The Devil's Mistress Read online

  The Devil’s

  Mistress

  The Devil’s

  Mistress

  by

  David Barclay

  Copyright © 2021 David Barclay

  Front Cover Design by Kealan Patrick Burke

  Interior art by Bob Veon

  Formatted by Kenneth W. Cain

  Edited by Kenneth W. Cain

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors’ imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  They said the old woman lived at the top of the hill beyond the potter’s field, at the edge of the northern forest. No one knew exactly where. Some said there was a hidden path beyond the graveyard. Others claimed a secret route behind a giant oak, one which only appeared in the dark and the mist. The rumors were as wild and varied as the flowers in old Maribelle’s field, but there was no doubting her existence. Not after all Isabella had heard.

  “Do you wish to keep going, my lady?”

  Jacob had pulled the carriage to a halt at the side of the trail. The two of them had been riding hard for an hour, the path growing increasingly sparse as they left the township behind. Ahead it narrowed to a root-filled thread, a mere three feet wide and thick with mud. It was barely visible in the dying light. In the western sky, the sun was strangling amidst a tangle of trees, the last vestiges of daylight cascading down through the barren forest.

  Isabella opened the carriage door and stepped out onto the path. Jacob regarded her from the coach box, his driver’s hat pulled low over his face. His beard would not be in for another two winters, and yet, he never complained of the cold.

  “Have we come too far?” she asked. “Have we missed it?”

  “I think not. We passed no divide beyond the cemetery.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Aye, certain as certain could be.”

  She looked at the road ahead, if it could be called a road. It was too narrow for the horses. Jacob would not tell her no if she asked him to push on—he was too young and too loyal for such a rebuke—but the attempt would profit no one, least of all her.

  “Could it be much farther?”

  “Couldn’t say, my lady. I can tell you the rain’s coming, and ’twill be a hard journey back.”

  “Is it your leg that tells you?”

  “Beth, mistress,” he said, indicating the brown mare at the right of the hitch. “She doesn’t like the damp.”

  The horse whinnied as if to confirm this, shuffling back and forth in the black mud.

  Isabella looked from horse to driver, sensing the same hesitation in the boy. Jacob would not say the words, but the meaning was writ upon his face. Give up this foolish errand. Head back while it’s still safe.

  This, she could not do.

  There was a small brass lanthorn hooked to the side of the carriage, and she used the spare tinderbox to light the candle within. “Wait here while I see the trail. I will not be long.”

  Jacob climbed down off the coach box, the wooden peg below his right knee clanking on each step. He brought his flintlock with him, and when he reached the ground, he tipped his powder horn into the breech, readying the weapon to fire when called upon. Standing there in the twilight, with his long, steel weapon and wooden leg, he might have passed for a man thrice his age. “Don’t go far. The wood is not safe.”

  The wind picked up in a sudden gust, and from the forest there came the howl of a timber wolf, somber and somehow melancholy in the night.

  “Not far,” she said, toying with the crucifix at her neck. “I promise.”

  There was a lake of water just beyond the carriage, a puddle so large it might have stuck the wheels even if the path were wide enough to accommodate the horses. She skirted its edge, careful to avoid the brambles. By the time she reached the end, the sun had all but disappeared from the horizon. The carriage was only just visible behind her. In the thick of the wood, the night itself had substance, and the scant orange glow of the lanthorn seemed to scatter the darkness hardly at all.

  She began to walk farther in, following the arch of trees which bent and twisted overhead in a high, thin corridor. The trail continued for another quarter mile, then abruptly ceased. A wall of intertwined trunks blocked the way.

  Isabella turned in a circle, refusing to believe they had come so far only to be thwarted. Then she saw it, the trunk of an enormous dead oak rising from the earth like a many-armed giant. She and Jacob had traveled well beyond the cemetery, but it had to be the one from the old tales. It was too large to be anything else.

  She made her way through the thick of brambles. There was a path on the other side, a strip of trodden earth no wider than her body. She took two steps forward…

  …and almost fell to her death. The path ahead dropped into a long, shale slide, leaving only a narrow strip of gravel between the rock wall and oblivion. There came the melody of waves crashing against rocks below, the sounds of the bay roiling in the night.

  Isabella bit her lip, looked back in the direction of the carriage, and resolved to push on. She leaned back into the shale and began to move sideways, cursing that she had worn her riding habit and not dressed as a man. The 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 opened it, and a crack of lightning lit the sky, striking a tree just beyond the clearing in front of the cottage. The roll of thunder shook the walls.

  “Are you coming?” the woman called.

  Isabella looked at the rain outside, now a veritable deluge. She could not imagine finding her way back to the carriage in the dark, let alone in a storm such as this. Hesitantly, she closed the door and turned toward the basement.

  Was it to be the place whispered about town? A cellar of potions and spellcraft? If it were, ’twould be exactly the spot Isabella had to come to find. She held her breath, then let it out in a single, long stream.

  “I come,” she said.

  Chapter 3

  The ladder descended into a large cellar lined with round stones and supported with thick, wooden columns. Light issued from a dozen candelabras, illuminating coin-sized gemstones of every shape and color along the walls, though not even this was the room’s most dazzling feature. About the ceiling were thousands upon thousands of colored strings. They wove round one another in beautiful, intricate patterns, intersecting to form pictures in the squares between ceiling joists. There were images of the stars and the heavens, of the fields and cliffs, of the streets of Annapolis, and the ports of the northern cities. Isabella once again found herself taken with wonder, spinning about the enclosure as if she were once more a little girl in the market square.

  She looked at the woman. “You’re the Lady of the Hill.” Saying it so baldly brought another twinge of fear, but she had made her choice the moment she chose to descend the ladder. There was no turning back.

  The woman leaned against one of the columns, dark, and beautiful, and somehow ageless in the dancing light. Her right hand was now visible, draped against the column to display its true character. It was a mangled, grotesque thing.

  “I was questioned about my proclivities some years ago by a priest of His Royal Majesty, King William. It was a mistake I do not wish to repeat, which is why I live up here in the wind.”

  “What are your…proclivities?” Isabella asked, not all sure she wanted to know. In the corners of her village, it was whispered the Lady was a healer. ’Twas also said she could end a man’s life with a flick of her wrist, and that she shared her bed with demons and incubi.

  The woman smiled. “You haven’t told me why you’ve come, child.”

  “Haven’t I?”

  “Ah, yes, your father. You said he was ill. Tell me of him.”

  Isabella found herself unsure how much she wanted to reveal. Then she realized how foolish a thought this was, if she were to have any hope of completing the task at hand. “He is an educated man. From Oxford. The only lawyer this side of the Chesapeake, he tells me. He is the head of our town council. He is a partner at the saw mill, the one in our town. In Blackfriar.”

  “I know the one. Tell me of his illness.”

  “We have a chicken coop in the yard. Just half a dozen hens to help with the vermin. He was out feeding them one evening, and he fell. I couldn’t wake him. I tried to get the doctor. I ran across town to get him, pounded on the door, and Doctor Moberrey wouldn’t wake up. So I went back to our yard, and my father had risen on his own. He seemed hale enough, if a little confused. But he’s been getting these pains in his head. Sometimes he can’t remember things. Sometimes he doesn’t get out of bed until midday. Madam Huxley says—Madam Huxley, she helps run the mill—she says he can’t perform his duties anymore. That maybe he doesn’t have long. And my mother’s gone, it’s just my father and me. Old Widow Maribelle says I should pray, and I’ve been praying, but it’s not enough. He’s getting worse, and I…I don’t know what to do.”

  All the while, the woman moved about the room, collecting various things from tables and shelves. The leaf of a small plant here, a sprinkle of powder there. She had withdrawn a thumb-sized vial of brown liquid from her robes and placed each ingredient into the top. When Isabella stopped speaking, she paused. “You are a thoughtful child to come this far.”

  “I cannot allow this illness to take him. You mus
t save him. You must help me, please.”

  “Must I?”

  “Please,” Isabella said.

  “And what if I were to tell you he may yet die, regardless of whether or not the sickness takes him?”

  “We all die,” Isabella said promptly, “but let him not suffer this illness. I’ve come so far.”

  The woman considered, then took a knife from her gown. She reached up to a tapestry and snipped a small piece of thread. She inserted it into the vial, replaced the stopper, then held it for Isabella to take. “Place two drops in his meal each night until it is no longer needed.”

  Isabella stared at it, not daring to hope. “And then?”

  “And then the illness will trouble him no more.”

  Isabella reached out to take the vial, then stopped. “What of payment?”

  “Payment?”

  “They say you have conditions. That you ask for something when you give aid.”

  “Is that what they say?” The woman seemed amused. “Call this a gift among friends. You have given me company on a dark and dreary night, and I have not had company in such a long while.”

  Isabella took the vial. Relief washed through her. “I cannot begin to tell you what this means to me. Thank you.”

  The woman leaned against a nearby column, and when Isabella didn’t move, she regarded her guest with a knowing smile. “Now for the other thing.”

  The smile faded from Isabella’s lips. “The other thing?”

  “You care for your father, I can see that, but it is not the only reason you came. What is it you seek? A love potion, perhaps? A tincture to seduce a young man? Those are so popular. A trifle to make, but oh, so many consequences.”

  Isabella looked up with a jolt. Were the needs of her heart so obvious? “Can you…”

  The woman waited, her eyebrows climbing devilishly. Isabella thought she must be enjoying this, having a guest in such need.