Текст книги "Witch from the Sea"

Автор книги: Philippa Carr

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“Have any of them seen anything, Jennet?” I asked.

“They’ve heard,” replied Jennet. “There was young Jim who had to pass the room after dark one night and he said he heard something in there … something that would make your hair stand on end.”

I thought I had seen something which had made mine do that.

Edwina would have seen significance in the vision. Did it mean that danger had come back? Was I once more threatened as I had been before?

I became convinced that I had seen a ghost.

I could not keep away from the Red Room. I used to fancy I could smell the musky scent there. It was in the pillows. I would turn sharply expecting at any moment to see her standing behind me.

I felt the uneasiness returning.

My mother wrote exuberantly. There was great rejoicing at Lyon Court and Trystan Priory. The trading company had come so far that it was to be incorporated by Charter under the title of the Governors and Company of Merchants of London Trading to East Indies.

“Our branch here is being swallowed up by the bigger ones, and Fennimore is delighted. Your father less so. He says he doesn’t want interference from outside. But you see what it means, Linnet. It means Fennimore’s venture is more successful than he ever dreamed it possibly could be.

“This will be a great company. It is planned to form agencies all over the world. Factories will be built. I cannot tell you how excited Fennimore is. For him it is the realization of a dream.”

I told Colum. A cynical smiled played about his lips.

“A great deal of effort to achieve what? The sailors will do all the work and the profit will go elsewhere. Mark my words.”

“They seem to think that the trading company will help to make England great. It is what they wanted.”

“Who is they? Your Fennimore! Are you thinking you should have married him?”

I was thinking it. What was the use of pretending otherwise? I had known little of Fennimore really—except that he was personable and an idealist. I thought too of men like Fennimore planning a great company which would bring good to England. I should have liked to plan with him.

Suppose I had never gone to The Traveller’s Rest. Suppose I had never met Colum. I pictured us all at Lyon Court. The great table would be weighed down with food and there would be great rejoicing because the object which had been so near to Fennimore’s heart was showing great promise.

I felt then that fate had gone against me. I should have married Fennimore Landor. I should have been beside him in his triumph now. I could never share Colum’s, for his successes meant disaster for others. I longed to share in Fennimore’s enterprise and how I hated those of my husband.

It was a mistake, I told myself desolately. A tragic mistake.

The gales came early that year. October had scarcely begun when they started roughing up the seas and throwing showers of sand against the castle walls. I was apprehensive. These were the times when there was nightly activity at Paling. Visitors to the castle brought news of ships that would be sailing near our coasts. I had gradually come to understand how well this diabolical business was organized.

I would lie in my bed alone and fearful, wondering what was happening outside. At such times I would promise myself, when the children are older I will go away. I will set out as though on a visit to my mother and never come back. I could not take Connell. He would never leave the castle. He was his father’s boy. But Tamsyn, who was now ten years old, and Senara would come with me. I would tell my mother why I could not return.

I knew this was only dreaming—a kind of sop to my conscience because I felt sullied by those murders. Sometimes I could not rid myself of the conviction that I was in a way involved, simply because I accepted what had happened and remained a wife to Colum even though I knew what he was doing.

During a long spell of fine weather when there were no wrecks on our coast my conscience would be lulled and I would say to myself: A wife’s place is beside her husband. She promised to remain with him, for better or worse. I had made my vows. Strangely enough, deep down in my heart I wanted to stay with Colum.

There came the night in mid-October. The wind had been rising all day. I was sickened by the now familiar signs of activities. The lanterns in the two towers would be doused, I knew, and the donkeys would be out with their lights high on the cliffs some miles away. News had come that a ship with a rich cargo was passing our way.

I lay in bed.

Was there not something I could do, should do? But what? How could I stop disaster? I could only pray that the captain of that ship would steer clear of the Devil’s Teeth.

I scarcely slept at all. Soon after dawn I was up. I went down to the shore. Colum and his men were busy going out in their little boats bringing in the cargo. I saw one of the men down there and I stopped him.

I said: “What sort of ship this time?”

“One of the finest, Mistress.” His eyes were cruel, his tongue came out and licked his lips. I could sense his excitement. He was doubtless calculating what his share in the profits would be. “One of them East Indiamen we hear about—one of the Lions.”

The Lions! They were my father’s ships. Did he not know that? I had begun to tremble. I said: “Did you see her name?”

“’Twere the Landor Lion, Mistress.”

It was as though the waves rested in mid air; there was a deep silence and then the sound of a madly beating drum which was my own heart.

The man looked at me oddly; then embarrassment was obvious in his face he had forgotten for the moment who I was. I had come from Lyon Court, my father was Jake Pennlyon, the owner of the Lion Line.

He touched his forelock hastily and made off, terrified of course that he had given information which should be kept secret.

I just stood there looking out to sea. So high were the waves that I could see little. Somewhere out there was one of my father’s ships lured to destruction by my wicked husband.

There could be no more complacency. This was the end of it.

Then the terrifying thought struck me: Who was on that ship?

I just stood there looking out to sea. So high were the waves that I could see little. Impossible in such a sea. One of them must take me, I must know. I could not bear the suspense. What if my own father had been navigating that ship? It could not be. He knew this coast so well. But if he were deceived by the lights? I could not believe it, not of Jake Pennlyon who had sailed the Spanish Main and come through unscathed after years of adventure.

What could I do? I must know.

I went into the castle and climbed the stairs to the ramparts from which point I should be able to get a long-distance view. The sun was coming up and I could see the Devil’s Teeth; I could see what must be the ship … the floating mass on the water … rich cargo, and bodies like as not. What if there were survivors? What did they do to survivors?

What had I been doing in this place all these years? Why had I become involved?

I felt as helpless against the tide of my emotions as I was against that of the sea.

Later that day a body was washed up on our coast. I was the one who found it. I had been walking along the shore sadly, my thoughts in a turmoil, asking myself again and again what I could do.

He was lying there on the shore. I sank to my knees and looked at him. It was Fennimore. Dead.

It was years since I had seen those noble features. There was nothing I could do. The sea had taken him. Oh Fennimore, who had had his dreams, Fennimore the idealist who had lived long enough to start his great enterprise, to see it expand, that scheme which was going to make his country great as wars never could.

The face of a dreamer; the man who would love an idea more than anything else, Fennimore who might have been my husband.

I knelt and lifted his head into my lap … I smoothed the wet hair made a darker shade of blonde by the sea water. How fine his features were, how noble. And those glassy eyes had once shone with enthusiasm for a scheme and with love for me. He was a man who would accept fate unflinchingly. But his love was gentle; I married and he took another wife. I wondered if he loved her. He would in a calm and gentle way of course. He must have wanted sons and he had one, named Fennimore as he was.

I thought how strange life was. If he had not come into my life I should never have set out to visit his family and so come into Colum’s orbit. His life was bound up with mine, in a way.

I could not leave him. I stayed there with him.

It was Colum who found me. I saw his face darken as he looked at me there with the dead man’s head in my lap.

He cried: “In God’s name …”

“Yes,” I said, “’tis another of your victims.”

“You interfering woman. Keep to your nurseries, will you!”

“No, I will not. You have destroyed one of my father’s ships.”

“If her captain had known how to steer her …”

“Stop it,” I shouted. “This was her captain. She was the Landor Lion—the ship my father and the Landors built that they might follow their peaceable trade. They brought back rich cargoes from the East Indies. You wanted those cargoes. One night’s evil work would give you that which they had taken months of planning and labour to get together. I hate you and everything you stand for.”

“A nice thing,” he said, “to find a wife mourning her lover.”

“He was never my lover.”

“Nay, he had not the spirit for it. He wanted you but being the lily-livered dandy he was, he was willing to pass you over and take another. Do you think you would have had the night sport with him you have had with me?”

I laid his head gently down and rose.

I said: “He must be given a decent burial. On that I insist.”

“Who are you, Madam, to insist?”

“Not your slave, but your unfortunate wife.”

“He shall be thrown back into the sea.”

“Do not dare do such a thing. If you do I will let it be known how you have made your fortune.”

“You talk to me of daring! Know this, I will have my way and you shall obey me.”

“Why should I?”

“Because if you did not you would regret it all the days of your life.”

“I do not care for the rest of my life. Do what you will to me. Kill me if you will. Mine will not be the first death to be laid at your door.”

“Go into the castle,” he said.

“I shall not leave Fennimore Landor until he is taken reverently from here. I wish his body to be placed in the chapel and a coffin made for it. Then he will be buried beside his sister, that poor lady who was once your wife.”

He looked at me and I saw the grudging light of admiration in his eyes.

“I marvel,” he said, “that I should be so soft with you.”

“I shall wait here,” I said, “until he is taken into the chapel. I wish to stay with him for a while. I wish to arrange for his burial.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then I shall leave the castle. I shall go to my father’s house. I shall tell him what happened to the Landor Lion and its captain.”

“Inform against the husband you have sworn to obey! Break your vows to me!”

“I shall have no hesitation in doing so.”

He caught me by the arm. “Do you think I’d let you?”

“I would make the attempt.”

“By God,” he said, “I believe you would. You defy me; you give me no more children and yet I have a softness for you. You shall have your way in this, wife. He shall be taken to the chapel and he shall be buried beside his sister. There shall be no name on his gravestone and do not let me hear the name of his ship pass your lips again. It must be thought that he perished far from here. You see how I indulge you?”

I did not answer him. I dropped to my knees and looked into Fennimore’s dead face.

Colum went away and shortly afterwards four of the men came to the shore.

They carried Fennimore’s body to the chapel.

The next day he was buried beside his sister in the burial grounds of the Casvellyns close to Ysella’s Tower.

It was the end of an era, I could never forget it. I was haunted by the memory of Fennimore’s dead face. I wondered what would happen when my mother visited us. I could no longer keep secrets from her. I was rather glad we did not meet for I was sure she would realize the change in me.

The storm had taken place at the beginning of October. Colum had strangely enough tried to woo me back to some semblance of affection. I could not respond. The sight of Fennimore dead on the shore had killed something in me for ever.

It was Hallowe’en again, the night when witches rode on their broomsticks to their covens where they worshipped the Devil in the form of the Horned Goat.

The day was misty and so typical of October in our part of the world—warmish and everything one touched was damp.

Because it was Hallowe’en the servants were talking. I wondered if any of them remembered Maria. It was seven years to the day since she had gone and Senara was nearly eight years old. It was a long time to remember.

But Jennet must have talked to the children of witches, for when I went to the nursery Senara was asking questions and Tamsyn was answering them and she could only be repeating what she had heard through Jennet.

“They go to covens,” Tamsyn was saying.

“What are covens?” asked Senara.

“That’s where they meet. They fly there on broomsticks and there is their master, the Devil. Sometimes he’s a big black cat and sometimes he’s a goat. He’s ever so big … bigger than anybody has ever been, and they dance.”

“I want to go,” said Senara.

Connell said: “If you go you’re a witch. Then we’ll catch you and tie you to your familiar and throw you in the sea.”

“What familiar?”

“It’s a cat perhaps.”

“Could it be a dog?”

“Yes, a dog,” cried Connell, “anything. Sometimes it’s a mouse or a rat or a beetle … or a horse. It’s anything.”

“It could be Nonna,” said Senara. Nonna was her own special puppy whom she had named after the Tower. Her eyes were round. “Perhaps Nonna’s my familiar.”

“You can’t have one,” said Tamsyn protectively. “If you did they’d say you were a witch.”

“And we’d take you out and hang you on a gibbet,” cried Connell with relish—his father’s son.

“He wouldn’t,” said Tamsyn protectively. “I wouldn’t let him.”

“I’d hang him instead,” said Senara.

“I’d like to see you try.”

Connell had Senara by the hair. She kicked him. It was time for me to intervene. In fact I did not know why I had allowed the conversation to go on so long.

“That’s enough,” I said. “You are all talking nonsense. Nobody is going to be hanged by anybody and there are no witches here.”

“Jennet said …” began Tamsyn.

“And I say we do not listen to stories of uneducated servants. Let them have their witches if they will. We are not to be deluded.”

Then I made them take out their books and we read from Sir Thomas More’s Utopia, which was far removed from the distasteful subject of witchcraft.

That night Maria came back.

Colum and I were supping together in the winter parlour. It was a rather silent meal as our meals had become. He made no effort to converse. Sometimes he would eat and leave me at the table.

I think that even he accepted the fact that after the death of Fennimore there was an insurmountable barrier between us. I could sense a tension mounting; I wondered whether he could or whether he cared. He did not always share the bedchamber; he had been away from home for several nights, presumably arranging for the disposal of the cargo salvaged from the Landor Lion, but on those occasions when he came to me, I sensed it was to let me know that he would still claim his rights. It was like staking a claim, an assurance of a right of way, I thought cynically. I hated those encounters yet I still found excitement in them and there was a sense of disappointment when he was not with me.

This was the state of affairs on that night.

She must have walked straight into the castle for she came and stood in the room.

For the moment I thought I was seeing the ghost again. Then she spoke.

“I have come back,” she said.

Colum stared at her—as I did.

“Come back,” cried Colum. “Good God. Maria!”

“Yes,” she said. “I come back. I live here again.”

“But …” began Colum.

I stood up. I could feel myself trembling. “Where have you been?” I demanded. “Why have you come back?”

“It is nothing to you where I been,” she said, in her halting English. “It matters not. I am back.”

“You think you can just walk in …” said Colum.

“I think yes. You took my ship … You kill my friends. You owe me home. I stay. Do not try to turn me away. If you do … you will be sorry. You owe me this. I take.”

I said: “This cannot be.”

“Yes,” she answered, “it can.” She was looking straight at Colum.

She was more beautiful than I remembered. She wore a velvet cloak with a hood which fell back to show her shining dark hair which was piled high on her head. Her dark eyes were long, and smiling serenely. There was something unearthly about her. I am dreaming, I thought. This cannot really be Maria.

“I go to my room, my Red Room,” she said.

“You cannot stay here,” I began.

She ignored me and turned to Colum. “My belongings will come soon,” she said. “I stay here for a while.”

Then she left us.

I stared at Colum. “What does this mean? She has gone to the Red Room. This can’t be true. Where has she come from?”

“She will stay here,” he said.

“It is the price you must pay for murdering her people,” I said, “is that it?”

“Say what you will,” he answered. “She shall stay.”

Then he left me there.

And so Maria came back to Castle Paling. The household was agog with rumour. The witch had returned. She could not have timed her arrival at a better time to suit their theory. First she had come on Hallowe’en; a year later precisely to the day she had gone; and now she had returned seven years later on Hallowe’en.

And she lived in the Red Room, that room where the servants had heard strange noises and where I myself had seen—or thought I saw—her ghost.

I sent for Jennet. I said: “Jennet, Maria is back.”

Jennet nodded gravely.

“I dare swear there is talk of her being a witch.”

Jennet nodded again.

“I don’t want such talk to reach the children’s ears. I heard them talking of witches the other day. I don’t want them to be concerned in such things.

“She be Senara’s mother,” said Jennet slowly.

“All these rumours, they must not touch Senara.”

“Nor shall they,” said Jennet.

“I knew I could trust you,” I said.

The servants watched her furtively. If she gave an order they flew to obey her. They were terrified of the evil eye.

She went out riding alone. Once I met her; she did not acknowledge me but galloped off in another direction, her hair streaming behind her. Each day she rode.

It would soon be Christmas and I longed to see my mother. I was very depressed when I heard from her.

My dearest Linnet (she wrote). The Landors are spending Christmas with us. As you know, they have suffered a terrible tragedy. Fennimore is almost certainly lost and the Landor Lion, which was due to arrive home more than a month ago and had been sighted within ten miles of the coast, has not returned. We feared it might have been lost in that fearful storm we had at the end of October. Your father and Captain Landor have much to talk of. The loss of the ship alone is a great blow to them. But that Fennimore should have gone with it is more than his poor mother can endure. She is distraught and I am going to have them here, with poor Fennimore’s wife and children. I shall try to make them forget a little. It means, my dearest child, that we shall have to forgo our Christmas together, for you could not come without Colum and he could not come for reasons that you know. The loss of Fennimore has brought more bitter memories of Melanie’s death. As soon as they have gone I shall come to see you. Or perhaps you will come here.

The days seemed long. It was late before the sun rose and it set so early. “The darkest days are before Christmas,” my mother used to say.

Into the house had crept something evil. I was sure if Edwina were here now she would warn me again.

I could feel it. It came from the Red Room and it menaced me.

Perhaps it was true that she was a witch. Perhaps she had not really been on the ship. Perhaps she had lain in the sea waiting for me to find her. I began to be beset by fancies.

The fact was that Maria was there and none dared tell her to go. I was aware of her growing power over the household—her evil power. Even Colum was caught in it.

What a beautiful woman she was! Perhaps it was evil beauty but it was none the less seductive for that. She seemed to possess many personalities and she would shed them as a snake sheds its skin. That was how I thought of her—as a beautiful sinuous serpent.

The children were bewitched by her too.

“Does Senara’s mother live with us now?” asked Tamsyn.

I said: “She will perhaps for a while.”

“Most mothers live all the time with their children, don’t they? But Senara’s mother is different from all other mothers.”

Senara said: “You are my real mother. She is my dream mother. I like to look at her. But I like best to know you’re there.”

“I’ll always be here if you want me, Senara,” I told her.

Connell said: “She is the most beautiful mother in the world.”

Tamsyn watched me closely, her face growing red. “That’s not true,” she said, and blushed deeper because she was lying. “My mother is.”

Dear Tamsyn, the protector!

How strange that during those days a thirty-year-old woman should turn to a ten-year-old child for protection. Protection! What a strange word to use.

In the matter-of-fact manner of children they accepted Maria’s visitation as natural enough. That the servants talked of it in their hearing I did not doubt, but there she was and they accepted her.

Senara had a strange, beautiful mother who was above normal rules. She suddenly appeared and became part of the household. After a while that did not strike them as odd. Maria was interested in her daughter now, for Senara was like her; one could see the relationship immediately—the same long eyes, the black hair, the perfectly shaped features. But Senara lacked the mystery; she was an ordinary little girl.

Maria was indeed shedding her skin. She was bringing out a different personality than that we had seen during that long ago year she had spent in our household. She was becoming like a normal woman. She visited the schoolroom and listened to the children at their lessons. She petted Senara and gave her presents, for her belongings had arrived and in them were golden ornaments and rich materials. She instructed the seamstress to make dresses for herself and Senara.

Senara was naturally a little vain. Such a beautiful child could not help but be aware of her beauty. She was naïvely proud of it and my dear Tamsyn, who could be called almost plain in comparison, was proud of it too.

I was pleased to see that the coming of Maria had made no difference to their relationship. They shared a bedchamber and were never really content if they were separated for long.

Maria tried to charm my daughter. Sometimes I had a feeling that she was trying to break the great affection between us. She could not do that in the smallest way and I fancied that Tamsyn had grown even more protective towards me. It was almost as though she were aware of some menace in the house. It may have been, though, that I, being aware of this, had become nervous and showed it.

What was most disturbing was the effect she was having on Colum. I could feel the tension rising. I who knew him so well realized that he wanted her as fiercely as he had once wanted me. I could see the smouldering light in his eyes when he surveyed her. She would join us at our intimate suppers. The three of us would be there at the table, the candlelight flickering on our faces—I knew that mine must have been alert and watchful. I knew too that neither of them paid much attention to me.

I cannot endure this, I thought. I must get away. I must go home to my mother. I should have confided in her long ago. She would have advised me what I must do.

Maria’s beauty was unearthly. Satanic in its way and I could understand that Colum found it irresistible.

Sometimes I thought they were lovers. Then I was not so sure. Those nights when he was not with me, where was he? In the Red Room?

I kept thinking of the time when I had gone into that room and seen a vision of her. That must have been a warning. Why had I not told Edwina? Perhaps she could have advised me.

At night I would lie in my bed unable to sleep. When I did doze fitfully I would be beset by dreams—wild, fantastic dreams of visions. Maria was always in my dreams. And sometimes Colum. I saw them together writhing in an embrace. I would awaken clammy with sweat and fear and believe that there was someone in the room.

Tamsyn said: “You are not well, Mother. Shall I make a brew of the herbs Aunt Edwina gave us? I know how to.”

“What would you give me, Tamsyn?” I asked.

“The pimpernel brings laughter so I would give you that. But it is not the time of year for pimpernel. Poppy brings sleep. But there are no poppies either. But I have an ashen branch and if that is put beneath your pillow it will drive away evil spirits.”

“My dearest child, I am happy just to be with you.”

“I am your dearest child,” she said. “More dear to you than any of the others. I know it. It makes me happy. I will look after you always.”

“Bless you, my darling,” I said.

She was silent for a while. Then she said: “If I were older would you tell me what ails you?”

“Nothing ails me in truth.”

“I think something does. But I will look after you.”

“Then I shall soon be well,” I said; and I held her against me.

Maria came riding into the courtyard. I saw her from my window. She leaped from her horse and a groom hurried to take it away and feed and water it. She came into the castle and, I suspected, went to the Red Room. I sat at my window, wondering about her. Ten minutes later Colum came in.

I said to myself: He has gone to the Red Room.

I knew that he had.

What did he say to her there? There would be no need for words. They were lovers. I sensed it. It was two weeks since he had come to me. I felt a sick resentment against her for being more beautiful than I, more desirable to him.

I hated him; I feared him. There had always been something of these emotions in me. But in a way I yearned for him. It was inexplicable but it was true.

I wished I could have talked of this to my mother. I felt she would have understood. I wished I could talk to her of these sudden bouts of fear which possessed me. There was no one to whom I could talk. I seemed to hear my daughter’s voice. “If I were old enough you could tell me.”

Oh Tamsyn, I thought, if only I could!

They were making love in the Red Room. Afterwards they would talk. Would they talk of me? How did they talk of me? But why should they? Of what importance was I to them—only of course that if they wished for marriage I stood in their way.

He was tired of me. I knew that. He would no longer be indulgent as he once had. I would irritate him. Was this how Melanie had felt? He despised her. Did he bring his mistress of the moment into the castle. Was she of so little account to him that he did not care?

It could never be thus with me. Once he had wanted me so urgently that he had gone to great lengths to get me.

He would not come to me now. Perhaps never again. I had not given him the children he wanted. Only two and one a girl.

He wanted sons, many sons, lusty boys whom he could train in his hideous profession.

I went to bed. I lay there, the curtains drawn back. I could not bear to have them closed because if I did I would have strange fancies about what was happening in the room.

As I lay there I heard footsteps in the corridor … slow creeping footsteps. My blood seemed suddenly cold. They had paused outside my door.

I could hear the sound of the latch being lifted.

“Who’s there?” I called out in alarm.

There was no answer.

“Who is it?” I said.

I lay there waiting. Terror upon me. Who could it be? Whom did I fear? Maria? Colum?

For some seconds I lay there. Then I rose and went to the door. I opened it.

There was no one near.

The children were decorating the hall with holly and ivy.

I went out with them to bring in the yule log; they shrieked with happiness and I could feel myself being temporarily caught up in it. The damp soft air made my skin glow and I felt better than I had for some time.

Even the castle seemed less grim. The Christmas spirit had entered the house. And when it was over I promised myself I would go to my mother. I had made up my mind that I would tell her everything. I thought she might advise me not to return to the castle, and that is what I wanted.

I had always been careful with my journal—if such it could be called—because I dared not let Colum see it. The thought of his reading it had from the start embarrassed me; now I suppose it would be more than that. So when I had finished writing I always put it carefully where only I would know where to find it.

Since Maria had come back into the house I felt it was even more necessary than ever to keep my writings out of the way.

Because I kept it hidden I had always felt that I could write freely, which is the only way in which one can write a document such as this.

As we grew nearer to Christmas both Maria and Colum changed so much that I could, if I had not written down my feelings and what actually happened, have forgotten half of it and perhaps convinced myself that I had exaggerated. So I often looked back and read what I had written at the time it happened. It was amazing how it helped me to realize the truth of my situation. I somehow thought that it was because of this that I had felt this fear.

Now Colum was full of bonhomie and Christmas spirit. Maria had become human. She became less secretive. It seemed that the Christmas spirit of goodwill to all men had crept into the house.

“We shall not have your family here this Christmas,” said Colum, “nor go to them. We shall have to make up for that. We’ll have the mummers in to do a play. How’s that?”

The children were delighted. Tamsyn and Senara made a Christmas crib and while they were making it Tamsyn decided that they should do a Nativity play themselves and the grownups should be their audience.