Текст книги "Witch from the Sea"

Автор книги: Philippa Carr

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THE WOMAN FROM THE SEA

I TRIED NOT TO think too much about what was happening during those nights when Colum and his servants were out on their scavenging expeditions. They almost always took place during nights of storm, and I would lie frozenly in my bed waiting for Colum to come in. I could picture it all so clearly. The ship in distress; the goods floating on the water; the men scrambling aboard the sinking vessel. And what of the survivors? Why were they always so docile? In those days I was guilty of closing my eyes. I realize now that there was so much I did not want to know. I was not exactly in love with Colum, but he was important to me. There was an immense physical satisfaction in our relationship for him and for me as well and that was something which we both wished to preserve. I was fascinated by him, none the less so because he was something of a figure of mystery. He was a strong man and I believe that for some women—such as myself and my mother—power is the essence of physical attraction. When I was with Colum I could not help but be aware of his strength and his power to subdue everything and everyone around him. I found a thrill in standing out against that power and in his knowledge that I did. I enjoyed his efforts to subdue me which were triumphant for him because he could tell himself he had imposed his will on me, but I knew that whatever he did to me or insisted I do I would always preserve a part of my freedom to think as I wished.

Secretly he was aware of this. It baulked him and irked him, while it fascinated him.

So the months passed. My mother visited us now and then but I told her nothing of what I had discovered in Ysella’s Tower.

She would talk a great deal about how the business my father and the Landors were building up was progressing. There were disasters but it was growing and they must not expect to succeed completely at the beginning. Such an endeavour needed years of planning and work.

Once she said: “I wish the Landors were not so averse to meeting you and Colum. They would like to see you, of course, but would not see your husband.”

“Do they still blame Colum for the death of their daughter?”

“I have tried to explain that it was a natural happening but they won’t have it.”

“What of Fennimore?”

“He lives at Trystan Priory with his wife when he is not at sea. I believe the little boy is very well.”

“Surely their grandson will make up to them for the loss of their daughter.”

“He does, I am sure, but it is natural that they go on brooding for her.” My mother changed the subject. “So many people believed that we had beaten the Spaniards off the sea with the defeat of the Armada. It was not so. They still have great strongholds in America, and Sir Walter Raleigh and the Earl of Cumberland, backed by the City of London, is amassing a fleet of men-of-war to attack the settlements in America.”

“This will mean more war.”

“We will always be at war with the Spanish, your father says. They are scattered all over the world. They have possessions everywhere.”

“We defeated the great Armada though, Mother.”

“Yes, praise be. I would to God they could take their ships out for trading only—without guns and weapons of war, simply because they did not need them.”

“You are wishing for the impossible. You want everyone to be as peace-loving as you are.”

“If they were no man would ever raise his hand against another.”

“Dear Mother, how wonderful if everyone felt the same! People don’t, though. Even this trade will bring trouble, I doubt not.”

She shivered. “When I think of the men of our family—your father, Carlos, Jacko and Penn—every one of them a seaman. You should be thankful, Linnet, that your husband does not go off on those long voyages when you cannot know what is happening to him and whether he will come back.”

I was silent, thinking of stormy nights when Colum was about his business. I wished that I could have confided in my mother, but I resisted the temptation to do so.

She went back to Lyon Court in September and it was on the last night of October, the 31st and what we called Hallowe’en, that the woman from the sea came into my life. That was a night which was to influence my whole life. There was always a certain amount of excitement at Hallowe’en. In Cornwall the weather was usually mild and damp at that time of the year. The spiders’ webs seemed to be festooned over every bush and little globes of moisture clung to them like glittering jewels. In the lanes there were carpets of leaves, all shades of brown from gold to russet, and the trees lifted their denuded branches to the sky to form a delicate lacy design making them as beautiful as when they were in leaf.

Jennet chattered a great deal about the excitement in the servants’ hall. Hallowe’en was the night when witches rode on their broomsticks to attend the Sabbat only they knew where and woe betide any who walked out at midnight and strayed into their coven.

It had happened, said Jennet, to one of the Seaward women years ago. She had never been seen again in the form by which they knew her, but there was a black cat who haunted the place looking for someone who would sell her soul to the devil in exchange for certain favours.

“So, Mistress, don’t ’ee go out on Hallowe’en.”

“I’m not likely to,” I replied.

“’Twill be a thorough stormy night, I do believe,” prophesied Jennet with a shiver, “but witches take no heed of weather.”

When it was dark a fire was lighted on a hillock outside the castle precincts; I wrapped my cloak around me and took the children to see it, but I would not let them go near it for the wind was rising fast and the sparks could prove dangerous. Connell, now three years old, was an adventurous boy and I took Jennet with me to help me look after them lest they should be too bold.

The servants danced round the fire and when it died down they picked up the ashes which they would treasure.

“They’ll bring luck,” said Jennet. “Protection against the evil eye. I’ll get you some, Master Connell, and you too, Mistress Tamsyn.”

The children watched round-eyed and Connell asked questions about witches. I wouldn’t let Jennet answer them for fear she instilled some terror in them. I told them there were good witches—white witches who cured people who were sick.

“I want to see a black witch,” declared Connell.

It was difficult to get them to sleep that night. The wind was rising and making ominous whistling noises throughout the castle.

I felt uneasy because a storm was brewing.

It was one of those nights when Colum was out and I knew that that meant there was a ship in distress.

This had happened before. I lay in bed experiencing a dreadful unrest. It was near midnight and I knew that I could not sleep. I thought of the people on the sinking ship, and of Colum and his men rowing out to pick up the salvage.

Why were there never any survivors?

I felt that I was propelled by an irresistible impulse. I could not lie here waiting, letting my imagination conjure up a scene. I must know what was happening. I got out of bed and put on a cloak with a hood, and heavy boots. I went out of the castle.

The wind caught at me, buffeting me. Walking close to the castle walls I came out to the path. It was difficult to stand up and I almost crawled down to the shore. In the lee of the castle there was a little shelter. I saw dark figures running hither and thither. I stood as close to the water’s edge as I dared go. The waves rose like giant monsters and came thundering on to the sand. I heard Colum’s voice shouting: “We can’t go out yet. Wait awhile.”

There was a ship out there, I knew. Caught, held fast on the Devil’s Teeth. The wind caught my hood and threw it back; my hair flapped about my head. The wind and rain lashed at my skirts. It blinded me.

As I cowered there a figure loomed up before me.

“Good God,” cried Colum, “what are you doing here?”

“There’s a ship out there,” I cried. “Can’t we do something?”

“Do what?” shouted Colum. “In a sea like this. What, in God’s name? Go back. Go back at once.”

He took me by the shoulders. I could not see him very clearly but from what I could I thought he looked satanic.

“Don’t dare come out again. Go back. By God, do as I tell you.”

“I want to help …”

“Go back. That’s the way to help.” He pushed me from him and I stumbled towards the castle.

I knew there was nothing I could do by remaining there. If I could have done something to help those people on the ship I could not see but knew to be there, I would have defied him. But there was nothing.

I made my way to the shelter of the castle and leaned against the wall. The sharp stone cut into my hand. I was shivering with the cold for my clothes were saturated with rain and sea water from those gigantic waves.

And as I stood there I saw the men with their donkeys; they were coming towards us and each man was carrying a lantern. They did not see me standing there. They walked round the path to the Seaward Tower.

I went into the castle. I took off my wet clothes and rubbed myself dry. I felt sick with horror. Something told me that I did not know everything of what happened on nights like this.

I wrapped a cloak about me and went to the window. I could see nothing but the darkness. I could hear nothing but the groaning and shrieking of the wind and the sound of the waves pounding against the rocks in their fury.

I did not go to bed. I knew I would not sleep. Colum did not come home all night. With dawn the storm had abated. The wind was screeching in a lower key; the waves were washing against the castle walls, their anger spent.

I knew that down there the little boats would be going back and forth. They would be bringing what they could find from the vessel. They would carry it stealthily into the Seaward Tower and in a few days Colum would go away and find a buyer for what he had to sell. Then a little later Jennet would be told she was not to go to the Seaward Tower to her lover because he had other work to do than entertain his mistress.

And out there in this fierce malignant sea men would be dying and there would be no one to save them. It was not men’s lives they were interested in; it was the ship’s cargo; and if they saved lives what complications that might bring. What if the saved ones demanded to keep what was salvaged from their ships? So it was to the interest of Colum and his men that all perished.

It was this that I could not forget.

Soon after dawn I dressed myself and again went down to the shore. It was there that I found her. She was lying in the shallow water; her long dark hair floating about her. Her face was pallid and I thought she was dead.

I waded out and caught her arm. When the wave had subsided I dragged her nearer to the shore. The next wave came and nearly carried me out with her, for the sea had not yet calmed down and the waves were still strong. But I managed to drag her free of them.

She was lying on the sand and I knelt beside her.

She is dead, I thought. Poor woman.

I took her wrist and felt a pulse fluttering. Then to my horrified amazement I realized that she was heavily pregnant.

My father had taught me a form of artificial respiration. I turned the woman’s body so that she was lying face downward, her head turned to one side. I knelt and placed my hands on her back and keeping my arms rigid I pressed with the weight of my body—thus I drove the water out of her lungs and I believed saved her life.

I waited beside her, I rubbed her hands and wrapped her in my cloak. I watched her lest she should need further attention and in due course was rewarded for I could see that she was breathing more naturally.

What I wanted now was to get her into the castle. I wanted to put her to bed and make sure that she had the care she so urgently needed.

I left her lying on the shore and went back to the castle. I called several of the servants. I told them what I had discovered and we took a mule down to the shore, and dazed and shocked as the woman was we managed to get her on to the animal and bring her to the castle courtyard. There I ordered several of the men to carry her to a bed.

They took her into the Red Room wrapped in my cloak as she was and laid her on the four-poster bed. I had not wished her to go into that room but they had put her there before I could prevent them and it seemed unwise to move her again.

She lay very still and I said to Jennet: “We must not disturb her yet but bring clean clothes from my bedchamber. Her condition is dangerous for she is pregnant.”

“My dear life,” cried Jennet. “The poor soul will surely lose her baby.”

“We shall try to see that she does not,” I replied.

I sent one of the men to bring the physician. He lived five miles away but he would come at once if there was a call from the castle. Then I ordered that hot soup should be brought and between us Jennet and I undressed the woman.

I was surprised that she was younger than I had thought. I guessed her to be my age or perhaps a year or so older. Her skin was smooth; her limbs most beautifully formed and in spite of her pregnancy it was possible to see that she was an exceptionally beautiful woman. She was only half conscious but she seemed grateful for what we were doing. Her hands were long and slender; they had never worked, that much was clear. There was a patrician air about her face, an unearthly beauty, but perhaps that was because she was almost more dead than alive. Her hair was magnificent—thick, silky and black with that almost bluish tinge which is so rarely seen in England and when it is usually means foreign blood. Her lashes were as black as her hair and their blackness was accentuated by the pallor of her skin.

“She was on that ship,” whispered Jennet.

“She must have been,” I answered. “There is no other reason why she should be lying in the sea on such a night.”

Jennet’s eyes were dazed with memory. “The sea can be terrible,” she said.

“We will nurse her to health,” I insisted.

It was amazing how quickly she recovered. I was able to feed her with the hot soup and when she was lying in clean clothes in the warm bed, the faintest colour came into her face. It was as though a light had been placed behind the alabaster. Her skin glowed. I thought: I don’t think I ever saw such a beautiful woman.

I had to face Colum. I knew he would be angry. What would he have done if he had found the woman? Left her to the mercy of the sea I knew, which would have soon finished her.

I went into our bedchamber and came face to face with him.

“So you have brought a woman in?” he said.

“She was half drowned. I am nursing her. She is to have a child.”

“Why did you bring her into the castle?”

“She would have quickly died had I left her there.”

He gripped my wrist. “What concern is that of yours?”

“If I see someone dying I would do everything I could to help that man or woman.”

“So you bring her into my castle.”

“It is my home.”

“Forget not that you live here through my clemency.”

“And forget not,” I said, “that the dowry my father gave me has been very useful in maintaining the castle.”

He narrowed his eyes. I knew that he was passionately interested in worldly goods. It must be for this reason that he had become a scavenger; he had married me not only because he had desired me but because I brought a good dowry with me—as good as any girl of the neighbourhood would bring him—doubtless as good as that which came with Melanie Landor. My mother had prevailed on my father to endow me well. It was important, I being in the condition I was, that I should marry the man who had put me in it.

I found it so horribly sordid. He did not. His eyes gleamed now at the prospect of what riches the sea would bring him.

“You are becoming a shrew,” he said.

“And I am beginning to learn something of you.”

“Learn this then,” he said. “It is I who will decide who shall be a guest in my home.”

“What do you propose to do, turn this woman out? She is sick, or will be if she is not cared for. What would become of her?”

“Is that my affair?”

“Perhaps it should be, as you will help yourself to the goods which were being carried by the ship in which she travelled.”

“What should I do? Let the sea swallow them?”

“Perhaps they should be salvaged and returned to their owners.”

That brought out a peal of harsh laughter. “I can see my clever wife should indeed be managing my affairs.” The laughter died out suddenly; his mouth was grim. “On the contrary, I can see I shall have to teach her to manage her own. And that is that she interferes not with what she sees and that if she attempts to she will soon be wishing that she had never done so.”

“What will you do then? Strip me naked to the waist and tie me to the whipping-post as though I were a servant who has misbehaved? Will you wield the whip or is that too menial a task for your noble hands?”

He took a step towards me and lifted his hand. He had done it before, and as before the blow did not come.

“Take care,” he said. “You would find that if I were truly angry with you my wrath would be terrible.”

“I know it,” I said looking him in the eyes.

“Yet you provoke it.”

“I will not be your puppet. I would rather be dead.”

He laughed. There was just a hint of tenderness in his face. He seized me and held me tightly against him. “You are my wife,” he said. “You gave me the best son in the world. I am not displeased with you. But know this. I will not be crossed. My will is law. You have my favour. No woman ever pleased me for so long as you do. Let us keep it so.”

“And what of this woman from the sea? Will you turn her away?”

He was thoughtful for a moment. I could see he was thinking deeply. He was angry because there had been a survivor from the ship and because I had brought her into the castle and may well have preserved her life. He would have preferred her to die, so that there were no witnesses. He could send her away, but what if she lived to tell the tale?

“Not yet,” he said. “Let her stay awhile.”

“She is with child.”

He was silent for a few seconds, then he said: “When is the child due?”

“It is difficult to say. I should think the birth may be some two months away.”

He remained thoughtful and then he said: “She may stay at least until the child is born. Have you spoken to her?”

“She is in no condition to speak. She looks … foreign.”

“A Spaniard,” he said, his lips curling.

“It was a Spanish ship?”

He did not answer that.

“Keep her for a while,” he said. “There is no need to decide yet.”

“I am sure she is of noble birth.”

“Then we will make her work in the kitchens to forget that.”

I thought: At least he will not turn her out until her child is born. Poor woman, where would she go then? There were dismal tales of Spanish sailors who had been wrecked on our coasts at the time of the Armada, but they were men. The idea of a woman turned out in an alien land to beg her bread with a small child to care for made me feel sick with horror.

He said: “You say she has a foreign look. Where is she?”

“In the Red Room.”

“My first wife’s room. The one you think is haunted. Well, perhaps the ghost will drive our visitor away. I’ll look at her. Come with me.”

Together we went into the Red Room. He threw open the door and walked to the bed.

She lay there, looking as though she had been carved out of alabaster. Her hair, now dry, lay about her shoulders. The perfect symmetry of her features was more than ever apparent. Her heavy lashes lay against her skin. I wished that she would open her eyes. I was sure that if she did the effect would be dazzling.

Colum stood staring at her.

“By God,” he said, “what a beautiful woman.”

In a few days she was able to get up. It was astonishing how a woman in her condition could have come through such an ordeal. I sent for the midwife who had attended me at the birth of my children and asked her to examine our patient. The verdict was that she was in a good condition and that her ordeal appeared to have had no ill consequences for the child.

She spoke a little halting English. She was Spanish, as I had thought, a fact which would not help her, for the hatred of that race persisted in our country although we had beaten the Armada.

She could tell us little. When I asked questions she shook her head. She could not remember what had happened. She knew that she had been in a ship. She did not know why. She could remember nothing but that she had found herself in Castle Paling.

I asked her what her name was, but she could not remember that either.

During the first week in November when the sea was as calm as a lake I made one of the men row me out to the Devil’s Teeth. It was perfectly safe, for those men knew every inch of that stretch of sea; they knew exactly where the treacherous rocks lay hidden beneath the water.

I saw the ship caught there on the rocks, a pitiful sight. She was broken in half; the sharp rocks must have been driven right through her; and I read on her side the words Santa Maria.

I wondered why that woman had been on the ship. She must have been travelling with her husband; perhaps he was the captain of the vessel. How strange it was that she could remember nothing. She would in time. Such a shock as she had experienced could rob a woman of her memory.

Perhaps, poor soul, it was as well that she could not remember; perhaps it would stop her grieving too much until she recovered a little.

Her child was due towards the end of December, the midwife told me. I think that perhaps the fact that she was pregnant was the reason for her serenity. I imagined that the greatest importance to her was the welfare of her child, and I determined to make her as comfortable as I could for I felt a great responsibility towards her. There was one picture which kept coming into my mind and which I could not dismiss. It was that of the men returning to the Seaward Tower with their donkeys and lanterns. Where had they been? I had an idea but I would not face it. I could not bear to because I thought that if I did I could not stay here.

The woman had to have a name and because the name of the ship was Santa Maria I called her Maria. I asked if she would mind if I called her by that name.

“Maria,” she said slowly and shook her head. I did not know whether she meant we could call her by that name but we did. And very soon she was known throughout the household as Maria.

By December it was clear that the birth of her child was imminent. My mother came to spend the Christmas with us and Edwina and Romilly accompanied her. Penn had gone to sea. He had been so excited to be allowed to join one of the ships. The cargoes that had been brought back after the first voyage had proved valuable and they were eager to repeat their success, although not their losses.

We did not talk very much about the voyage because it always meant a certain anxiety; and I wanted them to enjoy the festivities.

It was a week before Christmas and I was expecting Maria’s child to be born any day. I had insisted that the midwife stay at the castle, for I still feared that Maria’s adventure when she was so advanced in pregnancy might have had some effect which was not apparent. I was frantically anxious that nothing should go wrong. It was not that I had any great affection for Maria. She was not an easy person to know. Her aloofness might have been due to her ignorance of our language, but it was certainly there. She accepted our concern and help as though it were her right and she never seemed over grateful for it. I felt however that her child must be born and live. The uneasy thoughts which had come into my mind on the night when the Santa Maria had sunk, persisted, and I could not dismiss them.

When my mother was introduced to Maria she was clearly surprised. I had mentioned her in a letter but only briefly; and I had discovered that everyone who met Maria was astonished by her. It was something more than mere beauty but I could not yet quite understand what.

“What a beautiful woman,” said my mother when we were alone. “So she is the lady of the shipwreck. And she cannot remember who she is. One thing is certain. She is of high birth, patrician to the fingertips. Where will she go when the child is born?”

“I don’t know. She cannot remember whence she came.”

“And she was on the ship. How very strange.”

“I think she must have been the wife of the captain, and I think too that after the child is born her memory may return.”

“Then she will wish to go to her family, I doubt not.”

“If she is Spanish that could be difficult.”

“There is no doubt that she is Spanish,” said my mother. “I could speak with her a little in her native tongue if I remember it. My first husband was a Spaniard as you know and during my life with him I learned a little.”

“She would be glad if you did,” I replied warmly. “It must be difficult for her with no one to talk to.”

“I will see what I can discover,” replied my mother.

Later she talked to Maria, but although Maria was clearly glad to converse with someone who could speak her native tongue a little she could not or would not tell her anything about herself. She seemed to remember, she told my mother, that she was on a ship though she couldn’t recall for what reason. She vaguely remembered the storm and the ship’s trying to come into port. Why she was on the ship was still as much a mystery to her as it had been on her arrival here.

My mother shared the opinion that after the child was born her memory might return.

In the afternoon of Christmas Eve, Maria’s pains started. Jennet brought me the news of this and I immediately summoned the midwife. The child was born without her though. She went into the room and found a beautifully formed little girl.

She was astounded.

“All is well?” I asked urgently.

“I was never in attendance on such an easy birth.”

Maria lay calm and beautiful, the red curtains drawn back from her bed and I thought: On that bed poor Melanie must have suffered her many miscarriages and finally she died there trying to give Colum the son he wanted. Now a child has been born there—a strong healthy child.

It was a strange Christmas day. We had the usual rejoicing but it was not the same as usual. I could not forget—nor could my mother and Edwina—that a child had been born under our roof.

There was feasting and singing and the games we played at Christmas time but my thoughts were in the Red Room where Maria lay in the bed with her child beside her. I had had brought in the cot which I had used for my children when they were babies. Now that lovely little girl lay in it.

It was the day after Christmas that Edwina passed me on the stairs.

She looked strained, I thought. I said: “Edwina, is anything wrong? You look … worried.”

“Oh it’s nothing, Linnet. My fancy, nothing more.”

“But there is something, Edwina.”

“It’s just that I feel that something has changed here … that there is something …”

I stared at her. My mother had once said: “Edwina has fancies. It is because one of her ancestors was a witch. Sometimes she has a special power.”

I was suddenly nervous, although before I had been inclined to shrug aside Edwina’s fancies.

She gripped my arm suddenly. “Take care, Linnet,” she said. “There is something evil in this house.”

“What on earth do you mean?” I demanded.

“Oh, nothing. I shouldn’t have said that. Forget it. It was just a thought that came into my mind.”

“Ah,” I said, “one of the fancies. I know what it is. It’s the cry of the gulls. They do sound as though they are warning us.”

But she lived by the sea. She was accustomed to the cry of the gulls. She was used to the weird sound the sea sometimes made when it thundered into the caves or over the rocks.

No, she had sensed something evil. Oh yes, there was evil in this house. I had long suspected it … long before the coming of Maria and that night when I had seen the men returning to Seaward Tower with their donkeys.

But I hid my fear from Edwina. She had this gift and, like many people who possessed it and did not understand it, she was a little afraid of it. She was always ready to believe it was merely a fancy because she found it comforting to do so.

So we laughed together and pretended to forget, but what she had said lingered in my mind.

Maria was up almost immediately. She surprised me not only by her quick recovery but by her lack of interest in her child.

Jennet snatched up the baby and cared for her, taking her to her mother only when she was to be fed, and Jennet saw that this happened as regularly as it should.

“Completely unnatural,” grumbled Jennet. “Foreigners, that’s what.”

The child was well formed and clearly healthy. I felt sorry for her and I took her to my nursery and showed her to my children. Connell was not very interested, but my little Tamsyn, who was just two years old, was enchanted by her. She followed Jennet about when she held the baby and liked to look at her. She was far more interested in the baby than any plaything.

I talked to Maria. “What plans have you?” I asked.

She looked vague and either did not or pretended not to understand.

“You must recover from your confinement first,” I said. “We can decide when you are completely recovered.”

She did not seem in the least anxious about her future.

“The child must be named,” I said. “What would you choose for her?”

“Name?” she said and shrugged her shoulders.

I waited for her to decide but she did not and I asked if she would like to give the baby one of our Cornish names.

She smiled gravely. When she smiled one could not help but gaze at her in amazement. It was like a beautiful statue coming to life; and indeed with the passing of each day she became more beautiful.

But as she said nothing about the baby’s name I asked if I might choose one for her. She nodded and so I began to cast about for something suitable. Thus I hit on the name Senara, the patron saint of Zennor. This seemed very suitable as Senara is one of the saints about whom nothing is known.

And so the child became Senara.

The household had altered subtly. Colum had changed. He hated Maria, I believed, and some of that hatred was directed at me, implying that I should never have saved her and brought her into the house.