Free Witchfall by Victoria Lamb Page A

after that, my lady, you must on no account leave the circle. You understand?’
    ‘Yes,’ she said huskily, and bent her head as though in remembrance of her dead mother.
    It seemed to take for ever. The sprig of rosemary burnt out while I waited and turned to smouldering ashes in my hand. I dropped it to the floor, my fingers tingling, and wondered if Elizabeth had changed her mind. But at last the princess stirred and stretched out her pale long-fingered hands to where the locket lay.
    ‘Mother,’ she whispered first, like a child in pain, and I heard her voice begin to tremble. ‘Queen Anne, Anne Boleyn, mother to Elizabeth, wife to King Henry, I summon thee to my side!’
    ‘Again,’ I instructed her.
    She repeated her summons, more forcefully this time, and I looked at the candle as its flame suddenly dipped almost to nothing, then flickered back into life.
    Someone – or something – had heard Elizabeth’s call and had answered. But who?
    I encouraged the princess to continue. ‘Again,’ I said faintly, lifting the larger sprig of rosemary to the flame. It soon caught alight, and the fragrant smoke filled my senses until I could hardly breathe.
    ‘Anne Boleyn! Anne Boleyn! Anne Boleyn!’ she repeated breathlessly. ‘I, thy child Elizabeth, do call on thee in death. Appear before the living, Anne Boleyn, and speak thy mind!’
    In the deathly stillness that followed, I found myself unable to move. My eyes were caught and held by the candle, its flame standing tall and bright now, unnaturally bright in the shadowy chamber. Above our heads, I heard the roof timbers shift and creak, like the timbers of a ship in sail, yet dared not look up. I knew that if I moved, the spell would be broken. Then the full weight of Hampton Court, all its tapestried halls and bedchambers and the great pomp of its red brick battlements and towers, seemed to come down on my back and shoulders like a burden I would be forced to bear until the ritual was over.
    I knelt before the princess and struggled with the terrifying weight of it, sweat running down my forehead and into my eyes, seaming the court gown under my arms and breasts.It felt as though I was supporting the palace roof itself with nothing but sheer nerve and the light of a candle.
    The Lady Elizabeth gasped and shuddered. ‘I am so cold, so very cold,’ she whispered. ‘And someone is looking at me. I just know it!’
    Before I could stop her, she had tugged down the blindfold. There was both fear and joy in her face as she pointed towards the fireplace. ‘Look,’ she breathed, and crossed herself in wonder. ‘My mother!’
    Barely daring to turn my head in case I broke the spell, I managed to strain my eyes round to look in the direction of her pointing finger.
    The silver woman hovering beside the hearth turned and stared back at us, perhaps responding to the sound of Elizabeth’s voice. This was no figure like my aunt, her body strong, her face blank. No doubt I lacked the power of Master Dee to make his summoned spirits look human again. The Anne Boleyn we had conjured between us was more spirit than apparition. I could see the bricks of the fireplace through her floating robes, and her feet did not seem to touch the floor.
    Even in death she was beautiful, a slender but elegant lady in a rich, courtly gown such as a Queen might wear. Yet her face was wrenched with terror and hopelessness, and her eyes were the saddest I had ever seen.
    She looked at me. Instantly the room lightened and the candle flame seemed to swell, burning steadily and strong. Ifelt sorry for her and my heart clenched in sorrow, certain that a great wrong had been done to this woman. Then I remembered what my aunt had told me about the spirits of the dead, how they could secretly manipulate the minds of the living and were not to be trusted.
    As though sensing my sudden distrust, her silver-eyed gaze passed from me to the princess. At once I felt the weight of the spell on my back