Rowankind (3 Book Series) Page 3

  “Yes, the Mysterium,” Corwen continued. “That’s why we have to go quickly and take the shortest route through Iaru. If we’re not back within a few days, David will check on you, but in the meantime, take it easy.”

  As usual, Freddie’s reply was silence, but he’d understood enough.

  Corwen called our horses from where they were grazing. Corwen’s gray, Timpani, stood sixteen hands high, and my bay, Dancer, was a couple of inches shorter. Both had elegant heads and intelligent eyes. They were beautiful creatures, a gift from the Fae, and far wiser than normal horses. I was sure they were sentient in some way, but Corwen assured me they weren’t shapeshifters, which was a great relief. That would have been so embarrassing to discover.

  I tied our valise onto the back of Timpani’s saddle. Though small, it held all our clothes and belongings. Like the horses, it was a gift from the Fae, but we’d never asked how it worked. No matter how much you put in it, it never got full and it never got any heavier.

  “Ready?” Corwen asked.

  I nodded. He held his hand out for my left ankle and boosted me into Dancer’s saddle, then handed me my warm cloak as an outer layer over my riding habit. It seemed prudent to dress properly for a visit to Denby House. Corwen’s mama had seen me in man’s attire, but she didn’t really approve. Besides, I would scandalize the neighbors if we arrived during a social visit. Regardless of convention, however, I refused to use a sidesaddle. Riding astride in a dress was awkward, so I’d had my riding habit made with a split skirt.

  We rode deeper into the forest. The gate into Iaru is barely a mile from the cottage. It doesn’t look like a gate. In fact, it doesn’t really look like anything, but pass through it in the right direction and suddenly it’s summer without you actually noticing a transition. Corwen is much better at locating the gates to Iaru than I am, but I can feel the transition in my bones. Dancer knew it, too, and he tossed his head in appreciation.

  It didn’t take long for me to shrug off the cloak and drape it across the pommel of my saddle. Iaru is always the same balmy temperature of late spring, early summer. It must rain there sometimes, or the grass wouldn’t be so green and the forests so verdant, but I’ve never been caught in a rainstorm. Maybe it only ever rains at night, or maybe the Fae keep moisture in the ground by magic. Their connection with the earth runs very deep if they can control the weather to such a degree.

  Iaru occupies another dimension alongside ours. Imagine two sheets of loosely rolled paper existing in the same space, sometimes touching, sometimes not. There are places where they touch, and if you know how, and have permission, you can pass through from one to the other, and then out again miles from where you started.

  Iaru is not simply summer, it’s the best summer can be. Tall and stately broad-leaved trees rustle their branches gently, though down at ground level whatever breeze blows up above is muted to a gentle breath. I felt the breeze kiss my cheek in welcome and heard the splash of a swiftly running stream close by. I breathed in the summer scents of the forest, redolent with ripe vegetation. Bushes I couldn’t identify flowered profusely along the side of the track where dappled light filtered in through the gap in the forest’s crown. There was no sign of habitation. That didn’t mean the Fae were far away, but I doubted they would approach us.

  Corwen knew where he was going, so I followed him through Iaru, half recognizing some landmarks. We had a choice of routes. There was a gate which David had created for us near the mill, or we could emerge from Iaru south of Sheffield and pass through the city. The rowankind had been taken to Sheffield, so that’s where we would go first. Corwen knew the Mysterium office was close to the market on what had once been the site of a castle, at the confluence of two rivers, the Sheaf and the Don.

  The effects of Sheffield’s industrialization—the grime, the noxious effluent, and the smoke-filled air—were bleeding through into Iaru to the consternation of the Fae. It made the gate to Sheffield easy to spot, even for me.

  We emerged south of the town close to the Baslow road and rode down the hill into the pall of smoke from the steel mills and iron foundries. Sheffield was submerged in a constant sooty haze, day in and day out. Heaven knew what it did to the lungs of the people who lived here.

  The streets were full of traffic, heavy carts rumbling over cobbles on iron-shod wheels, packhorses and porters, as well as people going about their business. Rows of brick houses stepped down to the steel mills, crowding in on themselves. The center of the town, though devoid of large foundries, was tightly packed with shops and businesses. Yards nestled between buildings with workshops run by little mesters, craftsmen of high repute finishing the blades and fitting the handles of cutlery, small pocket knives, and edge-tools. Today it seemed as if the whole world was crammed into Sheffield’s streets.

  “We seem to be going in the wrong direction,” Corwen said as we pressed through the crush, Timpani and Dancer shoulder to shoulder, eyeing the crowd warily.

  “Where are they all going?” I asked, and then realized the awful truth as we reached the market square.

  “They’re coming from, not going to,” Corwen said through clenched teeth.

  In the market square, six bodies, all in white hoods, dangled from a triangular gallows, two to each side. The crowd had lost interest, and most of them had already drifted away.

  I closed my eyes and concentrated on breathing to quell the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  “Are they . . . ?”

  “Ours? I can’t tell.” Corwen almost choked on his words. “If they are, we’re too late to do anything. It must be recent. They only leave them hanging for an hour before taking them down. You, there!” he positioned Timpani in front of a stout fellow leaving the marketplace. “What’s going on here?”

  “Not from around here, are you?” the man said. “You missed it. Witches. Hanged.”

  “Are they rowankind?”

  “Dunno. Does it matter? Witches.”

  “What were they accused of?”

  “Dunno. Witch stuff.”

  Corwen eased Timpani to the side and let the man past. He swore under his breath and turned away.

  We left Sheffield at a fast clip, following the River Don for a while then climbing up to Oughtibridge and over the moor top by Snowden Hill toward Denby.

  “Do you think our men were among the hanged?” I asked as we trotted through Ingbirchworth Village.

  “I hope not, but whoever they were, it’s six more lives lost to the Mysterium.”

  The Mysterium had targeted a group of Lily’s mill workers as magic users last year. They’d fled to Iaru. It was a pity Richards and Hardcastle hadn’t gone, too. Had they actually been using magic, or were they victims of some informer with a grudge?

  The darkening afternoon washed all color out of the Yorkshire countryside. At this time of year dusk arrived early with a little over seven hours of weak daylight between sunrise and sunset.

  Dancer snorted and lived up to his name by jiggling sideways. He pricked up his ears and stepped out eagerly as we turned for Denby House, Corwen’s family home.

  It was a grand house, elegantly proportioned, with origins going back centuries. Corwen’s grandfather had rebuilt it in the modern, classical style, and Corwen’s father had added a wing at either side of the main house to accommodate his growing family.

  The stable courtyard, close to the house, was the province of Thomas Bridge, who’d been with the Deverell family since before Corwen was born and who knew the family secret and guarded it well.

  “Mr. Corwen, sir, and Mrs. Rossalinde.” Thomas came scurrying out from under the arched gateway as we halted in front of the house. “Good to see you both, but a sad day.”

  “How goes it, Thomas?” Corwen asked as we handed over the horses.

  Thomas didn’t have time to answer before Lily yanked open the front door and ran to meet us.


  “Where have you been?” Lily’s face flushed with anger, her eyes were red-rimmed with tears. “Why couldn’t you have come yesterday?”

  “Hello, Lily. Nice to see you, too,” Corwen said. “We only got your letter this morning. We came through Sheffield.”

  As Thomas took charge of Timpani and Dancer, Lily grabbed each of us by the wrist and almost dragged us into the hallway.

  “You saw, then? They hanged them. This morning. Without even a trial or proof or anything.” She dropped our hands. “George came to let me know.”

  George?

  I looked up. Behind Lily, hovering as if unsure of his welcome, stood George Pomeroy, the Mysterium agent.

  * * *

  I stepped back so quickly that I trod on Corwen’s foot, but he hardly seemed to notice. He inserted himself protectively between me and Pomeroy. I sensed his wolf coming to the fore, but he didn’t change.

  The moment was charged with intent.

  “Corwen, stand down! It’s all right.”

  It may have been the second or third time of Lily saying it that finally got through to Corwen’s wolf-brain. I felt the tension ease.

  “He’s a friend,” Lily said, keeping it simple. “Friend.”

  Corwen took a deep breath.

  Pomeroy had proved an ally when the redcoats had come to the mill intent on taking the rowankind magic users. He’d given us time to send the rowankind away, though I’m sure he’d never expected us to call David to take them to safety in Iaru. I knew he was sweet on Lily, but I didn’t realize she was sweet on him until she turned and took him by the elbow, drawing him into our circle.

  More than sweet. I recognized the signs.

  I put my hand on Corwen’s forearm to prevent him from saying anything rash until we’d heard what Pomeroy and Lily had to say.

  “Mr. Pomeroy.” Anyone who knew Corwen well would have heard the tension in his voice, but I doubted Pomeroy noticed.

  “Your servant, sir.” Pomeroy inclined his head enough to be polite, but not enough to appear subservient, then he turned to me and did the same.

  I dipped a curtsey in return, thankful I’d not dressed in breeches. “Mr. Pomeroy, how . . . unexpected.”

  “Mrs. Deverell, ma’am. I’m pleased to see you took no injury after the circumstances of our last meeting.”

  “None whatsoever, thank you.”

  “A strange occurrence, was it not? To see the mill’s rowankind create magic like that and then disappear.”

  He was fishing. He’d recognized David as Fae, I was sure of it. Had he played it down and attributed all the magic that happened to the rowankind themselves?

  “I’ve never seen anything like that before,” I said with all honesty.

  “Quite.” He almost sounded as if he believed me. “I reported all the magical rowankind gone from Deverell’s Mill,” he said. “I’m so very sorry these two—”

  “You can say their names, George,” Lily said, a shiver of anger in her voice.

  Pomeroy inclined his head. “Jem Richards and Sam Hardcastle. I’m sorry for what’s happened. Believe me, I had nothing to do with the accusation or the arrest. If I’d known it was going to happen, I would have warned—”

  “I know you would.” Lily patted his hand and turned to Corwen. “George is a friend. It bears repeating, brother.”

  How much of a friend? Had Lily told him anything about the family secrets? I could see Corwen wanted to ask, but the very action of asking might do damage if she hadn’t told him anything. I saw Lily shake her head slightly as if answering Corwen’s unspoken question.

  “Let’s take tea,” Lily said. “Mother is resting. There’s no need to disturb her.” That was a euphemistic way of saying that Mama was in bed with her head under the blankets. She had bouts where she refused to come downstairs for days on end. She’d always been a strong woman, but her strength seemed to have evaporated when her husband died. She’d always had to be strong for her children, but they were now grown and independent. Then she’d had to be strong for Corwen’s father while he was so ill. Now she only had to be strong for herself, but she didn’t seem to be able to find the will.

  Lily led the way into the parlor. In daylight it had a magnificent view across the grounds to the lake at the bottom of the gentle slope, but now the shutters were closed against the oncoming darkness. “Please, sit. I’ll ring for tea.”

  Corwen and I sat side by side on the sofa with Pomeroy across from us. A fire burned merrily in the grate. Were it not for the underlying tension, it could have been any cozy family scene.

  Mary appeared from belowstairs, took the order for tea, and disappeared again.

  “So,” Corwen said. “Jem Richards and Sam Hardcastle. I know Sam had family. What about Jem?”

  “A widower with no children,” Lily said, seating herself next to Pomeroy. “He lodged with Sam and his family.”

  “We must see Sam’s widow and children taken care of, of course. Is she rowankind?”

  “No, a local woman. That’s what saved her, I believe. And the children look more like their mother, all except for the oldest boy—nine years old—who took off like a rabbit when the redcoats came. He’s the one who raised the alarm. By the time neighbors arrived, the redcoats had both men trussed like Christmas geese.”

  Though rowankind were not allowed to marry officially, if a couple jumped the broom together, they were considered respectably married by the community, even without an entry in the parish register.

  “Did the redcoats read out any charges?” I asked.

  Lily shook her head. “I don’t know. Mrs. Hardcastle doesn’t remember. There was a scuffle. They pushed her aside. She knows both men were accused of witchcraft, but she doesn’t recall how formal the accusation was or whether the redcoats had any papers.”

  George Pomeroy cleared his throat. “If I may continue the story.”

  We all turned our attention on him.

  “When I heard what had happened, I rode straight to Sheffield with a writ of habeas corpus, but I was too late. Five men and one woman were hanged at noon, two from here, one from Penistone, and three from Sheffield, all of them rowankind. I’m so sorry. The Mysterium exceeded its authority.”

  “How did they come to accuse Richards and Hardcastle?” Corwen asked.

  “There was an anonymous tip from someone in Denby Dike Side.”

  “Someone from Kaye’s Mill, do you think?” Corwen asked. Mr. Kaye had once masqueraded as a friend but had proved to be a scheming rival.

  Pomeroy shook his head. “I don’t know. I suspect my superiors kept me ignorant because of the sergeant’s report following the escape of your rowankind. It was obvious my hesitation gave the rowankind the opportunity to get away.”

  “And why exactly did you do that?” Corwen’s voice had knives in it.

  “I’ve studied the statutes, and as far as I am aware, the rowankind are, in law, non-persons, and therefore not required to register their magic with the Mysterium.”

  “That’s exactly what I told W—” I stopped myself from saying the name, Walsingham.

  “The problem is that as non-persons, they have no rights enshrined in law either,” Pomeroy said. “They’re in a strange position. It’s as if they don’t exist. Do you know how many rowankind were living in this country on Tuesday, the tenth of March, 1801?”

  I shook my head.

  “I was curious, so I asked my grandfather to request the census figures for me. The figures were recorded by parish and township. Added all together, in England alone there were fifty-two thousand rowankind employed in agriculture, domestic service, and in trade. That’s not counting the ones who disappeared eighteen months ago. No one knows where they went.”

  We did, but we weren’t saying.

  Mary’s arrival with a tray of tea cut short Pomero
y’s response. She placed an elegant silver pot on the side table with a matching milk jug and sugar bowl. James, the footman, carried in a hot water urn and set it on a small burner to keep the water hot enough for tea. Sarah brought a tray of teacups, saucers, and plates, together with a platter of thinly sliced bread and butter.

  I saw Corwen’s lips twitch into a smile as Lily did the duty normally reserved for her mother. She did it exactly as her mother had taught her, drawing hot water to warm the pot and tipping it into the waste bowl before measuring out leaves from the caddy on the sideboard, and adding hot water to brew the tea.

  As she poured the first cup and handed it to me, she glanced sideways at her brother and said, “He did it for me, Corwen. George is a true friend.”

  “He’s Mysterium,” Corwen said, as though Pomeroy were not there.

  Pomeroy cleared his throat to draw attention. “I see I must explain.”

  “You need not, George. My brother should take my word.”

  “Ah, but I should.” He turned to us. “You know I was a second lieutenant in His Majesty’s Navy?”

  We nodded. He’d told us that last year on our first meeting.

  “After I was shipwrecked, I could have gone back, taken a place aboard another ship, under another captain.”

  “But you left the sea.” I knew how that felt.

  “I did. My grandfather is Robert Winter, Earl of Stratford. I’m the younger son of a younger daughter. I don’t have a title, nor do I aspire to one, but my grandfather is very dear to me. He takes his duties in the Upper House very seriously. He’s a great supporter of Mr. Pitt, but he doesn’t favor the policies of Mr. Addington whose pursuance of peace with France—peace at any cost—is, in his opinion, doomed to failure.”

  Pomeroy placed his cup and saucer carefully on the table. “Grandfather has lately become disturbed by the power of the Mysterium, a power that, for all practical purposes, is above the law. The situation was brought home forcibly when his nephew was accused of being an unregistered witch. My grandfather employed an army of lawyers and brought his own considerable influence to bear, so my second cousin didn’t suffer the consequences he might have had he not had a rich and influential family. All the same, the unfortunate has now been packed off to India for the good of his health.”