Page 39 of Witchbane

THEO

Rue’s family and friends’ loathing of me and my father was palpable. I understood why but that didn’t lessen my regret about it. I had only just stepped outside when Pierre slammed the door behind me. I had done what I had come to do and had little option but to leave Rue and everyone else at the manor in peace.

I descended the stone steps and mounted Warrior, reflecting that I had never felt this conflicted by anything or anyone before. I rarely felt fear but that’s exactly what I was experiencing as I rode down the drive. I needed to find a resolution of the allegations against Rue. To somehow prove her innocence, as I had told them I would.

Recalling the idea that had come to me earlier, I believed that my best chance of helping her was to find her father. Lord Thistlebury might have disappeared years before, but I believed he would want to know that his child’s life could be in danger. Even though he had been too bereft to face life at the manor without his wife, after all this time I hoped his grief had lessened enough for him to want to return to support his daughter. Rue needed as many people on her side as possible.

It’s a tentative plan at best, but it’s the best chance I have, I thought miserably.

I was under no illusion about the challenge of tracking him down. I didn’t even know where to begin looking. I rode on for a few minutes. I patted Warrior’s neck. I had been trained by the best to locate people determined to remain hidden. Up until now it had been the most important part of my job.

My thoughts returned to her father. What if my abilities weren’t as good as I hoped? A dark thought occurred to me. What if Lord Thistlebury was dead? It was highly likely after all this time. And if I did find him, what if he refused to help Rue?

I slowed Warrior to a halt at a crossroads several miles from the manor and sat pondering my next move. Which way to go? I looked at the wooden sign with one arrow pointing to Stanthorpe, another to Merryvale, the third to Oakley and the fourth back the way I had come to Thistlebury.

Rue’s father could be anywhere by now. It was most likely that he was living in one of the other Channel Islands. I decided to speak to a few acquaintances in Guernsey, Alderney, Sark and even Herm, in case he had relocated to any of them. Then again, I had heard of people disappearing and living in the next town, or even several streets away from family who believed them long dead. The notion revived my enthusiasm.

Warrior trotted briskly along the road. I didn’t want to tire him but he seemed happy at this pace.

I thought of my father and his reaction to me helping Rue. He would never understand my reasoning, but that was too bad. If she was innocent, as I believed, then despite my loyalty to him I could not find it within myself to aid the persecution of an innocent person.

Then I thought of my mother at home in our house on the outskirts of Stanthorpe. I needed to share my conflicting thoughts with her. She was strong but reasonable and, unlike my father, wasn’t too proud to change her mind about something when she received new information. If anyone would understand my lack of conviction in this matter, it was her.

Twenty minutes later, as Warrior cantered along the edge of a recently ploughed field, I saw the chimney of our house come into view.

‘What are you doing home at this time?’ my mother asked, leaning to her right to peer past me as I entered the front door. ‘Your father is not with you, is he?’

‘I needed to speak to you about something alone.’ She reached up for me to hand her my hat and coat, but I shook my head. ‘I can’t stay long.’

‘What’s wrong?’

I saw her face pale and pulled her into a hug. ‘Nothing to concern you, Mother,’ I assured her, lightening my tone. ‘I need urgent advice, though, and you are the only one who can give it to me.’

‘Come and join me in the parlour then.’

She poured me a tumbler of water from the stoneware jug on the table, then motioned for me to take a seat opposite her chair.

‘Tell me.’

I started to speak but saw the earnest expression on her face and my throat dried instantly. She was devoted to my father. I had seen for myself how his cruelty was often disguised as love for her and me. My father could be a brutal man. She had done her best to shield me from witnessing the occasional beatings she received at his hands when she had dared answer him back, or defied him, usually in some imagined way. I only realised when I was older in Norway that she had sent me away to my aunt and uncle for my protection. Not that either of us had ever mentioned those events since then.

I had been brought up to believe in the Almighty and his goodness, and to fear the power of the Devil and his followers. I constantly had to attend church services with my parents, listen to Father read passages from the Bible every morning after breakfast and each night before I was sent to bed, and also absorb his dire warnings about evil taking over the Earth if we were not constantly alert. He fervently believed he and my grandfather had been chosen by God to purge our villages of the wickedness that witches brought into our midst. He had drummed into me the enormous cost decent people would pay if those practising sorcery became more powerful than the rest of us who followed the Lord’s word.

I drank some water and looked at my mother’s sweet, lined face over the rim of the tumbler. Whatever he said, I knew she believed in him and his work totally. What did I expect her to say? How could I put her in a position to even question my father, when we both knew the repercussions should he discover we had shared our doubts about his work with each other?

I lowered the stoneware vessel and sat back in my chair, trying to appear more at ease than I was. I had no wish to alarm her, or to add to her daily burden of living with a man to whom she only showed an outer calm, despite an intensity of atmosphere between them that I could almost feel. I began to get to my feet.

She reached out a hand. ‘No, son. I can see you’re troubled, and whatever you may think of me and of’—she hesitated and glanced towards the door before continuing—‘our life, I am your mother and I will always attempt to do my best for you.’

My heart ached to hear her trying to reassure me. I leant forward and took her hands in mine. ‘I know that only too well,’ I said, forcing a smile. ‘You are the best mother, and I could never wish for anyone more caring than you.’

She sniffed and I could see she was trying not to cry. ‘You are a dear boy to say that but we both know it’s untrue.’ She looked down at her skirt. ‘I wish I was stronger and more able to stand up to him.’ She looked me in the eyes again, a defiant light in her own. ‘Whatever we may at times feel about your father, we both know he wants the best for us in his own way. Isn’t that why he works the long hours? Why he exhausts himself in his quest to rid our lives of evil?’

I had grown up hearing words like these most days, from either my father or my mother. I had always admired his strength and believed his determination was rooted in his love for us and for our fellow men. My thoughts went to Rue. How could she be a witch? Or evil in any way at all? If she was, I felt certain I would sense it, or see it in her face. No, it wasn’t possible. My heart surely wouldn’t be drawn to someone who practised the dark arts. Could it?

Unable to contain my thoughts a moment longer, I said, ‘I am overwhelmed with guilt, Mother.’

She frowned and gave my hands a gentle squeeze. ‘Tell me why.’