Page 51 of The Snow Witch

Meg’s life and death, and the path that had led to that moment, all seemed a little close to home right now. And Violet wasn’t enjoying the proximity.

She’d ring Jake and see if she could go and rescue him, perhaps. He might very well fancy a trip somewhere.

32

THEN

Emory slammed the door of the cottage behind him and mounted his horse again.

He was still desperately hoping that his suspicions were unfounded. He saw two men walking down from Coventina’s Well, their faces pale and stunned.

‘You there!’ he called as he rode up closer to them. ‘What has happened?’

One of them stared at Emory, unable, it seemed, to speak.

The other attempted a response. ‘Your brother knows. He was there.’

Emory shook his head, frustration mounting. This village! What was all the secrecy and unwillingness to talk about? ‘I am not asking my brother,’ he snapped. ‘I am asking you. What has happened here today?’

‘Here? In the village? Nothing out of the ordinary…’ Despite the pretence at arrogance, the man’s voice was trembling.

‘Robert…’ The younger man found his voice. ‘Do not,’ he warned. He looked at Emory warily.

‘Do not what?’ Emory was very close to losing his temper now. ‘Do not tell me?’ He raised his whip and dangled the edge very close to the young man’s face. ‘One flick of this, and you shall have a mark to show your grandchildren. I demand you tell me what is happening.’

The younger man moaned, closing his eyes and shaking his head. ‘Grandchildren…’ he murmured. ‘Alice⁠—’

‘They burned yon Snow Witch,’ the older man interjected. ‘Or whatever creature from Hell she was.’ He stared at Emory defiantly. ‘Tried, found guilty. Strangled and burned. She deserved it. She cannot do harm to anyone else now. Come, lad. Let us go and find some ale.’ He took the younger man’s arm and dragged him away, glaring at Emory as they went.

The ground seemed to fall away from beneath Emory; the panic and fear that was wriggling within him like a viper grew and his hands began to shake. He clung onto the reins more tightly, his knuckles turning white.

But there was one more thing. One more thing before he exploded and pounded his fists into that snide bastard’s face. He raced after the men, overtook them and drew up before them, making them jump.

‘Her name. Say her name,’ he yelled. ‘Say her real name.’ He almost choked on the words.

The younger man must have seen the temper flaring in Emory’s eyes – God knew Emory could feel it building within him.

‘Meg,’ he whispered. ‘Meg Noble.’

Emory didn’t wait to hear any more. He fled on the horse towards the Well – towards that plume of smoke he could see in the snow-covered landscape.

He raced across the fields, heedless of the worsening blizzard, the horse’s breath coming in steaming wisps from its nose. Emory flew up towards the Roman fort, along by the remains of the temple, and towards the Well, making the horse jump over the Burn that spewed from the sacred spring.

As he approached the Well, he saw signs of footsteps and scuffles in the snow that lay there, but worse, red stains on the snow that spoke of extreme violence and killing.

‘God in Heaven!’ he cried, his eyes fixing on the mess, his mind filling in the blanks. ‘Meggie, what did they do to you?’ The Dene Burn was rushing through the landscape as if it wasn’t the middle of winter. The noise filled his ears and the smell of smoke and burning flesh made him retch.

He saw her then – or what was left of her. There was evidence of someone trying to dig a pit in the frozen ground near a gnarled old thorn tree, the earth softened, it seemed, by signs of a fire. They had partially covered a bundle of charred rags with clods of earth. The remains were not recognisable as a human, but Emory knew – he simply knew.

‘Meggie!’ He drew the horse to a halt and dismounted, running over to the makeshift grave. He dropped to his knees and, not thinking clearly, held his palm over the remains. The heat was still spiralling off it, smoke still wreathing the area. His hand shaking, he lowered it and touched the rags. Whatever was within it crumbled under his touch and he sprang back. ‘Holy mother of Christ!’ He was unable to think clearly, but simply sat there, shaking his head, not knowing what to do, just knowing he had failed her in some way. Failed his son, who must have died with her. He moaned, an animalistic noise that he had never in his wildest nightmares thought he’d utter. Too shocked to feel any emotion, he didn’t even feel the snow landing on his skin.

‘How the hell did this happen?’

But it was clear what had happened. Meggie had laughed about the four elements when they were children and she confided in him that she would learn her grandmother’s ways: ‘I shall learn to control them. I shall learn everything! Earth, air, fire, water. I shall be able to do anything I like, and nobody will be able to stop me. And I shall have the dagger – the one the goddess Coventina gave to my family. The one she blessed, and we must look after for her.’

But to Emory’s dawning horror, he understood that those elements had claimed the woman he loved – the woman he’d give his very life and soul for – and they had also claimed their unborn child.

Earth – they had buried her. Air – that man said they had strangled her. Fire – they had burned her. Water – she was beside the Dene Burn, beside the place she loved. She was there, what was left of her was there.