CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Lights waver beneath her eyelids, orange eddies dancing on a black canvas. Her throat is sore, her ears filled with the sound of bees. She can smell incense, the noxious scent of sulphur that curls within her nostrils. She is cold. When she turns her head to the side it hurts, even though the motion has only been slight.

Hoath, Redar, Ganabel, Berith .

Not bees. With difficulty Linette opens her eyes.

The staring holes of a skull look back at her and with a cry she jolts up. She barely registers the strange temple-like room she is in, instead feels a sense of panic as she looks at the robed figures above her, their hands joined together to form a circle. Linette stares at Lady Selwyn, eyes closed in abandon, her pinched lips moving in passionate chant, then the hands unclasp, and Henry is thrown in beside her.

‘Henry!’ she cries as the circle of figures rejoin, larger now with the addition of Dr Beddoe and Mr Lambeth. Henry takes the hand she holds out, pulls her up to stand beside him and she wobbles, shocked at her lack of balance. Dark spots pattern her vision, the after-effects of whatever Julian drugged her with.

‘Are you all right?’ Henry murmurs.

She nods, opens her mouth to reassure him, but he does not look at Linette. Instead his eyes are darting beyond the circle as if looking for someone, and suddenly Linette sees her – Miss Carew – pressed against the wall as if frozen in fear. But then her view is obscured by Julian, who has stepped up to a large stone lectern. She can see the pages of his grimoire fluttering in the cold breeze, the ceremonial dagger resting by its side.

‘Where are we?’

‘The mine,’ Henry whispers back, and it becomes clear to her – the towering stone walls, the cathedral-like ceiling. The cold. The wet ground beneath her. The smell of sulphur.

Linette swallows. Almost lovingly Julian turns a page of the grimoire, raises his arms to the air as if in prayer.

‘Thee I invoke, the Boneless one, who dwellest in the Void Place of the Spirit! At this most sacred solstice we offer you the souls of my own kin, the blood of twins, as pledged to you years afore.’

Her cousin’s voice echoes through the large chamber. The torches flicker in their sconces, beating a deadly pulse against the stone walls. Beside her, Henry shakes his head.

‘He’s mad. All of them are.’

As if in reply the circle of robed figures raise their clasped hands, their painted arms creating a fleshy barrier.

Hoath, Redar, Ganabel, Berith!

‘In return,’ Julian intones over the din, ‘you will grant us riches on this earth, renewed health and vigour, and when our time to pass the veil arrives, you, Almighty Berith, will bestow upon us the greatest seats beside your unholy lord and master.’

Linette stares. Henry is right. Julian is mad, and it is clear there can be no dissuading him from his course. She looks at the ceremonial blade. If she can only finish what she intended! If only she can reach it! Pressing Henry’s hand she flings herself at Sir John, tries to break the barrier of the Order’s arms but they stand fast, continue their sonorous chant:

Hoath, Redar, Ganabel, Berith!

‘Hear me!’ Julian cries, his arms once more held aloft. ‘Hear our call!’

Suddenly the torches dim, dipping the temple into an eerie semi-dark. The smell of sulphur grows stronger now, as if it comes from directly beneath her, and Linette lowers her eyes, looks at the dead hen at her feet and swallows.

Surely not, she thinks. It cannot be possible.

Hoath, Redar, Ganabel, Berith!

She clutches Henry’s hand tighter, slips her free one into the pocket of her dressing gown, reaches for the sprig of gorse Enaid gave her. ‘I know you do not believe in its protective powers,’ the old woman had said, but Linette crushes the needle-like stem in her fist and does not care that it hurts.

There is a rumble deep within the cavern. The chanting grows louder. Fearfully Linette watches Lady Pennant, Mr Lambeth, Dr Beddoe, the rest, and she realises then that they no longer look like themselves; there is a wildness about them now, a cruel and manic presence as if they have been transformed, each one of them in the throes of those terrible words:

Hoath, Redar, Ganabel, Berith!

At the lectern Julian throws off the cloak, revealing his elaborate robes beneath.

The portrait, Linette thinks. It is the costume from the portrait!

‘Hear us!’ Julian shouts now into the din. ‘Hear us, Almighty Berith! I invoke thee! I invoke thee! ’

It seems impossible that the torches should go out, but in that moment the temple is plunged into darkness. Only the candles from the passageway highlight the room, the Order in their circle and Julian, Julian who has stepped down from the lectern, walking toward them with slow and measured steps.

‘Henry,’ Linette whispers, her fear now as sure as breath. ‘ Henry! ’

There is another rumble. A knock. Stone on stone. Something else. Something that cannot be described, only, somehow, felt – there is a hunger to it, a dark and savage hunger that resonates in the hollow of Linette’s chest like liquid fire. The fine hairs on her arms stand up, her breath catches in her throat. And sulphur, that dreadful stench of sulphur, so strong it makes her nostrils burn!

‘Keep hold of my hand, Linette,’ Henry tells her, voice urgent, and within it she can hear his own fear reflected back at her. ‘When I run you follow. Don’t look back, do not let go of my hand, do you hear me?’

Hoath, Redar, Ganabel, Berith!

The circle parts then. Julian steps into it, the ceremonial dagger held high in his hand.

‘I surrender you both in the name of Almighty Berith,’ he whispers. His dark eyes are frenzied in his pale face, and Linette stares at him in horror. ‘May this sacrifice which we find it proper to offer unto you be agreeable and pleasing unto your desires. May you be ready to obey us.’

His dark eyes are captured in shadow, his face a cythraul taunt.

‘Berith!’ he cries. ‘Do my work!’ and Julian raises the dagger high.

The rumble comes again. This time it is louder, deafening in its intensity. It is a sound heavy and resonant that reverberates right down to the soles of Linette’s feet and makes Julian pause, makes the Order’s chants dwindle, for this time it does not come from within the circle.

It comes from outside. It comes from above.

‘What is it?’ Linette hears Lady Pennant cry. ‘What is it?’

Something falls from the stone ceiling, clatters at their feet. The hard clout of a stone hits Linette’s shoulder and she cries out. Another clatter to her left, another deafening rumble. There is a sharp exhale, a grunt, as it happens again and again, until, suddenly, like rain, the cavernous ceiling above them begins to fall, and the Order start to scream.

‘It’s the mine!’ Henry shouts over the din. ‘Linette we must move, we must—’

A larger rock falls to her right. She feels the rush of air, hears the thud of stone on flesh, the sharp cry of pain. Lady Selwyn, is it? It makes Linette jump – she lets go of Henry’s hand, and in her panic she loses him in the dark.

The stench of sulphur is so strong! Desperately she holds on to the branch of gorse, looks for the candlelit passage, a safe path toward it. But, no good. The cavern is collapsing, hunks of stone bar the way. Another rock falls in a shower of dust and Linette recognises the voice of Mr Lambeth as he cries out for help.

With no way forward Linette spins, retreats further back into the temple, but she can barely see; all she can do is hear. The screams around her are high and desperate, the sound of collapsing stone hard and quaking, and Linette gasps back her tears.

‘Henry!’

‘Linette!’

Suddenly a hand clamps onto her, clubbed fingertips pressing hard into her wrist. Linette can feel his sour breath on her face.

‘You won’t escape me,’ Julian rasps. ‘You won’t escape him!’

‘ No! ’ As hard as she can Linette thrusts him from her, and in that terrible moment she hears the deafening rumble of stone, the sickening crunch of bone, Julian’s strangled scream of pain. ‘Julian,’ she whispers, and for the briefest moment her fear gives way to shock as she glimpses the flash of a gold ring on outstretched fingers, reaching, reaching, reaching …

‘ Henry! ’ Linette cries. ‘ Where are you?! ’

They find each other by accident, a fumbled clash in the dark.

‘The passage is blocked,’ she sobs into his shoulder. ‘We need to find another way out.’

‘There must be one,’ he answers with panting breath. ‘How did you get here?’

Plas Helyg’s fireplace flashes into her mind’s eye, but then there is another crash of stone, an answering scream. Henry presses Linette’s hand.

‘Rowena.’ Like Linette he sounds desperate, frightened. ‘Where is Rowena?’

‘I don’t know!’

‘Rowena?’ Henry spins around, dragging Linette with him, staring blindly into the darkness. ‘ Rowena!’ he shouts, and suddenly Miss Carew is upon them, pulling at their sleeves.

‘This way,’ she says, and Henry cries out in relief. ‘I’ve found a way out.’

Miss Carew leads them to the stone throne. Linette hears the faint rush of silk, realises the curtain she saw behind it was a doorway itself, and they find themselves now in a narrow tunnel. It is even darker here, darker than the cavern they have just left. Behind her the mine continues its devastating collapse and Linette can feel the repercussions beneath her feet. On they go, the only sounds the rumbling cavern behind her, the scuff of dirt, the heave of their panicked breath.

The tunnel smells of drier earth now, the scent of Plas Helyg’s woodland in spring when Penhelyg’s fauna grows anew. Linette wonders how deeply underground they are as Henry pulls her behind him, and as the beating of her heart settles into a steadier pulse she finds herself wondering too about the people they have left behind. Has anyone found a way out? But the screams she heard were too terrible, the sounds of falling rock too final.

None of this, none of it, seems real.

The tunnel has narrowed, the ceiling becomes lower. There is silence behind them now, and a sob catches harshly in Linette’s throat.

A cold sort of damp fills the air. Minutes have begun to stretch, leaving Linette with the feeling they are running further and further from help. Surely they should have reached the house by now? But this is a darkness deeper than any dark Linette has ever known. She bites her lip, concentrates on the echo of Henry’s boots.

The echo of Henry’s boots …

They are not, then, treading on earth any longer. They are treading on stone. Plas Helyg, at last!

‘Here!’ comes Miss Carew’s voice from the front. ‘There’s a door.’

A door? That’s not right. There was no door through the fireplace, only an open tunnel. But Linette hears the groan of hinges; a dim skein of light appears in front of her, and as the door opens wider that light floods the tunnel like a balm. She squints – it hurts her eyes – and a rush of cold fills her with ice.

‘My God,’ Henry says.

‘What?’ Linette whispers. ‘ What? ’ and he pulls her through. She gasps.

They are in the Cadwalladr crypt.

Linette has come here only once before. When she was a child Enaid tried to press upon her the importance of honouring the dead, but the crypt frightened her so much that she made the housekeeper promise never to take her there again. She remembers well the high windows shaped like arrow slits, the monolithic tombs carved with Celtic ropes and holy crosses, the newer one that belonged to her father, the angel that adorned the tomb’s lid like a sentinel.

Henry lets go of Linette’s hand.

‘Well done, Rowena,’ he murmurs, kissing her cheek. He strides then between the tombs, toward the large double doors of the crypt. For a split second Linette fears they will be locked, but Henry pushes his weight against them and they open with a groan, their hinges screaming with the effort of old iron over stone.

Together, they step through.

Dawn has already crept upon the forest like a welcoming blanket; the morning is fresh and filled with the scent of the woods, and in its air is the promise of summer heat. Linette breathes it in, relief washing over her like a wave …

… but then she feels a cold sharpness at her throat.

‘We must get as much distance between us and the crypt as we can,’ Henry throws over his shoulder. He is rushing across the clearing, heading toward the gully of willow trees on the other side as if they are a beacon.

‘Henry,’ Linette calls hoarsely.

‘We’ll go to Mr Dee,’ he continues, breathless with the effort of it. ‘He’s closer.’

‘Henry?’

Halfway across the clearing now. Soon he won’t hear her.

‘You can both stay there while I go to the village, get Ivor to send for help. We must—’

‘ Henry! ’

‘What? What is it?’

He spins around. Stares. Linette sees his reaction, sees the sequence of expressions pass his face almost too fast to name them: shock, disbelief, hurt and then a horror that turns his eyes opaque.

For at the steps of the crypt Rowena Carew has Linette pinioned in a cruel embrace, the ceremonial dagger pressed into the hollow of her throat.