The Witches Of Stourton Hall

The Little Yew Tree Witch and The Stolen Winter come together in this remastered book with added characters and chapters, giving more depth to the characters and more explanation to the twists and turns.

And another edit of many and probably more to come.

This is one of my favourite chapters of the book, not a lot happens - however the seen is set for all that is to come and all that has come before.

A Rackety Cart

THE WITCHES OF STOURTON HALL

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The year was 1408, and it was a cold October day, snow clouds lay heavily in the sky waiting to fall upon the bustle of the market hidden in the castle walls. The stalls had a scrappy selection of roots, pie and mead served in pots, other stalls had rustic furs and embroidered smocks and hanging and clanging in the wind, wooden and forged tools took centre stage. The castle bustled with carts, horses and folk, fire pits roared and the peasants gathered to keep warm. The market would go on late and games and fights would break out – this would happen every sixth day before the Sabbath. Every sinner could then pray for forgiveness from God in church the following day and then rest if permitted. The peasants, nearly all serfs to the Lord, knew each other well. They were tied to the land and not permitted to leave; they all had their complaints and arguments but generally they looked out for each other. A few were talented freemen and not hitched to the castle, these were mainly stonemasons and carpenters who often travelled for work. But folk would know them as they often came back to the same places for employment and they had family scattered around, so when someone completely new pitched up at the market, the locals were suspicious and not so friendly and the stranger would stick out like a sore thumb.

Agnes and her mother Avoca arrived at Stourton by luck, chance, purpose or fate. They had arrived on a warm, sunny day pulling their rackety cart full of their meagre possessions. They wore matching cloaks and pointed hats in deep blue wool, dyed by woad leaves. This was not sensible–it offended many as they were deemed poor and not worthy to wear such rich colours. Avoca though, knew it created work as she was skilled with dying fabric, and folk could not help but ask for a deep blue or vivid red garment. Avoca’s cauldron bounced along, tied onto the cart with other pots, furs and wool. They had travelled far on foot for many moons, keeping mainly to the deep ancient woods hidden by the dark woody paths; they would camp late and rise early so as not to be found. Avoca ran from capture and torture by a sheriff of the King’s own, who believed her to be a black witch who had murdered his brother. The sheriff was nasty man, and had a personal vengeance to seek out any who resembled a witch on his hunt, and with no trial he would have them burnt at the stake. He became well known; people were afraid and would quickly accuse anyone to save their own skin. Avoca and Agnes were lucky to escape and prayed to find somewhere less suspicious, where their skills could still be considered useful. When they stumbled upon Stourton, they felt blessed; the village folk were cautious, but they appeared gentler, and the lord who ruled the lands would soon find the healing powers by Avoca to be beneficial. She took a small stone hovel deep in the wood not far from the castle, and there she had spring water and all the ingredients and utensils she needed to make her potions, ointments, powders and dyes. Avoca and Agnes would set up a stall at the market every day before the Sabbath and, to avoid persecution, attended the church alongside the other peasants.

On one cold October late morning, Agnes and Avoca trundled into the cobbled marketplace within the castle walls, snow flurries began to fall swirling down to rest on cold slabs of stone. As always they went to the same spot at the end, a little away from the other stalls; although they had not encountered any animosity, they preferred to keep themselves to themselves and others seemed happy with their quiet presence. Many had begun to trust Avoca and took her potions for ailments, and since she had saved the life of little Tilly Feld from the sweating sickness, word had gone around and people treated her with gratitude and her daughter Agnes they could not help but adore.

The morning felt uneasy to Avoca, and she was skittish and alert to everything. She discussed with Agnes that maybe it was because it was the Eve of Samhain, and later fires would be lit to ward off evil spirits at dark. Avoca herself would pray to her ancestor on this eve in a stone circle she made surrounded by candles and herbs. It was a time Agnes loved as her mother’s dear friends would visit, and she could sit outside all night and stare at the skies with them, chatting of other times.

Many stall holders were very busy that day and extra crowds gathered, buying produce to celebrate the evening. Avoca was not happy though; she twitched and sniffed the air like a rabbit being tracked by a fox. It became too much for her, so they discretely packed up and left over a small side bridge that no one used as it made the walk a massive detour around the village. Avoca was happy for this extra walk and to be away from the gathering crowds. As they entered the woods, they could hear music starting to play and roars of laughter and they knew only too well this would turn to raucous bad behaviour later on. Avoca settled herself and held Agnes’s hand firmly. She sang one of Agnes’s favourite songs, and pushing the rackety cart they disappeared into the depths of the woods. Avoca and Agnes soon reached their humble hovel; where only the odd game keeper would infrequently pass and a young farm lad who they had found to be a friend. He bought them eggs and milk and in exchange Avoca taught him how to dye the wool he bought from the fields, fallen from sheep. Avoca didn’t normally like many folks, but this young lad, Jeremiah of the Feld had a pure heart and was no trouble at all. That evening they both busied themselves with chores and began preparations for their evening. A stone circle was made, and Avoca sprinkled her herb mixture around as she chanted little fixing rhymes as she called them, rather than spells. Agnes kneaded the dough, adding sweet berries they had dried from the summer. She added mashed hazelnuts and then left the dough wrapped in a cloth by the fire. She placed the cauldron on the fire and went outside to help her mother. The darkness had descended quickly and the skies were clear, lit up by the moon and stars. It was not long before the smell of smoke drifted through the air as the village and castle folk started to light their huge bonfires to ward off evil spirits. Many believed the spirits of the dead would travel, and they would set a place at their tables for their loved and lost ones who they invited in to join them in their feasting. Avoca though, lit no bonfire; she had no fear of any spirits, and she invited no spirits to her own makeshift table, instead she would greet her coven and they would talk long into the night and share knowledge, discoveries and spells. Agnes placed the dough on bay leaves in the dry cauldron, and added sticks to the fire beneath, turning her flattened bread until it cooked. She then placed water and chopped potatoes and herbs into the huge pot. Unlike the others, they would not feast on a sacrificed animal, instead they would pray for the safety of the woodland creatures.

Soon the others arrived, magically, just appearing from nowhere with only little pops of light flashing in the sky, and the wondrous evening began. The five witches sat inside the stone circle eating the thick soup and flat bread that Agnes had made. Agnes played near bye contently while listening and watching her mother’s friends; she was too young to be in the circle. Agnes loved to see her mother look so happy as she chatted in her own language. Agnes could understand some words, though many were spoken too quickly. Each witch was different in appearance, but all of them were beautiful and magical to Agnes. She loved Josina the best, not only because she looked just like her own mother, but because she also had the sweetest smile and spoke as though she was singing a song. Her shiny dark hair and eyes glistened, and she wore bright red clothes with pretty jewels. Josina always bought Agnes the prettiest dresses from far away and this year’s Samhain dress was the most exquisite. Finely decorated in delicate white flowers, it was the most vivid blue in a luxurious fabric fit for a princess. Agnes loved it so much and she danced and twirled admiring the beautiful flowing fabric. She was complimented by the others, even jolly Lettice made a flattering remark. Lettice made Agnes laugh; she had funny freckles and curly red hair, and she wore many dresses in different colours all at once to hide her growing rotundness from an abundance of foraged and stolen food. She teased everyone with her drawl and at times was quite rude, chattering through her wobbly teeth. Avoca had told Agnes that she was extremely old and was born into a Viking family, hence her rudimental ways. Parnell and Wilmot admired her new attire and for Agnes this was indeed a triumph, for they were so beautiful, and she had always looked at them both with awe. They were identical twins, both fair and so pale they shone like diamonds. Both appeared shy and quiet and each spoke for the other; they were practically one person in two bodies. Avoca explained to Agnes they were the most powerful witches known in the realm, despite their demure and innocent appearance and soft gentle mannerisms. The evening continued as normal with laughter and chatter, until it took a more serious note. Agnes was an observant child and she understood from people’s tone of voice and expressions if there was any concern. That night, normally filled with joy, seemed to be taking a more sombre turn. The conversation grew colder and quieter, and the witches huddled closer. Agnes knew trouble was on its way; she stopped her play and went inside to the warmth of the fire, lying down in front of the flickering flames. She pulled a hessian blanket around herself and drifted off to sleep. Agnes did not sleep by choice; the spell had already begun to weave its magic. Josina, her mother’s dearest friend, had come with grave news. She was terrified by one of her many visions, she had seen a priest, a sheriff and a crowd and on the stake of fire, she had seen Avoca and Agnes. Josina knew a witch hunt was upon them and they did not have long. Avoca had to leave with Josina that night, they would take what they could carry and hide what was left behind. To Avoca’s horror this included Agnes; she could not come as she was too young and would die in the crossing of time. Avoca begged her friends to find a way to take Agnes, but they insisted she would die. Parnell and Wilmot cast a spell so strong that little Agnes would not wake for hundreds of years, and she would only wake if the words were spoken of an ancient Indian spell. Her little sleeping body lay wrapped in hessian, with her favourite things in the chest, and with henna they painted patterns of protection charms upon the wood. Carefully they gave sleeping Agnes a potion, and there she would lie buried in a cavern underground. Avoca planted a yew tree for protection and so she would easily find the burial cavern on her return, even if it took  hundreds of years. Wilmot had promised her she would be safe and when she woke, little Agnes would be just the same, but for now though she was frozen in time. With many tears, Avoca packed, convincing herself she was doing the best thing. Josina had always looked after her and had come back for her. But Avoca could not shake off the feeling that something was very wrong. Why would the witches coven not just take on the sheriff and priest? She had no choice though, and when she heard the sound of horns announcing someone of importance arriving at the castle, she hastened. The other witches helped pack up, making sure they left no trace in the stone hovel and they were gone–vanished into the smoky skies taking their spiritual paths and portals to their worlds in different times and places, far from danger and far from Agnes, all that was left on a faraway path was the remnants of a rackety cart.

A chapter from the book : The Witches of Stourton Hall author & Illustrator Victoria J Hunt ©️