Chapter 1 – Stars from behind bars

May 1556, Yorkshire Moors

Crowns would fall, many of them. Women’s thrones – vacant for the taking. The future Nemis fore-saw in her visions was not safe for Queens. Locked away, jolted from side to side in a closed cart trundling across the moorland, there was nothing a mere witch like she could do to save them. A captive with no-one she could trust to tell or warn of what could happen. Few humans would believe her anyway, for although everyone knew magic and witchcraft existed, those who could truly control it were often shunned or forced into hiding, lest their true nature frighten. Creaturekind – witches, vampires, fae and daemon – were bound by a Treaty to avoid exposure or interference in human affairs. It did not specify protecting them, but surely it should?

Nemis shivered, despite the warmth of the orange sunset sky glimpsed through the tiny window bars. A debilitating chill, heralding another bout of visions, threatened to overtake her, to drown her in darkness and confusion. The visions began at the same time as strange star lights in the night, two days ago, while she’d been imprisoned in Beesworth gaol. It had to be the star’s fault, Nemis reasoned as her teeth chattered in her jaw, for nothing else unusual had happened during her months of captivity.

When the display was first sighted, the other prisoners had clanged on their doors to be freed, crying with fear at the awesome sight glimpsed through their tiny windows, while she had jittered, fitted and screamed until dawn. The following morning, Nemis – accused of murder by witchcraft – and Sarah Fell, a drunken, unrepentant thief and doxy, had been bundled into the mobile prison without explanation or warning. There had been no time to tell her son or his guardian of her movement to York, or of the Queens’ deaths she predicted. Telling almost anyone about the peculiarities of being a se’er witch wouldn’t help free her, anyway.

Nemis huddled into herself on the rough wooden seat, knocking knees to shaking jaw. Foetid straw scattered over the filthy wood floor, so damp it barely rolled when the cart lumbered over a dip in the track. Her shivering caused the links in her chains to quiver and chink together. The fruity, hay-like smell of droppings caught in her throat as the carthorse dragged its load towards York. In the darkening enclosure, her senses heightened, a sure sign of change within her about to strike.

Her skin crawled, no matter how much she scratched. Wrapped around her head, her scabby arms were streaked with the blood her nails had drawn, disguising the crawlie bites which marred her entire body, testament to months of captivity. Before long, the writhing would start, like a snake twisting inside her belly which she could not scratch out. Her wounds would re-open.

Sarah Fell snored opposite; her duckies heaved plump over a too tight corset and quivered with each snort. Her sound slumber was no surprise as Nemis had kept her awake with shrieks and cries both nights since the stars first displayed their glittering streaks. Poor Sarah had told her as much, in no uncertain terms, and complained nobody wanted to hear her unholy screams. That it wasn’t natural – her eyes rolling back, body quaking, barely breathing. ‘Near fit to die’, as Sarah put it, before spitting at her. They had spoken little on the journey since, as the woman was too frightened of Nemis’s strangeness.

Across the moor, evening squawks of pheasants called and the occasional owl hooted. As darkness deepened, Nemis stared through the bars of the narrow aperture at the back of the closed cart. When the starlight streaked across the sky, no doubt her torture would begin once more. Dread tightened her chest as she tried not to think about crowns falling off at the moment of their bearers last breath. The impressions are more than her usual, dispassionately observed images which flicked before her eyes. In these new visions, Nemis experiences the agony as if her own. Over and over, she has died in her dream-like state, and fears each time she will never awaken again.

The first is a watery demise – buffeted in the tide, the water flashing pink and frothy but the pain stabs her chest. She splutters, arms flailing, her fingers reaching for something but she knows not what. Something is around her ribcage, perhaps in it, binding her as tightly as the cold prison of the waves. A crown drifts away from her as she sinks.

The next is in darkness, pungent with spice. All she can hear are the whispers between wails. She catches a glimpse of a crown, tumbling from her fingers.

For the third, her body convulses, agony streaking through her being. She screams, her voice echoing, over and over. Just out of reach, the same crown, but she is exhausted by the effort of straining for it.

The next is the strangest, for she looks down at her own body and it is bathed in red light. The hunger she feels gnaws through her bones and she wrestles, fighting the arms which hold her down.

Then, somehow, she is the same person but distracted by the flash of blades, arcing through the air, over and over like a silver blizzard.

But the worst is yet to follow. The one which leaves Nemis shredded on the floor and unable to move. It is the absence of anything other than her insides being wrenched from her very skin. Her soul peeling away in agonising strips until she is nothing but a husk. Her head drops, and the weight of her crown tumbles off.

Each time, in the hazy, twilight moments as she rouses, Nemis knows without any doubt, what she sees – experiences – in the shadows is the death of Queens. Their treasured crowns will fall, doubtless leaving chaos in their wake. She cannot forget the sensations of vision, yet cannot recall the detail. Fear of recurrence has plagued her waking hours, and the closed cart with all its smells, darkness and jolts doesn’t assuage her terror.

The last light of the sunset disappeared and the chill clamped in the pit of her stomach. She clutched the rough wooden seat, drawing her hands up and down its length, ignoring the splinters which caught in her fingertips.

Please, not again, she prayed.

The cart slowed to a stop and, for a moment, she could breathe easier. Wood smoke, and the welcome smell of food. Pottage maybe, or the remnants of a roast, lingered in the air. Had they arrived in York yet?

Perhaps tonight would be different, if she could only be outside again. Maybe under the moonlight the prickling to her skin would cease.

She nudged Sarah with her foot to wake her. As the old woman stirred, Nemis’s shaking intensified. She fought to remain conscious, to listen to the muttered negotiations between the cart driver, the accompanying official, Alf Cooper, Assistant Sheriff, and another man with a different accent.

“She’ll stay put. T’other one won’t be a bother if we keep her fettered,” Alf said.

“Tha’s welcome, then. I’ve a room out back ‘fer the thief, a small one mind, wi’ a lock on’t door. The witch’ll have to stay in the cart. And there’s a chamber ‘fer you pair and the best stew this side of Rosedale.” He chuckled. “If tha’d been here twenty years earlier, I’d have sent yer witch to the old Abbey ‘fer the nuns ter pray over.”

A grimace flashed over Sarah’s face as she glanced through the tiny window. Then she sneered. “Pretty, pretty. Here’s my pretty.”

Nemis’s arms, heavy with shackles, slid down from her knees and the chain dropped to the floor with a thud. Another night locked in this stinking cart. She didn’t dare look at the sky – what was the point? She knew the starlights were there again because the sensations in her body told her so.

A key rattled in the lock, then the wooden door swung open. “Mistress Fell, you’re to come with me,” ordered Mr Cooper.

Sarah shuffled forwards, her tattered skirt catching on the rough planks as she pushed herself out. “She made me,” she muttered, as her hand inched her skirts higher. Then she cackled, “Would yer like to sample me secrets? A warm meal and a drink is all I ask.”

As she spread her bare legs, Mr Cooper responded with, “Foul doxy,” and slapped her thighs.

Sarah screeched. “Fie upon thee!”

Nemis’s head lolled against the cart’s wall. The small space seemed to widen, as if the presence of another person had held the darkness in check. She squinted at the doorway, the change in light hurting her eyes.

Behind the Assistant Sheriff, the innkeeper held his hand over his brow as he peered inside. His nose wrinkled. “She looks like a witch an’ all.” He sniffed. “Bit young, like. Still, I’ll not ‘ave ‘er causing upset in my place.”

Alf nodded. “Understandable.”

The door slammed shut. As the lock clicked, Nemis collapsed.

Destiny Arising – Book 3 in the Naturae Series – Available 19th April 2024

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