Page 3 of The Snow Witch

She was glad she’d come.

2

THEN

Coventina’s Well

Autumn 1650

Meggie knelt by the sacred spring in the shadow of the old fort. The fort had been built by the Romans, who had once occupied this land long, long ago. The fort had lain silent now for a thousand years, but she knew the soldiers had worshipped at the same sacred spring she now knelt at, thrown their offerings and their thanks and their dreams into the still, deep waters, and prayed to the same goddess she prayed to now.

Around about her, the hills glowed emerald in the lowering light of the autumn equinox, watching her, protecting her in the dip of the ancient valley. The Dene Burn traced its way through the valley, springing out of Coventina’s Well then running past the Shrine to the Water Nymphs and down past Meg’s own cottage.

‘Blessed Coventina, I thank you on this, our celebration of Mabon,’ she murmured. ‘The hours of darkness and hours of daylight are equal; the wheel has turned. Summer is over, but our harvest has been plentiful. Take these offerings and bless my people. I pray to you and the sacred Water Nymphs, thanking you for our food and asking for your help to carry us through winter, towards Yule and then towards Imbolc and the promise of new life.’ Meggie threw a handful of grains into the Coventina’s Well and watched as they swirled and separated, eventually sinking out of sight. ‘Please, accept these gifts as a sign of my devotion.’

She closed her eyes and trailed her fingers through the clear water, feeling the coolness against her skin. An owl skimmed past her, the air current beneath its beating wings barely moving her hair.

Yet despite the quiet, there was a sense of something coming, creeping inexorably towards her, and she did not like the feeling. When she was here at the Well, she usually felt calm and still. Images and pictures that came to her were soft at the edges, moments of times yet to come that she saw every year and in every season. She saw the women of the village fall in love, marry and give birth. She saw the men working hard outside the home, the gentle slip of the seasons; golden autumn giving way to silver-white winter, sap-green spring and bright-blue summers. The wheel of the year turned in her mind, and her gifts allowed her to forecast the highs and lows of village life – to be ready to help those in need, to protect the innocent. She knew the lore of herbs and healing, and the village relied on her help. Her grandmother had taught her all she knew, and Meg felt privileged to continue the old woman’s work.

But today, Meggie’s thoughts were different. They were all sharp edges and dark shadows and she was unsettled. She saw, in her mind’s eye, rows of women and men hanging on scaffolds, the cry of, Witch! echoing around the town of Newcastle. And they were not thoughts or pictures she had imagined; Meggie’s visions were such that she felt she was there, on the Town Moor, standing before the scaffold, feeling every emotion, hearing every scream and protestation. The stories of the Newcastle Witch Trials had made their way west to Newbrough and Hexham, and her fears were that it would not be long before the Witch Pricker set his sights further afield.

She pitied anyone who fell foul of that evil creature. Those poor people who had been accused of witchcraft would, she knew, all be innocent of what they were accused of.

She closed her eyes for a moment and sent a prayer to blessed Coventina and to the good Lord and the ancient spirits she could feel around her here, to protect those innocent people and to pray that justice was done.

Then suddenly, she opened her eyes and looked into the distance, a sixth sense telling her that he was nearing her.

Emory Milburn.

A small smile played on her lips as she saw him come towards her, walking in that purposeful way he had. He had always known where he could find her. And, if she was honest, she had always let him find her.

Ever since he had been brought to Milburn Hall as a child, staring out of the carriage as it drove through Newbrough in the dead of winter, lost, alone and the reason why he had been brought to live at Milburn Hall a mystery, Meggie and he had been inseparable. She had been in the street with her grandmother the day he drove by, the carriage wheels and horses’ hooves throwing up slush as it passed. He had looked out of the window at her, and their eyes had locked. She had been eight years old, and that was the moment she understood Fate.

‘He is here,’ she had said. ‘I know him.’

‘You do not, Meg Noble. And why do you stare so, child?’ her grandmother had asked. ‘’tis impolite. We know not why he is here – a poor orphan, no doubt, a companion to Master Charles. It is none of our business.’

‘But Mither. He is mine.’ It had seemed entirely logical. Their eyes had locked and she had watched him until the carriage turned the corner, aware that he was watching her too.

Later that day, she had sat in a tree, hidden in the garden of the Big House, staring at the door until he had come out.

He walked straight to the tree and looked up. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘I knew you would be here.’

‘I knew you would come,’ she said simply. ‘I am Meggie Noble.’

The boy had looked at her. ‘I thought you were a Snow Witch.’

Meg had laughed and jumped down from the tree, landing in the deep snow. ‘Why say you that?’

‘You are white as the snow.’ He had indicated her hair, an unnatural white blonde even then.

Meggie knew she was as pale as milk and she scowled, but he continued to speak, even as she wanted to counter his comments by saying that even though he was small and pale, his hair was dark as night and made his face look white as snow, but what did any of that matter?

‘And when I asked who you were,’ he continued, ‘they said you had strange ways. They say your grandmother knows the old ways and you are learning them. They said you roam the moors and pray to the old gods. I felt sure you must be a witch.’ He flushed. ‘Because you are very beautiful and witches are very beautiful.’

Meggie laughed, delighted. ‘That is how we bewitch men.’ She giggled. ‘What is your name?’

‘I am to be known as Emory Milburn.’ He frowned.