The Devil's Mistress by David Barclay (summer reads txt) 📗

rain picked up almost as soon as she began moving. Gently at first, then with growing insistence.

A cascade of pebbles fell down the wall in front of her. Suddenly the lanthorn was gone, falling from her hand and disappearing into the darkness. It crashed into the water and disappeared.

Somewhere above, the wolf howled against the night, its cry louder and more sorrowful than before.

Isabella flattened herself, regained her balance, and pushed on. At last, the path rose back to solid ground. When she reached the safety of the earth, she fell to her knees and kissed the grass.

A flash of lightning rocked the heavens. In the glare, an old wooden cottage appeared at the head of the embankment a short ways from where she knelt. This was the place. The home of the Lady of the Hill, the woman reputed to have the power to cure any disease, heal any wound, mend any hurt. The woman who could do anything for a price.

In all the time she had spent seeking her, Isabella had never once pondered what the Lady would ask in return.

Chapter 2

The woman who answered the door was not old at all, but a healthy maid of around forty summers with long, dark hair and an elegant, regal face. Despite the hour, she was clad not in a night-rail, but in a simple wine-colored bodice tied in the front, with a dark skirt, and lace about the shoulders. She looked not at all surprised to have company.

“Would you like to come in?” she asked conversationally. “Of course you would. Step there. Be wary of the loose board.”

Isabella, who had expected a dusty, cellar-like interior full of spiders and potions, stepped over the threshold with a sense of wonder. The cottage was warm and light, full of tapestries and candles. There was a pleasant, rosy smell in the air, like flowers and cinnamon.

“I’m Ann,” the woman said. “You look perfectly sodden, love. Would you like a blanket?” She grabbed a woolen wrap from a nearby chair and threw it over Isabella’s shoulders.

“I’m…” Isabella began, and stopped. She was overwhelmed. Her heart was beating hard from the journey across the cliff, and she still had no idea where she was.

The woman looked at her expectantly.

“‘Isabella Ashford,’” Isabella finished. “Or ‘Elly.’ My father calls me that.”

“I like ‘Isabella.’ It’s more suited to a lady. Would you like some tea?”

The woman took her by the hand and led her to the den, where two cushioned chairs waited before a roaring fire. Isabella sat down, wrapping the blanket round herself. She hadn’t realized how cold she had been.

There was a black kettle at the hearth, and the woman used it to pour steaming tea into two nearby cups. When she was finished, she handed one to her guest and took the chair opposite. It was all so very normal that Isabella again found herself at a loss for words. She studied the woman across from her, searching for some imperfection, some sign of a hidden charm or spell, and found none.

“Are you quite well?” the woman asked.

Isabella discovered she was toying with her crucifix again and forced herself to stop. “I am. What I mean is, I am now. My gratitude for taking me in.”

“Not at all. You’re the first visitor I’ve had this winter. I couldn’t very well turn you away, could I?” The woman nodded toward Isabella’s cup. “Drink your tea. It will calm you.”

Isabella took a tentative sip. It was hot, and strong, and good.

“Now, perhaps you’ll tell me why you’ve come all the way out here in the middle of the night?”

“I’m looking for someone. Someone who can help me,” she added. “An old woman.”

“Ah, for the Lady of the Hill. I’ve heard those stories, too. An old crone who lives on the bay, making potions of mandrake and butterfly wings, eating raw meat, and kidnapping children.”

“I hadn’t heard the part about the children,” Isabella said doubtfully.

The woman laughed. “You look as a child yourself, dear. How many years have you?”

“Fifteen. Though I am responsible for much of my father’s household. He is ill, you see. I stole my father’s servant…or borrowed him, more like. He waits for me on the road. The servant, not my father.”

“Stole him? Stole his heart, I’d wager.”

Isabella flushed. Jacob was a servant indentured to her father. His one and only concern was to keep her safe, or so should be. “What would make you say such a thing?”

“Your hair,” the woman said. “You have such beautiful hair. I bet men adore it.”

This was a compliment she had heard before. Her hair was the color of pure gold, as her mother’s once was. She wore it in the new fashion, pulled back from her face and tied with silk ribbons at the crest, but the clasps had come undone somewhere in the forest.

“It must look a mess.”

“No, it’s lovely. I can only imagine how it will look on your wedding day.”

Isabella shifted. “Are you married, mistress? You must be.”

The woman only laughed, reaching forward to brush a wet strand from Isabella’s face. It was a tender gesture, though there was something unpleasant in it, something strange. Then she realized what it was. The woman had accomplished every chore, every stroke with her left hand. Her right remained buried within the folds of her skirts, hidden as one might hide an errant babe. To be left-handed was a curious thing, and to be so open about it, even more so.

A thought crossed Isabella’s mind, one she dared not dwell upon. “I should be getting back. My driver—”

“Your driver can wait. I should like to show you something.”

As before, the woman did not wait for a response. She moved to the corner of the room, where a square cellar door with an iron handle was built into the floorboards. She opened it and began to descend. In moments, her head was beneath the floor.

Isabella rose and moved toward the front door. She