Milburn was of an equal strength. He had summoned Meggie to do his bidding on more than one occasion, and it was never a good sign when he sought her out.
‘I hope you are well, Charles,’ Meggie said tonelessly, crossing her fingers beneath her shawl.
She didn’t really care how he was, or indeed particularly hope that he was well.
In her mind, he could be writhing in agony from a fever, and she wouldn’t hurry to bring him a tisane to cure him or whisper words over a charm to protect him.
Far more likely she would prefer to whisper words over a charm to make the fever take quite a different course with him. But that was not her choice to make, and she was sworn to help everyone, regardless of her personal feelings towards them.
Charles moved closer to her, coming halfway out of the alley so his face was partially in harsh winter sunlight. His fair, wavy hair was pulled back loosely and tied with a blue velvet ribbon, his dark eyes drilling into her, amused for some reason.
He seemed relaxed and cheerful and leant against a wall, tapping a riding whip against his thigh.
‘I’m extraordinarily well, thank you.’ He pushed himself off the wall and stood facing Meggie.
In one seamless movement, he brought out his arm and pulled Meggie into the alleyway.
He thrust her against the wall and planted one hand either side of her head.
Meggie could smell some sort of lavender perfume emanating from his crisp, white shirt and pressed riding breeches.
She fought against pushing him away, even as he stood there…
‘Ah Meggie. You are glorious. And so pretty. I’d never noticed before.’
Meggie fought harder to mask her hatred for the man.
She pressed herself backwards into the wall, wishing that she could allow herself to disappear right through it, to fade into an insubstantial mist that he could not touch with those vice-like fingers.
But then he levered himself away from the wall and stood looking down at her, smirking.
‘What do you want, Charles?’ She was under no illusions.
Charles Milburn never paid her social calls, thank the goddess Coventina – he only lurked in that despicable way when he needed her to do something. It was usually to get her to ‘take care’, as he said, of a girl in the village. Who had, most unfortunately, found herself with child.
‘I wonder,’ said Charles thoughtfully, ‘would you please just work your Snow Witch – magic – and call in on one of our friends?’
Meggie nodded mutely. She knew she had no choice, even though she hated it.
If anyone had told her to get rid of her child, she did not think she could be responsible for her actions towards them.
But it was different for her; she did not care what anyone thought, and she had no family to shame.
It was only her and Emory it concerned. She would not be able to hide her pregnancy much longer.
Already, she walked more slowly, but her shifts and the loosened laces of her bodice still hid her changing shape, especially when she pulled her shawl around her.
But she cared naught for the whispers it would bring.
Come the spring, she would have her child.
‘Who is it?’ she asked now. ‘Who am I to speak to?’
Charles smiled and leant in. ‘Alice. Alice Scott.’
‘Alice?’ Meggie was appalled. Alice was Meggie’s closest friend. ‘My Alice?’
Charles laughed and shrugged, unconcerned. ‘I do not know who you associate with – well, for the most part.’ He licked his lips suggestively and Meggie flushed with anger, knowing what he implied. ‘But yes. I believe you do know her. So, if you wouldn’t mind – I would be most grateful.’
He bowed, cocksure, and Meggie’s hatred for Charles, at that very moment in time, knew no bounds.
How many children would Charles Milburn have spawned by now if Meggie had not been called upon to intervene and end it, every time he got a girl with child?
She hated it, and she hated him. And in her heart, she felt it was murder – but what option did she have?
All she could do was offer prayers to the goddess to look after the child in the afterlife.
If she chose to murder, it would not be the life of an innocent unborn babe she took. But that was not her way. Her way was to help and heal, and she must try to remember that she was helping these poor girls, even if it was not in the way she would have wished to.
She would pray to Coventina about Alice as well.
Nobody knew for sure what was out there, listening to the words Meggie whispered in secret.
But Coventina was a powerful spirit, the goddess of the spring thaws, the disappearing snow and the welcome green shoots of spring; the goddess of healing and childbirth; the Mother of Covens.
To Meggie, who revered her, Coventina was the spring flowing into the Sacred Well of the sanctuary in the wilderness she needed to roam, where she could scream her frustration to the four winds.
‘Tell me, Meggie,’ asked Milburn curiously, bringing her back to the present moment, even as her mind was reeling and her heart was hurting for Alice. ‘What is it that you give them?’
Meggie shook her head. The least she said to this creature, the better. And she would not share her secrets with him. She would not give him ammunition. The mugwort she used was dangerous if you miscalculated the dosage. Picked at midnight, on the Summer Solstice, it had never failed Meggie yet.
Her recipes were safe from prying eyes, carefully written in a book her grandmother had inherited, belonging to generations of women in the family. Hidden under a loose flagstone in her cottage, the book was, her grandmother had said, secret.
Meggie had been taught her letters so she could continue to fill the ancient pages. She had always thought that when the time came, goddess willing, she would teach her own daughter to do the very same.
‘What does it matter to you, Mr Milburn? So long as the draught does its job.’
Milburn sighed. ‘You are right, Meg. I’ll see to it that you are paid for your services.’
Services!
She bit her lip to stop herself saying something she would regret, and dipped her head in acknowledgement. She wanted him to leave. She did not want to look at his face with that awful sneer on his lips any longer.
Then, suddenly, Milburn bent his head down and kissed her on the cheek. Meggie fought the urge to vomit. Milburn laughed, and turned on his heel. He headed back down the alley whistling to himself, tapping the shaft of his whip in tune.
Meggie watched him go, then wiping her face roughly with her hand to rid herself of his vile touch, she sent a quick prayer to Mother Earth and Brigantia, the ancient fertility goddess. She made a mental note to offer something back to them, in exchange for the life she was about to take from them.