Call of the Wraith Read online

  He’d found her three days ago. But then . . . “How long have I been here?”

  “Thirteen days.”

  My jaw dropped. Thirteen days?

  How . . . how had I got here?

  Calm, child, the Voice said.

  But I couldn’t stay calm. I was nowhere. I remembered nothing.

  And the harder I tried, the more the world spun. Before I knew it, Robert and Wise were holding me again, lowering me to the bed.

  “What am I doing here?” I croaked.

  “We think you were in a shipwreck,” Robert said.

  A shipwreck?

  “A fortnight ago,” Robert said, “the snow came. A terrible storm—a fury, the like I’ve never seen. Wise found you the next day, down at the beach. You were practically buried in ice.”

  Now I began to shake. My dream

  my hands, my legs are stuck in ice, endless ice: deep, eternal white

  returned, and it made my stomach quiver. I fled from the memory, flexing my fingers, just to prove I could still move.

  The farmer saw that. “Your hands were very badly frostbitten. I feared you might lose them. Luckily, we warmed you in time.”

  Not without cost. My fingers stung, their blackened tips aching. Still, the pain was better than the dream. “Thank you.”

  Robert looked troubled as he continued. “Kept drifting in and out of a dark sleep, you did. Skin was so hot, I thought your fever would boil your insides. Then you had . . . fits. You were babbling—it was tongues, my lord. And you got violent. Had to tie you down so you wouldn’t hurt yourself.”

  I looked over at Wise. His bruises, his split lip. “Did I do that?”

  Wise nodded.

  I slumped. “I’m sorry.”

  “No one blames you, my lord,” Robert said. “Wasn’t your fault. Was the demon.”

  “What demon?”

  “The one that had hold of you.” He looked at me seriously. “You were possessed.”

  CHAPTER

  4

  MY MOUTH WORKED, BARELY ABLE to speak. “Possessed?”

  The Voice cut through my thoughts. Now do you see the signs?

  And I did.

  The marks on the door. I knew them now. Those were witches’ marks, inscribed to bar the way against evil spirits. The circles warded the entrance, and the conjoined Vs were an appeal to the Virgo Virginum: the Virgin Mary.

  And the jug. The one by the foot of the bed, now broken. It was another charm against evil. Unbidden, the recipe burned across my mind. Take the urine and hair of the afflicted. Immerse protection stones and iron nails within, to ground the soul to the body. Then seal it tight with a spell.

  They said I’d been having fits—seizures—and babbling in strange languages. All were common signs of possession. But I remembered none of this. Just my dream. The dead plain.

  And the bird.

  “My lord?”

  Robert and Wise were watching me. I’d been so lost in thought, I hadn’t been paying attention.

  Careful, the Voice said. If they think a demon still holds you . . .

  “Thank you for caring for me,” I said quickly. “Not many would shelter one held by evil.”

  Robert folded his arms. “No one will ever be turned away from my farm.” He said it as a point of pride. Yet there was something—his brief downward glance, the way he avoided my eyes—that made me believe someone had, indeed, made that very suggestion.

  “If you’re feeling better, my lord,” he continued, “perhaps now we could appeal for your help.”

  My help? I could barely stand unaided. What could they possibly need from me?

  “I was wondering if you’d be willing to speak for us,” the farmer said. “Because of your standing.”

  “What standing?” I said.

  “I mean to speak of your lordship, my lord.”

  I frowned. Robert had been using that honorific from the beginning. I’d assumed he’d meant it as a general mark of respect to an unknown guest. “Why would you think I’m a lord?”

  “Aren’t you?” he said, surprised. “I mean . . . your clothes.”

  I looked down at the simple peasant wool I was wearing.

  “Not those, my lord,” Robert said. “We gave you those. I meant the clothes we found you in. And the money.”

  “I have money?”

  “In your coin purse. It’s all there, I promise. We haven’t touched a farthing.”

  I just stared at him.

  “Do you not remember that?” he said.

  I shook my head.

  He and Wise exchanged a glance. “What do you remember?”

  I tried to recall something—anything—that had happened before today. The room began to spin.

  “Could you tell us your name?” Robert said.

  “My . . . name?”

  Robert’s body seemed . . . strange. It stretched and bent, like he was made of caramel.

  I’m dreaming, I thought. I’m still dreaming.

  I shut my eyes, and the world stopped whirling around me. But I was still in that terrible nightmare. I had to be. Because I remembered nothing. Nothing at all.

  “Who am I?” I whispered.

  CHAPTER

  5

  THEY STEPPED BACK, EYES WIDE.

  “The demon,” Robert gasped. “He’s stolen your soul.”

  My panic finally overwhelmed me. I sprang from the bed. The girl in the corner flung her blanket over her head, huddling underneath, as Robert and Wise spread their arms, trying to stop me from bolting into the snow.

  “Now, my lord—” the farmer began.

  This dream. It was madness. I had to get out of this dream.

  I slapped myself. My cheek burned, flushed with warmth and pain.

  “My lord!”

  I slapped myself again, harder. I swung a third time, but suddenly Wise was there, his fingers wrapped around my wrists like iron bands.

  “Let me go!” I screamed. “Let me go!”

  The old man twisted my arm. I lost my balance, my whirling head doing much of the work for him. Robert took my shoulders, and together they lowered me to the bed.

  “Shhh,” Robert said. “It’s all right. We’re here. We have you.”

  “Let me go,” I whispered.

  They did. I lay there, staring at the thatched roof above until it stopped spinning. Robert and Wise hovered, afraid I’d try to flee again. But I had no more fight inside.

  Who was I? I pleaded with the Voice to answer. Please. Please tell me who I am. But it had nothing to say. If I could have remembered anything, I doubt I’d have recalled ever being so scared.

  Wise placed a gnarled hand on my shoulder. Gentle this time, comforting. He sat me up.

  “Are you better, my lord?” Robert said, genuine concern in his voice.

  The panic had gone, leaving me feeling ashamed—of my outburst, of the bruises I’d left on Wise’s face. “I’m sorry,” I said, and the words seemed so small.

  They understood. “It’s no trifling thing, to be attacked by evil,” Robert said. “You won’t try and hurt yourself again now, will you?”

  I shook my head.

  “And you won’t run?”

  “Where would I go?”

  I said it in despair. But Robert scratched his chin, thinking. “Well, now. We might help you with that yet. Come to the farmhouse. We’ve cleaned your clothes, and your coin purse is there, and your other . . . thing.”

  “My what?”

  He pursed his lips. “I’m not certain. Never seen anything like it. Perhaps you’d best come and see.”

  Wise pulled a pair of knee-high boots from under the bed and handed them to me. The leather was supple, the buckles were silver, they were lined with soft, plush wool—and they didn’t match my clothes in the slightest. What’s more, they fit me perfectly.

  I looked at Robert, and he nodded. “You were wearing those when we found you.”

  He said he’d get me a coat—he didn’t want me catching
cold in the snow—but Wise saved the time by draping his over my shoulders. It was so long, it hung more like a cape, but the warmth of it was a comfort.

  The girl in the corner watched us, peeking over the deerskin. “What about her?” I said.

  Robert turned to her. “What do you say, moppet? Would you like to see my girls—”

  She disappeared beneath the blanket.

  Robert laughed good-naturedly. “Guess not. We’ll leave her be. She can join us in her own time.”

  • • •

  I felt like I’d walked into a painting.

  A farmhouse of weathered stone lay to my right, snow blanketing the thatch, the straw beneath black with age. A pair of smaller cottages stood opposite, a trail tramped between them, with a second cob house, identical to the one I’d just left, beside it. Smoke curled from the chimneys, disappearing into the gray overhead.

  Behind the cottages rose an enormous barn, cracked wooden planks painted with the same white lime-wash that stained the cob. A cow stood in the door, poking her nose into the snow. From beyond her came a soft lowing.

  The land around the farm rolled gently with the hills. A leafless forest covered half the horizon; from that direction I heard water, trickling in a stream. On the other side, the hills dropped away, and I saw a vast expanse of blue: the ocean. And with it all came the scent of the country: crisp, frosted air; the earthy smell of livestock; the tang of ocean salt.

  “Where is this place?” I said.

  “Devonshire, my lord.” Robert motioned toward the sea. “That’s the Channel.”

  Devonshire. So I was in southwest England. A name came to me.

  “Exeter,” I said.

  Robert nodded. “That’s our county town. Lies twenty miles to the west. Seaton’s our closest village. It’s a few miles east, at the mouth of the River Axe.”

  I didn’t recognize those places. All I knew was where Devonshire was, and that Exeter was the shire’s town. “You don’t suppose I’m from there?”

  “Wouldn’t think so, my lord,” Robert said. “Your speech marks you from the east, I’d say. London, maybe?”

  Of course. My accent would mark my home. I didn’t speak West Country like Robert, so perhaps my voice was the key to discovering who I was. I searched my mind, but the more I tried to remember, the more the dizziness returned. Reluctantly, I let the thoughts go. I didn’t want to end up face down in the snow.

  My boots sank into it two feet deep as we walked the path to the farmhouse. Wise followed us, longbow slung over his shoulder. The sight of so much snow was almost magical, though its depth made the short trek a slog. “Is this normal for Devonshire?”

  “Not a bit,” Robert said. “Even half a foot would be strange. And never this early in the season. Be a hard winter for any who didn’t prepare fodder.”

  “What day is it?”

  “Sunday. The twentieth of December.”

  I hesitated. “What year?”

  Robert raised his eyebrows. “The year of our Lord, 1665.”

  I flushed, embarrassed. I knew where Devonshire was, I knew its county town, I knew about accents . . . but I didn’t know the year? How could this be?

  “So you keep cattle?” I said, just to change the subject.

  Robert nodded. “And a few goats for the extra milk, though we don’t really need it. I keep them mostly because my little ones like them. They’ll take in anything with four legs.”

  “And you’ll take in anything with two?”

  He laughed. “So I will. There’s a place for everyone, God grant them rest.”

  As if heeding his words, a bird flew down to join us. Its salt-and-pepper-speckled wings flapped furiously—as it landed right on my shoulder. I stood motionless as the bird marched across my coat, then hopped up and poked its beak into my hair.

  Robert and Wise watched, grinning.

  “There’s a pigeon on my head,” I said.

  “So it appears, my lord.”

  “A friend of yours?”

  “Actually, I believe she’s a friend of yours.”

  Mine?

  Slowly, I reached up. I expected the bird to shy away, but she walked right into my hands and let me hold her. She nuzzled her head into my thumbs, feathers soft and warm.

  Wise pointed at her, then me, then at the ocean. I listened, barely able to believe it, as Robert told me how I’d been found.

  Wise had been hunting in the forest when the pigeon landed nearby. He’d drawn his bow to shoot her for the pot, but she’d run straight up to him. It seemed clear to him the bird was domesticated, and it kept flying away, as if trying to get him to follow.

  “So he did,” Robert said. “And that’s when Wise found you on the beach.”

  I held the bird up. She cooed.

  “A blessed event, my lord,” Robert said seriously. “The shoreline’s mad with coves, and there are hundreds of caves in these hills. If that bird hadn’t led him there, you’d have died, your bones washed into the Channel. That pigeon saved you.”

  It was a strange thing, to owe one’s life to a bird. But there was no denying she was friendly, and holding her felt so natural, I could only believe she was mine. I scratched gently under her feathers, and she closed her eyes in contentment.

  It made me wonder: If this pigeon had been with me, what about people? Did I have family? Friends? Had they been on board with me, too?

  I couldn’t remember anyone. Not a name, not a face. And yet the more I imagined a ship breaking apart in a storm, the more my stomach churned. The rest of the passengers . . . where were they? Everyone I’d loved . . . were they dead?

  The thought left me feeling so alone. I stroked the pigeon’s feathers, trying to find some comfort.

  “She’s been living in the barn,” Robert said. “The children have been feeding her. Come, let’s meet them.”

  We pushed on, and as we approached the farmhouse, my stomach rumbled at the scent wafting toward us. Behind the house, Robert had set an entire side of beef to seethe in the skin—that’s where the blood on his shirt had come from, he explained. A cow’s freshly skinned hide had been staked over a low fire like a hammock. Then it had been filled with chunks of beef, vegetables, and herbs and left to simmer, the fat bubbling under the skin, infusing the stew with its sweetness. The sight of it alone left me wobbly; the smell nearly made me collapse. I couldn’t hold on to my manners anymore.

  “When your daughter Margery came,” I said, “she was carrying some stew. I’m afraid I scared her—”

  He understood. “Course, you must be starving. I’ll bring more food right away.”

  Wise gestured toward the cob house.

  “For the moppet, too,” Robert said. “Right.”

  He welcomed me into his home. There was no entrance hall, just a long, broad room that took up the entire length of the house. Heat radiated from the fire, filling the place with warmth.

  A woman hunched over one end of a long table, a girl and boy of around ten helping her scrape the inner skin of a cowhide. On the opposite side, a younger girl, hands pink with foamy blood, scooped handfuls of salt from a bucket and rubbed it into slabs of freshly cut beef. By the fire, an older girl stood on a chair, stirring a shallow lake of cream in a flat iron pan suspended on chains above a pot of steaming water. The nutty, buttery smell of heated cream was incredible.

  Margery, the daughter I’d scared in the cob house, entered the room from the back as we came in. She gasped when she saw me, dropping her stack of linens.

  Everyone stared. The woman’s eyes flicked from me to the pigeon in my hands to her husband.

  “Children,” she said. “The fire needs more wood. And the cows need tending.”

  The oldest girl pulled her spoon from the cream and took the hands of the younger ones, who gawked over their shoulders as they were led away. The boy remained, looking me up and down with naked curiosity.

  “What did I say?” The woman reached across the cowhide and grabbed him by the ear, dra
gging him, protesting, from the room.

  Robert flushed, embarrassed. But I understood. The witches’ marks, the protective charm, my seizures, Wise’s bruise . . . she was afraid of me. She believed I’d brought evil to her home. I wondered: Had I? I recalled the look on Robert’s face when I hadn’t even known my own name. The demon. He’s stolen your soul.

  I shuddered. Was that true? To some, it wouldn’t matter. I needed to be very careful about what I said. People even thinking I was possessed could be enough to see me burned.

  Wise drew a set of clothes from the drawers near the door and laid them on the chairs, carefully avoiding the cow’s blood that dripped from the table. They were a far cry from what Robert had given me. The shirt was blue silk, with a baize-backed waistcoat and a patterned leather belt to match. The breeches were wool, but of the finest kind, soft and thin. The hose, too, were finely made, and I was amazed: I might not have felt like a lord, but these clothes were unquestionably tailored to fit one.

  Robert used a key to open a small lockbox, tucked away in the back of the same drawer. “You weren’t wearing a coat when Wise found you. But you had this.”

  He held out a coin purse. I put the pigeon down to take it; when I did, she flapped up to perch on my shoulder, as if as interested to see inside as I was. The purse, of smooth and supple leather, jingled in my hands. Though it was only half full, it was heavy. I opened it.

  The coins. There were so many of them inside. And more than half of them were gold. The rest were mostly silver, with just a few coppers mixed in.

  I was rich.

  “You see, my lord?” Robert said. “All there, just as you left it.”

  I dug into the coins, let them flow through my fingers. Then I noticed something peculiar. I took one of the gold pieces out and examined it.

  On one face was an intricate design of four crowns, four fleurs-de-lis, and eight Ls arranged to form a cross. The letters around it said CHRS REGN VINC IMP, which stood for Christus regnat vincit imperat: Christ reigns, conquers, and commands. The reverse showed a handsome young king with a laurel wreath and long, curly hair. There was an inscription here, too. LVD XIIII D G FR ET NAV REX 1653: Ludovicus XIIII Dei gratia Franciae et Navarrae rex. Louis XIV, by the grace of God, king of France and Navarre.