A Plague of Witches - Open Novella Contest 2021

Chapter Nine - Demdike

(Header photo is the statue in modern-day Pendle, Lancaster, dedicated to the witches who died during the witch trials of King James Stuart's reign)

Chapter Nine

(Cheapside, London City)

Demdike

Elinor could see very little of the room beyond Kerr's tense shoulders, but she felt the air in the room change as all attention settled upon them. She peeked around Kerr and counted four hooded figures in the room, though it was clear that three of the figures pivoted around the fourth; a hunched figure who stood offside, peering out of the window at the night.

"Did anyone see?" A gruff voice sounded from underneath the closest hood. A man, young but educated, if his voice was anything to go by.

Kerr shrugged and she imagined that if she could not see the tension in his locked jaw, she would be convinced of his laid-back nature.

"No one," He confirmed, his tone cool and confident, the perfect tone for a young man of noble birth. "Well, except of course for Lady Elinor here."

Without warning, he stepped out from in front of her and Elinor fell prey to the harsh vulnerability of all but the window watcher's gaze upon her, appraising her in silence. She felt entirely too exposed. This feeling amplified when three of the people tore their hoods from their heads at the sight of her. Two women and one man, all young, though slightly older than Kerr. Elinor tried not to let her surprise at their obvious respectable appearance show, but instead raised her hands to her own hood and pulled it back. She felt rather self-conscious, feeling her braids had grown loose, red strands falling around her flushed face. For the first time since the Queen's chamber, Elinor realised that she had blood on her hands. To stop her hands shaking at the sight of the red droplets, she clasped her hands at her abdomen and assumed a polite smile.

"This is," Kerr began, turning to face her, giving her an encouraging nod. "Lady Elinor Devereux. Robert Devereux's adopted daughter from Cornwall."

Elinor felt herself wince at this, never having heard herself described as being from Cornwall. Kerr's pronouncement of her heritage was met with an icy silence which only broke when the figure by the window turned to face the room, drawing back their hood with heavily veined and age-spotted hands, where several knuckles seemed to have grown crooked and gnarled by time.

It was an old woman, hunched but still, somehow, tall in her self-assured stance. She was one of the oldest women Elinor had ever seen, using a nobbled walking stick to balance herself. She, like Elinor, wore her hair in braids, though hers was loose and the colour of moonlight over water. Her eyes were milky white as she took in Elinor. Though she gave the impression of someone who was intimidating - and Elinor certainly was unnerved - she stared right back, feeling the pull once more that she could not avoid at the sight of the hoods hanging in Whitehall, the pull that had called her from her bedchamber and tugged her from her sleep.

Unprompted, she felt herself rolling up her sleeve and turning her forearm to the old woman. Upon sight of her dagger-like mark that had remained inflamed from Queen Anne's touch, the old woman's face split into a wicked grin that was both terrifying and utterly miraculous to behold.

The woman reached out and took hold of Elinor's arm. Her nails were near black as they pressed on the fresh wounds the Queen had inflicted. As the old woman's black nails slotted into the fresh wounds, the mark flashed red and Elinor almost screamed.

"What do we have here then?" The old woman crooned in response to Elinor's pain. "A wee little witchy?"

Elinor fought the urge to shrink back, away from the old woman and her all-seeing, white eyes. Her words had not been an accusation but rather, she sounded almost hopeful.

Kerr saved her from having to answer any further questions by resting a hand on the small of her back and speaking to the room at large.

"Elinor has not been raised with the same knowledge we have," He said firmly to the room at large, before turning back to Elinor, to look down at her with a gentle smile.

"These are my friends, closer than my blood family. This is Elizabeth Southerns." He gestured to the woman before them, who still had her eyes trained upon Elinor's arm.

Elinor froze, registering the names that followed Elizabeth Southern's with equal shock.

Thomas Redferne, Alizon Device, and Elizabeth Whittle.

Elinor's eyes flashed back to the old woman, a name that had chased her since the first death at Somerhill Hall racing around her mind.

"Demdike."

Elinor's whispered word seemed to drop the temperature within the room by several degrees.

"You... died," She did not know how to verbalise what she could see standing before her very eyes. Instead, she looked to Kerr. "The Hoods, in Whitehall?"

Thirteen dead witches, but here stood four by the same name, undeniably alive.

Perhaps Kerr expected her to faint like some common maid, as he tightened his grip on her waist. Instead, she pulled herself free and turned to face him, rage and confusion beginning to bubble up in her blood in equal measure.

"What is going on here?" Her voice was rising to a nearly inaudible squeak, along with the flush in her cheeks. "All I know is that people are dying! The Queen is dead - at my hand! And now, the Lancaster witches are alive?"

She wished more than anything that she could rip her corset from her body and breathe fully.

"Somebody shut her up!" Hissed Redferne, his eyes flashing to the door behind them. Elinor was close to a spiral, giving way to the chaos of her mind and she knew it, as the weight of the Queen's death, her own witch mark struck her. The room was beginning to spin and her breathing turned shallow. She could tell that the others were talking, but the ringing in her ears had grown so loud that she could grasp the words.

She had killed the Queen. The Queen. Queen. Queen. Queen.

With a final shout from Kerr, she looked up to see a red glow emanating from his hands and as he turned on her, he gripped her skull in his large hands, holding her tightly. Her skin began to burn, though she could not scream. Why couldn't she scream?

For the second time that night, Elinor Devereux fell to the ground with a heavy smack.

Word Count: 1185 Words

A/N: 

Hello friends, 

I'm sorry about the pub name, but once again, once I thought of it I had to commit! 

***Fun Fact about living in 1600s England: In the early 17th century the architect Inigo Jones introduced the classical style of architecture (based on ancient Greek and Roman styles). He designed the Banqueting Hall in Whitehall, which was the first purely classical building in England.***

Love Jens x