The Weave

By Sheila Williams

A Romany witch, a French Count and an English author entangled in a lie told centuries ago…

1598: When Oskar, Comte de Tréville asks the witch Ombrine to save the life of his son, she demands a high price. Oskar must leave his family and his lands and travel with her, as a servant, to Barbaria.

On his return to France five years later Oskar finds he is wanted for the murder of his wife. Unable to prove his innocence he allies himself with Ombrine who persuades him to take the Jouance – a life-prolonging drug.

Three centuries later, Oskar, now wealthy and leisured uncovers the truth about the fate of his family.

2013: Debut author Richard Pease suffers from writer's block. He is also broke and bedevilled by fears of his own inadequacy.

A chance encounter takes Richard to the Nonesuch Club, a writer's retreat in France run by Oskar and Ombrine. As he finds the block to finishing his book lifts he also begins to uncover the secrets within the club. He finds himself trapped in a centuries-old tangled web of deceit which leaves him not only fighting for his career but also for his life.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: sheila williams
• Release date: Apr 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386363439

Sheila Williams

Sheila Williams slipped into this world on Guy Fawkes Night, under cover of fireworks and bonfires. Outraged to find other nurslings in the nest, she attempted to return to her own world but found the portal closed. Adopting a ‘make the best of it’ attitude (which has remained with her to this day) she endured a period of indoctrination to equip her for her place in society. This included learning a language that no-one ever speaks (latinus deadicus) and making complex calculations of no perceivable value (algebraicus complicatus). Freeing herself as soon as possible from such torture, she embarked on a series of adventures – or to use the vernacular – careers; hospital manager, business consultant, life coach, sheep farmer. She attempted to integrate into society by means first of marriage and then partnered before setting out alone to discover another world, known as France, where she now resides. Always fascinated by these humans amongst whom she dwells, she has developed an interest in psychology, magic, the supernatural, ghosts, Ghoulies and things that go bump in the night. Dark thoughts and black humour lurk within her. In her quest to understand this world she pursues knowledge of its history; not of kings and queens but of its ordinary people and how they lived and worked. To this end, she haunts events such as boot fairs, vide-greniers and sales rooms where many ancient artefacts can be uncovered. Her outlets from this unfathomable world include nature, animals (especially funny videos of), books and writing stories. This latter occupation enables her to create her own worlds, populate them and dispose of the residents as she thinks fit. She finds holding the fate of these poor souls in her hands immensely satisfying.   Should you wish to contact Sheila a message sent to: [e-mail] will fly through the ether to her  

Book preview

Part One - The Spinning

First Thread

France - 1598

Oskar, Comte de Tréville, looked silently at his only son lying in the great bed. His heart was filled with despair and anger. He barely heard the words of the physician.

‘I am sorry, my lord, but there is nothing further to be done. The fever has him fast and my remedies, I fear, do but ease his pain. The evil humours of the fever have taken too strong a hold for this young body. You must prepare yourself. It is only a matter of time now. You can only hope and pray. I am so very sorry, my lord.’ The physician pulled his long black robe tightly around him as though to protect himself from the sickness that had struck the young boy. Oskar made no reply.

‘My lord, if I may withdraw?’

‘Yes, yes, go.’ He waved the man away and then, with the courtesy for which he was known, ‘Thank you for all your efforts... however futile,’ he added under his breath.

The physician bowed himself out of the chamber in unseemly haste.

Oskar, at his son’s bedside, stretched out his hand to smooth away the tangled hair of the boy, black like his father’s.

‘Hubert, my son, my only son.’

A sob coming from the corner of the room made him turn. He held out his hand and his lady, Isobel, ran to him and seized it, grasping it tightly.

‘My lord, we must do something. Surely there is something still to be done. I will not give up on him.’

‘Isobel, my love, I do not know what. There is this sickness all around in the villages – many have already died and doubtless more will do so. I would give my life to spare his and yet I am helpless.’

He dropped his wife’s hand and paced around the chamber. It was hot and stuffy with three braziers burning. The tapestry wall hangings swayed gently as the warm air currents rose, frowsty with a melange of sweat, wood smoke and herbs. He strode to one of the narrow windows, pulled aside the curtaining, and looked over the countryside spread out below the castle. The lake sparkled in the sun, surrounded by a patchwork of green and gold fields that rose up to forests of dark trees and onwards to the steep crests of the snow-capped mountains of the Pyrenees. He shook his head and turned to his wife.

‘I am lord of this fiefdom. My son would have become lord in his turn. Here I have power, wealth and honours and yet I am brought to nothing by this cursed sickness.’

‘Do not speak so. Your son is not dead, my lord,’ Isobel cried angrily. ‘My lord, Oskar, you must do something more.’

She burst into frenzied weeping. Oskar strode over to her, taking her in his arms. He held her a little away from him and gazed into her tear-ravaged face. He spoke more gently.

‘What would you have me do, Isobel? Tell me what and by my life, I will do it. I love my son no less than you. We have had all the best apothecaries and physicians, all to no avail. Tell me what course is left to us.’

Isobel wiped away her tears and Oskar saw the anxious look in her eyes and how she bit her lip, hesitating to speak.

‘What is it, my dove? I know that look. Fear not to speak and tell me what you are thinking.’

‘There is... there is the woman... the one at Néblon... she is said to have potions...’ She broke off seeing the frown gathering on the Comte’s brow. She spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘I know...’ she faltered.

‘You are asking me to seek the aid of the witch Ombrine?’

‘Yes, for my son, for our son I would seek help wherever and from whomever. Oh, Oskar, she could be our last hope for his life. She is said to possess remarkable powers of healing. Many of the village women have gone secretly to her for assistance during this epidemic and with success. I know how repugnant this would be to you, but Oskar, think. He is our only son. You know I cannot give you more,’ she added sadly.

Oskar rubbed his face trying to wipe away the memories of their other children – two just babies, stillborn and two taking but few breaths before slipping away into death. He remembered Isobel’s agonising cries as the labour of childbirth racked her slender body. If Hubert were to die he knew Isobel’s grief and guilt at her barren state would know no bounds. He loved her too much to let her bear such pain.

He walked to his son’s bedside. The lad moaned and tossed restlessly in his fever. Oskar lifted one of the small hands and held it tight as though to transmit some of his own strength to his son. He gently let go of the hand and turned to his wife, again rubbing his hand across his face several times. It was a handsome face, lean, blue eyes, aquiline nose, and intelligent, marred now by a heavy frown. He knew Isobel was watching him closely and heard the small cry of relief as he slowly nodded.

‘I will seek her out. By my faith, it sits ill with me to be begging help from that devil’s spawn and no doubt I will pay for it sooner or later. Yet I will do it for the sake of my son – and for you, Isobel.’

She rushed to him, embracing him. ‘I thank you, my lord, my love. I thank you with all my heart. When will you go?’

‘The sooner it is done, the better. But, Isobel, I counsel you, do not anticipate success. Remember your prayers and remember, too, if the witch has a remedy there will be a price to pay for it and I know not what that will be.’

In less than a half hour, Oskar was mounted and quietly making his way to the forest of Néblon. He rode alone, dressed simply with a leather jerkin over his linen shirt, hose, and a short dagger in his belt. The late afternoon was sultry and cloying. He wound through trees of pine, oak and larch following an ancient path and as he penetrated deeper into the forest all was silent. His horse’s hooves trod soft on a thick bed of pine needles and leaf mould stirring up a cooling, earthy scent around him. The light grew dimmer as the path narrowed and the trees thickened. The air felt damp and chilly. He shivered. After a while he could hear the sound of rushing water and he knew he was near the waterfall and cave where the witch dwelt. He halted; his horse fidgeted underneath him.

Can this be right? He thought. Is this not a mortal sin? Surely it is for God to decide whether to take my son or let him live?

Then he remembered the poor wasted form of his son and the distress of Isobel. He had told her he would give his life for that of his son; what father would do less? Pushing aside his doubts and confusion he urged his horse forward until he reached a small grassy clearing in the heart of the wood. To one side lay a pool of limpid water into which a cascade tumbled and splashed. At the side of the cascade he saw the cave, its entrance cushioned with bright emerald moss and overhung by a tangle of brambles and scrub.

A figure appeared in the cave entrance – a woman, small in stature and thin. She wore her black hair loose and flowing down to the waist. Oskar noticed her unusually round head and a face tanned by the sun, yet smooth and unblemished. Her eyes, the colour of autumn chestnuts, glowed as he dismounted and walked forward.

‘Welcome, my lord. This is a strange meeting, is it not? Are you come to drive me from my castle?’ She gestured to the cave behind her.

Oskar remained still, dry mouthed, hesitant. ‘I am come...’ he began hoarsely. ‘I am come...’

The witch laughed. ‘I know why you have come, my lord. You seek my help. Your son is sick and like to die. You want my help, as do so many.’

Oskar nodded. ‘I do. I have heard you have potions to clear away the sickness. I have come to ask you the truth of this, and if it be true, to beg you to save my son. I will pay what you demand.’

The witch studied his face. Her eyes shone bright with malice.

‘It is a wonder, is it not, how the high and mighty will turn to me, so despised and abused as I am, when they need something that all the physicking of wise men cannot provide. I have no truck with such folk. But you, my lord, you are somewhat different, a little better than most. You have never harassed me nor set your hounds on me and I remember once how you stopped one of your village mobs from stoning me. You did warn me away from your people, it is true, and now I live out here in my cave. All the same, perhaps I owe you something. Enter, my lord, come in to my castle.’ She stood to one side and mockingly bowed him to enter.

Hesitantly Oskar followed her into the cave. Inside a shaft of light slicing through the rock above pierced the dank gloom. He looked around him. A small brazier burned in the centre of the cave sending a spiral of smoke upwards to the shaft where it mingled and danced with the pale sunlight. Along one side of the cave earthenware crocks and bottles, tightly stoppered, stood in neatly arranged rows; bunches of drying herbs hung from old branches. At the very back he could just make out a jumble of cloths and ragged coverings on some form of rude bed.

‘So, Monsieur le Comte.’ Her voice mocked. ‘Not quite the standard of your castle, but it serves me well enough.’

Oskar remained silent, waiting, allowing her jibes.

‘Your son has the putrid fever. That is grave – your only son, too. How sad. Your wife must be distraught. You wish to know whether I can cure him. The truth? Well, then, yes, I have potions that in seven days will free him of the sickness.’

‘And restore his health?’ Oskar interjected.

‘Of course. I do not seek to trick you with my words.’

Oskar blinked a few tears of relief away, his heart lightened. ‘You swear that? You swear by all you hold sacred?’

In reply Ombrine seized a small knife and swiftly drew it across her palm. A gout of bright blood formed and she gently swirled it around her palm before bringing it up to her lips. ‘I kiss the blood of all my ancestors whom I hold most dear. I swear I do not lie nor deceive.’

‘And what will you ask for yourself?’

The witch fell silent, studying Oskar’s face intently. ‘What are you prepared to offer me, my lord?’

‘I cannot tell what would satisfy you. Money? A fit dwelling? A place in our community? I cannot know. You must tell me.’

She continued to study Oskar’s face. ‘There is but one thing that would satisfy me.’

‘Tell me,’ Oskar urged.

A slow smile stole across her face. ‘In return for the life of your son I require your services, Monsieur le Comte. I have a need to travel and in these lawless times it is unwise to venture alone. And so, I require you to swear an oath that you will come with me, as my servant. That you will leave your wife, your son, your château, and all your lands to serve and protect me until our return... or your death, of course. You will no longer be the Comte de Tréville, merely Oskar, and you will exist only to serve me, faithfully and true. Your life for your son’s life.’

Oskar stared at her, stunned, unable to speak, trying to make sense of what she was asking. Seeing his confusion, the witch’s smile widened in derision.

‘Well, my lord, is your son’s life not worth a little of your own? Have you not said that you would give your life for his? Now you have the opportunity to make good your words.’

‘I do not see... for how long? I cannot see what you want me to do... I cannot tell how this could be done,’ Oskar stammered.

‘Your son’s life for your own,’ the witch insisted.

Oskar closed his eyes, her words spinning around in his head and always the image of his sick child in front of him.

‘If... if I swear this, how do I know that you will release me from my oath? How do you know I will hold fast to my oath?’

The witch nodded. ‘I have already sworn to you that I do not lie nor deceive.’ She kissed the palm of her hand again. ‘Now I swear on the blood of my ancestors that I will release you on our return. As for you, you are a noble man. You hold your oath sacred, I know this. You would rather die a thousand deaths before breaking your word.’

Oskar was silent, inwardly acknowledging the truth of her words. ‘I must have time to think.’

‘No, there is no time. Your son weakens. You must swear your oath to me now or you leave empty-handed and your son dies.’

Oskar stumbled out of the cave. He prowled around the clearing, shoulders bowed, struggling with the heaving mass of thoughts and doubts in his mind.

To give up everything he loved; to serve this hag in order to save his son... To save his son, yes, that was the important issue. His pride was as nothing. It must be done. He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders and walked back into the cave.

‘I will do it, and may God help us both.’

Ombrine laughed, delighted. ‘I follow no god, only the words of my ancestors, but cling to your own if you must. You have no sword with you?’

Oskar shook his head.

‘That is a pity, but that pretty jewelled dagger you wear will serve as well. Kneel in front of me, Comte de Tréville, and swear your oath.’

Oskar knelt at the woman’s dirty bare feet. He took the dagger in his right hand.

‘I, Oskar, Comte de Tréville, lord of the Tréville fiefdom, swear by all I hold most dear and sacred that I will serve and protect you truly and faithfully until you release me of this solemn oath. I make this oath of my own free will.’

He kissed the dagger and offered it to the witch.

‘Take this, Madame, and should I fail to serve you, take my worthless life with it.’

The witch grasped the dagger. ‘Madame? Yes, I like that. You will address me as Madame from now on. And you, you will be just Oskar, here to serve.’

She went to the row of earthenware bottles at the side of the cave and picked out two small ones.

‘This you must give immediately to your son. It will clear the fever, and this,’ she held out the second bottle, ‘you give to him on the seventh day after. It will restore him to full health.’

Oskar accepted the bottles.

‘You, Oskar, will return the evening of the seventh day, dressed in servant’s attire and bringing with you a sum of silver for our immediate needs, and two good horses. For we are to travel afar, Oskar, we are to explore the world beyond these mountains and narrow valleys. You will perhaps learn something of my arts and guile – things no man has ever known before – and, in return, you will teach me something of your world, for I have a desire to become a very rich lady.’

Second Thread

Barbaria - 1600

Oskar and Ombrine travelled eastwards across France along lonely tracks known only to a few. Sometimes winding through thick woods of oak, pine and wild box; other times their route took them across high peaks where the stony track was bordered with a profusion of wild flowers and aromatic scrub. They avoided the hamlets and villages as much as possible.

‘My kind is not welcome. These people are a suspicious and ignorant sort,’ Ombrine spat.

For Oskar those first months, as the torrid heat of summer faded into gentle russet and gold autumn, tormented his soul. Always, the faces of Isobel and Hubert were before him. His heart yearned for their voices, the sound of their laughter, and the soft moments of intimacy when alone in the evening. He imagined what they would be doing – how Isobel was managing their estates. He could see too, the lake stretched out beneath the château and hear the chatter of village children taking an illicit bathe in their lord’s water. He had told Isobel he was required to make a pilgrimage in return for the life of his son. The image of her face white and drawn, her eyes misted, was seared on his heart. He could hear even now her faltering whisper. ‘For how long my lord? To where?’

To lie was anathema to his noble spirit yet he knew the truth would be worse for her, since she was the one who had urged him to seek out the witch Ombrine. To be so rent between her love for him and for Hubert their son, to know that she was instrumental in bringing about their separation was not an additional burden he was willing to impose on the woman he loved so dearly. He clung to the hope that once the journey Ombrine wanted to make was completed she would honour her promise and release him from his oath.

His bearing towards Ombrine – Madame as she insisted on being called – was polite and distant. He carried out the menial tasks that she delighted in giving him without protest or murmur. He spoke only when she addressed him. At times she would jibe at him.

‘Too proud to fetch and carry firewood, my lord?’ ‘Wake up, slugabed. A dead snail has more life than you.’ ‘Be careful, those lordly hands of yours are not used to washing linen.’

On one occasion, when he was more than usually aloof, she dug him spitefully in the chest. ‘Thinking about your lady, my lord? How is she faring? Will she wait for you or take another?’

She watched, gleefully, as Oskar controlled himself, sealed his lips more firmly and turned away from her.

‘Ah, you’re not a very amusing companion, Oskar.’

‘I am not your companion, Madame, I am your servant,’ he replied quietly.

Eventually the landscape changed and leaving the hinterland behind they came to the banks of the great river Rhone. There they followed its course down to the coast and camped for the night outside the walled city of Marseille.

Oskar was rudely awakened by Ombrine kicking his feet.

‘Wake up, slugabed,’ she hissed.

He rubbed his eyes, stretched and sat up. Ombrine stood in front of him, barely recognisable. Gone were the black skirt she customarily wore and her long black hair. Instead she wore a cotton shirt topped by a waistcoat and a short jacket in faded colours of red and orange. She had donned a pair of baggy breeches and dusty black boots. A red sash encircled her waist, into which she had stuffed Oskar’s dagger. On her head she had wound a multi-coloured turban. Oskar had to look twice to recognise her.

‘Different, eh?’ she crowed. ‘I’m a Turk now. Here, you must put this on.’ She threw a scruffy djellaba with a hood at Oskar. He sniffed distastefully at the ragged garment and pulled it over his head.

‘Ha ha, not quite what you’re used to, Monsieur le Comte.’

Oskar shrugged and was silent.

‘Now make haste. We travel into the city this morning.’

They pushed and squeezed their way towards the harbour, stopping only when they reached a great well. A small crowd was already gathered there collecting water for the day ahead.

‘Fill our containers Oskar, we will have need of this water.’

Pushing his way to the well side, he grabbed an empty leather bucket and lowered it. Once it was filled and drawn up a mass of hands reached out to fill earthenware jars and bowls. Oskar filled their own flasks and helped others to fill theirs.

‘Come away, Oskar,’ Ombrine snapped impatiently, tapping her foot. ‘You’re my servant, not a servant for the whole world.’

Oskar shot a dark look at her as he helped an old woman fill and lift her water jar.

‘Merci monsieur, thank you,’ the old lady murmured gratefully.

Scowling, Ombrine grabbed his arm and they made their way to the quayside. Here all was noise and chaos. Sailing vessels of all kinds bobbed and creaked at anchor. Some smaller barques were already making sail and heading out of the harbour