Born In Water (The Cré-Witch Chronicles Book 1) Page 3

  “How does that work anyway?” Jersey’s husband turned his attention back to Hermione. “How can people own a castle? Aren’t all castles in England the queen’s?”

  “Goodness me, no.” Hermione tittered. “The queen, of course, owns her own castles, but Baile is owned by the Cray family. They are a direct line all the way back to Sir Roderick.”

  “He was married?” The German lady in the Man U sweatshirt got in before Jersey or husband could ask another question. “But you said he had a castle full of mistresses.”

  “Indeed, I did.” Blushing the same brick red as her tour guide waistcoat, Hermione cleared her throat. “Sir Roderick never married. Instead he had an interesting arrangement with several women who lived in the castle.”

  People sat up straighter in the bus.

  “Like shacked up with them?” Jersey and husband exchanged glances.

  “Er…quite.” Hermione pursed her lips. “What must be remembered about the medieval period is that people were more earthy than they were in later periods. They had a rather more pragmatic view of certain base needs.”

  “Go Hot Rod!” Jersey’s husband guffawed.

  A few people tittered politely with him.

  “Right.” Hermione went on. “Like our village, the castle has several fascinating legends about it. There is another intriguing legend around Sir Roderick. He appears constantly in several texts dating from the twelfth century up until the mid-sixteen hundreds. If those texts are to be believed, then Sir Roderick lived to the ripe old age of five hundred, give or take a few birthdays.” She smiled, back on comfortable ground. “Of course, it’s impossible that all these mentions refer to the same Sir Roderick. More likely to have been descendants who carried the same name.”

  “I read there are witches in that castle.” A small Asian woman spoke so quietly Bronwyn nearly didn’t hear her.

  Hermione perked right up. “Indeed! I’m so glad you mentioned that. The witch legends surrounding our village do, in fact, originate from the castle. Back in the day, it is said it was the home of a large coven.”

  “How large?” Jersey’s husband was a details man.

  “We’re not entirely sure. Old texts being unreliable sources of information, and the castle has been in the same family all this time,” Hermione said. “They are a mostly private family and keep to themselves.”

  Harvey drove them onto a stone walled bridge toward the castle entrance. On either side of the bridge, the land dropped away into a steep gorge.

  “What happened to the witches?” Bronwyn needed to know. The knowing prickled that the answer to her question was one she desperately needed.

  Hermione’s smile died. “That is a sad and grisly story, I’m afraid, and best we tell it now before we enter the castle. I always feel it insensitive to mention it when the Cray ladies are around.” She took a deep breath and sighed it out. “Like your Salem.” She looked pointedly at Jersey and husband. “We had our own witch hunts here in England. A rather unpleasant individual called Mathew Hopkins appointed himself the Witchfinder General. We know from several accounts of the witch hunts of 1645 that he developed quite the obsession with Baile and her alleged witches.”

  Harvey drove slowly over the cobbled floor of the bailey and toward a massive arched wooden door. Bands of steel reinforced the door, and it looked like it would take an army to break them.

  “What happened?” An unbearable sadness swept through Bronwyn and she wanted to weep. Her emotions were all over the place. It must have been that she was finally there, fulfilling a dying wish of Deidre’s.

  I wish you could see this, Dee.

  Dee’s head would have been on a swivel trying to take it all in. She would have peppered Hermione with question after question.

  “Hopkins and his fanatical group broke into the castle and killed all the occupants.” Hermione stared up at the rising stone wall in front of the bus. “To our shame as a village, some of our ancestors took part in the murder of around ninety innocent women.”

  “So they weren’t witches?” Jersey whispered her question.

  “No. They were midwives and herbal healers at worst.” Hermione cleared her throat and hauled her happy face back on. “There is, of course, no such thing as witches.”

  “You seem awful sure of that.” Jersey gave Hermione the side eye and nodded to her husband. “I always say nothing is impossible. Have you watched that show Supernatural Hunters?”

  Hermione stood and jerked her waistcoat into place. “I’ve not had the pleasure.” She clapped her hands. “Now, a couple of rules before we enter the castle proper. As we have said, the castle is still privately owned, and the owners use it as their primary residence. They allow tours on Tuesdays and Thursdays only and only one tour a day. Everyone is to stick with the tour and remain in only those parts designated as public.” She looked at Jersey’s husband. “We would not want to have this wonderful opportunity to visit their home ruined.”

  “Will we get to see the caves?” Jersey’s husband filed out of the bus behind his wife.

  Hermione grimaced. “Unfortunately not. Our insurance does not cover a nasty fall from the cliff.”

  He straightened his shoulders. “I wouldn’t fall.”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t,” Hermione said with the sort of endless patience that had covered this conversation thousands of times. “But the caverns are also off limits to the tour.”

  “What the hell is the use of that?” He grumbled to his wife but loud enough for everyone to hear. “You pay good money for a tour, you should get to see everything.”

  Bronwyn stepped off the bus. Her feet settled like they were on familiar ground, like they knew the feel of the cobbles against them. She couldn’t drag her stare away from the castle. It was beautiful, for sure, like something out of a fantasy film or a fairytale, but it was more than that. She knew this castle and—weirdly—this castle knew her.

  What if not all the witches had died that night with Mathew Hopkins? It was not implausible that one witch had escaped that night. Maybe she’d been away from the castle and heard about the killing. From there, it wasn’t a far jump to conclude that her or one of her children might have made their way to the new world.

  “Hello,” she whispered.

  Sister.

  Water witch.

  Healer

  Even softer whispers, no more than a sigh or a breath of wind surrounded her. It should have freaked her out, but it comforted her. The rest of the group was carrying on as normal. Not one of them had heard what she had.

  Her ancestry test had brought her here, and there had to be a reason. “Are the family here?”

  “I can’t be sure.” Hermione gave her a sympathetic smile. “But don’t concern yourself about them. They make themselves scarce on tour days.”

  She pushed open the doors, and they all followed her into the castle. Easily the size of a football field, with vaulted ceilings rising high above them, a hall spread out before them.

  “This is the great hall.” Hermione’s kitten heels clacked against the stone floor. “Please note the banners hanging on both sides of the hall.”

  The rest of her group noted the banners, but Bronwyn couldn’t stop staring at the stained-glass window at the far end of the hall. Three women were depicted beside a pool and beneath the shade of a tree. The image was wrong in a way she couldn’t put her finger on. All the women stood equidistant from each other, except for a space to the right of the last woman. It was almost like there should have been someone there.

  A nasty cold crept up her spine and made her shiver. Her stomach lurched, and she felt nauseous.

  “As you may well know, Baile is considered an architectural masterpiece. Please note the ceiling. Until recently, when the Cray family allowed tours inside the castle, it was thought that Durham Cathedral was the first example of a building with a stone vaulted ceiling on a large scale.” Hermione pointed to the vaulting. “Although Baile and Durham were built around the same time, we here in Greater Littleton like to believe we have the first example of a stone vaulted ceiling of this scale. ” She tittered and wrinkled her nose at the group.

  Jersey stopped in the center of the great hall at a table with benches. “The furniture doesn’t look that old.”

  “Which is another unique feature of Baile.” Hermione grinned. “Possibly because of such limited access to her, but Baile looks no older than if she’d been built yesterday. You will note no decaying of woodwork or staining on the stones. None of the wear and tear one would expect of such an ancient building.” She leaned closer to them and whispered. “It’s a truly special place.”

  They followed her deeper into the great hall. To their left, a wooden staircase rose to a central landing and then rose again to the left and right of the landing to the gallery above. A red rope cordoned off the stairs and Hermione swept them past. “We will continue to the library. Baile has one of the largest collections of rare books in England. The library is one of my favorite places.”

  Bronwyn studied the hall banners as they went beneath them. Symbols decorated them, and she would love to have spent more time examining the symbols.

  A woman ran down the left arm of the staircase. “It’s you!”

  “Oh my.” Hermione giggled. “We are lucky today. Good afternoon, Miss Cray.”

  Long red hair swept straight down the woman’s back. She was slim and tall, her skin a white so pure it glowed. She wore a maxi dress that skimmed her hips, and beneath the hem, her feet were bare. She hopped over the red rope and trotted straight for the group. “I knew it would be today.”

  For a second, Bronwyn thought the woman was talking to her.

  “I told Niamh I had a special feeling about today.” She stopped in front of Bronw
yn and smiled down at her. “And I was right. Here you are.”

  “What?” Bronwyn looked at the woman. She didn’t know her, but somehow, she did as well. The knowing started beneath her skin and spread rapidly.

  The woman shoved out her hand. “I’m Mags.” She rolled her eyes. “Actually, my full name is Magdalene, but everyone calls me Mags.”

  Bronwyn didn’t think she’d seen this woman in her dreams even, so she couldn’t know her. Still, she took her offered hand. “Bronwyn.”

  Mags had a smile that transformed her face from interesting to beautiful. “Welcome, Bronwyn. We’ve been waiting an age for you.”

  “What?” Bronwyn was sure she was gaping.

  “Well then.” Hermione popped up beside them. “You did not say you knew Miss Cray.”

  Mags grinned at her and giggled. “She doesn’t, but she will.”

  “Okay.” Bronwyn didn’t know what else to say.

  “Come to tea.” Mags took her hands and squeezed them. “Come to tea, and I can tell you everything you’re here to discover.”

  Not knowing how to respond, all Bronwyn managed was a strangled. “Okay.”

  “Right then. On with the tour.” Hermione gave Bronwyn a thin smile. “Unless there is someone else you would rather speak to before I continue?”

  “Er…no.” Still looking at Mags, she followed Hermione back to the tour group.

  Mags mimed drinking from a tea cup and saucer. “Tea,” she called. “And the answers to all your questions.”

  It floated through the nothing, weightless and directionless. It had no beginning and no end. It had no purpose. It just was. Formless, incorporeal, weightless.

  Then it became aware, aware of being.

  A being. Awareness swirled around it once having been a being. Cognizance burgeoned of having once had substance and now existing merely as spirit, a soul still drifting, still insubstantial.

  The substance had been female. A woman. Like a distant echo, her gender wafted past and around her. There but finding no purchase and no structure.

  Something. Something she needed to remember hovered on the very edge of her awareness. Then vanished. Bubbles of knowledge floated up through the endless dark but disappeared again before they could converge into thought.

  She floated. Nothing more.

  Infinite nothing. Endless nothing.

  A concept dripped into the void. A thing she should know, but the void devoured it before she could be sure.

  Still her memory of the thing that had been persisted and would not leave her. Her memory of it built it back up again, strong enough to stand against the rapacious void. Now that it stood firm, it tormented her with her not knowing.

  She grew to hate the thing, the thing she should know and did not, because the thing opened a door in her consciousness. Through the door crept knowledge, and that knowledge grew a name.

  Time. The knowledge was called time, and its awareness bloomed like a blood stain through her expanding mind.

  Time had passed. More time than she could imagine. More time than she could lose.

  Chapter Four

  Bronwyn worked her way through the iffy dinner at the Hag’s Head. On her plate was what the menu claimed to be Welsh Rarebit, but it more strongly resembled soggy grilled cheese, go large or go home on the Velveeta.

  Today had been weird. Nope, today had been fucking weird, and this from a weird member of Sawtooth, Maine’s weirdest family. Mags had her beat on the weird-o-meter.

  Yet, she’d instinctively liked Mags, been drawn to her. Only once they’d left Baile, had she pieced things together. It was the DNA. It had to be. Other than both being redheads, she and Mags didn’t look alike. Mags dwarfed her and was willowy to Bronwyn’s curves, but other evidence was mounting, and it couldn’t all be coincidence. Her DNA test bringing her to Greater Littleton, the knowing that had been nagging at her almost constantly, the undeniable sense of kinship, it was all pointing to her having found her roots.

  In addition, she couldn’t ignore the castle itself, a castle she’d seen in her dreams since way back. She’d bet the farm on nobody else in today’s tour group having dreamed of Baile since they were little. That might account for why Baile had felt so like home, but she believed it was more than that. Baile was somehow part of her family story, and in the morning, she was going to investigate further.

  Her nape prickled and heat washed over her skin. Little witch.

  She turned toward the knowing.

  Standing in the dining room doorway, Alexander was watching her. He smiled and shoved both hands in his pockets. Wearing gray dress pants and a white button-down, he threaded through the tables toward her.

  Her pulse drummed beneath her skin. Heat spread through her middle, and her limbs grew pliant.

  “Good evening.” Alexander motioned the other chair. “May I?”

  “Er…yes.” Her mouth was so dry she had to peel her tongue from the roof of it. “Hi.”

  “Hello.” He smiled.

  Bronwyn stared.

  An answering heat darkened his eyes, and the dining room faded away. Like they were the center of their own private universe, they sat and stared at each other.

  “My lord.” A waiter bowed so low he almost bumped his forehead on the table. “May I serve you?”

  Alexander dragged his gaze to the man. “Red wine, please. From my cellar.”

  The waiter scuttled off.

  Bronwyn had heard the class system was alive and well in England, but that waiter was taking it to extremes. With Alexander not staring at her, she managed to dredge herself together and indicated her nearly full glass. “I’m still working on that.”

  “The house red.” Alexander shook his head and grasped the glass. “I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”

  He held her wineglass out and another waiter appeared at his elbow and took it away.

  “They know you here.” She indicated the disappearing waiter.

  Leaning back in his chair, he draped one arm over the back. “Yes, they do.” He studied her face as if he wanted to draw it in his mind. “Did you tour Baile?”

  “Yes.” His dark eyes drew her in and locked her attention on him. She nearly asked him again if they knew each other, but that would be too dumb for words. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Is that all?” He seemed to be waiting for her to say more.

  She didn’t know this man. She really didn’t, despite their insane connection, so she shrugged. “What else?”

  “What else indeed.” He leaned forward and peered at her dinner. “Dear God, do they actually feed that to people?”

  “Um…yes.”

  The first waiter was back with a dusty bottle of wine and two glasses. He showed Alexander the bottle with a flourish. “My lord?”

  “That’s fine.” Alexander didn’t take his gaze from her. “Forgive me, I’m staring.”

  “I know.”

  “I can’t seem to help myself.” He motioned her plate. “Would you remove that, please?”

  The waiter leaped to obey and scuttled away with her dinner before she could stop him.

  “Hey!” It might not have been great, but it had been her dinner, and she was hungry.

  He leaned forward and the potency of him trapped her in her seat. “Let me take you to dinner.”

  “What?” He didn’t look like he was joking. “Why?”

  “I want to spend time with you,” he stated simply and without agenda, but that look in his eyes said otherwise. This crazy, off-the-charts attraction between them, he felt it too.

  Damn, but she wanted to go with him. She stared at his large, tanned hand stretched across the table toward her. It was a strong hand, nails neatly clipped, but not the manicured hand of a suit. “I don’t know you.”

  “That’s what I want to change.” All the reasons she shouldn’t take that hand and let him lead her away from the pub flitted through her mind, but faded in the arcing stadium lights of her desire to go with him.

  For the sake of those objections, she whispered, “I don’t know if I can trust you.”

  “Yes, you do.” He gestured with his fore and middle fingers between them. “You can trust me because this fucking insane thing between us, I feel it too.” His gaze pinned and held her. “And it’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced in my life.” His smile softened and became self-deprecating. “I need to know you, Bronwyn.”