Текст книги "Witch from the Sea"
Автор книги: Philippa Carr
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“I am so relieved that you know,” I said. “It seems so much easier to bear now.”
“We will find a way out, darling,” she said. “Together we will find the way.”
The way was found for us. A few days after I had told my mother, Colum Casvellyn came to visit us. I was in my bedchamber sewing a button on one of my gowns when Jennet came in very excited.
“He’s here,” she said. “He’s come to call.”
“Who?” I asked.
“The one who rescued you and brought you back.”
I felt my knees tremble.
“This can’t be so.”
“Oh yes, ’tis so, Mistress. He rode into the courtyard like as though he were master here and he leaped down and shouted to one of the grooms who stood gaping at him. Then he saw me and he said: ‘Go tell your mistress, your young mistress, she has a visitor.’”
“You are sure it is this man?”
Jennet blushed in that foolish coy way as though she were a young girl instead of an experienced woman in her forties.
“Oh yes, Mistress, there be no mistaking him.”
I said: “Bring him into the winter parlour. I will join him there.”
She was off with all speed. I thought: I should find my mother. It would be better if we saw him together. But no, I wanted to see him alone first. I wanted to test my feelings for him.
I could scarcely wait to reach the winter parlour. He was already there, standing with his back to the window, legs apart in that arrogant manner which was characteristic of him and suggested that he was the owner of everything in sight.
“Good day to you,” he cried, smiling broadly. He strode towards me and taking both my hands drew me towards him and kissed me on the mouth.
I flushed hotly and drew back in dismay.
“Coy?” he said. “Reluctant? Oh no, not after all we have been to each other.”
My heart was beating so fast that I could not find my voice. I was filled with uncertainty. I had never felt this overpowering emotion before. It was a hatred, I supposed; but I was not entirely sure.
He looked at me intently. “I came to see how matters stood,” he said.
“I do not understand you, sir.”
“After such pleasure as we shared there could be results. I was anxious for your health.”
“How could you know …” I cried.
His eyebrows were raised; his eyes lighted suddenly with pleasure.
“’Tis so,” he cried. “’Tis so indeed.”
He tried to take me by the shoulders but I stepped back sharply. “By God,” he cried. “I knew it. You were meant to bear sons, I’ll swear. I sensed it that night at the inn. You and I together …” Then he threw back his head and laughed loudly. It was the laughter of triumph.
I stood back still farther. I wished that I had called my mother to come with me.
“You are sure?” he asked.
“I have told my mother.”
His eyebrows were raised again. They were thick, bushy and very arched.
“What says she?”
“You must be gone,” I said. “I never want to see you again.”
“Not see the father of your child?”
“It must be forgotten. I am going away. We have planned it.”
“Going away? Where will you go?”
“I am not prepared to tell you.”
“Going away … carrying my child!”
I cried out in despair. “Leave me alone, I beg of you. Have you not harmed me enough? Never let me see you again.”
“I came here,” he said, “to offer you marriage.”
“That is noble of you,” I said with sarcasm.
“I am a man to honour my obligations.”
“This one may pass. You could best make amends by going away and never coming into my life again.”
“And the child?”
“Will be taken care of. It shall never know that it was forced on an innocent girl who was drugged to satisfy a cruel man’s lust. If you will make amends, go away.”
“I am going to look after you and the child. We will marry without delay. Our son will be born a little prematurely for respectability mayhap but that is not a matter to cause us over much concern.”
“How could I marry you?”
“Simply. I could get a priest today. The sooner the better for the sake of our child.”
There was a scratching at the door and Jennet came in with wine and little cakes. She was dimpling as though it gave her great pleasure to serve such a fine gentleman. I noticed too that old as she was he was not unaware of her. It was that overwhelming sensuality in her, I supposed, which matched that in him.
I said: “Pray tell my mother that Squire Colum Casvellyn is here, Jennet, and beg her to come with all speed.”
He looked at me slyly as though he knew it was a cry for help.
When Jennet had gone he said reproachfully: “We did not need your mother to decide for us.”
“I do not wish to remain here alone with you.”
“We were alone, remember, all through that memorable night.”
“How dare you speak in that way. As though … I were a party to it.”
“But you were a party to it. You made no attempt to run away.”
“How could I?”
“’Twould not have been easy, I’ll grant you. But you were not in truth averse. I awakened something in you. Something you will never forget. That is why you will be wise to accept my offer, give our child a name and give me many more children. I need a wife. I want sons. I know you will be the one to provide them.”
My mother came in.
She stood on the threshold and her eyes flashed in rage.
“How dare you come here!” she demanded.
He bowed ironically. “Madam,” he said, “I came to ask for your daughter’s health and to offer her my heart and hand along with the marriage bond.”
“Marriage!” she cried.
“’Tis only seemly, since as you know we have already bedded and with results.”
“If my husband were here …” said my mother.
“Is he not? I wished to meet him.”
“It would be an ill day for you if you did.”
“Madam, are you being just? I have come to you to right a wrong. I have come to make honourable amends. I offer your daughter marriage.”
My mother was speechless. She glanced at me but I could not meet her eyes. I kept thinking of marrying him, spending my days and nights with him, and I felt a sudden wild curiosity which was almost desire.
He assumed an air of humility which was quite alien to him and gave him an unexpected charm.
“I am a sinner, Madam,” he said. “I will tell you the truth. I saw your daughter in the inn and as a young hot-blooded man must do, desired her. I behaved badly …” he shrugged his shoulders. “A sort of revenge, if you will, because I knew she was out of my reach. The next day I had the good fortune to rescue her from robbers. I tremble to think what her fate would have been had she been left to them. I rescued her; I searched for you; I could not find you; then I took her to my castle. It was there that the temptation overcame me. I deserve your contempt and hatred. But, Madam, you do not know what it means to be so deep in desire. There is no conscience, there is no thought for anything beyond the satisfying of that desire. Perhaps your husband could understand. I have heard tales of him and I think he would. My better nature was subdued. I behaved as I did because I could not stop myself doing otherwise.”
My mother said: “You behaved as no gentleman would.”
“’Tis true, alas. And having done so, your daughter has not been out of my mind since that day I brought her home to you. I determined to ask for her hand in marriage, to make amends. I knew that there was only one circumstance in which she would have me. What I hoped is now a fact and I have the temerity to offer myself. She shall be cherished all the days of her life; she shall be my honoured wife, the mother of my children; and there shall be no slur on this little one whom she now carries.”
My mother was silent. I could see the speculation in her eyes. It was a solution. He was the father of the child; he wished to marry me; I should not be so far from her if I married him. It would have been the best answer but for the fact that I must take this man for my husband.
She turned to me. “I think my daughter will refuse your offer.”
“Yes,” I said. “I refuse. I never want to see this man again.”
“You will see him in your child,” he reminded me. “And will you deny him his name?”
“We will make arrangements,” said my mother. “We are not without the power to do so.”
“I shall want my child,” he said.
“Since it was begotten in such a manner you have no right to it,” said my mother.
“A father no right to his child! Come, Madam, you are unjust.”
“What a pity you did not think of justice when you had my daughter at your mercy.”
“Your daughter was, alas, so desirable that my conscience was stilled; and you are to blame for that, Madam, for you have brought her up with a spirit and beauty to match your own.”
“Enough of this,” said my mother. “You have caused us great trouble. You can serve us best by going away from here and never crossing our paths again.”
“I have planned it well,” he said. “I will ride over with a priest and he shall marry us quietly. Then I shall let it be known that your daughter and I were so enamoured of each other, so eager for the sweets of union that we could not wait for the grand wedding you would certainly want to give us, so we married quietly in November, kept our marriage secret, and now that you know, you insist on a grand wedding if that is what you wish, Madam.”
I could see that she was thinking of my father. If he were told this story, he would accept it; and although he had hoped with my mother that I would marry Fennimore, I did not think he would be so delighted with him as a son-in-law as my mother would have been.
She was looking at me. Perhaps he reminded her of my father; she knew what her feelings for him were. Was she asking herself if while outwardly I seemed to hate this man he aroused some strange emotions within me? If she was thinking this, she was right.
His size, his blustering manner, the power that exuded from him had a certain magnetism. I could not understand what it was, but when I compared Fennimore with him, Fennimore seemed a little insignificant.
He leaned against the table and regarded the tips of his boots. His expression had grown melancholy. “If she will not accept me, Madam, what a plight she will be in! Your daughter condemned as a girl who grants favours before marriage. Oh, I agree, she was forced to it, but such is the way of the world that even so, a maiden’s plight is held against her. It is wrong, it is cruel; but nevertheless true. I am to blame. I have put her into this condition. I wish to make amends and I swear with all my heart, Madam, that I will do so. Tell me I may come tomorrow with my docile priest. You have a chapel here. We will have a ceremony in secret. I shall be your daughter’s husband. Then if you wish it we can tell our little secret to the world. We will have our grand wedding as soon as is possible and I shall take my bride with me to Castle Paling. She will already be with child but why should she not be when she was secretly married to the husband of her choice as far back as November.”
There was silence in the room. I was aware of the thudding of my heart as it shook my body. He was right. It was a way out. Even those who did not believe that we had been secretly married in November would not dare say so. My child would be born with all honour—the heir of Castle Paling. There would be no bitter subterfuge to darken my life. And I should be his wife. The thought I must admit filled me with terror and yet it was a delicious sort of terror. I was beginning to think it was a terror I must experience.
He was the first to speak. “Tomorrow,” he said, “I shall come here with the priest.”
“We must have time to think of this,” said my mother. “Tomorrow is too soon.”
“There is little time to waste, Madam. Remember our child grows bigger with every day. I will come tomorrow with the priest. By then you will have seen that this is the answer!”
He bowed and went out into the courtyard. I heard him shouting for his horse. My mother and I were silent, listening to the sound of his horse’s hoofs as he rode away.
Then she took my arm. “Come away from here, Linnet,” she said. “We must go somewhere where we can talk in peace.”
All through that day we talked.
“My dearest child,” said my mother, “it is a decision which only you can make. You must not forget that this is for life. Marriage with him would provide an immediate solution, but don’t forget you have to consider the future. If such a marriage were distasteful to you, you must not enter into it. Anything … yes, anything is better than that. What happened was no fault of yours. Everyone will see that.”
“Will people believe it?” I asked. “There will be hints. They will follow me all my life.”
“That is not so. You have the example of Romilly. She gave birth to a child and your own father fathered it. Can you imagine a greater scandal than that? Yet somehow she has continued to live here and she feels no shame.”
“I am not Romilly.”
“Nay indeed. The situation is different. He has wronged you and surprisingly has come to make amends.”
“He has come because he wants the child.”
“He could marry if he wished and have one. Yet he has offered you marriage.”
“Yes, it is true,” I said.
“But, my dearest, you must think clearly. You must not take a solution merely because it seems easy to you. Tell me what is in your mind.”
I raised my bewildered eyes to her face. “I do not know,” I said.
“Has he perhaps fascinated you a little?”
“I am unsure.”
“I understand it. There is something strong about him. You know something of what happened to me. I did not want to marry your father yet compared with him all other men seemed small and insignificant. You see how it is with us. We have always quarrelled. Often we have hated each other, and yet there is something between us. Is it love? I don’t know. It is a bond, the severing of which would take something vital from our lives. I suppose that is love … in a way. As soon as he came into the inn he reminded me of your father. They are the buccaneers of the world, such men; and this is an age of buccaneers. They are the men of our times—the ideal, one might say. The times are not nice and gentle. We are fighting for our place in the world … and we produce men such as these to make and hold our place there. That’s how I see it. But such talk does not help us. Tell me how you felt for Fennimore?”
“I liked him. His manners are charming and he is good to look at. I think he would be a good husband.”
“I think so, too. He is kind and gentle and would understand what happened was no fault of yours.”
“If there had not been a child … Perhaps I should try to rid myself of it, but I don’t want to, Mother. Already I feel that it is mine and in spite of everything …”
“I understand. And I would not allow you to rid yourself of it. Many girls have died through such a thing. Whatever the outcome, you will have the child. Shall we speak to Fennimore? Shall we tell him what has happened?”
I shook my head.
“Then you will go to my mother?”
“I couldn’t bear to leave you.”
“Then you need not. You could have the child here. You and I would bring it up together.”
“My father …”
My mother laughed and the derisive smile was on her face as though he were there to see it. “He will have to accept what is done.”
“There will be trouble. He will never let Colum Casvellyn escape his fury.”
“That’s true.”
“And if aught happened to my father …”
She put her hands on my shoulders and looked at me earnestly. “Linnet,” she said, “somewhere in the depth of your mind you want to marry this man.”
I lowered my eyes. I could not look at her.
She held me against her and stroked my hair. “You need feel no shame. I understand. So much happened to me. It is not always easy to understand one’s emotions. There is a virility about him. You need not be ashamed because you want to respond to it. It is natural. By marrying him you would be taking a great risk. It would be like going on a journey into the unknown, on a ship of which you knew nothing and an unpredictable captain in charge of the vessel. Well, Linnet, you are a sailor’s daughter.”
That night I could not sleep. It was after midnight when my mother came into my room. We lay in my bed together, I was clasped in her arms and she told me of her own youth and what had happened to her: and I knew that there was something of her in me and something of my father too. I knew that a perilous adventure lay before me but I could no longer turn my back on it than either of them could have done.
The next day, true to his word, Colum Casvellyn arrived at Lyon Court. He brought a priest with him. And in the chapel he and I were married.
I was amazed how sober he could be. When the ceremony was over he embraced me with gentleness; and he docilely agreed to go away until my mother had been able to speak to my father.
She would lie to him for it was necessary. She wanted no bloodshed. She would tell him that I had quietly married Colum Casvellyn some months before and, fearing his disapproval, as he had wished for an alliance with the Landors, had kept my secret until I was with child and realized it had to be told.
We stood together watching Colum ride away. Then she turned to me and looked at me steadily.
“So we found our solution, Linnet,” she said. “Pray God it was the right one.”
THE FIRST WIFE
COLUM AND I WERE riding to Castle Paling.
That morning we had had a second ceremony, this time with the customary festivities.
My father had been far from displeased.
“You sly creature!” he shouted at me. “It’s what I’d expect of you. And already carrying my grandson. Take care of him, or it will be the worse for you.”
“It might be a girl, Father,” I said.
“So you’re going to be such a one as your mother, are you? Can’t get boys? We’ll see.” His chin wagged with amusement as I remembered so well from my childhood. When he had seemed to be angry and glowered at me, and shouted abuse, if I saw that movement of his chin I had known that he was secretly amused. Thus it was now.
We rode a little together, although he wouldn’t allow me to gallop. “Remember my grandson,” had become a catch-phrase. He was pleased. He liked Colum.
“By God,” he said, “you’ve got a man there. And went off and married him in secret, eh.” He slapped his thigh with delight. “To tell you the truth, daughter, I never greatly cared for Fennimore Landor. A good fellow in his way, but no fighting guts. It won’t be like that with your man, I’ll tell you. There’ll be fights a plenty, I doubt not, but remember, you’re your father’s daughter and fight back. Be like your mother. I’ll tell you something—she has the occasional victory.”
I could see that he thought that his marriage was the perfect one. A peaceful union such as I might have expected with Fennimore Landor was in his eyes faintly despicable.
How different it might have been if he had known the truth. We were right to lie to him.
And so we had married early that morning, partaken of the wedding feast and allowed the guests to continue with it while Colum and I left for the journey to Castle Paling. As it was only some fifteen miles from Lyon Court I would not be so far from my family which was a comforting thought; and strangely enough as I rode along with Colum, although I was conscious of a certain fear, my excitement was intense and odd as it may seem I would not have had it otherwise.
He was smiling, well content; and I could not help a little pride because he had been so eager for our wedding. It was nearly three months since that night which had changed my life, but it seemed years ago. I could hardly think of a time when I had not known of Colum’s existence.
“Very soon,” he said, “we shall come to Castle Paling, your home, my bride. There we shall live happily ever after.”
There was a hint of mockery in his voice but I did not heed it. It was a beautiful day, the kind we get sometimes in the West Country in February, the sort of day when it seems spring is tired of waiting and is making a premature appearance. There were tufts of new leaves on the elder bushes and yellow flowers of the coltsfoot on the banks. In the fields there was a spattering of crimson-tipped daisies and as we forded a shallow stream I noticed the purple catkins of the alder trees there, which toned with the butterbur flowers blooming near the water.
I was smiling and he said: “So you are reconciled to your marriage so hastily enforced by circumstance?”
“I was thinking of the beauty of the countryside.”
“It is said,” he reminded me, “that when one is in love the grass is greener and the whole world becomes a more beautiful place.”
“I am inclined to think it is the spring,” I said.
“I shall soon convince you what a fortunate woman you are. You will one day bless the night you first came to Castle Paling.”
I was silent and he went on: “I shall have to insist that you answer me when I speak to you.”
“I did not think your comment needed an answer.”
“It does indeed. You must answer fervently that you will always remember that night as the happiest of your life … to that time.”
“I did not think I should begin my married life by lying to my husband.”
“Nor would you if you said that, for it is true.”
“How could I say I remember when I remember nothing?”
“You do remember. There was much of which you were aware.”
“Do you mind if we do not speak of it?”
“I am determined to indulge you.”
He sang as we rode along, the same hunting song I had heard before.
“It sounds joyous,” I said.
“It is the song of the hunter bringing home his prey.”
“It is fitting then.”
“Oh entirely so.”
Then he laughed in the loud way I was becoming accustomed to and for some reason, although I feigned indignation, my spirits were lifted.
Castle Paling! My home! It rose before us, grim, forbidding but immensely exciting. I looked up at its grey stone walls which had stood for four hundred years and doubtless would stand five hundred more and even beyond that. There was an invincible durability in those strong walls. They had been built to defend and they would go on doing so.
Those walls forming a plinth at the base were made to withstand the picks and battering-rams of an enemy. There were four towers, two facing the land and two the sea, battlemented and with their look-outs and their apertures for pouring burning pitch down on to the heads of intruders. The window-openings on the low levels were few—narrow slits which could be well guarded to prevent intruders.
“Welcome to Castle Paling, wife,” he said, and together we rode under the portcullis and into a courtyard.
As if by magic several grooms appeared. Colum leaped from his horse, threw his reins to a groom and lifted me down from my horse.
Side by side we crossed the courtyard and as we reached the small door in the great stone wall, he lifted me up in his arms and stepped into the castle.
“The three of us together,” he whispered.
Then he set me on my feet.
We mounted a narrow staircase and came to the hall, which was lofty with a gallery surrounding its upper level.
“Your home,” he said, with pride. “My family have lived here since the days of the Conqueror—for they came from Normandy with him. We have always been conquerors. It has changed since then for improvements have been made. My Norman ancestor came here, built a castle and took a Cornish maiden to wife. She gave him many sons and daughters and they married and bore more so that we became a clan. We have in five hundred years become Cornishmen. Of course the castle was not like this in the first place. Just a fortification—guard-room, dungeons and thick impenetrable walls. We added to it as time passed. I doubt not I shall add to it. Why, I have begun by adding a bride.”
Then he lifted me up and kissed me heartily and said: “We are tired after our journey. We will sup quietly, and to bed.”
Then we ate and drank together and it was like that other night in many ways.
It was a different bedchamber, much grander, containing a large four-poster, the tester hung with embroidered silk curtains. Candles burned in the sconces and I noticed a big court cupboard boldly carved with acanthus and leaf work. There was time to notice nothing else, nor think of it, for my husband was beside me, removing my gown and my petticoats and carrying me to the curtain-shrouded bed.
And after that I knew I would cease to think of that fateful night at Castle Paling because there were others and in time they would all merge into one and I would forget that I had been taken so unwillingly for as though by magic my unwillingness had gone, leaving me excited and eager to embark on the voyage of discovery in which this man, who was already beginning to dominate my life, was showing me the way.
An indication of my feelings towards him was revealed to me in the early morning when I lay awake watching the dawn slowly filter through the silken curtains which shut us in.
He was awake also.
He said: “I arranged it, you know.”
“You arranged what?” I asked.
“I was determined to have you when I saw you in the inn. How well guarded you were! By God, your mother is a tigress of a woman. She would have fought to the death for you. I knew I had to plan and could do nothing that night.”
“Go on,” I said. “Tell me what happened.”
“I knew where you were going. Trystan Priory. I know it well. The Landors’ place. You were staying for a week. Your maid told one of my servants that you were coming back that way.”
“You mean …”
“You begin to understand. They were my men who waylaid you on the road.”
“The robbers …”
“Just good servants. I was ready waiting to rescue you and bring you here … where the scene was set. It was not your purse we were after.”
“You are wicked,” I said.
“It is well that a wife should know her husband.”
“You deliberately arranged all that to take place … You caused us such anguish … myself … my mother …”
“Sometimes it is necessary to suffer to be happy. All came well in the end. See, you have a lusty husband and a fine home. He has already planted his seed within you. In six months’ time our son will be born. And there will be many more, I promise you. For I like what I have, wife. I liked you from the moment I saw you. I know when I want a woman.”
“There have doubtless been many.”
“Oh, many. But you were the one for my wife.”
“Why was that?”
“Well bred, worthy to be mother of my sons. A good family, a good dowry, for your father is a generous man and a rich one. You were suitable in every way. But I wouldn’t have had you if I hadn’t wanted you. I could find a rich wife without trouble, but I had to have one that pleased me too.”
“I should loathe you,” I said.
“And you don’t. I know that. You couldn’t pretend to me, although you tried. Why, even on that first night … I could feel your responses. You wanted me, my girl, although you were so helpless and ignorant. You knew it, did you not? Somewhere within your mind was the thought: He arranged it. He is that sort of man. He takes what he wants and there is no gainsaying him.”
I was silent. Had I suspected? I think perhaps I had. But the great discovery was not that he had arranged that this should happen, but that I should know it and be glad that he had.
The weeks which followed my arrival at Castle Paling were ones of discovery of myself and my nature. Strange as it seemed I was happy—not peacefully, quietly so, but because I was in a state of continual excitement. It could never have been thus with Fennimore Landor I knew full well.
My relationship with my husband was the dominating factor. I was completely fascinated by him. He was indeed the lord of the castle and everyone hastened to do his bidding. His anger could be terrible. I saw him strike servants with his riding whip if they displeased him; they trembled before him. When he was not in the castle an atmosphere of relief prevailed—it was a sort of respite, I supposed, from the need to be continually on the alert to please him. His loud voice could be heard echoing through those great chambers. He was indeed the master.
It was a wonderful experience to know that I was so important to him. I laughed to myself when I thought of his planning my seduction. He must have wanted me very fiercely to have gone to such lengths. He had made this obvious to me. He was delighted with me. I was an inexperienced girl but a passionate one and he found great pleasure in teaching me. There was no doubt that he was completely absorbed in our relationship and it did not occur to me to ask myself how long it would last, for I would not remain a pupil for ever and very soon I would begin to be less shapely.
He was delighted about the child and I could see that, like my father, he passionately wanted a son. My mother told me that her inability to give my father sons had been the cause of a great deal of trouble. She had once said that she believed that if she had given birth to a son my father would never have turned to Romilly and Penn would not have existed. Who knew?
Colum would talk about “our boy”, and I would beg him not to talk so constantly of a boy for it could well be a girl.
“Nay, nay,” he would say, feeling the faint protuberance of my body. “This little one is a boy. I know it.”
“And if it is a girl are you going to dislike her?”
“I’ll accept her. There’s time for boys. I know you will give me one.” He bit my ear rather sharply. “You wouldn’t dare do aught else.”
And he went on talking of our boy.
He would insist on my taking care. It was very important that I should produce a healthy boy. He wanted nothing to go wrong during my pregnancy. “A man can get lusty boys on serving wenches but by God, often the fates are against him when he wants a legitimate son. It must not be so with us,” he added, as though if it did it would be my fault.
That was how my father had been with my mother, I dare-swear, and she had longed to please her husband as I did mine.
The castle itself was a strange place to be in. There was so much to know about it. There were so many servants that I could not keep track of them.
The four towers with ramparts and battlements formed the main structure. In two of these towers, the Crows’ Tower which faced the land and Nonna’s Tower which faced the sea, we lived with our personal servants. I wondered about the other two. From the Seaward Tower—on a level with Nonna and which also looked out to sea, I had seen men and women coming and going. I supposed they were servants but I had rarely seen them working in that part of the castle where we lived. But the place was so vast that there would naturally be many servants and it would take a long time to get to know them all.
