"We are good Protestants now, but our memories are long." And if some Jewish practices lingered still in the privacy of their homes, well, that was no one else's business. They did what was necessary to survive, and to keep the Covenant in their hearts. "You accuse me of hating, yet you hate Elizabeth. Why? She is a just and fair-minded ruler. Her wisdom in balancing Catholics and Protestants has kept Englishmen from spilling one another's blood. Why do you despise her?"
"She executed my queen. For that, I cannot forgive her."
"Mary Stuart, a Scot raised at the French court, who spun plots from her prison and sought to have Elizabeth assassinated," Isabel snapped. "Even a Scotsman as loyal as you cannot deny Mary's treachery."
His jaw tightened. Stubborn man. Knowing they would never agree about politics, she said, "Master Dee tells me you have given your word to conjure a tempest, so let us begin. There is no time to waste." She started to turn back to the house.
He caught her wrist. They both froze as energy surged between them. She felt as if all her breath had been blasted from her body. So this was passion — uncomfortable, inappropriate, undeniable. He felt the same — she could see it in his eyes.
He released her wrist, his breath roughened. "The preparations are complex, and Dee must cast a chart for the best time to proceed. If we don't harness every available wisp of power, there will be no chance of success."
She retreated a step, not wanting to meet his gaze. "Very well, do what you must, but be quick about it, before it's too late."
"As you wish, Mistress Witch," he said with heavy irony. "Perhaps I can conjure a swift squall to end the fighting for the moment, so the English will be able to regroup."
"If you can do that, why haven't you?" she asked with exasperation.
"Because I fear the cost to my soul. But you're right. I cannot hold back any longer, no matter how much I dislike this task." He turned and rested his hands on the largest stone, the one closest to the sea. As he concentrated his energies on the task, he became absolutely still except for the movement of his lips chanting soundlessly.
Keeping her distance from the vortex of power swirling around him, Isabel used her glass to monitor the battle. Skies darkened, vicious rain swept through the warring fleets, and the fighting broke up. The Spanish fell back, and one of their damaged warships foundered and sank.
While Isabel whispered a soft prayer of thanks, Macrae expelled a long, rattling breath and released his spell. His face was gaunt, drained of its usual vitality.
Knowing how demanding weather work was, she silently asked the obsidian what would become of Macrae. The battle images dissolved into swirling fog.
What about her fate? She cleared her mind and tried to draw her own image from the glass.
Still nothing.
She felt chilled, even though the inability to scry could mean many things. Most likely she couldn't see because she was too closely involved in what was about to happen to have the necessary clarity. But it was also possible that the demands of stopping the Armada would be so great that neither of them would survive.
Concealing her foreboding, Isabel said, "Well done. You succeeded in ending the battle before the English fleet could be badly damaged. I begin to believe you can produce the great storm we need."
His eyes opened, and he turned to lean against the stone, folding his arms across his chest. "I was fortunate. There was the beginning of a summer squall near the ships, so all I had to do was strengthen it. The spell required for that was to a great tempest as a barn cat is to a tiger." His mouth twisted. "Surely you know that magic always has a price, and the one I pay will be high. Are you also willing to pay the cost of this conjuring?"
She thought of the clouded obsidian. "I am willing."
Even if the price demanded all that she had.
3
Calling the winds…
The air tingled with power as Macrae and Mistress de Cortes took their places in the ancient stone circle. Man and woman, ever opposite but complementary. Dee was not present, since he would be unable to help and he feared his presence would be a distraction. The old man had cast a chart for the best time, but his face had been somber when he studied the planetary positions. It hadn't been necessary for him to say that the chart did not guarantee success.
But it was the best time available without waiting for days, so Macrae must make of it what he could. Despite his initial reluctance to undertake this task, the images of Dunrath and Edinburgh haunted him. Now he was as determined as the woman who faced him across the circle.
He inclined his head to his companion. "Mistress, let us begin."
"As you will, Macrae." Her demeanor was reserved, though nothing could diminish the snap of her black eyes or the allure of her lush female figure.
He began by casting a circle of protection, using the familiar ritual to focus his mind. As his concentration increased, his inner vision recognized the essences around him. Isabel de Cortes was the most vivid. Deep and intense, she was a beacon of power.
He reached out and touched her energy. Silently, she acknowledged his presence and granted him access. Another time he would have been tempted to explore the riches of her mind and spirit, at least until she clamped down her shields and expelled him, but now he had more important work.
Widening his perception, he felt Dee's energy in the manor house. The old man's pattern was a structure of immense complexity with a blazing mind at the core. The servants were sparks of light, each unique if one chose to study it closely. He did not so choose, not tonight.
He tuned himself to the earth and the ancient force that resided there. Isabel was right, this was a place of great magic. When he was fully oriented, he flung his consciousness high into the sky, soaring toward the sun like a giant hawk. The circle, the two human figures, the coast, and the rolling seas — all dropped away below at a dizzying speed. With Isabel's power to fuel his flight, he soared higher and higher until his awareness stretched east across the Channel, north to Scotland, south to France, west as far as Ireland.
The day before, Isabel had scryed the English sending fire ships into the Armada. Little damage was done, but only because the Spanish ships had cut their anchors to escape swiftly. Though doing so had saved them from burning, without good anchors the ships were vulnerable when close to shore.
Yes
, that was the answer. The Armada was now boxed between the harrying English and the sandbanks off the Dutch province of Zeeland. If he could force the ships onto the shoals, many would break up, but the shallow waters and nearby mainland would minimize the cost in lives. He would find no better location to fulfill his mission.
He cast the net of his mind outward to gather the winds and discovered why Dee's chart had been equivocal about this time. Throughout the British Isles and the Narrow Seas the airs were light, giving him little to work with.
But there was always weather, even when times were mild. He narrowed his vision to identify wind patterns strong enough to shape to his purpose. Over Holland he found a choppy, gusting breeze. He gathered it in and added a series of light winds from Scotland and northern England. Then he captured an energetic sea breeze from the coast of Cornwall. On the edge of his awareness he sensed a storm over Bavaria, but it was too distant for summoning.
Each of the elements had its own essence, qualities that made him think of rainbows and musical notes, though in his mind there was neither sound nor color. Meticulously, he wove the winds together into a single powerful chord. Then he shaped them into a northwest wind that hammered inexorably against the ships of the Armada.