LOVE MAGIC by Victoria Chatham

 Brides of Banff Springs, Canadian Historical Brides, by Victoria Chatham — Books We Love Publishing Inc.

Lord John de Mountfort drove his spurs into the grey mare’s flanks and bent low over her flowing mane as she galloped towards the distant castle. Her pounding hooves barely made a sound on the lush green turf, but then she faltered and swerved. 

“Cut! Cut! Cut!” the director’s voice boomed across the water meadow below Handleigh Castle. “You lying git, Martin, I thought you said you could ride!” 

Martin Mitchell soothed the prancing mare with gentle hand strokes on her neck as he turned and walked back to the camera crew. 

“Donny, if I hadn’t been able to ride, I’d be on the deck by now. Something in the hedge scared her,” he told the director, who stood belligerently with his legs apart and fists on his hips. 

“I knew I shouldn’t work with animals,” Donny groaned. He looked skyward, squinting into the late morning sunshine. “OK, Martin. This light is not going to last. We’ll do one more take and get it right this time.” 

Martin rode to his position at the gateway into the field where the film crew had set up. The low-budget historical movie was not exactly his finest role, but it did, as his agent pointed out, at least pay the bills. Martin positioned the mare alongside the gate and looked up at the turreted battlements in the distance. At least it was a real castle, in a genuine location, and not some fabrication on a back lot. 

He heard Frank, the clapper boy, call out the scene and take number, and felt the mare tense, anticipating Donny’s call for action by a hairsbreadth. Then they were off. He could hear her breath huffing out of her chest as he held the mare at a steady gallop. The instructions were simple: follow the line of the hedge from the gate to a point level with the flagman, rein in, turn, and give the mare the signal to rear. The shot, as it had been described to him, should be brilliant. 

The sound of the wind rushed in his ears, and he had the oddest sensation of being cloaked in something gossamer light, as if a cloud had landed on his shoulders. Then the mare shied again, tossing her head and backing away from the hedge. He hung on as before, trying to turn her in circles to slow her down, noticing as he did so the bright red ribbons braided into her mane. He was almost sure they had not been there a moment ago. 

“By the rood,” he swore. He shortened the reins again until the mare halted, her flanks heaving. He waited for Donny’s bellow of displeasure and looked over his shoulder. The film crew was nowhere in sight. 

“What the blazes?” he muttered, looking more carefully around him. 

The light had already shifted, with the sun now higher in the sky, signalling it was nearing noon. He glanced up at the castle. There had been a subtle change. For a moment, he didn’t notice it, then it suddenly hit him. 

The standards on the battlements were different. What had once been large, square flags of gold-trimmed scarlet displaying a rampant lion were now long, narrow pennants of blue adorned with silver crosses, fluttering in a stiff breeze. 

The mare snorted and pawed the ground impatiently. Martin glanced towards the hedge and was startled to see a figure dressed in long, dark woollens emerging from beneath the protective foliage. 

“Come here, crone,” he commanded. 

He cringed at the commanding sound of his own voice. For all the poor dialogue he had acted out in his rather lacklustre film career, this had to be the worst. But where had it come from? He didn’t remember that part of the script at all. 

The figure approached him. The shawl over the woman’s head slipped, revealing not a crone but a comely maiden. 

Comely maiden? This lousy script was affecting him more than he knew. 

“My Lord.” The girl’s voice was husky, sweet and rich as mead and thick as smoke curling upwards from a wood-stoked fire. She dropped a sketch of a curtsy. 

“You near unhorsed me, minx.” He groaned inwardly. Oh, God, how much worse could this script get? 

“Nay, my Lord. With a seat such as thine, that would be nigh impossible.”  A shy smile curved her plump lips. “But should that happen, then the green sward would surely welcome thee.” 

“OK, Donny, the joke’s over,” Martin said, but there was no Donny lamenting the loss of good light. No film crew yet again setting up for another take, or Frank chalking it up on his clapper board. 

“My Lord, to whom dost thou speak?” The girl had come closer but was looking around her. “Hast thine squire departed?” 

No, but my senses have, Martin thought, then he looked into the girl’s deep violet-blue eyes and felt himself drowning in them. 

“Who art thou?” he asked, then shook himself. This was ridiculous. “Your name?” he continued in what he hoped was more his normal voice. 

“Isobel, my Lord, the hedge witch,” she said, and added, “as well thou knowest.” 

“I do?” 

“Hast forgot, my Lord, t’was I treated you with splints, bone-knit and feverfew last harvest when thou broke thine arm?” 

Martin knew without a doubt that he had never broken any bone in his body, but if this enchanting creature said he did, he was inclined to believe it. He threw his leg over the pommel of the saddle and slid to the ground. He noticed the willow basket over her arm and peered into it. 

“Robbing my lands?” he enquired, poking a finger amongst the herbage he found there. 

“Only for the good of thy tenants, my Lord.” 

“Tell me.” 

Isobel turned and began walking in the direction of the castle. Martin caught up the mare’s reins and hurried to walk beside her. The hem of her skirt was soaked with morning dew, but the weight of it did not seem to slow her down. 

“I have chickweed to prepare a fidelity potion for the baker’s wife, daisies for a maiden who wishes for love, and burdock for a healing draught for the blacksmith’s father.” 

Martin frowned. When he was sick, he went to a doctor and was prescribed an antibiotic. This girl was taking the historical angle a little too far. He looked down at her, trying to remember where she fit into the script. Shocked, he stopped in his tracks. She wasn’t in the script. Hesitantly, he looked around him again. 

It wasn’t just the castle that was different. The road along which the entire film crew convoy had travelled in the early hours of that morning no longer existed. Instead, there was a narrow, rutted track. The village itself was no longer made of bricks and mortar with slate tiled roofs but was a cluster of thatched cottages, many in poor repair. Pigs, chickens, and other animals roamed freely, while a pack of dirty children played a noisy game of tag in the shadow of the battlements. 

“This way, my Lord.” 

Isobel was waiting patiently for him, a curiously knowing look on her face. He followed her between the cottages, shuddering at the thought of what was soiling the soles of his suede leather riding boots. Finally, she stopped beside a cottage that was little more than a round hut. 

“Your mare will be safe here.” She pointed to a heavy iron ring set in the doorpost, and Martin tied the reins to it. 

He had to duck his head to follow her through the doorway. Light spilling in from the open door and a small window barely changed the gloom of the interior. He let his eyes adjust before looking around. Isobel carefully removed her gleanings from the basket and laid them out on a worktable. Amidst the clutter, there was a pestle and mortar and a selection of knives and shears. 

A collection of jars and bottles containing vile-looking liquids sat on a shelf above her head. In the open hearth, a flame-blackened cauldron hung from an iron trivet, and on the far side of the fireplace lay a heap of furs. He picked up the topmost pelt, frowning. There was something about it that nudged a distant memory of blood and teeth and primal savagery. 

“Dost thou not remember, my Lord? The wolf thou slew but two seasons gone?” 

“Me? I killed a wolf?” Martin was certain he had never even seen a wolf, let alone killed one. 

“Famously, my Lord,” Isobel’s voice purred at him. “You saved me from certain harm, and ‘twas then I knew we were destined for a love greater than all time.”   

 “Have I made you happy?” Martin asked softly. Despite racking his brains, he could not recall being with this girl before. Yet, how could he have forgotten her? The sound of her voice rippled over his skin like a gentle breeze. The scent of honeysuckle wafted through his senses. He longed to hold her, to know her. His finger lifted her chin so she had no choice but to look into his eyes. 

“You did not see me,” she whispered.  

“How could I not?” Her luscious, plump, rosy lips tempted him to run his thumb across them. She shivered at his touch.  

“You went too far away, my Lord, so I had to call you back, but I feared t’would not work,” she said. 

“What are you talking about?” 

She crossed the bare earth floor to her worktable, picked up a small, cloth-wrapped parcel, and brought it to him. 

“This,” she said, putting it into his hands. 

He carefully unwrapped it and found two small dolls bound face to face with red ribbon. 

“No man wants a hedge witch unless he ails, so I made love magic with elderflower and rosebuds, yarrow and vervain and asked the Lord and Lady to bless me. I called for you and thou camest to me. We are bound together by love, my Lord.” 

“You really are a witch,” Martin whispered, tracing the swell of her flushed cheeks and trailing his finger over the delicate shell of her ear. 

She nodded. “The seventh child of a seventh child. The most powerful of witches. And now let us share cakes and wine before you leave my circle.” 

 

**** 

 

“Cakes and wine sound just right," Martin muttered, then sat up quickly. “Circle? What circle?” 

“Whoa, cowboy – take it easy!” Frank had a hand on his shoulder and eased him back against a pillow. “You just had an almighty crack on the head when that damn grey dumped you. Donny’s frantic that you’re concussed and will sue. He’s called for the medics. How many fingers am I holding up?” 

“Four, you idiot.” Pushing Frank’s hand away from his face, Martin spoke harshly. 

His whole body ached, and he felt utterly exhausted. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. Where there had been wolf fur and a girl almost in his arms, now there were cotton sheets and thermal blankets. He groaned, shut his eyes, and lay down again. The green sward had definitely not welcomed him. 

Wolf fur? Green sward? He must be losing his mind. But, as he slid his hand under the pillow to cradle his aching head, his fingers closed on a soft shape. Catching his breath, he knew in an instant that he held two small, sweet-smelling dolls bound face to face with red ribbon. 

His hand closed tightly around them as the harsh sound of an ambulance siren grew louder. He heard the vehicle stop beside his trailer, heard Frank say, “He’s in here.” 

Then there was a soft, cool hand on his forehead, and he slowly opened his eyes. 

“Looks like you’ve been in the wars,” she said. 

Her voice was husky, sweet and rich as mead and thick as smoke curling upwards from a wood-stoked fire. He looked up into the paramedic’s deep, violet-blue eyes, and Martin Mitchell just knew she was the seventh child of a seventh child. 

“What took you so long?” he asked with a smile. 

He reached up, pulled her down to him and kissed her. 

 

END