Witch from the Sea

TRADE WINDS

IT IS THE CUSTOM for the women of our family to keep a journal. My grandmother did and my mother must have learned the habit from her. I remember my mother’s saying once that by doing so one lived one’s life more fully. So much is lost if one cannot remember it, and even memory is apt to distort so that what actually happened, when looked back on, often takes on an entirely different aspect from the truth. But if it is set down with the emotion of the moment—exactly as it appeared then—it can be recalled in detail. It can be assessed and perhaps better understood, so that not only does one preserve a clear picture of some event which is important to one, but with it acquire a greater understanding of oneself.

So I will begin my journal in the months which followed our glorious victory over the Spaniards, which seems appropriate because it was a turning point in my life. At this time we were all living in a state of what I suppose can only be called euphoria. We had discovered how close we had come to disaster. We had never believed that it was possible for us to be beaten, and perhaps this supreme and superb confidence was one of the factors which carried us through to victory—but at the same time we could soberly contemplate what defeat would have meant. We had heard stories of the terrible things which had happened in the Netherlands where men had stood out against the might of Spain. We knew that when the Armada sailed from its native land it came not only with the weapons of war but with instruments of torture. We knew that those who would not accept their doctrines of religion were tortured and burned alive; we had heard that men had been buried with only their heads protruding from the earth and there left to perish. There was no end to the tales of suffering and that would have been our fate … had they come. But we had defeated them. All along the coasts were the wrecks of their ships; some drifted on the high seas; perhaps a few returned to Spain. And here we were in a green and beautiful land, with our good Queen Elizabeth safe on her throne. It was a time for all Englishmen to rejoice and who more so than the men and women of Devon. We were of the sea and it was our own Francis Drake, whoever else might claim the credit, who had saved our country.

Captain Jake Pennlyon, my father, was in the greatest of good spirits. Lusty, strong, adventurous, determined to drive the Spaniards from the seas, despising weakness, assured of the rightness of his own opinions, arrogant, outspoken, bowing to no man, I had always thought he was characteristic of an Englishman of our age. I had hated him when I was young because I could never understand the relationship between him and my mother. I loved her devotedly, in a protective way; and I did not realize until this time how much she loved him too. In my youthful inexperience I misjudged their behaviour towards each other; they seemed constantly to be in conflict, but now that I was growing up I understood that these battles gave savour to their lives and although at times it seemed as though they delighted in taunting each other and that it was impossible for them to live in harmony, they were certainly deeply unhappy apart.

One could not feel mildly in any way towards my father so now that I had ceased to hate and despise him I had to love him and be fiercely proud of him. As for him, he had resented me because I was not a boy, but now he had made up his mind that his daughter was better than any boy, and I sensed that he was rather pleased that I was a girl. My three-year-old sister Damask was too young to interest him much, but he no longer wished for boys because he knew there could be none. He was content with his illegitimate sons. My mother used to say that he had scattered them throughout the world, and he did not deny this. The three I knew were Carlos, Jacko and Penn. Carlos had married Edwina who owned Trewynd Grange, the nearby mansion which she had inherited from her father. She was in a way a connection of the family because her mother had been adopted by my grandmother. Jacko and Penn lived with us when they were not at sea. Jacko had captained one of my father’s ships and Penn who was seventeen years old—a year younger than I was—was already going to sea.

We had lived so long with the fear of the Spaniards that without it our lives seemed suddenly empty; and although I had planned to start my journal there seemed so little to record. All through those weeks reports were coming in about what had happened to the Armada. Ships were constantly being washed up on the coasts, their crews starving; many were drowned; some reached the coasts of Scotland and Ireland and it was said that their reception there was so inhospitable that the lucky ones were those who were drowned. My father roared his approval. “By God,” he would cry, “if any of the plaguey Dons see fit to land on Devon soil I’ll slit their throats from ear to ear.”

My mother retorted: “You’ve defeated them. Is that not enough?”

“Nay, madam,” he cried. “It is not enough and there is no fate too bad for these Spaniards who would dare attempt to subdue us!”

And so it went on. People came to the house and we entertained them and over the table the talk would all be of Spaniards—of the wretched man in the Escorial who had sought to be master of the world and was now defeated in such a way that he could never rise again. And how they laughed when they heard tales of the anger of those Spaniards who had stayed at home and who were demanding why the Armada which had cost them so dear to build, did not return. Why did the Duke of Medina Sidonia, who had boasted of the victory he would win over the English, not come home to be honoured? What had happened to the mighty Armada? Was it so pure and holy that it was too good for this earth and had wafted to Heaven?

“Wafted to the Devil!” cried my father, banging his great fist on the table.

Then he would recount the action in which he had taken part and all would listen eagerly and Carlos and Jacko would nod and agree and so it went on.

I did not wish to write of this in my journal. It was common knowledge. It was what was happening in thousands of homes all over England.

“How is your journal getting on?” asked my mother.

“Nothing happens,” I said. “There is nothing to record. So many things happened to you,” I added enviously. “That was different.”

Her face clouded and I knew she was looking back to the days when she was young.

She said: “My darling Linnet, I hope you will never have anything but happiness to record.”

“Wouldn’t that be rather dull?” I asked.

Then she laughed and put her arm about me.

“If so, I hope your journal will be a very dull one.”

It seemed it would be; and because of this I forgot it. It was only when the ship Trade Winds came sailing into the Sound that I remembered it and began to write regularly.

The Trade Winds was built in the style of the great Venetians with four masts, fore, main and mizzen and a small one on the poop—the bonaventure.

My father, who was always restive on land and nowadays did not seem so eager to go to sea, was constantly on the lookout for the ships that came and went. I was on the Hoe with him when the ship was sighted. There was a shout and all eyes were on this one.

My father said: “She’s a carrack. Looks as if she’s a trader.”

He spoke contemptuously. He had been a trader of sorts, for in his heyday he had brought home many a cargo which he had taken from a Spaniard. My mother often told him he was nothing more than a pirate.

“What sort of a trader?” I asked him.

“Following the Dutch,” he said. “Carrying goods and trading them and bringing back a cargo. Fishing in the Baltic and bringing back the catch. Trading!” he added disparagingly.

Then he stood, legs wide apart, watching, and when the little boats brought her captain ashore my father roared: “By God, if it’s not Fennimore Landor. Welcome to you, man. How fares your father?”

That was the first time I saw Fennimore—with his fair bronzed skin and his hair bleached with sun and his light blue eyes crinkled as though they had faced miles of wind and sunshine; he was tall and strong, a man of the sea.

“This is my girl Linnet,” said my father; and he laid his hand on my shoulder in a way that lately had begun to thrill me. It meant he was proud of me and although he was often intolerant and often crude it was wonderful to please Captain Jake Pennlyon. “And this is Fennimore Landor, my girl. I knew his father well. A better captain never sailed the seas. Welcome! What brings you to Plymouth?”

“The hope of seeing you,” said Fennimore.

“To see me. Well met then. You must come to the Court. You’ll be welcome. That’s so, eh Linnet?”

I said he would be very welcome.

We looked at each other rather searchingly and I wondered whether he liked my looks as much as I liked his.

I hoped so.

“The Court” was Lyon Court—the house which had been built by my great-grandfather when he began to amass his fortune. It was a little ostentatious compared with older houses like Trewynd, the home of Edwina and Carlos. I heard my mother say once to my father when they were battling together that the Pennlyons not being used to money for long had to make sure everyone knew they had acquired it. The centre of the house was its Gothic hall as high as the roof and its grand staircase led to the gallery where we had a few family portraits—the founder, my great-grandfather, my grandfather and my father. If I had been a boy I dare say I should have been beside them. Our living quarters were in the east and west wings. There was plenty of room for entertaining and the house was often filled with guests.

As we walked up to the Court from the Hoe, Fennimore Landor and my father talked of seafaring matters. I glanced sideways at the newcomer, and once or twice I caught him doing the same to me. When the house was in sight with the stone lions guarding the doors I said I would go and tell my mother we had a visitor.

She was coming down the staircase to the hall. She was very sprightly and had a wonderful vitality which was more attractive than beauty. She must have been about forty-eight years old but because she had had an adventurous life this had somehow preserved her youth.

“Father is bringing a guest,” I cried. “His name is Fennimore Landor. A captain I think. Oh, here they are.”

Fennimore Landor bowed to my mother and when the introductions had been made she led the way to the small winter parlour which was more intimate than the hall.

They drank Malmsey and talked mostly of the sea and Fennimore was to join us for supper before he was rowed out to his ship. He mentioned that Trade Winds would be staying in the Sound for a few days. My mother and I left them drinking together, then she went to the kitchen and I to my room to make an entry in my journal.

Later when we were at the great table in the hall, Fennimore sat beside my father and I could see that he was trying to arouse his enthusiasm for some new venture in which he believed wholeheartedly. I liked his enthusiasm. It shone in his eyes and it was in the lilt of his voice too. I thought: he is an idealist and if he cared about something he would do everything of which he was capable to make it succeed. This matter in which he was trying to interest my father was trading to various parts of the world. I enjoyed listening to him and I was a little angry with my father because he sat there with his head to one side looking, I thought, faintly sceptical.

Fennimore was saying: “From now on the Spaniards will offer little rivalry. They’re crippled.”

My father nodded. “Crippled by God and blasted off the seas.” He was launching out on the well-worn theme of how we had defeated them, how they had boasted they would vanquish us in a day or so. Fennimore was faintly exasperated. He did not want to talk of the past but of the future.

He interrupted: “They can no longer have their galleys going out from Barcelona and Cadiz. Where are their galleys?”

“At the bottom of the ocean,” chuckled my father.

“Of course, there are the Dutch.”

“The Dutch!” spat out my father.

“Worthy seamen,” put in Fennimore.

My father puffed his lips impatiently. “There’s no seaman like an English one and preferably a west countryman at that.”

My mother laughed with that touch of tender derision she so often showed towards my father. “You will find Captain Pennlyon a little prejudiced,” she said.

I looked round the table. We must have seemed a strange family to Fennimore—if his own was a conventional one, which I imagined it was. There was my father with his wife and daughter and his three illegitimate sons and the mother of one of them. Of course it was clear that my father was no ordinary man, and for that matter, my mother was no ordinary woman. We were a small party because no one had known that we would have any special guest but there had been time to ask Carlos and Edwina to join us. In any case they often did.

Carlos’s mother had been Spanish but he had inherited scarcely anything of hers, he was clearly my father’s son. His hair was darkish brown and his eyes light hazel colour; he swaggered when he walked in a manner similar to that of our parent. He had been brought up under my father’s influence from an early age and the great aim of his life seemed to have been to grow up as exactly like him as possible. He was a great favourite with Jake. So was Jacko, the son of Jennet, my mother’s maid who had been with her for years and had shared many of my mother’s adventures. She was a lusty irrepressible woman and had had a succession of lovers. At the time it was one of the gardeners. We all knew, because for Jennet love-making was so natural that she made no secret of it. She was now in her forties and I had heard my mother tell her that she was just as lustful as she had been in her twenties. She was enormously proud of Jacko and delighted that he had been brought up in the household to follow his father’s profession. She thought there was no one quite like the Captain and was very proud that Jacko provided living evidence that he had once glanced her way. Then there was Penn—also with a look of the Captain, and his presence at the table with his mother was perhaps the most difficult to understand. Romilly Girling had come to the house when she had been destitute after her father had been killed in one of my father’s ships; and, during one of those periods of dissatisfaction with each other which had occurred in the past between my parents, my father out of pique or lust had got Romilly with child. Penn was born and was brought up in the house as Romilly had nowhere else to go and it was only later that my mother had discovered who the boy’s father was and it was inconceivable that she would turn them out of the house then. My father would never have allowed it in any case, and I think my mother liked to remind him now and then of his infidelities.

However, there we were on this day when Fennimore came to Lyon Court, all assembled at the table, the only absent one being my little sister Damask who was too young to be of the party. I think it was after her birth that my father realized that my mother would never have a boy and became reconciled to me.

Fennimore, I am sure, was too full of his own project to waste much time thinking about our household. It was clear that he wanted my father’s backing for his project. It seems from what I could gather that he was hoping for some sort of partnership.

I listened to him with pleasure. He had an unusually soft musical voice for a sailor. I could not imagine his shouting to sailors on the deck. There could not have been a man less like my father. It was amazing how I compared them all with him.

“If we had entirely neglected trading,” Fennimore was saying, “we could never have beaten the Armada. We shouldn’t have had the ships.”

“Traders!” cried my father. “Nothing to do with it. We beat the Dons because we were better seamen and we were determined not to let them set foot on our land.”

“Yes, yes, Captain Pennlyon, that’s true of course. But we had to have the ships and by good fortune we had them.”

“Now, young man, don’t you make the mistake of thinking this victory was due to luck. Good fortune, you say. Good seamanship, say I.”

“It was that, but we did have the ships,” insisted Fennimore. “Did you know that in 1560 we had but seventy-one ships trading on the seas and in 1582 we’d increased that number to one hundred and fifty? Why, in 1560, sir, our merchant navy was almost nothing … we weren’t among the maritime nations. What were we doing? Our coastal trade was insignificant. We did a little with the Baltic ports—just with the Low Countries and perhaps a little with Spain, Portugal and France … a few Mediterranean calls. That will not be so any more. We, Captain, are going to be not one of the foremost trading nations in the world but the foremost. There’s coal to be carried … coal and fish. This has been done in the past, but now that we have driven the Spaniards off the seas we have to take advantage of it.”

My father was listening now. Any method of worsting the Spaniards appealed to him.

I found it fascinating to listen to Fennimore. It was obvious that he had studied the matter; he believed in it wholeheartedly. Carlos was inclined to support him, while waiting for the cue from my father, of course. Jacko watched with bright eyes so like his mother’s; if the family was going into trade he wanted to be in it too. Penn’s eyes never left our father’s face. And watching him there, his startling blue eyes fierce at the mention of Spaniards, I was never more conscious of his intolerance and there was a great yearning in me for him to like and approve of Fennimore Landor. I realized that Fennimore in his way was as determined as my father was in his; but while one was noisily vociferous the other achieved as much impact by his quiet insistence.

I sat listening to his voice and it was as though he created before my eyes the fulfilment of a dream. He was going to make our country great—not through war which to my father had always seemed the way to do this, but through trade. To ply peacefully throughout the world practising legitimate trading would prove more profitable, Fennimore was implying, than riding the high seas armed with guns and cannon, boarding, robbing, fighting, killing—sometimes acquiring a prize of great worth and as often suffering loss as well as death.

“The time has come,” he cried. “The troubles between the Low Countries and the Spaniards have crippled them both. What fools men are to kill when they might trade peaceably! At one time Antwerp was a centre of great wealth—one of the greatest in the world. The closing of the Schelde three years ago finished that. We have still to contend with Amsterdam. They’ll be our rivals for a while. That is good. Rivalry is necessary. It is the spur.”

He leaned his elbows on the table and contemplated my father earnestly.

“I prophesy that in the next decade we in this country will build a merchant fleet which will be the envy of the world. We have come through a great ordeal victorious. It is not for us now to gloat over our enemies but to go on to greatness. Our derision cannot hurt them—our trading ships will. We have to beat the argosies of Venice, the tartanes of Marseilles. God and our seamen have taken care of the galleys of Barcelona.”

I clapped my hands together and then I flushed because everyone was looking at me.

“Congratulations, Captain Landor,” I stammered. “I … was quite carried away.”

He smiled at me then and it seemed a very long moment that we looked at each other.

“The trading ships would have to be equipped with guns,” my father said.

“There is no doubt of that,” replied Fennimore warmly, “for there will always be pirates. We must be ready. Our shipyards should now be working at full strength. We need ships, ships, ships.”

“England has always had need of ships,” said Carlos.

“But rarely as urgently as now. We have this breathing space. I doubt the Spaniards will ever recover from the trouncing they’ve had. Our rivals will be the Dutch. We must be prepared to meet the challenge.”

“And this,” said my father, “is what you wish to speak to me about.”

“Captain Pennlyon, your praises are sung all along these coasts and farther. The Queen herself has spoken of you as one of the guardians of the realm.”

“God bless her,” said my father. He lifted his glass and we all drank to Queen Elizabeth.

“May this be the beginning of a new era,” said Fennimore earnestly. “The great age of peace, trade and prosperity because of these great blessings.”

“Amen,” said my mother.

My father looked at her and I saw the faint smile which passed between them; I knew then that she would persuade him to consider Fennimore’s proposal, whatever it was going to be, and that he would.

After that the conversation became more general.

Jacko had two of the new medals which had been struck to commemorate the victory. We all laughed over the one on which was engraved “Venit, vidit, fugit,” a play on Julius Caesar’s “I came, I saw, I conquered.” With the Spaniards they had come, seen and fled.

My father kept gazing at it and chuckling over it.

My mother said: “The Captain has suffered a great bereavement. He has lost his Spaniards. What shall you do, Jake, with no one to curse, no throats to cut, none to run through with your sword?”

“I doubt not,” he said, his eyes flashing fire at her, “that there are some lurking in that poxy land who will yet feel the steel of my sword.”

Edwina commented that she had heard that Robert Dudley’s death had caused the Queen great sorrow. “She truly loved him,” she said. “What a pity she could not have married him. I believe she would have been happy to do so.”

“She was too wise for that,” said Fennimore. “She is a great Queen. England comes first with her. She would let no man come between her and her duty to her country.”

“I like the medal,” said my mother, “which stresses the fact that she is a woman and that a woman was at the heart of our victory. ‘Dux femina facti.’ It is a heartening thought … for us women.”

“She is an unusual woman, don’t forget, and she wears a crown,” said Jake. “’Twould be a sorry state of affairs if all women thought they could govern men.”

“’Twould be worth a try,” retorted my mother. “You have all been saying—and my husband in particular—that we have just had the most resounding victory ever known. And a woman was at the heart of it. I like that medal.”

“There were men who served her well,” pointed out Fennimore. “But perhaps they did so because she was a woman.”

Edwina said that in her opinion men and women should work together. There should be no rivalry between them. They should be complementary one to the other.

“If men would remember that, there would be complete understanding, between the sexes,” said my mother.

Penn said: “Is it true that Robert Dudley was poisoned?”

There was a brief silence at the table. It was not usually wise to discuss such matters freely, but over the last weeks we had all grown a little less careful.

Court affairs were always of the utmost interest to us, none the less so because, being so far from London, we usually heard of them some time after they had taken place. This distance may well have made us perhaps more reckless than we would have dared be had we lived closer to the Court.

My mother said she had heard that Robert Dudley’s countess was enamoured of her master of horse, Christopher Blount, and there were rumours that Dudley had been murdered by her that she might change husbands.

“Well, he had his first wife thrown down the stairs,” said Penn, “so he can’t complain if his second poisons him.”

Everyone laughed and Romilly said: “Hush, Penn. You must not say such things.”

“Why not, if they’re true?” He was looking at Jake for approval, but Jake said nothing. I believed he was still thinking about those trading ships.

“There is no proof that they are,” said my mother firmly. “Now,” she went on, turning to Edwina, “tell us of the recent rumours.”

Edwina’s stepfather, Lord Remus, had a post at Court and this meant that visitors from London called now and then at Trewynd Grange. Also, Edwina’s mother wrote to her regularly and she consequently had the latest Court gossip and scandal.

“There has, it seems, always been gossip about Robert Earl of Leicester,” she said. “Naturally there would be because of his closeness to the Queen. It is said that she was heartbroken when he died. She will miss him. But I don’t think she ever forgave him for marrying, and it is true that at Court they are saying that the poisoner has died of a dose of his own medicine.”

It was an irresistible subject—the amours of the Court—and one of the most amorous of Court gentlemen had been Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. We talked of poison then. How it was being used more and more effectively. There were so many secrets of the poisoner’s art and many people died mysteriously. Leicester had had a reputation of being an expert in the field.

We all knew the story of the Queen’s passion for him and how his first wife Amy Robsart had died mysteriously. The general verdict was that he had had her put out of the way, and because the Queen was known to be passionately in love with him at the time, she dared not marry him. When Mary Queen of Scots had lost her head at Fotheringay—and that was not much more than a year before—there had been a great deal of talk about the Queen, Amy Robsart and the Earl of Leicester, because Mary had been in a similar position. Her husband Lord Darnley had been murdered and she, Mary, had married the Earl of Bothwell, his murderer. It was said that that was the fatal step that led to Fotheringay. Our own Queen was admired for her astuteness. She had not married Leicester but had kept him hoping and dancing attendance on her. When he, realizing the Queen would never marry him, had married someone else, the Queen had hated Lettice, his wife. Rumour had it that Leicester had even been married before that and in secret to Lady Sheffield and that he had poisoned her husband that he might do so. Then later, when he had wished to be rid of her, he attempted to poison her too.

“Her nails began to wither and her hair fell out,” said Edwina. “The Queen suspected there was some sort of liaison between them and had them watched. It’s strange how she still remained faithful to Leicester in spite of everything.”

“Our Queen is a faithful woman,” said Jake. “An example to you all.”

He looked at my mother who was suddenly silent, remembering I think how not so long ago she was ill and suspected Jake of trying to rid himself of her. How foolish of her! I realized she knew that now.

“Yes indeed,” said my mother. “For she was sorely tried. Leicester hoped for years that she would change her mind and marry him, but she never would. That old scandal would have been revived! How hard it is to live down a scandal!”

“But he did marry the Countess of Essex,” I said.

“And when the Queen heard,” put in my mother, “they say she was heartbroken and she was furious with him.”

“She all but sent him to the Tower,” said Edwina. “But she relented and she has hated Lettice ever since.”

“And now he is dead. Do you really think it was poison that killed him?” I asked.

“With poison one can never be sure,” said Edwina. “If it is true that Lettice was in love with Christopher Blount and that Leicester was trying to poison him and was given one of his own concoctions by his wife …”

“Would that be possible?” I asked.

“Yes, indeed it would.”

Edwina should know. She was descended from a witch. I was never quite sure how far back but her mother was the great-granddaughter of one, I believe. My mother told me she used to tease her adopted sister about it.

Edwina talked of herbs then; for she had built up a big herb garden at Trewynd. She was very interested in the uses of the plants and whenever we were not well we always first asked Edwina if she knew of a cure before consulting apothecaries or doctors.

She had just learned that woodruff was good for the liver and she was working a cure on one of the grooms at Trewynd. Fennimore became quite interested then—far more than he had over the chatter of Leicester’s affairs. In fact I feared he was a little bored by all that.

He said: “You must find something that will cure sailors of their ills on long voyages. Food is a great problem and also keeping sailors healthy. They suffer from terrible diseases—scurvy is one of them. If you could grow a herb that would cure that you would be performing a great service.”

Edwina said she would study the matter, but her herbs were of the simple sort and she merely picked up information here and there.

“It may be the cure is simple,” he answered.

Then he began to talk again of sea and the trade he hoped would come to England.

I watched from my window the rowing-boat take Fennimore Landor out to his ship. As I stood there I heard someone come into my room and, turning, saw that it was my mother.

She came over to the window and together we looked at the carrack out there on the faintly moonlit waters.

“A fine ship,” said my mother. “What did you think of her captain?”

“I thought he was a man with a purpose.”

“There was no doubt of that. It sounded very sensible to me.”

I was pleased and showed it; she looked at me intently.

“I liked him,” she said. “I liked his earnestness. He’s an idealist. And that’s a good thing for a young man to be.”

“This idea of trading,” I said, “how much better than fighting!”

“There will doubtless be fighting involved in it,” replied my mother grimly. “Men never seem to be able to get along without that.”

“Do you think he wants some sort of partnership?”

“I gathered he wanted your father’s help.”

“Do you think he will give it?”

My mother was thoughtful. Then she said: “He might. As a Captain who has been accustomed to see a prize and take it, he will find it a little difficult to adjust himself to legitimate trading, I doubt not. But I fancied he was less sceptical as the hours passed than he had been in the beginning.”

“Shall you persuade him?”

“My dear Linnet, do you think anyone could do that?”

“I think you could.”

“Why, the very fact that I thought it a good idea would make him try to prove it wasn’t. So you liked the captain, Linnet?”

“I thought as you did that he was earnest … serious and dedicated to his plan.”

“If your father joined him in some enterprise doubtless we should see a good deal of him. I discovered where he comes from. Farther along the coast towards Falmouth.”

“Not so very far from here then.”

“No.” There was a slight pause. Then she said: “Edwina had some good news she whispered to me. What do you think? She is going to have a child.”

“I’m so glad. She has long wanted that to happen. I thought there was something different about her tonight. Now I come to think of it, she seemed to be hugging some secret.”

“It won’t be a secret for long. Of course it’s early days yet. But I’m so happy for her. She and Carlos have been married … why, it must be seven years.”

“It’s a long time,” I agreed.

“I know exactly how they feel.” Her eyes had that glazed look which they had when she looked back into the past. Then she was right back in the present looking straight at me. “The greatest happiness, Linnet, is to hold your own child in your arms. I remember …”

Suddenly she put her arms about me and held me close to her for a few moments. I knew she was thinking that I should marry soon and have children of my own.

And the thought had been put into her head by the arrival of Captain Fennimore Landor. It meant that she liked him; that she would persuade my father to help him in his venture; and that from now on the young man might well be a frequent visitor at Lyon Court.

By the time Trade Winds sailed out of the Sound, my father had arranged that there should be a further meeting with the Landors. Whether my mother had persuaded him or whether he had been impressed by Fennimore’s earnestness I was not sure, but the fact remained that he was interested in his ideas and had said in a few weeks’ time he would visit them for further talks.

I was delighted and I believed my mother was too when an invitation came for us to join the party.

“What women have to do with trade, I fail to see,” growled my father.

My mother retorted: “Of course a woman should know what kind of business her husband is involved in. In any case the invitation is for me and I shall accept it on behalf of Linnet and myself.”

My father had gone off on a short trip and Jacko was with him, so it was arranged that my mother and I, accompanied by her maid Jennet and two grooms, should make the journey to Trystan Priory, the Landor’s home, by road.

It was early November when we set out; warm, damp and misty; the hedgerows were festooned with glistening cobwebs and the bare branches of trees made a lacy pattern against a grey sky. A touch of colour was supplied here and there by patches of golden gorse which was always with us. I remember my father’s once saying that the only time a man should not make love to a woman was when the gorse was not in bloom, the implication being that the gorse bloomed all the year round.

I was excited. I was sure there was something in the air that day which told me that I was on the verge of adventure. It must have something to do with Fennimore whom I was looking forward to seeing again.

“What a gloomy day,” said my mother, as we rode along side by side.

“Do you find it so?” I replied; and she laughed suddenly. She seemed very happy. I read her thoughts. I was eighteen years old, marriageable. Every mother wants to see her daughter married; she dreams of grandchildren. My mother wanted that for me and she had decided that Fennimore was a good choice. She had been impressed by his sincerity; perhaps too she thought that he did not live very far away and she would see me frequently if I married him. It was a sad point with her that she was so far from her own mother whom she adored.

Yes, I was in high spirits that morning. Adventure was in the air, discoveries, marriage, children, the right of every woman to love and reproduce. There might have been some warning in the mist, but I could not sense it. Nor did my mother, for she was as eager for what was awaiting us as I was.

The road took us through country lanes with high green banks and hedges in which a few wild flowers lived on as a reminder of the riot of colours they had offered at different times of the year—some campion, dead-nettle and shepherd’s purse and every now and then we would have a glimpse of the sea, greyish, silent on this still windless day. We met few people, only a party on horseback like ourselves who called a greeting, a pedlar whose pack we stopped to examine, a farmer at work on his land. We had made good progress on that first day and before darkness fell we reached an inn where we spent the night. The landlord had a good roasted ox and ale which we ate and drank in the parlour before retiring to our room. My mother and I slept in the big bed and Jennet on a pallet on the floor. The grooms lay in the stables and as soon as it was light we were off, our horses rested and ready for the day’s journey. There would be one more inn stop and then we should arrive at Trystan Priory.

In spite of the excitement which possessed me, I slept soundly and so did my mother and we were up early and ready to continue at dawn.

The second day was like the first. The country changed a little though; the coast was more rocky, the countryside stark; it lacked the lush greenery of our Devon scenery; and on that night we came to The Traveller’s Rest.

The host came to the door to welcome us; bowing low, recognizing us I suppose as what he would call “the quality”. Yes, he had a room for us and he would have a fire lighted in the fireplace and a warming-pan put in the bed. He rubbed his hands together. He had a sucking-pig on the spit; he had beef and mutton and great pies. In fact he had everything to tempt hungry travellers. If we would sit awhile in the inn parlour he would have our room made ready. It was the best in the house. He whispered conspiratorially that it was called the Oak Room on account of the very fine panelling on the walls and some of his guests had told him that it was fit for the Queen herself.

“So, my ladies, if our gracious Queen should ever pass this way we could give her comfort such as she’d rarely find outside her own palace and castles.”

It was a warm welcome. The landlord continued to rub his hands with glee at the prospect of such profits that would come his way. Two ladies and their maid and two grooms! I wondered how many passed this way and how often he could be sure of as many customers.

We sat in the inn parlour and drank wine and ate little cakes which were quite pleasant, for it would take some time before the meat was cooked. Meanwhile a fire was lighted in the room allotted to us and we mounted the stairs to it. It looked rather charming in the light of two candles, for it was now dark. The fire in the grate threw its pleasant flickering light about the room. I touched the oak panelling of which the landlord was so proud and I said: “It is a pleasant place. And the landlord, although a little too unctuous, seems determined to look after us.”

My mother said: “We will tell him we will stay here on our return, which will be in a week or so, for I doubt we should overstay our welcome at Trystan Priory.”

Jennet unpacked what we should need for the night and by that time a maid came to tell us that the food was ready.

“We will come down at once,” said my mother, “for I must confess I am ready for it.”

It was then that I was aware of the noise below, someone was shouting in a loud and imperious voice: “Don’t tell me that, man. Take me there. I tell you this, no matter who has the Oak Room they must vacate it. Do you think I’d take one of your poxy little rooms?”

I heard the landlord, all unctuous pleasure departed: “But my lord … if I had known … It was not more than an hour or so … A party of travellers …”

“It matters not,” came the shout. “They can take another room. By God’s life, host, have I not slept these many times in your Oak Room and what other room have you to suit me? Tell me that!”

“None worthy of your lordship, ’tis true, but …”

“Stand aside.”

I stood there, holding a candle in my hand. I heard the heavy tread on the stairs.

Then he came into sight and saw me standing on the threshold of the room. He stopped short, looking up at me. I was surprised to see that he was young, by which I meant he was reaching up to thirty. His eyes were dark, large and lustrous; his hair looked blackish in the candle light. What struck me most was the size of him. He must have been all of six feet six inches tall. I had rarely seen such a tall man. His shoulders were broad and his padded jerkin made of satin and velvet with its puffed slashed sleeves made him look even broader. His bombasted breeches were of fine material and his jornet, a loose travelling cloak, was thrown back over his shoulders. This arrogant man who, I gathered, was demanding the room already let to us was a dandy.

“By God, Madam,” he said, “so ’tis you who have taken my room.”

“Is it yours, sir?” I answered. “I had thought it was one the landlord had set aside for guests, and my mother and I have already taken it.”

“Is that so?” he said, and his smile was sardonic. He started to mount the stairs.

“I am a frequent patron of this inn,” he said. “There are times when I pass and wish to rest for a night. This room is always at my disposal.”

“Then,” I said, “this is an occasion when it is not.”

My mother had come forward. I realized—though no one else would—that she was a little nervous. But she was not the sort to give up her rights without a fight.

She said: “What is this trouble, sir?”

He bowed to her. “Whether it be trouble or not, Madam, depends on you. You are occupying my room. Vacate it and you may have a pleasant night though perhaps a less luxurious one.”

“We had already taken the room,” said my mother.

“Ah, but that was before I arrived. Nessie,” he shouted. Then: “God’s eyes, man, where’s your daughter?”

The innkeeper was at the bottom of the stairs. “I will call her, my lord, and send her to you.”

“Tell her quick. I like not to be kept waiting.”

His eyes were on me. “Do not think,” he said, “that it pleases me to turn a beautiful lady from her bed.”

“I am sure it does not,” I retorted, “and I am equally sure that our good host will find you a comfortable lodging somewhere in his inn.”

He had stepped into the room. My mother watched him coldly. Jennet was frankly staring, her mouth a little slack. I knew what she was thinking. This was the kind of man she adored. If he had looked her way she would have been ready to do anything he asked of her with the utmost willingness. But he seemed unaware of her. He touched the wall and murmured: “This panelling is beautiful, is it not? Worthy of a mansion. I always admired it. ’Tis a good bed too. You’ll not find a better in any inn in the country.”

“I am sure I shall agree with you when I have used it,” I said.

“Ah, but we shall have to come to an agreement earlier than that. I wish to sleep in this bed tonight.”

“As I shall be sleeping there that is out of the question.”

“It is not an impossibility,” he said insolently.

I flushed and my mother said: “I must ask you, sir, to leave us. If you continue to insult us my husband will hear of this.”

“Pray who is the gentleman? Our host has been most remiss in making introductions.”

“He is Captain Jake Pennlyon,” said my mother firmly, “and he is a man who will not allow his wife and daughter to be insulted.”

“His repute has reached my ears. Who could be ignorant of his existence? Ha, here is Nessie. It takes you a long time to come, my girl. Did you not hear my arrival?”

Nessie bobbed a curtsy. She was a plump, pretty girl with rosy cheeks and abundant fair curly hair; her gown was low cut and the thought occurred to me that she knew this man very well. He caught her by the ear and pinched it. She gave a little yell and put up her hands to his. He laughed and let his hand drop to her breast which he patted caressingly as he said: “Now, Nessie, clear the room. This baggage comes out and mine goes in.”

“I will not allow this,” cried my mother.

“My dear lady,” he said, “how will you prevent it?”

“I wish to see the landlord immediately.”

“Come,” I said to my mother, “we will go to him now. Come, Jennet,” I said.

She left our bags where they were and followed us.

The landlord was in the hall; he was visibly trembling.

“This is a fine way to treat your guests,” began my mother.

“My lady, it is no fault of mine. I did not know he would be here this night. It is only last week that he came. He does not usually come so often. I have a very nice room …”

“No,” said my mother, but she was very uneasy. Outside it was dark. If we left the inn where could we go? There would not be another for some miles. The horses were tired. We would have to stay; and yet she was in revolt against the arrogant churlish behaviour of this man.

“My lady,” said the innkeeper. “You do not know Squire Colum Casvellyn.”

“If that is the name of that oaf I do not wish to.”

“Ah, my lady, we cannot always help these things. I can prepare a good room for you. It is not our best room but it is a good room and there you can spend the night in peace.”

“You have forgotten that you gave us the Oak Room.”

“I do not forget, Madam, but Squire Casvellyn can make great trouble. He is a man who must be obeyed. I could not say what would happen to us all if I refused to allow him to have the Oak Room.”

“I will speak of this with my daughter,” said my mother.

He nodded. We went into the inn parlour which mercifully was deserted. Jennet followed us and sat some little distance away. My mother said impatiently: “Take that look off your face, Jennet. That braggart wouldn’t look your way. You’re an old woman now.”

Jennet simpered. I was always amazed by her imperturbability. My mother once told me that she had always been like that. No matter what had happened in the past; when she had been the victim of men’s lust, as she had frequently, she had accepted her fate without a qualm, although, as my mother said, she would never have been an unwilling victim in those circumstances.

“The wisest thing to do would be to take the smaller room,” said my mother. “I wish your father were here.”

“Then there would be a fight. I should not like that.”

“Your father would make short work of him.”

I was not so sure. I saw in this man something akin to my father and he was many years younger.

“But my father is not here. How I hate giving way to him!”

“I also. But what would happen if we refused to leave that room? He would be there too. He might throw us out. What sort of night should we have then? No, ’tis better to accept the other room and behave with dignity. But when your father hears of this he will not allow it to pass.”

I could see that she was right. We were not in a position to fight against him, and his remark that he might share the room with us had upset me.

“Let us then tell the landlord to give us his next best room. We deplore the ill manners of his guest but as he will do nothing about it we must needs accept this insult.”

My mother sent Jennet for the landlord. He came, his hands under his apron trembling, I’m sure. I felt sorry for the man.

“We have decided we can do nothing but accept your offer of another room.”

Relief flooded the poor man’s face. “You are wise, Madam,” he said. “I promise you that everything shall be done …”

“I can see,” said my mother, “that this is no fault of yours. Tell me who is this man who strikes such terror into you and your servants?”

“He is the lord of Castle Paling—a man greatly feared in these parts. He is the lord of the neighbourhood. It has always been so with the Casvellyns. They own much of the land hereabouts. He could turn us out of our homes if we displeased him. He would have no mercy. His father was lord of us all but he was but a shadow of his son.”

“You live in terror of him?”

“He does not come this way so often. That is why since he was here last week I did not think he would come again. He pays well for his lodging here. He is not one to stint. There is grandeur at Castle Paling I have heard. My daughter once went there.”

“Your daughter … Nessie,” I said sharply.

The landlord looked embarrassed and the thought came into my head that the landlord’s daughter would doubtless sleep in the bed which had been taken from us.

“Yes, he … noticed her. He is good to people who please him.”

I felt disgusted. “Let us be shown the humbler room,” I said, and to my mother: “It is unimportant. Tomorrow we shall be on our way.”

“I am grateful, ladies, for your good consideration. Believe me, I am deeply grieved that this should have happened.”

“Think no more of it,” my mother told him. “Let our bags be taken to another room.”

“It shall be done while you eat,” said the landlord, fast regaining his equilibrium. “I trust the flavour of the sucking-pig—which I know will be the tenderest you have ever partaken of—will make up for this unfortunate upset.”

Fresh rushes had been laid in the dining-room and the smell of the herbs was clean and fresh. I was hungry and the sucking-pig which was already on the table looked as succulent and appetising as could be wished. There was a great pie and several tarts besides roast beef and mutton, wild fowl and spiced tarts, marchpane and gingerbread. No wonder the host was proud of his table.

We were sampling the sucking-pig when Colum Casvellyn entered the dining-room. I kept my eyes averted and my mother and I talked of the journey we had had as though he were not there.

He was not the sort to allow himself to be ignored.

He demanded the host’s attention; he would have the prime cut of the beef and the largest of the pies. Nessie waited on him, ignoring everyone else to obey his command immediately.

“It has been a fine day,” he said, addressing me.

“It has,” I agreed.

“You have come far?”

“A day’s ride.”

“How long is that?”

“It would depend on the riders, I doubt not.”

“I was referring to these riders.” He nodded towards my mother and me.

“We left Plymouth two days since.”

“Plymouth. But of course. Captain Jake Pennlyon! One of the nation’s heroes.”

“I doubt not you were at sea with the fleet, sir.”

“Aye,” he said. “And gave a good account of myself.”

“I doubt not that either,” I said. “Mother, have you finished?”

She said she had.

“Then,” I said, “let us go to see how this room in which we are to spend the night compares with the one this gentleman has taken from us.”

He laughed loudly.

We rose but unfortunately we had to pass close to him on our way out and as we did so, he caught at my gown so that I was pulled up short.

I looked down with disgust at his fingers which held my skirt but had no alternative but to meet his gaze. He was looking straight up at me; with mischief in his bright dark eyes—and more. He disturbed me; I tried to tweak my dress out of his fingers but he held on firmly.

“Sir?” I said with fury and indignation.

My mother was pulling at my arm, not aware that he was holding me.

I said: “You will take your hands from my gown.”

“I but wish to be civil,” he said.

“Civil! I do not understand your manner,” I retorted.

My mother was getting very angry. “How dare you lay hands on my daughter,” she said. “If you do not …”

He waited for her to go on, his brow slightly cocked, the insolent smile on his lips. He wanted to hear what she would do, knowing full well it could amount to nothing. He was the master here. The landlord lived in terror of him. What could two helpless females do against such a man?

He said: “I was about to say, Madam, that I have no wish that you should think hardly of me. Therefore I shall tell the landlord that I shall occupy the inferior room for I shall give up the Oak Room to you ladies.”

We were silent, completely taken off our guard.

My mother recovered herself first. She said coldly: “There is no need. We are quite prepared to take the other room.”

He was vehement. He had released my skirt and rapped his fist on the table. “You shall have the Oak Room. I will sleep happily in the inferior one. Nessie, call your father. At once, girl. Don’t stand there gaping.”

As we were about to leave the room the landlord appeared. “These ladies are to have the Oak Room,” roared Colum Casvellyn. “Take their baggage and put it back. I relinquish it. Now, Nessie, fill my goblet.”

My mother said to the landlord, “This is a ridiculous matter and I would see an end of it. We will not go back to the Oak Room. We shall leave it for that … that … ill-mannered oaf …”

The landlord shook his head, beginning to tremble. “He has said it shall be, my lady, and so it must.”

He looked so terrified that my mother shrugged her shoulders. Our bags were brought back to the Oak Room, Jennet unpacked and we decided we would settle down for the night.

My mother locked the door. With such people in the inn one could never be sure, she said.

It was a long time before I could sleep although the bed was comfortable. I kept thinking of Colum Casvellyn and imagining his being in this bed with Nessie, for I was sure the girl was spending the night with him. I felt excited in a rather unpleasant way; something had been aroused in me of which until this time I had been unaware.

My mother was wide awake too. We talked a little and then were silent and finally she did sleep. Jennet on her pallet was asleep, breathing with the deepness of complete and undisturbed repose. I tried not to toss and turn for fear of disturbing my mother and lay rather stiffly and uncomfortably.

As I lay there I heard a faint thud on the window pane. At first I thought I had imagined it and lay still, listening. It came again. Swiftly and silently I got out of bed and went to the window. I pushed it open and looked out. The half moon threw a white light on the trees and hedges. It was beautiful out there and the air was mild and sweet-smelling. Then I saw the shadow emerge from among the trees and he was standing there, legs apart, looking up at the window.

I drew back; I heard him laugh. He put his hand to his lips, kissed it and threw the hand towards me. I was so astonished that for a few seconds I just stood there looking at him. He threw out his arms as though inviting me to come down.

I shut the window hurriedly and went back to bed. I lay there trembling a little, terrified that I would awaken my mother. I kept my eye on the window, half expecting to see him appear there. I lay listening for a sound at the door.

Nothing happened.

It was a long time before I slept and then I was disturbed by vague shapeless dreams, but he was there dominating them.

Before it was light we were awake. The landlord gave us a hot breakfast and we left soon after dawn, before the inn was fully astir.

I was glad to get away but I knew I should remember Colum Casvellyn with a kind of fascinated horror for a long time to come.

That day we came to Trystan Priory. It was a lovely house some five miles inland. My father had not yet arrived and we were warmly welcomed by Fennimore and his parents. The house had been recently built on the site of an old Priory which had been demolished during the dissolution of the monasteries in the reign of the Queen’s father. There was a little of the old Priory left and Fennimore during that day and the next while we awaited the arrival of my father took great pleasure in pointing these remains out to us.

His parents were charming. His father was a sea captain, and that gave us much in common, and I liked Fennimore as well in his own home as I had in my own. I liked his quiet earnestness, his purposefulness; against my will I found myself comparing him with the man whom we had met at the inn. There was one who would take what he wanted; so was Fennimore in a way; but how different his methods would be. I fancied Fennimore would be one always to consider other people. I was looking forward to my father’s arrival and hoped that he would come to some agreement with the Landors.

There were a large number of rooms in the west wing, for the house like so many was built in the shape of a letter E; and my mother and I were given rooms side by side and there was a small one for Jennet close by. Our grooms were accommodated near the stables with those of the household; and I was immediately struck by the absolute peace of the place. That night I slept soundly; no doubt because of the previous disturbed night, and I found the atmosphere of Trystan Priory decidedly pleasant.

My mother liked our host and hostess very much and there seemed to be a tacit agreement that Fennimore should look after me.

That first morning he said he would first show me the house and as after three days’ riding I must be in need of a rest from the saddle he would take me for a walk round the estate so that I could really become acquainted with the place.

The great staircase which led up from the hall to the gallery was very fine indeed, with exquisitely carved banisters; in the gallery were the portraits. I paused before that of Fennimore. He looked out from the canvas with unruffled gaze on the world; it was the look of a man who would know exactly what he wanted.

“An excellent likeness,” I said.

There was a space on the wall next to his picture and I knew that another had hung there once. I wondered vaguely why it had been removed.

It was a homely house. Less ostentatious than Lyon Court and so modern when compared with ancient Trewynd Grange. It had its buttery, pastry bolting house where flour was bolted or sifted, and the winter parlour which was much used during the cold weather. The kitchen was large with its great range and spits and ovens. Fennimore pointed out to me how convenient it was being so near the winter parlour and the main hall. That hall was the centre of the house as it was in Lyon Court and Trewynd, and in it dinner was eaten when there was a large gathering. The family frequently used the winter parlour.

We walked in the gardens which were beautifully laid out. There were fountains and shady walks and several marble statues; the flower-beds were numerous and charmingly bordered with rosemary, lavender and marjoram. He showed me the enclosed garden with the pond in the centre. Most houses had them and they were planned on the style of the famous one made by Henry VIII at Hampton Court. Secluded, surrounded by a tall hedge, here members of the family could come in summer, the ladies to sit and embroider or paint pleasant little pictures; the men to talk with them, to relax, to enjoy the sunshine.

Fennimore and I sat by the pond and he talked to me of his dreams of the future. I liked to listen to him and I encouraged him to talk. There was prosperity as yet not dreamed of, he told me. He had been visiting shipyards in Britain and trying to impress their owners with the need to build ships, bigger ships, ships capable of carrying heavy cargoes and holding their own on the high seas.

“They will have to carry armaments I suppose,” I said.

“Alas, such is the way of the world. There will be battles on the high seas, doubt it not. Where there is prosperity, where there is profit, there will always be those who envy it and seek to take possession of it through force. Rivalry there must be and I would welcome that … good honest rivalry but it can hardly be hoped that men will suddenly become reasonable. They will still seek to take what is not theirs and to believe that there is more to be gained by robbery than by hard work. There should be plenty of trade for all who are ready to work for it, but you will never get men to see this. There are some who must be grander, bolder, richer than all others. There are some who must exert their power over others …”

I immediately thought then of the man at the inn and I was on the verge of telling Fennimore what had happened. I changed my mind. The garden was so pleasant; I was enjoying our conversation so much I did not want to introduce a discordant note. The more I thought of that man—and I had to admit I had thought of him a great deal—the more unpleasant the encounter seemed. He was crude; he was bold; and he had dared awaken me and bring me to the window. Had he really thrown a kiss to me or had I imagined that? Had he really been suggesting that I come down to him? Surely he must have known that was impossible. No, he had merely wished to disturb me. He had certainly done that.

Fennimore went on talking about the boom in shipbuilding which must follow the defeat of the Armada. “The Spaniards were only half aware of what prospects there were,” he was saying. “They were obsessed by making the people of the world conform to their religious doctrines. Therein lay their weakness. Their King is a fanatic. What misery he must be enduring now. I could almost feel it in my heart to be sorry for him.”

“Do not let my father hear you say that.”

“Nor shall I,” said Fennimore. “He would not understand, but I believe it to be a fact that even the most cruel, the most misguided of mankind have some spark of humanity in them and if we could but ignite it … who knows?”

I realized then that he was a very different man from my father. He was gentle and tolerant. A faint misgiving came to me then and I wondered whether the quality needed to succeed in this rough world was that ruthlessness which men like my father possessed, that single-mindedness which could only see one side of a problem. I was aware that Fennimore’s nature made him see many.

But Fennimore certainly talked like a man inspired. He made me see our ports alive with peaceful trading vessels. I could picture the unloading on the Hoe—spices, gold and ivory because he planned that his ships should travel not only in the Baltic and Mediterranean ports but right out to the East Indies.

It was very pleasant on that damp November day to walk through the garden with Fennimore, to listen to his plans, to learn about the estate on which he lived when he was not at sea.

I found his parents delightful and so did my mother. His father was undoubtedly a man of the sea and that meant that he shared certain characteristics with my own father. He was not the roaring ranting man that Jake Pennlyon was. In any case there could only be one Jake Pennlyon; but he had clearly had bloodthirsty adventures on the high seas and they must have left their mark on him. Fennimore had inherited something of his mother’s more gentle nature. It had made him more thoughtful and introspective than most men of his profession. He was rather studious; more logical than most and with that ability—which I was not sure was an asset—of being able to see many facets to one problem.

I suppose when two families are of a similar kind and each has a young member of it and these are of the opposite sex there must inevitably be some speculation as to whether or not they might marry. I knew this was in the minds of my mother and Fennimore’s parents. Every mother wants to see her son or daughter married; grandparents long for the marriage of their children to be fruitful. I knew what was going on in my mother’s mind. She liked Fennimore and would welcome him as a son-in-law. I became certain that the Landors would have offered me an equally warm welcome.

And Fennimore? Was it in his mind too? I believe it was. He was not an impulsive man, however; he would wish us both to grow accustomed to each other and the idea of marriage. To him there would be many sides to marriage, and of course he was right.

It seemed to me in those first few days at Trystan Priory that there was a very good chance that one day I would be mistress of it.

Fennimore’s mother was eager to talk about the household and during the second day she asked me to come to her room. She wanted to show me the tapestry on which she was working. She showed me the design which was to depict the glorious victory over the Armada and she herself had composed it. It would take her years to complete, she told me.

The canvas was set up on a gigantic frame and on it was sketched the picture she would work. It was attractive. There were the little ships and the great Spanish galleons. There was the King of Spain in his gloomy Escorial and the Duke of Medina Sidonia with his ships. And on the other hand we had our own Queen at Tilbury and Sir Francis playing bowls on the Hoe. And the battle—the fireships which caused such havoc and the broken galleons drifting out to sea.

“Why,” I said, “it is almost a life work.”

“I shall start it … as indeed I have,” she said. “It will be for future members of my family to finish it.”

It was almost as though she were putting a needle into my hand and telling me to begin.

“It will be wonderful when it is completed.”

“I hope to see it finished,” she said.

“But of course you must.”

“I have hundreds of skeins of silk stored away.” She talked of the colours she would use. Reds, scarlets and gold; black for the costume of the King of Spain; scarlet and gold for our Queen. “Oh my dear Linnet, what a terrible time that was. I hope never to live through such a time. I have never known such a time of wretchedness … except …”

She stopped and bit her lip. Then she brightened; “But it is over now. There are still dangers at sea … but the Spaniards can do us little harm now. I was always terrified of them … terrified that they would come here. And of course when the men sailed away I used to shut myself in my sanctuary—” she inclined her head towards a door leading from her room—“and there I used to pray that they would come back safely. But you are a sailor’s daughter. You know.”

I considered this. It had never occurred to me that my father would not come back. There was something invincible about him, and he always had returned. Though there had been a time when he was gone so long that it had seemed that it was for ever.

“If I had lost them,” she went on, “that would have been death to me. I should have had no one left … no one. After Melanie …”

Her face puckered suddenly and she seemed to come to a decision. She said: “Come with me.”

I rose and she went to the door I had seen. She opened it.

I followed her into a room. It was rather dark as there was only one small window, lead-paned. In this room I noticed a crucifix and before it a table on which were candle sticks. It was like an altar.

“Sometimes,” she said, “I come in here to be alone and pray.”

Then I saw a picture on the wall. It was of a young girl about fifteen, I imagined. She had fair hair which fell about her shoulders and blue eyes. She was remarkably like Fennimore.

“She is beautiful, do you agree?” said Fennimore’s mother.

I did agree.

“My daughter. My Melanie.”

“I was not aware that you had a daughter.”

“I had a daughter. Alas, she died.”

“How sad.”

She lowered her head as though she could not bear to go on looking at that lovely young face.

“I had the picture brought in here. I could not bear to see it every time I passed it in the gallery. I wanted it where I could see it in private, where I could weep over it if I had to, and look at it and remember.”

“Was it long ago?” I asked.

“Three years.”

“So recent?”

She nodded.

I was not sure whether she wanted to talk or not, so I tried to convey my sympathy without seeming curious.

“She was murdered.”

“Murdered!”

“Please, I cannot talk of it. She was too young for marriage. I should never have allowed it and … she died.”

“She was your only daughter?”

She nodded.

“You have your son.”

Her face cleared a little. “He is the best son a woman could have. Thank God we have Fennimore. But we lost Melanie … my little Melanie. I often say to myself: I should never have allowed it. I shall never forget the day she told me she was going to have another child.”

“She had had others?”

“No. Attempts. They all failed. It was clear she was not meant for childbearing and when she told me that yet again … a terrible cold fear came over me. It was as though the angel of Death had entered. It was here in this room. I can see her now, the fear in her fair young face and I wanted to … to … But never mind. I shouldn’t be talking like this to you.”

“Please talk if you want to. I will respect your confidence.”

“She was different from you. She hadn’t your strength. She wasn’t meant to bear children. She should never have married. If only I could go back … I would never have allowed it. And so we lost her.”

She put out a hand and I took it, holding it firmly.

“I wanted you to know,” she said, “because … because … you … you seem like one of us.”

It was almost as though she were proposing marriage to me on behalf of her son.

My father arrived that day. The house suddenly seemed more noisy. He was impressed with the Priory and slightly smug because it did not seem quite as grand to him as Lyon Court. Meals had become more elaborate and were taken in the great hall instead of the winter parlour. We dined at the fashionable time of eleven in the morning and supped between seven and eight. There was a great deal of talk at these meals and my father was often in conference with Fennimore and his. I believed that they were getting along very well and that my father was becoming more and more interested in the project.

He had no intention of staying long though. He was eager to be off. Each morning he rode down to the coast and went on his ship. He was going on round Land’s End to the north coast and would be away some weeks before returning home. My mother and I were to travel back the way we had come.

Neither of us had said anything about our adventure on the way. The man had, after all, allowed us to have the better room, my mother pointed out, so we could not complain about his taking it from us. “Your father would make more out of it than was actually there. You know how he loves a fight,” she said. “Moreover, we should never be allowed to travel on our own again.” So we did not mention it, and it was arranged that we should return as we had come, with Jennet and the two grooms.

Each day my father was being drawn to the idea of trade. It was, after all, a battle of sorts—the fight for supremacy on the sea. He had no doubt as to who would win that battle, and as the days passed he was more and more eager to begin it.

There was still news coming in of Spanish disasters, of ships being washed up along the coast, of men who had come to our coasts at dead of night and wormed their way into our villages pretending to be anything but Spaniards. My father could never hear enough of them, and in his opinion no fate was too bad for them.

I could see that the Landors thought him too extreme but they accepted that a man whose fame was known through the West Country for a valiant seaman and servant of the Queen, must be allowed to express his opinions.

He had a soft spot for all seamen and was faintly critical of the Queen’s parsimony towards her sailors. It was the first time I had known him to do anything but praise her.

“By God,” he said, “these are the men who helped to save our country. Are they to go hungry now their task is done?”

“The Chest is better than nothing,” said Captain Landor.

“Not good enough for these valiant men,” stormed my father. “And why should every seaman have a bit taken from his pay to help those who were wounded in the great fight? Nay, sir. It is the bounden duty of the Queen and this country to care for those who suffered. They gave for England. It is England’s turn to give to them.”

He was referring to the fund known as the “Chest at Chatham” which had been set up to compensate those who had suffered during the fight with the Armada.

“Any seaman who comes to my house,” declared my father, “will be cared for. They will find at Lyon Court that sanctuary England fails to give them.”

“There must be many of them.”

“So much the more reason to care for them,” said my father, his face scarlet with righteous indignation. “It has come to my ears that Philip of Spain has set aside 50,000 scudi for the relief of his wounded. Should the defeated be so well cared for and the victors dependent on their own poor sailors to help them?”

It was true of course that the Queen who loved to adorn her person with extravagant jewelled garments was often averse to spending money on her subjects who had given all but their lives to keep her on the throne.

“You may rest assured,” said my mother, “that any poor sailors who come to Lyon Court shall be fed.”

“We will see to it,” affirmed my father, for once in agreement with her.

I could see that the Landors were pleased to turn the conversation to other matters. Whether it was because they realized how unwise it was to criticize the Queen, even faintly, or whether they were so eager to talk of their future plans, I was not sure, but soon they were discussing the possibility of getting more ships afloat and what commodities could be picked up in the various ports of the world.

And so those pleasant days passed and it was time for us to return home. Before we did so my parents insisted that we return the Landor’s hospitality. They thought it would be an excellent idea if they visited us to celebrate the New Year.

NIGHT AT CASTLE PALING

WE SPENT OUR FIRST night at The Traveller’s Rest. My mother and I had debated whether to do this. It was hardly likely that we should meet the obnoxious Colum there again; and to avoid such a good and tried inn because we feared to, did not appeal to either of us.

The landlord was delighted to see us. The Oak Room was placed at our disposal; and there was no rude interruption that night. We enjoyed the landlord’s wholesome table and occupied his comfortable bed in the oak-panelled room. It was true I did awaken in the night and found myself half sleeping, half waking, listening for a thud against the window. Nothing happened. How could it? The man was far away.

We left next morning. The weather had changed; a wind had risen dispersing the mist and bringing rain clouds with it. We rode through a fine drizzle, less disturbing than a downpour it was true, but still impeding progress a little. It was dark very early and we decided that we would not delay putting up for the night, even if it meant making an extra day’s journey home.

We were riding through a winding lane—one of the grooms ahead of us and another behind when we heard the sound of horses’ hoofs. We had seen no one for the last two hours. “No one would be out on such a day,” said my mother, “unless it was absolutely necessary.”

The riders were clearly coming up behind us and we drew to the side of the hedge as they came nearer.

They were alongside; they had surrounded us. There were four men … with masks over the faces. Jennet gave a little scream and there was no doubt in any of our minds that they meant mischief for they carried cudgels and immediately began demanding our purses.

One of the grooms, attempting to remonstrate, was knocked from his horse, while a masked man snatched at my mother’s girdle which was of gold. She dealt him a sharp blow across the knuckles with her riding stock and he let out a cry of anger. He was temporarily taken aback.

“You are robbers,” she cried. “What you want is money. If you treat our persons ill it will go hard with you, I promise you. I will give you money if you will allow us to make our journey on in peace.”

The groom who had been thrown rose shakily to his knees and at that moment there was a shout from one of the robbers and again I heard the sound of a horse galloping towards us.

A voice shouted: “What goes?” It was a voice I recognized; I felt an immense relief and excitement. Colum Casvellyn came galloping up.

“By God,” he said, “you ladies are in distress. Get you gone, you villains.”

Although there were four villains and he was alone, yet I could sense their fear. One of them was very close to me … and then in the space of seconds he had seized my horse by its bridle and started off, taking me with him.

I tried to stop, but there was nothing I could do. I was being taken along at a breakneck speed, my horse firmly controlled by my captor, while the other three came thudding behind us.

I screamed out my protests but they went unheeded. The three unencumbered riders passed us, for naturally I impeded the speed of the one who held me. Then I heard the horse coming up behind us. We were being followed and I knew by whom.

My captor was not going to release me easily. We galloped on and on. Colum Casvellyn shouted to the man to stop. He was close behind but he did not catch up. He shouted what he would do to the man if he did not release my horse but still I was firmly held.

It seemed that we galloped for a long time. We went across a plain and along roads. We had lost the three masked men; it was now just a race between the man who had taken me and Colum Casvellyn.

Then my captor made his mistake. We had turned into a road, galloped headlong down it and had come to a wood. Ahead of us the trees started to grow thick and we must either enter the wood or turn and go back. If we did the latter we should be face to face with Colum Casvellyn.

We went towards the wood. Our speed was slowing down. I was released so suddenly that I almost fell and only just managed to pull up my horse. Colum Casvellyn was beside me. The other had disappeared.

“That was a chase,” he said.

“I suppose I must thank you,” I muttered.

“It might be gracious to. I have saved you from that villain. One can guess what his intentions were. I recognize you, of course. You are the lady of the oaken bedchamber.”

“You have done me a service and I thank you,” I said.

“It makes up perhaps for my recent discourteous behaviour.”

“It does. And if you will take me back to my mother and the rest of my party, I shall be most grateful and so will they.”

“We can try to find them,” he said.

“So you will help me.”

“I am at your service.”

“Thank you.”

He brought his horse close to mine. “You are trembling a little. It was an alarming experience, was it not? The villain! Would to God I could have laid hands on him. I’d have soon had him whimpering for mercy.”

“He has gone now and his fellow robbers with him. My mother will be very, very anxious.”

“That is something we cannot allow. Do you feel ready to ride on now?”

“It is what I wish. I must rejoin my mother quickly.”

“We must try to retrace our way. ’Tis not easy. I did not note the way we came.”

“You were riding when you heard the scuffle? Could we go to where you were then?”

“I cannot be completely sure. I heard the shouting and came across country. But we will try. Come, let us start. We must go quietly for it would not do for me to lose you now, you know. How dark it is. Are you ready?”

I said I was. I felt sick with impatience. I imagined my mother’s horror when she saw me being dragged away. I wondered whether she would have recognized Colum Casvellyn. If she had, I did not think that would have given her much comfort.

It was growing darker. There was a dampness in the air. I was shivering but I was not sure whether it was with cold.

We rode on for a few minutes in silence.

Then I said: “Is this the way?”

“I believe it to be.”

“Let us hurry a little.”

“As you wish.”

On we went. The landscape had changed, there were more hedges, more trees. I knew we had galloped over a plain. Where was that?

I cried: “Are you sure it was this way?”

“I cannot be sure,” he answered.

“I think it be wrong.”

He pulled up.

“We are but a mile or so from Castle Paling,” he said.

“Your home?”

“My home,” he confirmed.

“Then how far from your home were you when you came upon us in the lane?”

“A mile or so.”

“Then we could be near the spot.”

“Do you think they would be waiting there? My belief is that they would go to an inn and there send out men to look for you.”

“Yes, I suppose they might do that. Is there a nearby inn?”

“I know of only two hereabouts.”

“Then let us go to them. My mother will be there. You are right when you think that she would go to the nearest inn and get people to look for me.”

“We will go then.”

The inn was called The Red and White Rose. The signpost creaked in the rising wind and a man with a lantern came out as we approached. The sign depicted the faces of the Queen’s great-grandfather, Henry VII of Lancaster, and his wife, Elizabeth of York. It was strange that I should notice them at such a time.

Colum Casvellyn had leaped from his horse and a groom had rushed forward to take the reins. “Where is the host?” he shouted.

The innkeeper came hurrying out at the sound of that imperious voice.

“Has a party arrived?” said Colum Casvellyn. “A lady with a maidservant and two grooms.”

“But no, my lord.”

“You are sure?”

“I am, my lord. We have had but one visitor. A merchant on his way to Plymouth.”

I felt wretched. I was trying to think clearly. Should I stay here for the night, I wondered. There was nothing much I could do. In the morning I could search for my mother. At least she would be safe, for she had the two grooms and Jennet with her. It was not so much her personal safety that worried me, for the robbers had fled, it was the anxiety she would be suffering at the thought of what might be happening to me.

“There is another place we could try,” said Colum Casvellyn.

“Let us then,” I said, for I dreaded waiting alone in this inn through the night.

“Host,” called Colum imperiously. “If a party such as I have described should come here, pray tell the lady that her daughter is safe and well.”

“I will, my lord.”

“Now,” he said turning to me. “Let us visit the other inn and see if they are there.”

We rode away. He did not speak and nor did I. I felt frantic with anxiety.

We went for a mile or more; then I said: “But how far is this inn?”

“I am not sure but I believe it to be close by. Ah, wait a moment. I am sure this is the road.”

The clouds of the day had completely disappeared now and the moon had emerged; it was not quite full but just on the wane. I was glad of the light it offered.

“This way,” he said. We went up a drive and then I heard his exclamation. “Good God,” he said. We were looking at a ruin … eerie in moonlight. A sudden horror took possession of me. It was as though I were living in a nightmare. What had happened to me? Here I was in such a place with a man whom I had hated on sight and who had filled me with a sense of fear when I had first seen him. For a moment I told myself this could not be happening in reality. I was dreaming. We had gone to The Traveller’s Rest and in the oak-panelled room I was dreaming of the man I had met when I was last there.

How ghostly was that scene! The walls only were standing for it was nothing but a shell. It seemed menacing, haunted by evil spirits as the moonlight cast ghostly shadows on the smoke-blackened walls.

I looked at the man beside me and I felt a sudden fear possess me. A faint moaning in the trees sounded like souls in distress. I seemed to hear a warning in the air. “Get away from here. Find your mother. Go back where you will be safe.”

An owl screeched suddenly and I jumped in terror. I imagined the grim bird swooping suddenly on some unsuspecting prey.

Colum Casvellyn was smiling ruefully.

“Who would have thought it! It must have happened recently. It was a flourishing inn when I last passed this way.”

“Is there anywhere else where my mother might be?”

“I know of none other.”

I said: “I should go back to The Inn of the Roses. I could stay there for the rest of the night.”

“A lady alone?”

“I see no help for it. What else could I do?”

“You could come to Castle Paling.”

“Your home!”

“It is not so far from here. I would send some of my servants out to scour the roads.”

“If I went to the inn, you could still do that.”

“There would be delay. I would have to take you to the inn and return home. Then I would have to give my servants their orders. If we went there now I could have them out on the road in less than an hour.”

I hesitated. “I think I would rather go to the inn.”

He shrugged his shoulders, and we turned our horses. I could not help taking a look backwards at that derelict inn. I wondered how it had happened. I could picture the wood structure blazing for a few minutes. I wondered if anyone had been trapped. I could almost fancy I heard the screaming of people in terror. It was said that when people died violently they came back. That was what haunting meant.

The strong feeling was with me that I should get away from the man who rode beside me. So strong was it that the thought entered my mind that I should attempt to escape. Let him go on ahead a little, then turn and gallop the other way. But where to and would he not soon overtake me? No, he had helped me so far; he had saved me from the robbers and what had their purpose been—robbery and rape? Who could say? I should be grateful to him and yet I did not trust him, and when I was at the burned-out inn I had sensed that something was urgently warning me.

I would go back to the inn and there I should wait throughout the night; and if his servants succeeded in finding my mother, then I must be forever grateful to him and heartily forgive him his churlish behaviour on our first meeting.

We went along at a steady trot side by side. I wondered what the time was. It must have been more than two hours since I had lost my mother. How far had I ridden from that spot? I was beginning to get frantic.

We came out of a dark road into the open. Before me was a sight which would have been inspiring had it not filled me with apprehension. Dominating the moonlit scene were the stark grey machicolated towers of a castle rising high on the rocky cliffs … and beyond, the sea.

I stared at the lofty square-shaped structure with its towers on each corner. It was a fortress built for defence, with the protection of the sea on one side and the battlemented towers facing the land.

“Welcome to Castle Paling,” he said softly.

I turned to him sharply. “I understood you were taking me to the inn.”

“Nay,” he said. “This is better. I was unsure of the way, and I do not believe your mother would wish you to spend a night at an inn unguarded.”

“But …” I began.

“Come,” he said, “my servants will look after you. We cannot go on riding aimlessly through the night.”

“Aimlessly? We are certainly not doing that. We are looking for my mother.”

“My dear young lady, what more can you do? You have no idea where your mother went to. I have promised you that I will send servants to scour the countryside. Meanwhile you shall be given refreshment and a place in which to rest while they do so. As soon as she is found I shall take you to her.”

“Why should you do so much?”

“It is the only way a gentleman can behave to a lady in distress. Moreover, I am heartily ashamed of my conduct in the inn. Fate has given me an opportunity to remove the bad impression I gave you. Will you deny me the opportunity?”

“You have already made up for it. But I would prefer to stay at the inn.”

“It shall of course be as you wish. Believe me, I shall do nothing that is against your desire. What should we do then? Ride back to the inn? It would take us time to find it. And I could not permit you to stay in such a place unguarded. Your mother would never forgive me. Nor your father. Nay, fate sent me along at an opportune moment. I had the chance to save you from villains, of whose intentions I have no doubt, and in such cases they can end in murder. There are robber barons abroad, who take unprotected women—men too—to their strongholds and often make sport with them. It was a recognized custom in early times and such customs live on. Here I offer you hospitality. You will be safe here. My servants will care for you. And I promise you that I shall without delay send a number of them off in different directions. I doubt not in a short time they will bring news of your mother. They can escort her here to Paling. That will set her mind at rest and yours. And as soon as it is light you can start for home.”

Still I hesitated. I looked at that grim, grey fortress. I could hear the faint murmur of the sea. What could I do? It seemed I had no choice. I saw a light moving across what must have been a courtyard. Then I saw another in a window. There were people there. I must go with him. It was the only way. I could not roam, as he said, aimlessly through the night, searching for my mother.

He saw that I was relenting. “All will be well,” he said gently.

We climbed the incline to the castle.

“I would welcome the pleasure of showing you my home in happier circumstances,” he said.

I tried to draw my mind from thoughts of my mother.

“You are kind,” I answered perfunctorily.

“I am glad to be of service. Come, stop fretting. This night will soon be over and by daylight everything will seem different. Paling has long withstood the force of the elements. It is as strong as it was when the first stone was laid. It needed to be. It had to hold off intruders, and fight the weather. It is of Cornish stone—hard and strong, and has provided a home for my ancestors for generations. The foundations were laid years ago during the reign of the Conqueror but later on castles had to be made habitable, something more than just walls in which to protect oneself and one’s family. But you are not interested in architecture. You think only of how we shall find your mother. I understand. I talk but to ease you, if that be possible.”

We were approaching the portcullis. The cool wind fanned my cheeks and I could smell the fresh clean smell of sea air. I was aware again of that sense of being warned. It was as strong now as it had been at the burned-out inn. What was I doing, trusting this man who had behaved so badly at The Traveller’s Rest? Oh, when would this nightmare end!

Once more an impulse came to me to turn my horse and gallop away, and I restrained it. What could I do? I had told him that I had wished to go to the inn and he had brought me here. He was a man who would do what he wished. I knew that. He alarmed me, yet excited me in a strange way. I was not sure of my feelings for him. He gave out an aura of immense power, which at this time I needed. I could not help feeling that if he were sincere in his desire to help me in this frightening predicament, he could do it.

I went forward simply because I did not know what could happen to me if I went back.

We had passed under the portcullis.

“Quite a climb,” he said. “But you see how strong we are. A look-out on the tower could see people approaching for miles. No one can come near from the other side … except by boat of course, and that would not be easy.”

Colum Casvellyn started to shout and there was an immediate response. Several men came running.

He leaped from his horse and one of them took it. He turned to me then and helped me out of the saddle.

He took my arm and led me across the courtyard.

A door opened. A woman appeared with a lantern. She bobbed a curtsy and he said: “Gemma, we have a visitor. Let a room be prepared for her and some hot food be brought.”

She was off and he took me through the great hall to the guard-room.

I had a sudden feeling then that he intended to make me his prisoner. On the walls were spears and halberds and at the four corners of the room suits of armour.

“Sit down for a moment,” he said. I sat on a chair which seemed to have been made for a giant, so heavy was it.

He leaned towards me and taking my hands in his, patted them gently. “You are cold,” he said. “And so pale. You look different from the spirited young lady of the oaken chamber. It grieves me. How I should have enjoyed receiving you here with your parents in all honour. But let us forget the unfortunate circumstances.”

“I find that impossible.”

“Indeed you do and most understandably. Here you are, you see, in the castle’s guard-room. This is where we kept our prisoners in the past before taking them to the dungeons. Oh yes, we have dungeons. You see this trapdoor, that is one way to them. There is another. A staircase leading down and a strong iron-studded door which they tell me is impregnable.”

I felt the fear grip me again.

“I have brought you here,” he said, “before taking you into the castle—for this is but the guard-room. I fear that on our first meeting I made a bad impression on you. It lingers, does it not? Well, I want to say to you if you would rather go from here, I have no wish to detain you. I wish you to think well of me. If you would care to go now, please say so and I shall not attempt to stop you.” He opened the door of the guard-house and left it open. “It is for you to decide,” he added.

I was silent. I could do nothing, I knew, but stay here, rely on his help and long for the morning.

I said, “I will stay.”

He smiled. “A wise decision,” he said. “Now I will have you shown to a room which is being made ready for you. Then you shall be refreshed. You may rest in the room provided for you or where you will. Castle Paling is at your service.”

I thanked him and reproached myself for my churlishness. It was true he had behaved in a swaggering manner, but he had given up the room to us; then he had called me from my bed when he had tapped at the window. Perhaps that was the most disturbing thing of all. But wasn’t it what any high-spirited man might have done? Should I blame him too much? After all, when I had returned to my bed he had gone away and he had amply repaid any discourtesy on this night. It was hard to reconcile this man who was so anxious to calm my fears with the arrogant bully who had come to The Traveller’s Rest. Had I built up an image of him in my mind which was exaggerated and therefore false? I was apt to do that. My mother often pointed it out to me.

“Now we will leave this grim place,” he said, “and I will take you to my sanctum. A small room where I entertain my friends now and then. There food will be brought and we shall eat. But before that I doubt not that you would wish to wash and perhaps take off your cloak.”

He pulled at a bell rope and I heard a clanging. A serving-girl appeared at once.

“Take this lady to the room which is being prepared for her,” he said.

She bobbed a curtsy and I followed her. We went up a staircase and along a gallery. A door was thrown open. Candles flickered in their sconces. There were two women in the room making the bed. They turned and curtsied as I entered.

The room was elaborately furnished. The bed had four posts which were intricately engraved. It was a large bed furnished with heavily embroidered curtains. I wanted to stop them for I had no intention of sleeping there. I should spend the night listening and waiting for some news.

One of the women brought warm water and a basin in which I washed my hands and face.

Removing my cloak and my bonnet-shaped hat I shook out my hair. It was my greatest beauty, my mother said. It was a darker shade than my father’s, a lightish brown with golden tints in it, heavy hair that was difficult to dress and looked its best in disorder.

I was too anxious to be interested in it now but it was a relief to have it loose.

The woman was waiting to take me to her master, and holding high her candle she conducted me to a room which was close by the bedroom. Here candles had been lighted and a table laid.

There was hot soup in pewter bowls, and although I did not feel like eating I realized I was faint with hunger.

He was waiting for me. He bowed and led me to a chair.

“Allow me to help you to this good capon. I am sure you will enjoy it. I can see that you are hungry and thirsty though you feel disinclined to partake of food and drink. Come, there is no good in abstaining. I have already sent men out to scour the countryside, to inquire at inns far and wide. I doubt not that ere long your mother will be here … or at least we shall have news of her. That will satisfy you.”

It did. I found the capon good and there was no doubt that my strength was reviving.

“Here is a good wine which will put heart into you. Drink it. It will make you feel better.”

He helped himself to the great pie which was on the table and ate hungrily. He drank of the wine.

“Now there is some colour in her cheeks,” he said. “Come, more wine. Tell me, do you not feel better?”

I said I did.

“Tomorrow you and your mother will be laughing at this adventure.”

“I think we shall always shudder with horror to recall it.”

“It was a bad moment when that knave galloped off with you. I never doubted that I would catch up with you though. My great regret is that I was unable to give him his dues. I might well yet.”

“You would not recognize him if you met him again.”

“Masked as he was mayhap not. I should know his horse though.”

He filled my glass. “It is enough,” I said.

“Oh come, your spirits must be revived by the time your mother arrives.”

“Do you really think they will find her?”

“How can they fail? There are four of them … all going in different directions … they must find her for she will either be on the road or in one of the inns.”

“But there was only one—the Roses. She was not there.”

“Perhaps she went there later.”

“I should have stayed there.”

“Nay, you are better here …”

I was beginning to feel a little light-headed. It was the shock, I supposed, and then the wine. His voice seemed to grow somewhat faint as though it was coming from a long way off.

He was saying: “Let me give you some of this partridge.”

The room swayed a little. I thought: God help me, the wine was potent.

He was watching me, smiling at me, cutting the partridge with his knife.

I could not see his face clearly. It was becoming more and more blurred. I heard myself say: “I think … I think I should go …”

I stood up. He was there beside me.

I felt the room, everything, slipping away and was only aware of his face near me … his eyes were enormous … there was nothing but those great black pools of eyes … I felt as though I was trying to swim in dark pools and I was sinking.

I felt myself caught up suddenly. And I knew that he was holding me.

I heard his voice, strange, lilting. “All is well. All is very well.”

I started up. Something had happened to me. I did not know where I was. I was shut in a green prison. There was light somewhere shining from outside on the walls. I was different. Something had changed me. I gave a little gasp, for I was naked. There was a light sheet over me and nothing more.

I sat up. I was in a bed … I knew instinctively that it was the four-poster I had seen last night, for in those seconds memory came back. I had come to Castle Paling. My mother and I had been separated. I had sat down to eat and drink and that was all.

But I knew. Horrible knowledge was tapping on my mind. Did I remember something of it? What had taken place during the night? It could not have been. And yet I knew it. Some hazy memory came back to me. It was the wine. It had dulled my consciousness. It had changed me in some way. I knew this was so. Edwina had told me there were herbs which drug your senses and make you oblivious of what was happening … and yet …

I must be dreaming and yet I was aware of the changes in my body.

It was impossible. Gingerly I knelt on the bed and drew aside the curtains. It was the light of day I saw which had fallen against them and lightened them. I stepped out of the bed. My clothes lay in a heap on the floor. I looked at my body and saw the bruises on it.

I knew then.

He came through a door of what must have been an ante-room to this chamber. He had a robe round his body beneath which I guessed he was naked. I snatched up my gown and held it against me.

“Such modesty is becoming,” he said.

He laughed and he was the man at the inn then, in all his arrogant triumph. If I had had any doubts before I could no longer do so.

“I must know what happened,” I said.

“Do you not remember?”

“What was in my wine?”

“A little of my special … tonic.”

“You must be possessed by the devil.”

“It is not unlikely.”

“You … you arranged this.”

“It happened.”

“My father will kill you.”

“I believe him to be a man who is very handy with the sword. I have a similar reputation.”

“Do you think you will be allowed to do … what you have done and not be punished? You will die for this.”

“I was very gallant. Nothing was done against your will.”

“I had no will.”

“Then how could it have been done against it?”

“What have you done to me?”

“Made a woman of you, Linnet. What a foolish name. A little bird. There is nothing of the bird about you. You are a very tigress in your passion.”

“My passion …”

“Oh, it was there. You were not displeased to be so taken. Believe me. It was a great experience for us both.”

“Will you go away. I wish to dress and leave this place at once.”

“That’s a pity. We were so happy together … you and I. And I have news for you. Your mother is at your home. I sent messengers there last night reassuring her that you were safe …”

“Safe!”

“Safe indeed. I said you would be returned to her this day.”

I turned away from him. “Oh God,” I murmured, “what shall I do?”

“There are several courses open to you. I will tell you the most attractive first. I am in need of a wife and having tested you I find you well enough.”

“You are insulting and I would rather be dead.”

“You are impetuous. You were not so very unhappy last night. You responded very happily.”

“I remember nothing and at least I can be grateful for that!”

“You will remember. Memory will lurk in the dark places of your mind. The little virgin that you were does not want to remember. But you have forgotten you are no longer that little virgin. You were eager enough, I tell you, and who was I to deny a lady whose needs accord with my own?”

“Be silent!”

“You must not speak so to your lord and master.”

“That you shall never be.”

“Why not? We may well be an impatient couple who have forestalled our marriage vows.”

“This is a nightmare. It can’t be true.”

“It is and a simple enough story. You came here. You drank too much wine and that released your natural impulses. As I have told you, I am not the man—nor would you find many—to refuse what was so charmingly offered. You will never find a lover such as I. Nor one who gallantly offers you marriage after what many would call your wanton behaviour. Come, do not be shy. I have seen you naked, remember. And beautiful you are, and will grow more so. What is it to be? How would you like to become the châtelaine of Castle Paling?”

“Go away,” I said. “I wish to go. I will not stay a moment longer than I need in this place.”

To my surprise he stood up and bowed.

He said: “You must eat before we leave. I will have something prepared for you. Then I shall take you back to your home.”

I was alone. I looked at the bed, the curtains drawn back at one side. I shuddered. What a fool I had been. I should never have come here. How clear it all was now. I should have seen it. What a cruel trick of fate to have been delivered into his hands. He had said that I would remember. Did I? Could I recall strange sensations which frightened me and fascinated me … as he himself did.

I dressed hastily, anxious to cover up those bruises.

One of the women servants came in with a tankard of ale and a piece of cob loaf and meat. I could not eat but I did drink a little.

Out in the courtyard my horse was saddled. So was his. He looked fresh and vital.

He himself helped me into the saddle. He took my hand and looked up into my face, as though he were pleading with me, yet I saw the mockery there.

He said: “We have a long ride ahead of us, Mistress.”

“I wish to go with all speed.”

We did not speak as we rode along and took the road along the coast.

“It is some fifteen miles,” he said. “You see we are not such distant neighbours.”

“More’s the pity,” I retorted.

My mother was safe. I believed that and because I need not fret about her I could think of the enormity of this thing which had happened to me.

I was not the first who had had such an experience. Many men such as he was did not bother to drug their victims first. At least I had been spared consciousness. Whatever he might say, I could not remember what had happened. There were only those vague uneasy stirrings of sensation within me … only the knowledge that I had changed.

The day was bright and sparkling. The wrong sort of day for my mood. It should have been grey, sombre. He broke into song once or twice—they were hunting songs. It was as though he were so pleased with life and himself that he could not suppress his pleasure.

I said nothing except when he spoke to me and then I replied as curtly as I could.

When we had ridden some miles he said our horses should be refreshed and so should we be.

We found an inn and stopped there. He rode into the yard in his bombastic manner which, however, brought him immediate attention. Then while the horses were being looked after we went into the inn parlour, where ale and great pies were set before us.

We were alone in the inn parlour, a fact which did not please me. I would rather someone had been there so that I did not have to talk to him.

“Do not be so downcast,” he said. “A girl should not mourn the loss of her virginity. It’s not all that precious, you know. It is only those who fear they are never going to lose it who have such a high regard for it.”

I was silent.

“You are foolish, my girl. I will not call you by that ridiculous name.”

“I am no girl of yours.”

“But indeed you are my mistress. You know that.”

I rose to my feet and lifted my hand to strike him. He caught it.

“Steady,” he said. “We do not want to make a noise, do we? What if mine host came in? What should I say? She shared my bed last night and now regrets it.”

“You lie.”

“It is you who lie. I speak the truth. I’ll say more. I have a fancy for you … a fair fancy. I’ll marry you.”

“I would never marry you.”

“You might find it right to do so.”

“Right to marry you!”

“’Twas such a night,” he said, staring into his ale, “a rare night. What if you should be with child?”

I stared at him. “It is not possible.”

“We shall see. ’Twould not surprise me. I’d say you were a lusty wench. You’ll breed … you and I together. I’d swear that we had started already.”

“No,” I cried shrilly. “No. Let us go now. I cannot endure any more of your company.”

“Then we shall go. I will take you back to your father’s house.”

“The sooner I am rid of you the better.”

As he went out he said: “Do not hesitate too long. Who knows, I might find someone else to my taste. I am ready for a wife and I am not known for my patience.”

“I shall commiserate with her when the time comes.”

He laughed. “Let us hope it is yourself. Commiserating with oneself is a more frequent habit than with others. My little bird. Pah! Linnet! More like an eaglet I’d say. To me you shall be Girl until you become Wife.”

“I am of the opinion that after today you will never have an opportunity to call me anything.”

“We shall see,” he said.

We rode onward and I was never more pleased to see the familiar portico with the lions on either side. My mother had heard our approach and came running out of the house. Jennet was with her and so was my little sister Damask. I jumped from my horse and threw myself into her arms.

“Dearest child,” she murmured. “Oh my darling Linnet. What a terrible night it has been.”

It was so wonderful to see her before me that I forgot everything else but that we were together. She kept looking at me and I knew what terrible anxieties she had suffered until she had word that I was safe. I trembled to think what she would suffer still further when she knew what had happened to me.

Then I was aware of him. He stood there, his legs wide apart, watching us with an almost benign expression as though he had given us to each other. I wanted to run into the house and hide myself. I saw that he was watching me sardonically. Was he waiting for me to denounce him as my seducer that he might tell them that I had offered no resistance? Did he think they would believe him in preference to me?

Those moments in the courtyard seemed to go on for a long time. It was as though time was waiting for me to act. I could denounce him. What then? My father was not here but when he came back he would kill Colum Casvellyn. Or he might be killed himself. There was no sense in that. What was done was done.

I was amazed at myself. Was I reconciled already? I longed to get away from him and think what I must do. I must wait, brood on what had happened, ask myself what I should do about it.

My mother was saying: “It was good of you to send word that my daughter was safe and again to bring her home as soon as was possible.”

“I only did what any gentleman would do,” he said, inclining his head.

I was hard pressed not to shout at him and denounce him for the wicked creature he was, but I saw that it would only upset my mother more.

“Come into the house and refresh yourself,” said my mother.

She led him into Lyon Court. He complimented her on the charm of the house. “So modern,” he said, “compared with Castle Paling. They built spaciously in the old days but without the same view to comfort. Of course we improve on the Castle from time to time but it is not the same as doing it all in the best possible way first.”

“Old houses are so fascinating though,” said my mother.

“Oh yes. So much has happened in them. When I contemplate the villainies of my ancestors I begin to think the castle must be populated with evil spirits.”

My mother took him into the small room which led from one of the galleries. Damask looked up admiringly at Colum Casvellyn. He must have seemed like a giant to her. He lifted her up and held her high above his head. I was annoyed that she showed her adoration so blatantly.

“Damask has taken a fancy to you,” said my mother.

“And I to Damask. What an unusual name. You have original names in this family.”

My mother looked pleased. She did not see that he was sneering.

“Damask is named after her grandmother. She was born the year Dr. Linacre brought the damask rose to England.”

“And Linnet?” he said, smiling blandly at me.

“We thought she would be a boy and we had decided to call her Penn—a family name. At the last moment we had to change that and she was so like a little bird …”

I felt sick with shame. What had happened to my mother’s good sense? Did she not realize that this man was an enemy? Of course she did not know how he had treated me. She saw him only as my rescuer. I wanted to shout the truth. I had a feeling that he was waiting for me to do so and in fact was rather hoping that I would, but something warned me. Wait, I cautioned myself. Do not act rashly. Think about this.

I was longing for him to leave that I might go to my room. I wanted to take off my clothes, examine my bruises, wash and put on clean clothes. As if I could make myself clean again … ever.

“My dearest Linnet,” said my mother, “you are quite exhausted.”

“I would like to go to my bedchamber and wash and rest …”

“But of course.” She smiled at Colum Casvellyn. “You will understand. But pray do not hurry away. I regret my husband is not at home. We can have a room prepared for you. You will wish to rest a while after your journey.”

“I am used to journeys and since my mission is completed must be on my way.”

I had risen and my mother called Jennet.

“You should rest, my dear,” she said to me. “It has been an ordeal.”

I wanted to shout: You don’t know what an ordeal! I could see his eyes on me, mocking, daring me to tell my mother exactly what had happened.

Jennet came in and my mother told her to take hot water to my room; and she herself would bring me a posset which her grandmother had always brewed for exhaustion.

Jennet grasped a reluctant Damask by the hand and I took a cool leave of Colum Casvellyn.

He bowed. “It gave me great pleasure to be of service, particularly after my manners on the first occasion.”

“You did let us have the room,” said my mother.

“But, Madam, can you forgive me for my churlish manners. I confess I had been drinking too much of the landlord’s wine.”

“I would forgive anything for what you have done this night.”

I wanted to scream and I could see he was suppressing his mirth. He had said he was possessed by a devil. Indeed it seemed so.

I went to my room. It was easier to think there. Jennet brought my hot water. I took off my clothes. I could not get out of my mind the image of his removing them. I should never wear them again. I washed my body and put on clean garments. Strangely enough, I felt better. I went to the window for I heard voices below. My mother was showing him the gardens.

It was unfortunate that he should have looked up and seen me there.

He lifted his hand to his lips as he had on that other occasion. My mother by good luck had not seen me.

I turned hastily away from the window.

When my mother came in with the posset I was lying on my bed.

She knelt beside the bed and laid her hand on my forehead.

“Oh, Linnet, I don’t think I shall ever forget that moment when I saw that man riding away with you. We should never have taken that journey. There should have been more grooms to protect us. Next time I shall see that they are armed. Thank God that man was there. Who would have thought that it should be the one we disliked so much at the inn.

I should tell her now. She would advise me what to do.

Not yet, I thought. I am not ready to talk yet. I must think about it.

Think about it! I could do nothing else. It was there in my dreams and when I was awake. Images came into my mind. I was not sure whether I imagined these things or whether they had actually taken place.

All I knew was that I could never be the same again, and as the days passed I began to realize that I would not speak to my mother of what had happened. It would be too distressing to us all.

My father came home and when the house was filled with his vital presence I told myself he must never know. I was aware what would happen if he did. He would set out with a cutlass and nothing would satisfy him but the head of Colum Casvellyn.

For that man I cared not but there was a notion of which I could not rid myself. There was a growing conviction in my mind that whatever conflict he entered into he would emerge the victor. He was like my own father, but he was young and my father was no longer so.

Colum Casvellyn must not be allowed to bring more tragedy to my family. And the only way I could prevent this happening was to remain silent.

The hideous happenings of that night must be my secret … and his.

THE HASTY MARRIAGE

CHRISTMAS CAME AND THERE were the usual festivities although my father had said there should be very special rejoicing in the culmination of this year of victory. It was now over a month since my adventure. It still haunted me. My mother noticed that I had changed and asked me if I were well. I assured her I was, and still I said nothing, which was strange for previously I had always shared confidences with her. But of this I could not talk.

We decorated the great hall with holly and ivy; and there was much singing and dancing and playing with cards and dice. The servants enjoyed this for they were only allowed to do it during the Christmas season, therefore it seemed especially exciting as all forbidden things do. There was a law which forbade craftsmen and servants to gamble, which most of us said was for their own good. Of course a man of substance could do as he wished. My father liked to gamble. He was a gambler by nature and he was inclined to be very lenient with servants who broke the law in that way.

So Christmas was celebrated with the dice and cards and the mummers and masking; and it was as I remembered it had been all my life.

“Last Christmas,” said my mother, “the fear of the Spaniards hung over us like a black pall. This year we are free.” I wished I felt free. A greater black pall hung over me, for a national disaster can never really affect us like a personal one.

With the new year the Landors came for the proposed visit. Loving to boast about his possessions, my father had wished to impress them with his wealth. My mother retorted that the Landors were a wealthy family and would not be amazed by that in others, particularly if it were thrust under their noses to be remarked on.

But my father would have it his way. I knew he was very excited about the prospect of new business interests.

New Year, he said, should be celebrated much as Christmas. A Lord of Misrule should be appointed through a certain trinket to be found in one of the cakes or puddings and that should add to the fun. It was to be a right merry welcoming in of the new year, for he prophesied it would be a year of great prosperity for England.

My mother said to me: “It will be a pleasure to see the Landors again. Do you think so too, Linnet?”

She was looking at me intently and I could not meet her eye. I said that I should indeed be pleased.

“It seems that they will join with your father. I like the idea. I daresay we shall see a great deal of them in the future.”

I could see she was already planning my wedding. Now was the time to tell her. I began: “Mother …” There was a dreamy look in her eyes. I could see she was visualizing the bride and bridegroom and all the preparations that must go into a wedding. And again I could not bring myself to speak of that night at Castle Paling.

On the last day of the old year the Landors arrived. Fennimore took my hands in his and smiled at me. I felt my heart uplifted a little, because he was so different from Colum Casvellyn. How gentle he was, how tender he would be.

My father and mother were in the courtyard welcoming the guests, my father shouting orders and making the servants run hither and thither, my mother taking quiet command.

We took them to their rooms and they pleased my father by admiring Lyon Court. The smell of roasting and baking filled the house and it was a very merry party which sat down to supper that evening. Edwina had come over with Carlos, for Carlos was very interested in the new venture and would indeed have a share in it. So would Jacko; and young Penn was determined to learn all he could.

Edwina was beginning to show signs of pregnancy; she had changed; she was more beautiful I thought because there was such a lovely serenity on her face. She had always been so anxious when Carlos went away on his voyages. Now, I thought, she will have a child to care for and she will be happier.

She talked to me about the coming child when we were alone.

“I’m so happy, Linnet,” she said. “I’ve wanted this so much … and so has Carlos. We thought it would never happen and now it has. Is it not strange? For so long we have been married and yet some people conceive immediately. I really began to think there was something wrong with me.”

I said it was wonderful to see her so delighted and asked what she hoped for, a boy or a girl.

“Carlos wants a boy of course. Men always do.”

“My mother says they so admire themselves that they want to see a replica. That is why they want sons.”

Edwina laughed. “I simply don’t care. I merely want a baby. You’ll know how I feel one day, Linnet.”

There followed a week of pleasant friendship. The men were often together talking of ships and the trade they would bring throughout the world. My father took the Landors on to those of his ships which were in the Sound and they planned all kinds of alteration to them which would render them more suitable for the new project. My mother was very happy. I knew she had decided on Fennimore for me and she believed that before the visit was over an announcement would be made.

It was at the New Year that the frightening possibility had come to me. It could have happened. He himself had suggested it. I was not sure of course but I soon should be and what should I do then?

I feigned a headache and shut myself in my room. My mother sent Jennet up with a posset for me. Jennet was a very talkative woman and her conversation was full of hints about men. It had always been so. My mother used to say: “Jennet was made as she is. I suppose we can’t blame her.”

Jennet sat on the bed and held out the posset to me.

“There, Mistress Linnet, you drink that. It’ll give you a nice sleep and you’ll be right as rain.”

“Thank you, Jennet,” I said.

She brought her face close to mine and looked at me searchingly: “Mistress Linnet, there’s nothing wrong?”

“Wrong?” I said. “What do you mean.”

She blushed. She had always had a habit of blushing if her thoughts were indelicate and although she had been the mistress of many men she had the air of a virgin. I think that was probably what attracted them.

“Oh … nothing, Mistress. There was that gentleman at the inn.” She giggled. “My dear life, I remember when he came into the inn and would have his way. You could see he was that kind. Reminded me of the Captain, he did.” She used my father’s name with reverence. She was more proud than anything else that once he had got her with child. Jacko was the result. Jacko was her only child in spite of her numerous lovers. She went on giggling about the man at the inn and watching me covertly. “And then he rescued you. When I watched you being made off with and him after you … my dear life!”

I said: “I’m going to try to sleep now, Jennet.”

“Yes, Mistress.” She looked down at me. “And then he took you to his castle. ’Tis like an old tale of knights and ladies that the minstrels do sing of, I do declare.”

There was a dreamy look in her eyes which yet held a certain astuteness. I thought: She knows what has happened. Is it possible then? And the niggling fear was with me.

Twelfth Night came. This was the culmination of the festivities. The following day the holly and the ivy would be taken down and solemnly burned in the meadow. It was unlucky to leave it up after that.

We had the Twelfth Night cake and there was a great deal of speculation as to which of us would find the silver penny.

Fennimore was the lucky one. My father as head of the house announced: “I crown you Lord of Misrule till the midnight hour.” And the crown which we used every year was placed on his head.

My father, Captain Landor and two of the tallest of the menservants carried him round the hall and he chalked crosses on the beams wherever he could reach them chanting: “Protect this house from the curse of devils and evil spirits and of all conjuring and wicked charms.”

We played games. My mother had hidden treasure and we were to hunt for it in pairs. I was pleased when Fennimore, Lord of Misrule, chose me as his companion; and I could not refuse him if I had wished because he was King for the night.

We went off hand in hand, Fennimore holding our candle high, and I was aware that the eyes of my parents followed us with approval. I was sure that they had decided this would be a fitting time to announce our betrothal. Family ties would cement the business ones. I had to lead the way because naturally he did not know the house as I did.

My mother had devised the clues and the finding of one led us on to the next. It was a game we had played all our lives; and the treasure hunt was considered to be the highlight of any of our gatherings. It showed how they trusted Fennimore to allow me to go off with him as they did; for usually young people were paired off by their elders. Of course Fennimore was the Lord of Misrule and was supposed to have his way, but if someone like Colum Casvellyn had been in his place they would never have allowed it. Why did I have to think of that man so constantly? What a question to ask myself! How could I ever forget him? What a fateful, evil trip that had been for me. It would affect my whole life. How strange that one night could do that.

Fennimore said: “Are you cold?”

“No, no. It was just a passing shiver. Someone walking over my grave, as they say.”

And I thought: The grave of my innocence which is now dead but not buried deep enough.

He took my hand.

“Are we going to find the treasure?” he asked.

“That depends on how clever you are.”

“You are the clever one.”

“I? Whatever gave you such a notion?”

“I suspect it. You are a very unusual girl, Linnet.”

“Surely not.”

“I think so,” he said.

We had crossed the hall and mounted the dais. There was a door there which led into the small dining-room and sitting-rooms which we used when we were alone, for fashions were changing and in households like ours only on special occasions did people dine in the hall with all the servants seated below the salt.

We looked into these rooms and we were not very successful with the clues. I think our minds were not on the treasure hunt.

We mounted the staircase and went along the gallery. Fennimore sat down in one of the window seats and drew me beside him. He lifted the candle and looked into my face.

Then he set it down and said: “Linnet, there is something I have to say to you.”

My heart began to beat very fast because I knew what he was going to say and I wanted to stop him. I wanted him to wait until I had grown farther away from that night at Castle Paling. I wanted to know whether it would be possible for me to cast it right out of my mind, to forget it so completely that it would seem as though it had never happened. Until I knew, I did not want Fennimore to say what was in his mind.

He went on: “I am so happy that your parents and mine are going to work together. I admire your father so much although I am so different from him and I think he would rather I was more like he is.”

“Why should he wish that?”

“Because he is so adventurous and has led a life of great daring.”

“I gather he has not always acted admirably.”

“He is a bold captain. The Queen has complimented him. He is the kind of man who has saved this country from the Spaniards. That is why it seems so wonderful to me that he should now be ready to fight another campaign … a campaign of peace.”

“It is not necessary surely to be aggressive to succeed.”

“I do agree with you. But what I want to say to you is this. Our families will work together. Linnet, from the moment we first met I felt drawn to you. If your father had not joined with us, it would have made no difference to my feeling.”

I must stop him quickly. He must not go on and ask me to marry him … yet.

I put out a hand helplessly and he took it.

He raised it to his lips. Memory stirred within me. I could feel hot hard lips on my skin. Was I ever going to forget?

How gentle he was, how tender. I needed tenderness. What would I not have given if I could go back two months … My mother had said: “We will go by road, it is not such a long journey.” And I had been excited at the prospect. Then the scene in the inn and that nightmare moment on the road and later … that oblivion which was not quite complete and the experience which I had had no will to resist.

If only it had never happened.

He kept my hand in his. “Our families wish it, Linnet. That makes me so happy. It will be so right for us … You will not be far away from your home. Your mother will visit us. So you will not be parted. I know your love for each other.”

“Please don’t go on, Fennimore,” I said.

“Why not, Linnet? Surely you know that I love you. I believe you care for me …”

“I cannot say,” I stammered foolishly. “I must have time. It is too soon … I am not ready.”

“I should have waited awhile. You are so young and so innocent …”

I was glad that he could not see the deep flush in my cheeks. I was trying to suppress those flashes of memory. Had I been doing that ever since?

He was contrite, eager not to distress me.

“My dearest Linnet, we will say no more. I have been too rash. I should have waited, prepared you. I did not realize how little you had understood. We will leave this matter and I will return to it later on. But I have made my feelings known to you. I should have prepared you. I will ask you again soon,” he went on. “And Linnet, will you promise me to think about this?”

“I will think about it.”

“You see, my dearest, you and I could be so happy together. We shall have this wonderful project in common. I remember how it excited you when I first talked of it. Our families will work together. We shall be together. You see how it is.”

“Yes, I see how it is. Fennimore, you are so good and kind. Give me time.”

“You shall have time, my love,” he said.

“I promise you I will think about this, but as yet …”

“Of course,” he said, “as yet it is too soon. I have been foolish, Linnet. I have hurried you. Never mind. Think of what this could mean. I swear that I would do everything in my power to make you happy.”

I stood up. “Please, Fennimore,” I said, “let us now play this game and try to find the treasure.”

He said softly: “Our treasure will be in each other, Linnet.”

I shivered again because I was afraid. I longed to be the girl I had been before I had spent a night at Castle Paling. I wanted to be young and innocent and in love with Fennimore. But I was unsure how to act—unsure of everything, of whether I loved Fennimore, of whether I could marry him, and most of all what happened that night when Colum Casvellyn had half-drugged, half-awakened my senses and made a woman of me while I was still a child.

I tried to think of the treasure; I succeeded a little since I was able to solve some of the clues.

We almost won, but Carlos and Edwina who had chosen to hunt together were the victors.

My mother was watching me intently.

I knew she was disappointed that she could not announce my betrothal on that night.

The next day we took down the decorations, carried them out to the fields and ceremoniously burned them. Christmas and New Year celebrations were over for twelve months. This time next year, I thought, I shall be so far away from the night at Castle Paling that it will be no longer constantly on my mind.

The whole household was present at the burning. It was a custom that everyone should have a part in it for to stay away could bring ill luck. It was when the blaze was dying down that we heard shouting in the distance and one of the servants said: “’Tis old Maggie Enfield. They be hanging her this day.”

I knew Maggie Enfield. She was a poor old woman, almost blind, and her face was disfigured by numerous ugly brown warts. She was known as a witch in the neighbourhood and lived in a tiny cottage which was little more than a hut. We used to take food and leave it outside her door. My mother sent this not because she was afraid of what might happen to her if she did not but because she had real sympathy for the poor old woman.

A few years ago she had been known as a white witch. She grew certain herbs in the patch of land round her cottage and brewed concoctions which had cured many a sickness. She had produced love potions too; and she did what was called the “fast”. If she fasted for several days and sat silent in her cottage she brought all her powers to bear on a certain object. She had been known to discover lost articles. If a sheep or a cow strayed away people went to Mother Enfield and paid for the “fast” and almost always she could discover the spot where the animal could be found.

But witches—be they white or black—lived dangerously, for they could never be sure when people would turn against them. Farmers who suffered a run of ill luck with their stock, parents whose children died unexpected and unexplained deaths, women who were barren, any could be put down to a witch’s actions; and when people raged against their own ill fortune it seemed to soothe them to wreak the anger they felt towards fate against some human victim.

So it had come to this for poor Maggie Enfield. I had heard whispers. Jennet had told me. Somebody’s baby had been born dead; someone else had a disease among his cattle. Maggie Enfield had been seen passing the cottage where the baby had died and had been caught looking at the cattle.

And now they decided that she was a black witch and that she had sold herself to the Devil for these special powers, and Maggie Enfield was being dragged from her cottage by those who were determined on vengeance.

They would hang her on one of the trees.

I shivered. I would not go down Gibbet Lane for a long time. I remembered vividly the first time I had ridden down that grim thoroughfare. There were two trees there suitably shaped to form a scaffold. There could scarcely be a more terrifying sight than a body hanging helpless, lifeless, swaying on a tree.

And now the celebration of burning the Christmas decorations had been spoilt by the thought of old Maggie Enfield in the hands of her executioners.

My father was for going to join in the macabre proceeding but my mother stopped him.

“I will not go,” she said quietly, “nor will you, Jake. What will our guests think?”

“They’ll think that another of Satan’s brew has met her just deserts.”

“They are gentlefolk, remember. Such a spectacle will disgust them.”

“Justice should disgust no one.”

My mother looked impatient and she turned away from him. She went over to the Landors and told them that we should return to the house without delay or she feared that the meat which was turning before the spit would be burned to a cinder.

My father, amused, as he often was by my mother’s defiance, refused to be done out of what he would consider a treat, and rode off in the opposite direction.

He was going to give his approval to the ceremony of hanging the witch.

The subject of witches came up over the meal and Father was vehement.

“The woman was guilty and had her just reward,” he said. “Those marks on her face proved it. Her succubus visits her nightly. The marks were found all over her body.”

“Oh come,” said my mother, “they were warts. Many have them.”

“Then tell me why she can cure them in others and not in herself.”

“I am not skilled in these matters,” retorted my mother.

“So it doth seem,” replied my father. “Well, Mother Enfield has now joined her master. There she will rot in hell.”

“Why should she?” asked my mother. “If she has served her master well perhaps he will reward her.”

“If I had my way this country would be purged of witches. I’d ferret them out. I’d have the gibbets busy.”

Fennimore suggested that often innocent women were accused of witchcraft simply because they were old, lived alone, had a cat, a squint or a few warts.

“If they be innocent they must prove it,” said my father vehemently.

“People are too ready to accuse others,” commented my mother. “Perhaps they should look to their own shortcomings before being so ready to condemn them in others.”

“By God, woman,” said my father, “we are talking of witchcraft!”

He was a very intolerant man. He had a code and there was no diverging from it. He had been guilty of rape, I knew. There was Carlos to prove it—the result of a raid on the Spanish coast. What Colum Casvellyn had done to me was exactly the sort of trick he would have played on a woman; and yet he would be outraged because this had happened to his daughter. As my mother had said so often, there was no reasoning with him.

Now he talked fiercely about what he called the cult of Satan. My mother said that witchcraft had stayed with us; it belonged to the days before Christianity came to our land. It was a part of the religion of the ancients. It was anti-Christianity; it was worship of the Horned God whom Christians called the Devil.

She, who had studied the subject, was knowledgeable about it. She said that the Sabbats were in fact a kind of religious ceremony in which the Horned God was worshipped; and because there was a need to people the earth, the dances performed at the feet of the horned God were in fact fertility rites.

My father watched her sardonically as she talked—a mixture of pride and derision in his glance. Fennimore said that this was so and the way in which to wipe out witchcraft was not to torture and kill defenceless old women but to lure them from their beliefs in this old pagan religion and make Christians of them.

“Oh, you are a reformer,” said my father with a laugh.

“Well, perhaps that is not such a bad thing to be,” replied Fennimore.

“It is a very good thing to be,” said my mother, smiling at him warmly. There was no doubt that she was very fond of Fennimore.

She managed to turn the subject back to the ever-interesting one of trade and the new project for it was clear that my father might become too dogmatic and introduce a discordant note.

And so the unfortunate incident of the witch’s hanging was forgotten and the rest of the day passed pleasantly.

In the morning the Landors left. Plans had been made; ships were being converted, the new enterprise was about to begin.

I was now certain, and as the fearful truth dawned on me that as a result of that extraordinary night I was going to have a child I felt as though the bars of a cage were forming round me.

I knew of course that I must tell my mother. My father had left on a short voyage and I chose the time while he was away. I asked her to come to my bedchamber as I had something very important to say to her.

I faced her there and blurted out: “Mother, I am with child.”

She stared at me in disbelief and I saw the colour leave her face.

“Linnet. No!”

“I fear it is true.”

“Fennimore …” she began. “I am surprised …”

“No, not Fennimore, Mother.”

I was trying hard to find the right words and they would not come.

“Not … Fennimore!” She was frankly bewildered.

Then the words started to tumble out. “It was that night. He … he took me to Castle Paling. It was there …”

“That man!” she cried.

I nodded. “You … he … You love him?” she demanded.

I shut my eyes and shook my head. I could hear his mocking laughter. Did I remember it from that night? Had it penetrated my drugged senses?

“He took me to his castle and there … I don’t know what happened. I was exhausted. He had a room made ready for me … a room with a four-poster bed. He took me to a room where food was laid out. He said he was sending his servants to find you. I ate and drank … and that is all. The next morning I awoke in the four-poster bed … I was naked and different … and he was there …”

“My God,” cried my mother. “Your father will kill him.”

“So I feared.”

“You told me nothing.”

“I was unsure …”

The horror had given way to love. She had taken me in her arms and was rocking me as though I were a baby. “My little Linnet,” she said. “Don’t fret. We will do something. I could kill him myself.”

The burden had dropped away from me as I knew it would when I told her. She would find some answer. She always had. All my problems had been taken to her and when she knew them they had ceased to be insuperable.

She sat down on my bed, her arm about me.

“Linnet,” she said, “what do you remember of that night?”

“I’m not sure. Sometimes I think I remember something … sometimes I believe I have imagined it. I was at the table and he filled my goblet. He said I was exhausted and needed refreshment.”

“The devil!” she cried. “Oh Linnet, sometimes I hate men.” I knew she was thinking of my father. I knew a little of her stormy life and I believe that she had been ill-used. I knew that I had a brother Roberto who was somewhere in Spain, the son of her first strange marriage; I knew that my father had his bastard sons. And I wished I had confided in her long ago. “And then?” she prompted.

“Then? I drank and the haziness came over me … Everything seemed to slip away. I was aware of him. I think I knew he lifted me up and carried me. Then I woke and it was morning and I knew what happened.”

She was silent, and her arms tightened about me.

“I have been so frightened,” I added.

“You should have told me before, Linnet. But never mind, I know now.”

“What can I do?” I asked.

She stroked my hair. “Never fear, we’ll find a way. When your father knows he will go to Castle Paling. It could be the end of one of them.”

“Yet he …” I began.

“Yes,” she said. “Yet he. But men are illogical. What he will think an ordinary occurrence for himself is a violent outrage when performed by others. You are his beloved daughter; it is the daughters of others who may be ill-used.” She laughed, a sad bitter little laugh; and she went on stroking my hair. “I wish you had told me before, dearest. I cannot bear to think of your keeping this to yourself. How was he … this … man in the morning?”

“He laughed at me. He said that I had not resisted him. He said I had joined him in a merry bed and it was as much my wishing as his.”

“He is indeed a scoundrel. You must hate him.”

“I do, and …”

“I think I understand,” she said. “Do you remember anything of what happened during that night?”

“I am not sure. Is it possible that I could not be sure?”

“I think it is. But that night is over. Nothing can alter what happened then. You are carrying his child. You are sure, Linnet?”

“I think so, Mother.”

“We must make sure. But I would not have anyone know of this yet … not even my physician. What we have to think of is what we can do. You are unmarried and pregnant, and the man who wishes to marry you is not the father. If only it had been Fennimore, but Fennimore would not have behaved so.”

“He is quite different from Fennimore.”

“That man,” cried my mother. “His arrogance in the inn and everyone afraid of him. A plague on these men who think everyone in the world is put there to serve them. But let us think what must be done. That is of the utmost importance to us now, Linnet. There are herbs, of course. Maggie Enfield could have given them, but alas is hanging on her gibbet, poor soul. There are others but I fear that sort of thing, Linnet. It is not for you. Fennimore is a good man. He is a tolerant man and that is rare. I had set my heart on your marrying him.”

“I cannot do that now.”

“It is not impossible. What if we told him the truth?”

“You mean you would ask him to father another man’s child?”

“If he loves you, he would.”

“I could not ask him to do that.”

“I could explain what had happened …”

I shook my head. “It is impossible, Mother. Colum Casvellyn would know the child was his. On that morning he hinted that I might already be with child.”

“The man is indeed a devil.”

“He would not let it be forgotten. He lives too near. He might want the child … if it were a son.”

“That could be so,” said my mother. “There seems to me but one thing. You must go to London. I will take you to my mother. She will care for you and the child can be born there. It can be said that you are a widow whose husband is recently dead. It’s so far away none will be able to prove otherwise. My mother will be delighted to care for you and the child. You will be happy there.”

“And leave you?”

“The time comes, Linnet, when mothers and daughters must part.”

“And you wanted me to marry Fennimore that we might always be quite near.”

“Not only that, Linnet. I wanted it because I felt that Fennimore is a good man who would be kind to you. I longed to hear you say that you were betrothed.”

“So might we have been but for that night.”

“Your father must not know. I fear that man. I feared him when he strode into the inn. I had an uneasy feeling that he was going to bring some evil to us. When we left the inn that morning I felt such an immense relief that it seemed out of all proportion to what had happened. Now I understand it. If we had only taken a different road.”

“You can always say that of life, Mother. It is always a matter of taking the wrong or the right road.”

“Now we must be sure to take the right one. I’m glad you have told me, Linnet. Together we will find the solution to this. But there must be little delay. No one here must know that you are pregnant. It is early yet.” She calculated swiftly. “It is not yet two months. If we go to my mother we must do so within the next month.”

“What will my father say?”

“We shall have to be very careful with him. He is expecting an announcement of your marriage to Fennimore. He will not understand this sudden desire to go to London and may well oppose it. That could delay us. You know his impatience. Now he has decided to throw in his lot with the Landors he wants you wedded and providing him with grandsons to continue with the business when they come of an age to do so. It is the best way, Linnet. In fact I think it is the only way. You might of course tell Fennimore. He would be discreet. No one can blame you. And who knows he might be ready to marry you.”

“I couldn’t, Mother, not with the child.”

“You would grow used to the idea. Perhaps it would be best.”

“Please do not tell him.”

“We will not act rashly although we must not delay too long. This has been a terrible shock and I need time to think. Dearest Linnet, I do not want you to go to my mother. To lose you would break my heart, for I should see so little of you and we have been together all your life. Yet it seems to me the best solution, unless of course Fennimore …”

“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.

Sometimes I would go to the ramparts of Nonna’s Tower and look through the battlements to the sea. There the great black rocks known as the Devil’s Teeth could sometimes be seen, but only when the tide was out. They were a group of cruel, sharp-pointed rocks. Teeth was an apt description, particularly if they were seen at some angles. Then their formation could be likened to a grinning mouth. At high tide they were not visible, lurking as they did just below the surface of the water. They were about half a mile out to sea and almost in a straight line with Castle Paling. Some people called them the Paling Rocks.

The great wall of the castle on the sea side rose up starkly straight, and looking down at the surf below, I thought what a well chosen spot it was for a fortification. It would have been almost impossible to attack from the sea and there was only the landward side to be protected.

I found the desire to stand up there and lean on the battlements and gaze down irresistible and dangerous. It seemed to me symbolic of my life here.

Once when I was up there I was seized from behind and Colum lifted me off the ground and held me high. He laughed in that way of his which I could have called satanic.

“What are you doing up here?” he demanded. “You were leaning over too far. What if you had fallen? You would have killed yourself and our son. By God, I’d never have forgiven you.”

“As I should have been past your vengeance why should I care?”

He put me down and kissed me hard on the mouth.

“I couldn’t do without you now, wife,” he said.

I put my hand up and touched his hair. “Why do you always call me wife? It sounds unromantic … it is as an innkeeper might call his spouse.”

“What else are you?”

“Linnet.”

“Bah!” he said. “A silly little bird.”

“Names change when you are fond of people. You might get to like it.”

“Never,” he said. “The day I call you Linnet you will know I have ceased to love you.”

I shivered and he noticed.

“Yes,” he said, “you should take care to keep me warm. You must always do your wifely duty. You must give me sons and sons.”

“Beauty is impaired by too much childbearing.”

“That may be. But the sons are a man’s compensation.”

“But if she no longer arouses his desire?”

“Then he turns elsewhere. A fact of nature,” he said curtly.

“I would not wish that to happen.”

“Then you must see that it does not.”

“And what if a wife is neglected? She might turn elsewhere. What of that?”

“If she were my wife that would be the time to beware.”

“What would you do to her if she were unfaithful?”

He lifted me up suddenly and set me on the parapet. He laughed and it did indeed sound like the laughter of devils. “I should take my revenge, you may be sure. Mayhap I’d give her to the rocks.”

He lifted me down and held me against him. “There, I alarm you and that is not good for our boy. Why should you speak of such things? Have I not given you proof that you are my choice?” He took my chin in his hands and jerked up my face. “And you, are you a wanton then that you talk to your husband in this way? What of Fennimore Landor, eh? Did you not once think of marrying that man?”

“It was mentioned,” I said.

“Did he ask you?”

“Yes, he did.”

“I am amazed that you did not accept such a model of virtue.”

“It was after …”

That amused him. “After I had taught you what it meant to bed with a real man, eh?”

“Remember I was not conscious.”

“Enough though to realize, eh?”

“I knew that I had been deflowered.”

“What a foolish expression! Deflowered! Rather have you been flowered. Have not I given you fertility? Our son will be the flower and the fruit. Deflowered! I did you great honour and much good as you will admit.”

“Yes,” I said, “I think I will admit it here, where none can hear but you and the choughs.”

Then he kissed me again and in his hands which caressed my body was that tenderness which was the more precious because it was so rare.

Then he held me against the stone wall and he talked about the castle, how it was his stronghold and how he had walked the ramparts when he was a boy, how he had dreamed of possessing it and had played wild games in the dungeons and on the winding spiral staircases.

“There are stories of my ancestors which we pass on from generation to generation,” he told me. There was in his eyes a yearning and I knew he was seeing our boy playing in the castle, learning to grow up like his father.

“We have been a wild lot,” he said. “What a family you have married into! In the reign of King Stephen my ancestor of that time was a robber baron. He used to waylay travellers and bring them to his castle. He was called the Fiend of Paling. In the Seaward Tower”—he pointed to it—“he used to take his victims there and he would demand a ransom of their family and if it were not paid the victim would be tortured. He would give a grand banquet and bring him out for the amusement of his cronies. At night it is said that the cries of long dead tortured men and women can be heard in the Seaward Tower.” He looked at me sharply and I could see he was thinking of the child I carried. “There is nothing to fear,” he went on quickly. “It was all long ago. Then Stephen died and Henry II was our King. He was for law and order and extorting money for his wars through taxes, so he suppressed the robber barons by means of meting out dire punishments and the Casvellyns had to find a new means of sustenance.”

“I have seen men going in and out of the Seaward Tower.”

“My servants,” he said. “They are fishermen, many of them. They catch our fish and I have a fancy for it. They serve me in many ways. Down there in the lower part of the Seaward Tower are our boats. You may see them venturing out now and then. Have you seen them?”

“No.”

“You will know our ways in due time. I will tell you of another ancestor of mine. He had a fair wife but he was very fond of women. It is a failing—or it may be a virtue—in the men of my family. They adore women. They need women.”

“Are you telling me this to put me on my guard?”

“One must always be on one’s guard to hold a possession which is precious. You should remember that.”

“Should we both remember it?”

“Aye, we will. I was telling you of my ancestor.”

“The one who needed women and was unfaithful to his wife. Is that an uncommon story?”

“Not in my family, nor in any for that matter, I’ll swear, but where this Casvellyn was different was that, being in love with his wife who was a very fair lady, yet he could fall in love with another who was equally fair. The second lady was a very moral woman and although she greatly desired this Casvellyn he knew he could not have her—save by rape—unless he married her. He was not a man for a quick seduction and that be that. Nay, he liked marriage. He liked the cosy comforts of it. But he wanted more than one wife. So what did he do?” He turned me round, so that we were looking at the turrets of those two towers which faced landward. “There you see our two towers, Ysella’s Tower and the Crows’ Tower.”

“I did not know they all had names.”

“Yes, Seaward you know, and Nonna’s. They face the sea and Ysella’s and Crows face the land. Seaward is so called for the obvious reason that it looks to the sea, and Crows because I imagine crows once nested there. Ysella and Nonna were the names of that long dead Casvellyn’s wives. For ten years Ysella lived in her tower and Nonna did not know she was there. He kept them apart. He would say farewell to Nonna and ride away. Then he would come back when it was dark and take the secret door to Ysella’s Tower and behave as though he had come home after a long journey. He would stay with her for a while and then ride away and return to Nonna.”

“I don’t believe it. It’s not possible. Two wives living in the same castle! Why did they not explore their home?”

“He forbade them to and wives in those days were obedient. He told Ysella that Nonna’s Tower was haunted and Nonna that Ysella’s was, and that if either of them ventured near the other, evil would befall the house. He said it was the result of a witch’s curse. He would never allow them to leave the castle unless he accompanied them.”

“It seems quite incredible.”

“It is the legend and when people used to say, as you do, that it is impossible, my father always replied that with the Casvellyns all things were possible.”

“That is blasphemy.”

“Maybe blasphemy can be truth.”

“And what happened? Did they discover each other?”

“Yes. One day Nonna was here on the ramparts and she saw a figure on the ramparts of Ysella’s Tower. Neither of them should have been where they were. It was part of the forbidden territory. Nonna called her servants but by the time they came Ysella had disappeared. This gave rise to the legend that there was a ghost at the tower (it was not called Ysella’s then of course, nor was this called Nonna’s). Nonna confessed that she had been on the ramparts and asked her husband to explore the tower for her, for she pointed out if they were a party they need not fear the ghost. He refused and something in the manner of his refusal made her more curious. It is never good to be too curious, particularly about a husband’s secrets. Nonna was determined to find out more about the ghost of Ysella’s Tower. One day she took her maid with her and explored. They entered the tower but they could not get beyond the barred door; they did not know that there was a secret way in close to the rocks. One day she followed her husband when he went away on one of his journeys and lying in hiding saw him enter Ysella’s Tower by a secret door. She followed him in and came face to face with Ysella. She understood what had happened and there was nothing for their husband to do but admit his guilt. That day Nonna died. She fell from the top of Ysella’s Tower. That was the first time she had entered it. My ancestor then brought Ysella out of her tower and proclaimed her to be his wife. They lived together until the end of their days, but it is said that Nonna haunts Ysella’s Tower from that day. There! That is the most colourful of our family legends, do you not think? It is a lesson too for disobedient wives who are too curious.”

“Was she over curious would you say?”

“If she had not ventured into Ysella’s Tower she would not have died.”

“So it was murder.”

“Who can say? I am merely telling you what I have heard.”

“What a wild family you come from.”

“Remember you belong to it now,” he retorted. “And take care.”

Overhead the choughs were circling. I caught a glimpse of red beaks as they flew near.

“I see,” I said, “that this legend is meant to be a warning to wives.”

“Why, yes. We Casvellyns have always found it wise to warn our wives.” His eyes had grown tender again. “It is chill up here,” he went on. “And you are lightly clad. Come. We will go down.”

He put his arm through mine as we descended and although I was still thinking of the story of the two wives I felt happy and at ease.

My mother visited me at Castle Paling. I was so happy to see her, to show the castle, to take her round and tell her the story of the towers.

“You’re happy then, Linnet,” she said, as though surprised.

“Life has become so … full,” I said.

She nodded. “So it was all for the best,” she mused. She was very relieved.

She asked me a great deal of questions about my health and it seemed that what I had to tell satisfied her.

It was the end of April and what an April that was with the hedges full of wild flowers and the intermittent rain and sunshine. I would listen for the cry of the birds—the ring-ouzel, the sand-martin and of course the cuckoo. There were many questions to be asked about what was happening at Lyon Court. Edwina’s child was due in June and she was all impatience. Carlos was anxious because they had waited so long. Jacko was courting a girl in Plymouth and it seemed that ere long there would be another wedding. Damask wanted to know why I didn’t come home. And my father was eager to know whether there was any sign that the child I was carrying was a boy.

I laughed, recalling them all. They seemed far away from me now and I was ashamed that I had missed them so little.

My mother mentioned that the Landors had visited Lyon Court again. Business plans were going ahead. Very soon they would be sending out their ships. My father was very busy and that involved everyone else. There was a great deal of activity and it was decided that Plymouth should be their headquarters, as was to be expected.

There was something else she had to tell me. Fennimore had ridden over to hear from her the story of my marriage. She said he had seemed quite bewildered. So must he have been for, according to what we had allowed people to believe, when he had asked me to marry him I had already been married to Colum.

He had not shown any anger, said my mother, just amazement. “I had to tell him the truth,” she went on. “I knew I could trust him. I could not have him believe you to be perfidious. He was very, very sad. He said you should have told him. He would have understood. I begged of him to forget what had happened if he could. I told him that I had spoken to him in the utmost confidence and that what was done was done. He saw the point of it. You were married now. Oh, Linnet, he would have understood. He would have married you. Perhaps we should have told him.”

“It is better as it is,” I insisted.

“You are happy. You would not have it otherwise.”

She smiled at me, understanding perfectly I knew.

She went on: “Soon after I heard he was to be betrothed to a girl he had known all his life. Her family are neighbours of the Landors. It will be a most suitable union.”

“He quickly consoled himself,” was my comment.

“We should be glad of that,” replied my mother.

I said: “He would face up to the situation calmly, accepting the fact that he and I were not for each other.”

I thought how different he was from Colum and I was glad that everything had turned out as it had. In these short months my emotions had been revolutionized. I could imagine no man my husband but Colum Casvellyn.

My mother, being aware of this, was delighted. I was pleased too to notice that Colum had an admiration for her. She would always be a very attractive woman, not so much because of her features and figure which were still quite good, but because of that spirit in her, that vitality which I was sure had attracted my father in the first place and still did.

My mother told Colum that she and my father thought it would be an excellent plan if they took me to Lyon Court a little later so that she herself could care for me at the end of my pregnancy.

“You cannot imagine that I will relinquish my wife, even to her parents,” cried Colum. “No, Madam, my son is to be born in Castle Paling. That is where he shall first see the light of the day in the walls of that castle which will one day be his.”

“I want her to have the best care.”

“Think you that I cannot give her that?” They faced each other squarely, my mother ready to do battle with him as she had so often with my father, and he amused, liking her for it.

They compromised and it was arranged that in August, that month when my baby was due, my mother should come to Castle Paling. It was the only way, for she was determined to be with me when my child was born and Colum was equally determined that the birth should take place in Castle Paling.

It was mid-May when my mother went home promising to return at the beginning of August. Colum and I rode some of the way back with her, and when she had left us Colum told me that I should not be allowed to ride much longer; he was not risking my losing the child. I was happy enough to be so cherished.

The weeks began to pass very quickly. I was preparing for my child and my mother sent Jennet over to be with me. I might wish to keep Jennet, she said; she was an excellent nurse and had a way with children.

I had always been fond of Jennet. I found her a great comfort and it was rather pleasant to have a reminder of my old home in Castle Paling.

Jennet was delighted to come, although she missed seeing her son Jacko, but of course now that he was a man he did not need to be tied to his mother’s apron-strings and for several years he had been away at sea for long stretches of time and she was used to being without him. “As long as he be well and happy, that’s all I ask,” she said. “The Captain will see to him for the Captain looks after his own.” She was proud because he was courting a girl in Plymouth who, she whispered to me, was a very fine lady.

It was not long before she had made friends with one of the serving-men. She talked about him a great deal. His name was Tobias and the manner in which she spoke of him would have led one to believe that she had never known another man.

“He be in Seaward,” she told me, so I knew that he was one of those men I had seen going in and out of that tower and about whose occupation I had wondered.

One June day I needed Jennet to do some sewing for me which I wanted quickly, and as I couldn’t find her I went in search of her. I guessed that she was in or near the Seaward Tower so I made my way there. It was a strange thing, but although I had been in the castle for four months or so there was a great deal of it I had not seen. I knew the Crows’ Tower and Nonna’s very well indeed as we lived in them. As Seaward was occupied by the servants I had not ventured into it, and I often wondered about Ysella’s. Once I had wandered across the courtyards and come to the iron-studded door in the thick wall. I had tried it. It was locked. I made up my mind that some time I would ask Colum to show me every part of the castle.

On this occasion I made my way towards Seaward. I crossed the inner ward and as I came towards the entrance of the tower I could hear a clamour and the sound of much laughter. I pushed open the iron-studded door which was similar to that barred one which led to Ysella’s. Immediately facing me were steps leading down. I went down them cautiously for I was now beginning to feel less nimble. As I descended I could feel the strong fresh air on my cheeks and the unmistakable sound and smell of the sea.

I came down into what seemed like a stable yard. I was amazed at the number of horses and there were some donkeys too. I realized that the voices I had heard had not come from here. It was a strange place. On one side of the courtyard was a door and opening it, I was on a path which wound upwards to the coast road. On the shore several small boats were moored to stakes.

The tide was low and I could see the sharp points of the Devil’s Teeth protruding from the water.

I decided Jennet was not there so I retraced my steps and climbed the stairs. I was now in the small hall-like entrance on the tower side of the iron-studded door. I noticed then another door I had missed, and I realized that it was from behind this that the voices came.

I pushed it open and walked in. There was a large chamber with a big table in the centre of it. Seated round it were several men and a few women. Jennet was among them. These were the people I had seen from the Crows’ Tower—the fishermen of whom Colum had spoken.

I heard Jennet’s shrill: “Why, ’tis the mistress.”

They shuffled to their feet and looked uncomfortable.

I said: “I came to look for you, Jennet.”

“Why yes, mistress,” she said, blushing a little.

“I do not wish to disturb your meal,” I said.

One of the men who appeared to be a leader of them mumbled something.

I said: “Come, Jennet.”

She came at once.

I did not know why but I felt uneasy. These were my husband’s retainers and I was the châtelaine of the castle. Why should I feel that there was something strange about them, that they were not ordinary servants? They were respectful enough and yet in a way they seemed a little shocked to find me here. Why? Wasn’t the castle my home?

The man who sat at the head of the table came over to me and said: “You should be careful, mistress, of the stairs here. They can be dangerous, like. ’Tis easy to trip.”

I said: “I went down them. I had no idea there were so many horses and that there was a path up to the road.”

“Aye,” he said. “But the master would not wish you to use they stairs.”

“I’ll be careful,” I said.

I had a feeling that I had met this man before. There was something familiar about his movements.

I was very conscious of so many eyes upon me. Why should I feel so uncomfortable? Why should the fact that I had disturbed my husband’s servants at a meal—in which my own maid was sharing—make me feel so uneasy, and that I was in the presence of something rather strange?

It’s my condition, I told myself. Everything that seemed a little strange could be put down to that.

Jennet and I came out into the courtyard.

I said: “You have soon become friendly with your fellow-servants, Jennet.”

She giggled in that girlish way of hers. “Why yes, Mistress Linnet, I was always one to make friends quick, like.”

“And your friend … ?”

She blushed. “He be a very fine man, Mistress. He did take a fancy to me from the first. All that time ago …”

“All what time ago? You have not been here so long.”

She clapped her hands to her lips. A silly habit of hers when she had said something impetuously; she had always done it, I remembered from my childhood.

“Well, Mistress, he did see me long ago … when I were out with you and the mistress.”

“I know,” I said, “it was when we were returning from Trystan Priory.”

She looked so embarrassed that I knew I was right. So she was aware that the plot had been made in this house and that the band of robbers who had beset us on the road were Colum’s men.

I felt angry that she should be aware of this; then I shrugged my shoulders.

“It’s all right,” I said. “I know what happened. My husband … confessed.”

Jennet was greatly relieved. “My dear life, what a man he be. There be only one other to rival him and that be the Captain.” Then she appeared to be contrite. I supposed she was thinking of her present lover whom her optimistic nature would always tell her was the best she had ever had.

She said: “He do say, Mistress, that on the road there he fancied me. He would have run off with me, he says, if orders hadn’t been different.”

“It is over now, Jennet,” I said, “and best forgotten.”

Best forgotten! I thought. What a foolish thing to say. How could something be forgotten which had changed one’s whole life, which had brought me my husband and the child I now carried.

“Jennet,” I said rather primly, “I suppose you will always be the same.”

“I suppose so,” she said with happy resignation.

I told Colum that I had been to Seaward Tower and met some of his servants who lived there.

“They are good men,” he said.

“And women.”

“They have their wives and women. That is necessary, you understand.”

“I understand. My Jennet has joined them.”

He burst out laughing. “It does not surprise me.”

“She has quickly found a lover there.”

“Jennet would find a lover anywhere. Who is the man?”

“I know none of them by name. But I thought I recognized the leader of your robber band.”

He laughed again.

“So they know of how I was tricked. I am not sure that I like that.”

“They are discreet. They are not like ordinary servants.”

“No, they do not seem so. I gather that they do special work for you.”

His bushy brows shot up. “What do you mean by that?”

“Such as abducting females on the road.”

“Such work they do admirably, you will admit.”

“They will be laughing at how I was duped.”

“They would not dare. They are good servants and wish me well. They are delighted to have had a hand in bringing me my present happiness.”

I was reconciled.

He put his arms about me gently and drew me to him. “You should not wander about the castle without me or someone with you. There are so many dangerous places … Those spiral staircases … you could so easily trip and fall. The cobbled courtyards, the unevenness of the stones and all the steep paths. You must not wander off alone. I forbid you to.”

“So must the husband of Nonna have talked to her! I am not allowed to ride. What may I do?”

“You may obey your husband. I place no restriction on that.”

“You are … despotic.”

“I am the ruler of my home.”

“The king of your castle.”

“Why should I not be? When the child is born you will have him to occupy you and then we will ride together out into the country. We will visit your parents. Perhaps we will call on the Landors. I heard that your would-be-husband has quickly become reconciled. He is to be married shortly. Of course she is a wealthy young lady. But he has taken his disappointment well, has he not?”

“I feel little interest in his affairs.”

“Why should you when you have a husband and a child of your own?”

“I am content,” I said, “deeply content.”

July had come, hot and sultry. I often climbed to the ramparts although I knew that Colum would have been displeased if he knew. Sometimes I took Jennet with me. I noticed how often her eyes strayed to the Seaward Tower.

She told me something of life in that tower, of the man who was her lover and who had taken her out in his boat on one occasion. They had fished and brought home their catch and it had been cooked and eaten at the table in the Seaward Tower.

“There are plenty of boats there and all those horses,” she said. It was an exciting place, the Seaward Tower. She had helped to clean the lanterns there. Never had she seen so many.

I was beginning to feel uncomfortable now. It could only be about six weeks from my confinement. I was so longing for my child to be born that the days seemed as though they would never pass. One day I wandered down through the inner ward and came at length to Ysella’s Tower. I looked at the iron-studded door and up at those grim, grey walls. Was the story true? It was impossible. How could a man keep someone’s identity secret for ten years? Surely she would have been seen? There would be a door on the other side of the tower similar to the one I had discovered in Seaward; there might be a little path there. Had that long-ago Casvellyn been as forceful as his descendants? I was sure he had. He would have forbidden Ysella and Nonna to leave their towers unescorted and perhaps he had good reason for this in view of what Colum had told me about the robbers on the road. I pictured Ysella up there waiting for the man she believed to be her husband and Nonna waiting for the same man who was hers.

It was a wild and fantastic story—the sort which attached themselves to old places like this.

I tried the iron-studded door. It would not move. Had I really expected it to?

I began to feel exhausted and fearing for the child retraced my steps back to the Crows’ Tower.

August came—the long-awaited month. A messenger had arrived from Lyon Court with the news that my mother would be setting out in a few days’ time.

One night I awoke startled and found that I was alone. The curtains drawn about the bed made it pitch black. It had been a stifling hot day and I had been quite exhausted by the weather and my condition.

I could hear something so I drew aside the curtain. I realized at once that it was the heavy rain. I got out of bed and went to the window. I could hear the rain pelting down on the stones and a wind was howling. A flash of lightning lit up the sky briefly. I saw the towers against the angry sky; then came the great crack of thunder which sounded as though it was overhead.

I went back to my bed. I could not sleep. I wondered where Colum was on such a night and whether the roads would be sodden when my mother set out from Lyon Court.

I lay still listening for the next clap of thunder, and I suppose because I did now find the days exhausting I was soon asleep.

When I awoke Colum was beside me. He was in a deep sleep. I rose noiselessly and was dressed before he awakened.

He rose yawning and I said to him, “What happened last night?”

Did I fancy it or was he suddenly alert? He said: “It was a fierce night.”

“What thunder!” I said. “I woke and got out of bed. There was one clap which must have been right overhead.”

“I was up,” he said. “There was a ship in distress out there.”

“How terrible … on such a night!”

“I thought there might be something we could do.”

“How good of you, Colum.”

He smiled at me in that tender way which I always so much appreciated because it seemed unnatural to him.

“When you really know me you’ll see I’m not such a bad fellow after all.”

“I am already beginning to ask myself if this is the case.”

It was a strange day that followed. The ship in distress had come to grief on the Devil’s Teeth. All day long the boats were going out to see if there were any survivors. Colum told me there was none.

How delighted I was to greet my mother. I was watching for her from the turret of the Crows’ Tower which gave a good view of the road. I felt a rush of emotion when I saw her sturdily seated on her horse with the grooms and two servants riding with her.

I was waiting at the portcullis to greet her. She swept me up in her arms and then had a good look at me.

“I see you are in good health and spirits,” she said. “Nothing to worry about. And by the look of it it seems as though we shall not have to wait long.”

She busied herself with preparations. She admired the cradle in which Colum himself had once lain. Generations of Casvellyns had used it. I wondered whether Nonna and Ysella had had any children and if so how they had managed to keep them hidden away. I must ask Colum some time. In any case, it was just a legend.

The weather seemed unbearably hot to me in my condition and it was a great joy to sit out of doors. There were not the gardens at Castle Paling that we had at Lyon Court, but we could sit in one of the grassy courtyards. My mother spread a rug for me and I would lie with my back against the wall and we would talk.

She was very pleased with my marriage. She had become convinced that it was right for me, in spite of its beginnings.

“Colum and Jake,” she said, “are of a kind and that is the kind of man women like us need. It is good when one can look back and say this and that happened for the best.”

“It seems so strange to me that a year ago I did not know Colum,” I marvelled.

“Time in such matters is not important. I can see you are happy.”

“Yet how much you wanted me to marry Fennimore Landor!”

“You would have had a peaceful life with him, but perhaps a dull one.”

“When is he to marry?”

“In September.”

“How strange that such a man should so quickly make up his mind.”

“I gather from his mother that he has known this Mistress Lee for many years. They have been childhood friends. Of course he was fond of you; he wanted to marry you; and it was ideal too in view of the amalgamation. But when you married he renewed his friendship with Mistress Lee. Their families are pleased about it and it seems a suitable match.”

“They hope to start trading next year,” she told me. “It is amazing how long these matters take to arrange. Your father chafes against delay. You know what an impatient man he is. I am sure it is the thought of getting the better of the Spaniards that makes him so pleased with the venture.”

“But the Spaniards are finished.”

My mother looked slightly worried. “I am not so sure. Admiral Drake has taken out a fleet of men-o’-war and attacked towns in Spain and Portugal. Why should he do that if they were so defeated? Why should he feel it necessary to give them another blow? I heard before I left that over a thousand gentlemen accompanied him and that only just over three hundred returned. Then our men have seized sixty ships in the Tagus which belonged to the Hanse towns there. It was found that these ships contained stores to fit out a fleet to come against us.”

“My father and Colum think that the Spaniard has been beaten for ever.”

“I cannot believe such a powerful nation could be finished so completely. What I long to see, Linnet, is an end to war and conflict. That is why this peaceful trading project appeals to me so much. There is so much more that is interesting in life than fighting. I heard that a mill has been set up in a place in Kent called Dartford where they are making paper. Imagine that, Linnet! How much easier it will be for us to write to each other. I call that progress—not one side killing more than the other. And something else. I heard of a new plant the other day. It is called saffron—a kind of crocus. Its stigmas make cakes yellow and give them a most distinctive flavour.”

“Have you tried it?”

“I have not seen it yet. It has only just been brought to England. But I intend to at the first opportunity.”

And so we walked and passed our days most happily, for she had brought with her not only the clothes she had made for my baby and new recipes for my tasting, but that sense of comfort which only she could give me.

She brought back memories of my father and young Damask who had so wanted to come with her, and had made a doll for the baby. My father had insisted that messengers be sent as soon as my baby was born with word that I had a fine healthy boy. Edwina, who now had her own little boy and wanted everyone to know of her contentment, sent affectionate messages. It was like seeing them all.

I was very happy during those last days and even the apprehension which must come to a woman who is about to have her first child was stilled by my mother’s presence.

It was not a difficult labour and to my intense delight I gave birth to a healthy boy.

I had never seen Colum so overjoyed. He snatched the baby from my mother and marched round the bedchamber with him. Then he came and stared down at me. I thought I had never been so proud and happy in my life.

I had reached the summit of happiness. I had my beautiful son whom we named Connell and he delighted me in all ways. I marvelled that this perfect creature was my own son and I rejoiced in him doubly when I saw Colum’s pride.

If he had been out, as soon as he returned to the castle he would go to the child’s nursery and satisfy himself that all was well. He would pick up the boy and lift him high in the air. Jennet and I would say that it was no way to treat such a young baby but Connell did not seem to mind. If he were crying—and he had a lusty pair of lungs and a strong temper—he would stop when his father lifted him up even when he was very young. As he grew a little older it was clear that he was fascinated by his father.

I was delighted. I loved to see the joy Colum found in his son.

And I had given him to him. I sometimes marvelled that this boy of ours should have been conceived in such a manner. I think Colum did too. But there was nothing that could have made him happier than the possession of this son.

My mother stayed with me for a month after the child’s birth and then she thought she should return to Lyon Court. She had young Damask to look after. Next time she came, she said, she might bring her, although she thought she was a little young to make the journey. My father had set out on the first of his trading voyages and would be home, she believed, by Christmas. We must all spend Christmas together. It was unthinkable that we, living so near, should not. I must persuade Colum to come to Lyon Court but perhaps because of the baby they should come to us.

We said goodbye. It was September and a touch of autumn already in the air. The mornings were misty and the sea calm but grey. I thought that at Lyon Court they would soon be gathering the apples and pears and I remembered how we had done it the previous year and stored the fruit in the apple room.

I watched her ride away for as long as I could see her. She did not look round. I fancied there were tears in her eyes. But she had confessed herself well pleased with the way in which everything had turned out. I think she was comparing me with herself and perhaps on consideration she could say her marriage had been a happy one.

I wished that we were just a little nearer. If Castle Paling had been as near Lyon Court as Trewynd Grange was how happy I would be! The fifteen miles or so which separated us just made frequent visits not so easy to achieve.

The christening of Connell was a great event. There was a big christening cake and Colum had asked a great many guests from the surrounding country. People whom I had never met before came to the Castle and there was feasting and revelry for two days and nights.

I was living in a dream of happiness and it seemed as if Colum was too. The beauty of the ceremony in the castle’s Norman chapel touched me deeply. My son wore the christening robes which had been worn by several generations of Casvellyns and I wondered whether the husband of Ysella and Nonna had worn them.

Colum had chosen the godparents—friends of long standing, he said. Sir Roderick Raymont was one—a man I did not take to—and another was Lady Alice Warham, a handsome woman who came to the castle with a meek husband several years older than herself.

Lady Alice carried my son to the font; and the ceremony was performed beneath that vaulted roof with its Norman archway and its massive supporting pillars of stone.

Connell was good and uttered no protest but I felt a great desire to snatch him from the arms of the woman who held him. I did not know why this fierce jealousy came over me and I knew I would be glad when all the visitors had departed.

When the ceremony was over and the cake had been cut and the baby had been admired by all, I took him to his nursery and gloated over him and I felt I was the most blessed of women, to have married in such an unusual manner and to have found a husband who excited me more than any other person ever had, and to have my union with him crowned by this blessing of a child.

The guests lingered for a few days and it was during their stay that I made a discovery.

The great hall, which was rarely used when there were no visitors, was now the centre of our entertainments. All through the day there came from the kitchens the smell of roasting meats and many of the inhabitants of Seaward were pressed into service. “You see,” said Colum to me, “there are occasions when we need these servants.”

I asked him if he entertained frequently, since we had not done so during the first months of our marriage.

“I did not wish it then,” he said. “I wanted to have you all to myself. Moreover I thought it might be bad for the child.”

“Will these people think it strange that there was no celebrations of our wedding?”

“It has always been my way to let people think what they will,” he answered, “as long, that is, as it does not offend me.”

Then he talked of the boy and how he was much more advanced than other boys, how he believed that he would grow up into a fine Casvellyn and he could scarce wait to see it.

“As he grows older,” I said, “forget not that you will also do so.”

“And you, wife,” he reminded me.

Then he laughed and held me against him and I was very happy knowing him to be content with our marriage.

I think that was the last time I was entirely contented, for it was that night that I learned something which had not occurred to me before.

It was Lady Alice who began it, and I wondered after whether she did it purposely. I asked myself whether she sensed my complete abandonment to pleasure and, being envious of it, sought to destroy it.

We were at table. The venison was particularly delicious, I was thinking, done to a turn. The rich golden pastry of the pies was appetising and the company was merry. Colum, at the top of the table, flushed and excited, basked in the pride he felt for his son.

I was thinking to myself: May he always be as happy as he is now and may I, when Lady Alice said: “You have made your husband a very proud man.”

“It is a wonderful thing to have a child.”

“And so shortly married. You are indeed fortunate.”

Her eyes were enormous—great dark eyes, not quite as dark as Colum’s. I did not recognize the malice in them then.

“Colum, I know, is beside himself with joy. I am not surprised. When you remember the past disappointments …”

“Disappointments?” I said.

“Why yes, when he hoped and hoped … and it never happened. And then the second time he is fortunate immediately. It is not a year, is it, since your marriage and already that beautiful boy. One could almost say it was a happy release … although so tragic at the time.”

“You are referring to …” I began hesitantly.

“The first marriage. So tragic. But it has all turned out for the best, hasn’t it?”

I felt a shiver down my spine. His first marriage! He had not mentioned a marriage to me. What had happened? Where was his wife? She must be dead. Otherwise how could I be his wife? And why was it so tragic?

It seemed as though a chill had crept into the hall. I could see Lady Alice watching me intently. There was a glint of amusement in her eyes. She would realize of course that Colum had told me nothing of his previous marriage.

It was in the early hours of the morning before we retired. Together we looked into the nursery next to our own bedchamber, to assure ourselves that Connell was safe.

When we were in bed and the curtains drawn I said to Colum: “I learned tonight that you had been married before.”

“Did you not know it?”

“Why should I? You didn’t tell me.”

“Did you think a man would get to my age and not take a wife ere that?”

“It seemed strange that it was never mentioned.”

“The point never arose.”

“That seems strange to me.”

He drew me towards him. “Enough of others.”

But I could not rest. I said: “Colum, I felt so foolish. That woman mentioning it and I not to know.”

“Alice is a sly creature. She was jealous of you.”

“Why? She has a husband. Has she no children?”

He laughed loudly. “A husband. That poor stick! Much good he is to her. He is incapable of begetting children.”

“I’m sorry then.”

“Don’t waste pity on Alice. She is not at heart displeased. She has free range to select her bedfellows and he is complacent enough. As for children, I doubt she wants them. She would find them a nuisance and they might spoil her figure.”

“You know her … well?”

“Oh, very well.”

“You mean of course …”

“Exactly.”

There was a change in his manner. No tenderness now but a certain brusque impatience—the first since the last weeks before Connell’s birth. I sensed that he was irritated by my reference to his previous marriage.

“So she and you …”

“Oh come, wife. What is wrong with you? I’ve known many women. Did you think Castle Paling was some sort of monastery and I a monk?”

“I certainly did not think that … but our guests …”

“You must grow up. You must not be a silly little Linnet twittering in her cage and thinking that comprises the world. Some of us are made in a certain way and so must it be. I never fancied going lonely to bed.”

“So it was jealousy that made her …”

“I don’t know. She will doubtless have another lover now. What matters it? I grow tired of this.”

“I want to know about your wife, Colum.”

“Not now,” he said firmly.

But later I returned to the subject. The christening guests were gone and we were together in the nursery. We had dismissed the nurse so that we were alone with the child who lay in his cradle while Colum rocked it. The child watched his father all the time. It was an affecting scene to see this big man gently rocking the cradle and I was overcome with a deep emotion. I should have been completely happy, but for one thing. I knew he had had mistresses. That was to be expected, but I could not forget his first wife. I wanted to know something of that marriage, whether he had cared for her, how desolate had he been when she died. Why was he so reluctant to talk of her, or was he? Did he just feel an impatience to go back over something that was over.

“Colum,” I said, “I think I ought to know something about your previous marriage.”

He stopped rocking the cradle to stare at me, and I went on quickly: “It is disconcerting when people speak of it and I know nothing, and I suppose now we shall be entertaining more. To make a mystery of it …”

“It is no mystery,” he said. “I married, she died and that was the end of it. There was no mystery.”

“How … long were you married.”

“It must have been some three years.”

“That is not very long.”

He made an impatient movement with his shoulders but the hand on the cradle remained gentle.

“What of it?” he said.

“And then she died. How did she die, Colum?”

“In childbed.”

“I see, and the child with her?”

He nodded.

I felt sorry for him then. I thought of all the anguish he would have suffered. He had so wanted a boy and she had died and the child with her.

I was silent and he said: “Well, is the interrogation over?”

“I’m sorry, Colum, but I felt I should know. It seemed so strange to hear of such a thing about one’s husband through others.”

“It is over and done. There is no need to think of it.”

“Can something like that … a part of one’s life … be dismissed like that?”

His brows shot up and he looked angry. “It’s over, I tell you. That’s an end to it.”

I should have stopped but I couldn’t. I had to know.

“You must think of her, Colum, sometimes.”

“No,” he said firmly.

“But it was such a part of your life.”

He released his hold on the cradle and stood up. He came towards me. I thought he was going to strike me. Instead he took me by the shoulders and shook me, but not harshly.

“I am content with what I have now,” he said. “I have a wife who pleases me, who can give and take pleasure. It was not so before. Moreover she has given me this boy. I could regret nothing that has brought me to this. Listen, wife, I am content, and if I were not I would tell you so. I would have nothing … nothing otherwise. Let it be.”

I lay against him and felt the tears in my eyes. I knew he would hate to see them, so I broke away and went to the cradle and knelt down looking at my son.

Colum came and stood on the other side of the cradle looking at us both. There was exultation in my heart then. What did it matter that he had married before, that he had been Lady Alice’s lover? He was not a man to suppress his desire and it would always be fierce. Again I thought of my father. These were the two men in my life whom I truly loved. Odd, that they should have been two of a kind. But they suited women like myself and my mother. We needed such men—and it was comforting to realize that they needed women like us.

I knew instinctively that his first wife had been too meek, that he had never cared for her as he had for me. He had told me that and I could not help feeling gratified.

But there was more to come.

It came from Jennet. She was the sort of woman who could be taken from one place and planted with the greatest ease in another, like some plant that yearns so much to grow that it will flourish in any soil. In the short time she had been at Castle Paling she had not only acquired a lover but had struck up friendships with other servants and behaved as though she had lived at the castle all her life.

She was warm-hearted, generous in all things, not only her favours, and there was something endearing about her in spite of a certain incompetence. My mother was often impatient with her. I think in her heart she never forgave her for betraying her with my father. After all, it must have been a strain to have one’s husband’s bastard in the house and his mother too. It was the same with Romilly. My mother was an extraordinary woman. I wondered what I would feel like if Colum brought his mistresses into the house with their offspring. However to get back to Jennet, she it was who brought this shattering knowledge into my life.

She was now Connell’s nurse. After all, I trusted her more than I did anyone else; I knew too of her love for children. She was inclined to spoil the boy of course but I suppose we all were.

There she was clucking over him one day and chattering away to him and she said: “I reckon your father thinks the world of you, my little man. Oh, he does and all. And that’s clear to see. And you know it. Yes, you do.”

I smiled at them and I thought of her as a young woman when Jacko had been born and how she must have loved him.

Then she said: “Boys! They always want boys. The Captain was the same. Show him a boy and he was that pleased. Nothing too good for his boys. It’s the same with this master. It must have been a terrible disappointment to him …”

“What, Jennet?”

“Well, when he couldn’t get one with that first wife of his. Well, ’twasn’t for want of trying. Time after time he were disappointed.”

“You seem to know a great deal about the master’s affairs,” I said.

“’Tis common talk in the kitchens, Mistress.”

“What do they say down there, Jennet?”

“Oh, that she was a poor sick creature and the master wasn’t with her as he is with you.”

“They’re impertinent,” I said, but I couldn’t quite suppress the glow of triumph.

Jennet did not notice the reproof and I was glad. I thought: I may find out through Jennet and the servants more than I can from Colum. It was only natural that I should feel a great curiosity about my predecessor and I could see no harm in doing a little innocent ferreting.

Seeing my interest Jennet warmed to her subject. There was little she liked so much as gossip.

“Oh yes,” said Jennet, “a poor timid thing, she were. Frightened of her own shadow. The master, they say, do want someone as can stand up to him as you do, Mistress. They say you be just the one for him and he knows it. This poor lady, frightened she were, frightened of the castle and ghosts and things and most of all of him.”

“Poor child,” I said.

“Oh yes, Mistress, and the master he did want a son and it seemed she could not give him one. There was lots of tries, as you might say. She’d be so and then she’d lose it, and then so again. Only once did she stay her full time … and that was the last. Once she went seven months though. The others … they were all quick, as you might say.”

“She must have had a very uncomfortable time.”

“She did. And the master he were mad, like. Shouted he did … called her a useless stock. That’s what he called her. They’d hear him shouting and his rage was terrible. Woe betide any who went near him when he was in these rages. They used to be frightened that he’d do away with her. And she was afraid too. She told her maid … Mary Anne, it were. She’s with one of the Seaward men now and works over there. She told Mary Anne that sometimes she feared he’d do away with her.”

I felt I had had enough and wanted to hear no more. Of course I liked to have confirmation that he was content with our marriage and that he found his second wife more attractive than his first, but I could not bear this talk about his cruelty to her.

“All right, Jennet,” I said. “That’s enough. Servants exaggerate.”

“Not this time, Mistress, for Mary Anne did say she was real terrified. And when she was so again she was so frantic she did not know what to do. You see she believed she’d never have the child and she was so sick and ill every time. She thought she would die, and she told Mary Anne that she ought never to try for children. The doctor was against it. She ought never to have married because she knew it would kill her sooner or later. She said she had pleaded with him and he had said that if she could not give him children what good was she to him …”

“I don’t want to hear any more servant’s gossip, Jennet,” I said.

“No, Mistress, no more you do. But they did wonder why she didn’t run away and go home to her family. ’Twas not all that far.”

“Oh?” I said.

“I could scarce believe it when I heard,” said Jennet, “seeing that we’d been there, like, and was on terms with the family.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Mistress, the master’s first wife was the sister of the young gentleman we all thought you’d take. Her name before her marriage was Melanie Landor.”

I felt dizzy suddenly. In my mind I was transported back to Trystan Priory. I was in a small room looking at a picture of a fair young girl.

I could hear a voice saying: She was murdered.

That girl had been Colum’s first wife.

YSELLA’S TOWER

IT HAUNTED ME. I could not get her out of my mind. I could imagine her so clearly in this place, having seen her picture. It was strange how that had impressed itself on my mind. I could not forget the anguish in her mother’s eyes; I could hear the underlying hatred in the voice as she had said: “She was murdered.”

And Jennet: “Sometimes she feared he’d do away with her.”

Why had he married her in the first place? Had he been in love with her? A fair innocent young girl. He liked innocence. He had liked it in me. He took some savage delight in destroying that innocence as he had on that first night I had spent in Castle Paling.

I was thinking about him, this man who was the father of my child. What if I had failed as Melanie Landor had? I had delighted him only because I had given him what he wanted.

I could not get her out of my mind. I looked for signs of her about the place. When I walked the ramparts and looked out at the sea I thought of her standing there and the fear that would have hung over her. It was as though she walked beside me, appearing at odd moments, a shadowy presence to haunt me, to cast a shadow over my happiness. Poor frail Melanie who had failed to please him and who had died because of it!

No, not because of it. She had died in childbed. Many women did. A husband could not be blamed for that.

I kept hearing her mother’s fierce murmur: She was murdered. I must make allowances for a mother’s grief. And how strange that she should have been Fennimore’s sister. But was it? They were not distant neighbours. Marriages were arranged between people of their position.

What were the Landors thinking now? They would know that I, whom they had chosen to be Fennimore’s wife, was now married to the man who had been their daughter’s husband.

What had they thought? How strange that my mother who had seen them since my marriage had not mentioned this fact to me. It would have been so natural for her to do so.

I was betraying too much interest in my husband’s first wife. Jennet, quick to realize this, garnered knowledge for me.

“It were in the Red Room she died, Mistress,” she told me. And I must go to the Red Room.

How dark it was. How full of shadows, and there was the big four-poster bed. I went to the window and looked out to the stark drop to the sea. I could almost feel her then. It was as though a voice whispered: Yes, I thought often of throwing myself down. It would have been quick … anything better than my life with him.

Fancy, sheer fancy! What was the matter with me? It was the room with the dark red bed curtains—heavy, embroidered in red silk of a darker shade than the background. I pictured her shut in behind those curtains, waiting for him to come to her.

“Her room were the Red Room,” Jennet told me. “He would go to her there. She didn’t share a room with him, like. They did say he were with her only to get a son.”

I was ashamed of allowing Jennet to tell me so much; but I had to know; it was a burning curiosity and more. It was not so much that I wished to discover the truth about Colum’s relationship with his first wife as to learn more of him.

I pictured his hatred of her. He despised weakness. He liked me best when I fought against him. She was too gentle, too meek, and she was terrified. His only interest in her would be that of procreation. Because of her position she was his wife and on the material side it would have been a suitable marriage; it was only those two who were unsuitable.

He would have his mistresses there in the room which I shared with him now doubtless, and in the dark Red Room she would be visited now and then.

There was terror in this room. It lingered. I could imagine her so well. When she was pregnant she would be afraid of death and when she was not she would be afraid of him.

And how was she equipped to fight against her fate? Poor child, brought up in the gentle Landor home where life went on smoothly and people were kind and polite to each other. I had seen something of life. I knew and had grown to love my father who was such another as Colum. I was prepared. I was the fortunate one, the loved wife who had not failed him and in less than a year had given him the son on whom he doted.

I wished that I could get her out of my mind. I could not. I could never go near the Red Room without looking in.

“Poor Melanie,” I would murmur. “I hope you are at peace now.”

Edwina who was descended from a witch on her mother’s side had certain powers. Once when Carlos was at sea and involved in a fight with a Spanish galleon she had had a vision of it and known that he was in danger; sometimes she foresaw events. It was a strange uncanny gift. I remember Edwina’s telling me once that if people experienced violent emotions in a certain spot they left behind them some disturbance which was apparent to those with special insight.

I now wondered whether Melanie had left something of this behind. I lacked those special powers but perhaps because I was in her place, I could sense something here.

I half hoped and half feared that she would return in some form. Perhaps that was why I went to the Red Room so often.

I liked to go there at dusk, at that time of day when the daylight is fast fading and it is not quite time to light the candles. Then the room was at its most ghostly.

It was November, the anniversary of that day when Colum had brought me here. He remembered it and had said: “You and I will sup alone together as we did on that day. It is a day I regard as one of the luckiest in my life.”

I had dressed myself in a russet velvet gown, and wore my hair loose about my shoulders—quite unfashionable but the style most becoming to me; and on that very day I could not resist going along to the Red Room at dusk.

I stood there. There were dark shadows in the room. Soon the light would be gone altogether.

“Melanie,” I whispered, “are you there?”

And as I stood there, I felt the hair rise from my scalp for the door was slowly opening.

I stood watching it. Then it was flung back and there stood Colum.

“In God’s name,” he cried, “what are you doing here?”

For a moment I could not speak. He came to me and taking my by the shoulders shook me.

“What ails you? What is wrong?”

“I thought you were a ghost.”

He caught my hair in his hands and tugged it hard. Colum liked to mingle a little pain with his caresses.

“Who has been talking to you?” he demanded.

“I pick up bits of gossip here and there.”

“I’ll have any whipped who have been pouring poison into your ear.”

“You will do no such thing,” I said, “or I shall tell you nothing.”

“You will tell me what I ask,” he said.

“Not here in this room.”

“Yes,” he said. “Here in this room, with your ghost smirking in the shadows.”

There was something grand about him. He was not afraid of anything or anyone. One of the Seaward men had told Jennet that the master feared neither God nor man—and it was true. He would be defiant no matter what he faced. So he could not be expected to fear poor Melanie’s ghost—if the idea should occur to him that it existed, which I doubted.

“I know that this was the room in which your first wife died.”

“Well, she had to die somewhere.”

“You never told me that she was a Landor.”

“She had to be someone.”

“But the Landors … Fennimore Landor’s sister!”

“Of course. At one time you had plans to marry that man.”

“How strange that you should have married his sister.”

“Not strange at all. It was a suitable marriage in some ways. The girl was of good family and brought a good dowry with her.”

“And you took the dowry and cared nothing for her.”

“I had no reason to care for her.”

“She was your wife.”

He grasped me firmly and pressing me backwards kissed me firmly on the mouth.

“There is only one wife for me,” he said. “Praise God I have her.”

“I wish you had told me that she was a Landor.”

“Why? It meant nothing to me that you once had a fancy for that lily-livered boy.”

“You malign Fennimore. He was not that. He is brave and dedicated to his work. He has ideals.”

“Much good will they do him.”

“There speaks the buccaneer.”

“This is a buccaneer’s world.”

“It is changing,” I said. “Trade will take the place of war and those who persist in making war will suffer and those who live peacefully will prosper.”

“By God,” he said, “you repeat your lessons well. I will have no more of Fennimore Landor in this house. You are well rid of him. I do not wish to hear his name mentioned again.”

“Why? Does your conscience fret you?”

“My conscience?”

“Yes, for what you did to the Landors.”

“You are mad, wife. What I did to the Landors was to marry their daughter. She died in childbirth as others have done before her.”

“But she was sick and ill and you persisted that she should give you a son.”

“God’s teeth, girl! Has a man no right to a son?”

“Not if he must kill his wife to get one.”

There was a brief silence; the ghostly shadows had crept farther into the room. For a few seconds—and a few only—Colum was shaken. I knew then that he had ignored Melanie’s pleas, that he had forced her as in the beginning he had forced me. His will was law in Castle Paling and if he had to trample over the heart and body of any who stood in his way he would do so.

In those seconds I seemed to have a vision of the future. It was as though Melanie was warning me. He wants you now. You are important to him, but for how long?

Just that and no more. The moment passed.

He was laughing. “I can see someone has been talking too much.”

“Nay,” I said quickly, fearing his wrath for the servants. “I have worked this out for myself. This was the room where she suffered. This was the room where she died. Do you not feel that she is still here?”

“You have gone mad,” he said. “She lies in her grave. She is no more here than your pretty Fennimore is.”

“She is dead, Colum, and the dead sometimes return.”

“Nonsense,” he shouted. “Nonsense.”

I saw his eyes look about that room. It would be full of memories for him. His step in the corridor, Melanie shrinking in her curtained bed; the onslaught that she feared—cruel and crude to such a defenceless creature, asking herself what she feared most, his intrusion into her privacy or that pregnancy which kept him away and could bring death closer.

I was full of pity for her.

“You are morbid,” he accused.

“I feel drawn towards this room.”

“On this night of all nights!”

“Yes, because it is this night.”

“You want me to stand in this room and ask forgiveness of her. For what? Because I asked that she should perform her duties as a wife? Because I wanted sons? In God’s name, for what other reason should I have married a silly simpering girl who brought me no pleasure?”

“You made a mistake in marrying her. We have to abide by mistakes.”

“Nay,” he said. “If we take a false step we right ourselves and go in another direction. Enough of this.” There was a satanic gleam in his eyes. He pulled me towards the bed.

I said: “No, Colum, please, not here …”

But he would not heed me. He said: “Yes. Yes. I say yes and by God and all his angels I will have my way.”

Later we supped in that room where we had on the first night I came to Castle Paling.

When I was in my chair he came round to me and in his hands was a solid chain set with diamonds on which hung a locket of rubies and diamonds. He put it about my neck.

“There,” he said, “it becomes you well. It is my gift to you, my love. It is my thanks for my son and for giving me that which I have looked for in my wife.”

I touched his hands and looked up at him. I had been shocked by what had happened in the Red Room. He had meant to lay the ghost, to superimpose on my fantastic imaginings a memory of our own. I think he was right in believing that I would not want to go there for some time. I would not want to think of us—which I must—on the bed on which Melanie had died.

How characteristic of him thus to defy the enemy which in this case was the memory of Melanie.

“You like this trinket?” he asked me.

“It is beautiful.”

He kissed me then with that tenderness which always moved me deeply.

“You are glad of that night? Glad a brigand saw you in an inn and decided that you should be his.”

“Yes, glad.”

I took his hand and kissed it.

“I will tell you something,” he said. “There was never a woman who pleased me as you do.”

“I hope I shall always do so.”

He laughed lightly. “You must make sure that you do.”

“I shall grow old,” I said, “but so will you.”

“Women grow old before men.”

“You are ten years older than I am.”

“Ten years is nothing … for a man. It is only women who must fight off age.”

“You are arrogant.”

“I admit it.”

“Vain.”

“True.”

“Selfish and sometimes cruel.”

“I confess my guilt.”

“And you expect me to love such a man?”

“Expect and demand,” he answered.

“How could I?”

“I will tell you how. You love me because you know you must. You know my nature. It is all you say it is. But know this too. I am a man who will have my way and if I say this woman is to love me, then she has no help for it. She must do so.”

“You imagine you are a god and all other men are nothing beside you.”

“I know it to be so,” he said.

“You believe that all you have to do is command a woman to love you and she must needs do so.”

“That is true too,” he said. “You began by hating me. Now you are as eager for me as I for you. Is that not proof?”

I smiled across the table at him.

“I think it must be,” I said.

I was happy that night. It was only in the morning that I thought again of Melanie and wondered whether in the beginning when they had first married she had supped with him in that room and whether he had spoken of love to her.

Had it been only when she failed to give him what he wanted that he grew to despise her?

Into my mind had crept an uneasy thought: What if you should cease to please him?

Christmas came. My little Connell was four months old, lusty as ever, doing, as Jennet said, all the things a boy ought to do. Showing temper, showing interest, growing plump and healthy. I wouldn’t allow him to be swaddled and Colum agreed with me. If he had not I should have prepared to fight against him on this point. I couldn’t bear to think of my baby bound up in swaddling clothes for weeks. “I want his legs to grow long so that he will be as tall as his father,” I said.

We loved to see him kick and his legs were straight as a pine tree.

Such celebrations we had that Christmas. My mother and father came to spend the time with us. With them came Damask, Penn and Romilly. Edwina would not travel because her son being only a few months older than mine was too young, she said. So she and Carlos stayed at Trewynd. Jacko was with the family of his betrothed at Plymouth but he did ride over with the party to see Jennet and stayed with us a night and then went back to Plymouth.

I enjoyed decorating the great hall with holly and ivy and giving orders in the kitchens. There were special pies made for my father’s pleasure; there were the coins to put in the cakes and puddings, all with their significance, and of course the silver penny for the cake to be discovered by the King for the Day.

The joy in seeing my parents was great. My father insisted immediately on being taken to see his grandson and had brought a carved ship for him which was a replica of one of his own Lions—The Triumphant Lion. I laughed at him and told him Connell was too young for such toys, and he retorted that real boys were never too young for ships.

It moved me deeply to see him at Connell’s cradle, putting out a great hand before the child’s face. Connell reached up and his hand curled about my father’s little finger. I had rarely seen my father so moved. I believe there were actually tears in his eyes.

He stood up abruptly and he said to me, “So my girl Linnet has a son of her own. Bless you, girl. You’ve made me a happy man.”

Later when we rode together as we used to when I was at home and the understanding had started between us, he said to me: “I spent years railing against fate that denied me a legitimate son. When you came I cursed God for giving me a girl. Now I see I was wrong. I learned in time that you were as good as any boy—and so you’ve proved. Now you’ve given me my grandson.”

I said I was happy too. Then I added: “I have to watch my son will not be spoiled. His father dotes on him even as you do. He must not grow up to think he has but to smile and the whole world will be at his feet.”

“Have no fear. That boy will take after his grandfather. I see it. He’ll be for the sea. He’s got that look in his eyes.”

I laughed at my father, but he was serious.

“I’m glad,” he said, “you’ve got a man who is a man. Never quite took to Fennimore Landor. Too much of the popinjay about him.”

“You are not fair to him. He is a brave good sailor.”

“Squeamish,” said my father. “Can you see him pacing a deck with blood dripping from his cutlass?”

“I should not admire him for that.”

“A handsome fellow, I grant you. But you’ve got a man and I’m proud of you.”

Yes, there was no doubt that my father liked my husband. They rode together and talked a great deal.

My mother too seemed happy, and Damask’s infatuation for Colum continued. He was amused by the child but he took little notice of her, which she did not seem to mind as long as she could sit near and watch him.

It was like the old Christmases I remembered at Lyon Court. I suppose I had made it so. All the servants and their families came into the great hall and were given wine and Christmas cake; they sang carols and the mummers came and performed.

I did talk to my mother when we were alone.

I mentioned the fact that I had discovered Colum had been married before. “His wife was Melanie Landor,” I said. “Fennimore’s sister. Did you know?”

“We did discover it after the wedding,” said my mother. “What a time that was! First the secret ceremony and then the other. It was all rather hurried, as it had to be.”

“When did you realize that Colum’s first wife was Melanie Landor?”

“It was after your wedding when you had left for Castle Paling with Colum. The Landors were to visit us. Only Fennimore and his father came. Mistress Landor was taken ill. She admitted to me afterwards that she could not face us when she knew that our daughter had married her daughter’s husband.”

“It must have been a shock for her.”

“It was. How did you discover? But Colum told you, I suppose.”

“No, he did not. I found out through Jennet.”

“Trust Jennet!” said my mother half indulgently, half in exasperation.

“Yes, Jennet told me who she was. I was surprised.”

“And you mentioned it to Colum?”

Memories came back to me—the darkening room, the red bed with the shadows deepening and the ghost of Melanie lurking.

“I did. He was not very pleased.”

“He had not wished you to know?”

“I am not sure of that. He had simply not mentioned it. It was over, she was dead and he was married to me now. Tell me what Mistress Landor said when she knew I had married Colum.”

“Remember that she lost her beloved daughter. She must have been nearly demented when it happened. She did not wish her daughter to have any more children. She was certain that if she did she would kill herself. Of course she blames Colum. She becomes hysterical over her daughter’s death. We must understand that, Linnet.”

“She told me that her daughter had been murdered. It was a great shock when I discovered who she was … for that reason.”

“You must remember she is a mother. That is why she has to blame someone for her daughter’s death. Her grief was assuaged by her anger against her daughter’s husband. Sometimes when grief like that sweeps over you anger is an outlet for it.”

“I understand. And the Landors have never had any communication with Castle Paling since her death.”

“Perhaps in time they will come to see reason. In any case, my dearest, you are happy. You have a beautiful son and a husband who loves you. And it has all happened so quickly. Just over a year ago that we … No matter. I rejoice. May God bless you, my darling, and may you always be as happy as you are now.”

She wanted to see the castle. I told her about Ysella and Nonna. “Ysella’s Tower is locked up. It is used as a kind of storage place. Seaward is where certain of the servants live.”

“A whole tower to themselves?” said my mother.

“There is so much space in a castle, Mother.”

“I remember the Abbey where I spent my childhood. It is very beautiful here, and so interesting. I like to think of my little girl as the châtelaine of a great castle.”

When I was showing her the rooms in the castle we came to the Red Room.

It was the first time I had been in it since that night when Colum had found me there. I noticed that there was a layer of dust on the planked hutch and the bedposts.

My mother noticed it too and raised her eyebrows. As she grew older she had become a meticulous housewife.

“The servants don’t like to come in here alone,” I said.

“The haunted room, is it? Now I see it has that air. What legend is there attached to this place?”

I said: “It was the room in which Colum’s first wife died.”

“Ah,” said my mother, “if I were you I would take down those red hangings and the bed curtains and put in another colour. Change it.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“The old legends that should be preserved are happy ones,” said my mother.

“I will consider it,” I said. And I thought at the time: She is right in a way but changing the curtains and putting in new furniture would not alter the fact that within these four walls Melanie had lived, suffered and died.

After the New Year my parents went back to Lyon Court. I missed them very much, but I was happy watching my child grow bigger every day. He flourished and our delight in him was greater than ever. But oddly enough I could not cast out that morbid fascination which the Red Room had for me, and I still went there. I did think of changing the curtains. I even went so far as taking my little seamstress along to discuss the matter with her.

I noticed how reluctant she was and I could see that she was afraid of the task.

At last she admitted that she thought it might bring bad luck.

“Nonsense,” I said. “Why should it?”

“It might be, Madam, that this is how she wished it to stay.”

Then I knew that I should really do as my mother said. I must change the room entirely so that when people entered it they would not think of poor dead Melanie.

But I didn’t. I found I had no heart for the task. I assured myself that to do so was to give way to superstition. But that was not quite true.

Somewhere deep down in my mind was the thought that Melanie had left something of herself behind and that one day I might need her help.

I will admit it was a thought which flashed in and out of my head and was dismissed immediately, but it came back. It was there in the Red Room; and on dark nights I thought I could hear it in the murmur of the wind on the sea.

What if he should tire of you as he tired of Melanie? Tire of me? The mother of his son … and the other children we should have. For we should have them. He was sure of that and so was I.

There was a great deal I had to discover about my husband. I knew so little of him. That was doubtless why I was so fascinated by him.

Ruthless I knew he was. How ruthless I had to discover. Brutal he could be. How brutal? I was safe while I pleased him. Had Melanie ever been? I could picture his bringing home his bride. I could see the wedding feast at Trystan Priory and the gentle girl who had been brought up in that kindly mansion and knew nothing of the harsh reality of life.

Had he been tender towards her once? I could picture his indifference to her suffering. I remembered him as he had been in the inn when there had been nothing but lust in his eyes for me.

He excited me; he fascinated me; but I knew I did not understand him; and I knew too that I could only rely on his goodness to me as long as I continued to please him.

I would keep the Red Room as it was and I would attempt to learn more of my husband. I must know where he went when he was not at the castle. I must share his life.

I would find out. Oddly enough—and how right this premonition was to prove—the notion filled me with a certain apprehension.

Spring had come and I was once more expecting a child. I was delighted but not more so than Colum.

“Did I not tell you that you would have a quiverful? Give me another boy. When we have half a dozen of them we’ll think about a girl or two.”

I retorted: “I do not propose to spend my life in a continual state of pregnancy.”

“Do you not?” he retorted. “I thought that was a wifely duty.”

“To provide a few children yes, but she needs a little respite.”

“Not my wife,” he said, and he lifted me in his arms and looked at me with love.

I was happy. Gloomy thoughts had gone. I visualized a future—Colum and I grown older, more sedate, and our children playing about us.

As soon as I knew I was to have another child my desire to discover receded. I was happy. I wanted to go on in my contentment. There were times when he went away for several days at a stretch. I used to wonder where. He was not very communicative about his affairs; and one thing I had discovered was that he hated to be questioned. When I had asked he had answered me vaguely but I had seen the danger signals in his eyes. I had seen his sudden anger flare up against some servant and I had always been afraid of arousing it. At one time I wondered whether he visited a mistress. I did not think this was so because when he went away he took a retinue of servants with him.

Again I learned a little through Jennet. She was supposed to sleep in the servants’ quarters in the Crows’ Tower but I knew she slipped out to Seaward to join her lover there. One night I discovered that she was not going to Seaward Tower.

Colum had told me that he would be leaving early the next morning. He was going on some business and would be gone before I was up.

I remembered then that Jennet had not gone to the Seaward Tower on another occasion when Colum had been going away. I decided to question as discreetly as I could, because I was growing more and more interested in Colum’s journeys.

When I awoke the next morning I sent for Jennet. I said: “I gathered you spent the night on your lonely pallet, Jennet.”

She blushed in that manner which had sometimes irritated my mother but which I could not help finding rather endearing.

“Orders,” she said. “I was not to go to Seaward last night.”

“There should be such orders every night, Jennet,” I said.

“Yes, Mistress,” she answered. “’Tis always so,” she volunteered, “the night before he do go on his journey. He be busy preparing, like, late into the night and sets off with the dawn.”

“Does he tell you where he is going?”

“He never will say, Mistress. Shuts up tight when I ask. He’s a mild man but he gets angry if I as much as mention it. ‘Keep thy mouth shut, woman,’ he says, ‘or that’ll be the end ’twixt you and me.’ Yet he be a mild man in all other matters.”

It certainly was strange. I wondered why there had to be this secrecy. Colum was not a man to make an effort to keep anything quiet. His implication was that if people did not like what he did, he cared not a jot. Yet he was quiet about this business of his.

When he returned from a journey he was invariably in good spirits and glad to be back with me. It was June and the warm sunshine filled the castle. It was three months since my child had been conceived and I had recovered from the first uncomfortable stages of pregnancy and had not yet reached the cumbersome one. I felt well and energetic and Colum and I rode out together. We should be away for the night, he told me, as he had some business to transact.

I was delighted because I thought at last he was taking me into his confidence. I was actually going with him on a business venture; I was making the most of my riding too, because I knew that very soon I should be forbidden to ride.

This is the loveliest of all months, or perhaps it seemed so to me because I was so happy. The sky was cobalt blue with only the faintest hint of wispy white cloud. The choughs and the seagulls swooped and rose above the water and as we rode away from the sea into the lanes I was enchanted by the countryside. The white chervil on the banks reminded me of lace and the grass was spattered with blue forget-me-nots and red ragged robin.

The sun was warm and I was happy. I felt well and strong, and glad as I was to be riding with Colum I knew I should be just as delighted to go back and see my son. He was in good hands. The care of children was one thing Jennet could really be trusted with.

Colum sang as we rode along—it was the old hunting song which was such a favourite with him.

I did not recognize the road until we were almost at the inn. And there it was before us: The Traveller’s Rest, and there was the host who had been in such a quandary on that other night. Now he was beaming with delight, hands crossed on his chest.

Colum leaped from his horse and lifted me down. Grooms ran to take our horses.

“The Oak Room, host,” cried Colum.

“At your service, my master,” replied the host.

And we were mounting the stairs and there was the room which I remembered so well—the big four-poster bed in which I had slept with my mother, the lattice window from which I had looked down and seen Colum standing before me.

The host was saying, “There is venison, my master, cooked as you like it. And natlin and taddage pies as will tempt your palate. And if my lord so wishes, metheglin to wash it down.”

“Lay it on,” cried Colum. “For we have ridden far and are hungry.”

The host bowed and shuffled out and left us standing there looking at each other.

Colum came to me and laid his hands on my shoulders. “I always promised myself that you and I should sleep in that bed.”

“You are a man who cannot endure to be baulked.”

“What man worth his salt is not?”

“But most men realize that there are some things in life which must be denied them.”

“Not this man,” he retorted.

I laughed. “You planned this,” I said, “because of what happened here when I came with my mother.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I had business to transact so I thought, why should I not do it at The Traveller’s Rest? I will take my wife with me and we will share the Oak Room, for it will bring home to her the fact that she has a husband who will have his way sooner or later.”

“I can never understand why a man who is acknowledged as the king of his castle should have to go to such lengths continually to stress the fact that he is.”

“Because he is not sure that one person fully realizes it, and to tell you the truth, it is that person he is most anxious should.”

I laid my head against his chest and put my arms about him.

“I am content with life as I have found it, Colum. You are a strong man. I should be the last to deny it, but whatever I was made to accept I should always have my own views … you appreciate that.”

“I would not want a foolish simpering creature … like …”

I was glad he stopped, but I knew of course that he was referring to Melanie.

To change the subject I said: “You say you have come here to do business. Do tell me, Colum, I am most eager to know.”

I saw a shadow pass over his face. He went to the window and looked out; then he turned his head and said to me: “What do you know of my business?”

“Nothing much at the moment but I should like to learn.”

“There is nothing to learn,” he said. “I have some merchandise I wish to show to a merchant. We are meeting at this inn.”

“So it was because it is business, not because of that night?”

“Shall we say a little of each.”

“What merchandise have you to dispose of, Colum? Where does it come from?”

He did not answer that question.

He said: “Ere long two of my men will arrive with pack-horses. They will bring the merchandise.”

“What merchandise is this?” I persisted.

“It varies.”

He drew me to the bed and removed my cloak.

“Colum, there is much I wish to know. When I come to think of it there is so little I do know. You are my husband. There is nothing I want so much as to share my life with you and if I do so I must know …”

“Know what?” he said, loosening my hair from the net which held it. “What should you, a good and obedient wife, wish to know but that you please me?”

“I want to please you, yes. In every way I want to please you. But I want to help you too.”

He kissed me with more gentleness than I was accustomed to. “You please me and you please me most when you wait for me to tell you what I will.”

“You mean this business of yours is a secret?”

“Who talks of secrets? What a woman you are for creating drama from ordinary events. You store up ghosts in the Red Room.”

“You were secretive about that.”

“Secretive! I! Because I forgot something in the past which it can do no one good to remember. You should be grateful that my first marriage was a failure. It makes me more than ever contented with my second.”

“I know you are content, Colum, but I want to help you. I want to understand … everything.”

He laughed and pressed me back on the bed. He kissed my throat. Then he said: “Nay, the host’s table is awaiting our attention. We will eat and then mayhap I will attend to my business and when that is finished you and I will be together here in this Oak Room as I yearned to be when I first saw you here.”

He rose and pulled me to my feet.

“But, Colum …” I began.

“You have a hungry husband, Madam,” he told me. “He must needs eat before he can answer more questions.”

We went to the dining-room. Memories came back. I pictured his sitting there eating with gusto, catching my skirt as I passed. How I had hated him then! It was incredible that in so short a time that hatred could have turned to this passionate love.

He ate heartily, doing full justice to the muggety pie made of sheeps’ entrails, and taken with cream—a Cornish custom which we of Devon had never indulged in, although we were as famous for our clotted cream as the Cornish were. He drank the metheglin but rather sparingly, I thought, and while we were eating two men put their heads into the dining-room.

He acknowledged them but he did not introduce me. They did not remain in the dining-room but went away—I believed to wait until Colum was ready, and had come in either to see that he was there or assure him that they had arrived. They looked like merchants in their best clothes. One wore a russet jacket with camblet sleeves and there were pewter buttons on it. The other was in brown with grey kersey hose and they both wore steeple-crowned hats.

“They are friends of yours, Colum?” I asked.

“They are the men whom I have come to see.”

“On business,” I said.

“Aye, business.”

“I had thought you a man of means, not a merchant.”

“Merchants are men of means, wife. I have rich lands, a castle and many servants. To keep up such an establishment and maintain a wife is costly in these days. So now and then when the mood is on me I am a merchant.”

“What is your merchandise?”

“Whatever comes my way.”

“So it is no particular commodity?”

“Enough of questions. Your curiosity will make a scold of you yet.”

“It is only because I would serve my husband that I wish to learn his habits.”

“He will keep you acquainted of the best way to serve him. Now I must leave you for a while so I will take you to the Oak Room and then you will go to bed. You may be sure that the moment I have completed my business I will be with you.”

He took me to the Oak Room and left me there. I sat on the bed and thought of him down there transacting his business. What business? The men had arrived with the pack-horses. I wondered what they had brought. It was strange for the squire who owned a castle and was the lord of his neighbourhood to barter over merchandise. I wondered again what it was, and why he should be so reluctant to discuss this with me. There could be two reasons. The first was that wives were not supposed to share in their husband’s business affairs. They were not supposed to understand them. That was something I would not accept, as my mother would not either. I knew that Colum, while delighting in my spirited nature, was also determined to subdue it. He wanted me relegated to what he would call a wife’s place. He seemed to ignore the fact that if he ever did he would lose interest in me. Perhaps deep down in his heart he wanted to. Perhaps he wanted to keep me as the mother of his children and go off in search of erotic adventures with other women, I was sure that was what he did before we had married. In a way he chafed against this passion between us. Once he had said with a sort of exasperated anger: “None will satisfy me now save you.” He was a strange man. He hated above all things to be shackled. It might well be that he wished to keep his business apart from me because he did not want to share everything. He wanted to exclude me because he feared I was becoming too important to him. The other reason was, of course, that it was something of which he was ashamed. Ashamed! He would never be ashamed. Something that must be kept secret perhaps.

So I pondered and I longed to creep down the stairs and into the room which the host would have set aside for them and listen at the door.

Instead I went to the window and sat there, and thought over every detail of what had happened on that other occasion at the inn. It had been the most important of my life in a way, for had I not come here I should never have met Colum. How easy it would have been for us to have taken another road, to have stayed at another inn. It seemed incredible that life could be affected by so flimsy a chance.

I sat at that window for a long time thinking of this and I was still there when I heard a bustle below. Looking down, I saw the two men who had looked in at the dining-room. A groom was leading two pack-horses. They were not ours. Then came Colum with the two men. I drew back but not so far that I could not see them.

They talked together. Then the men mounted their horses and rode away.

I knew that Colum was coming up now so I left the window and sat on the bed.

In a few minutes he was in the room.

“What!” he cried. “Still up! What do you here? ’Tis time we were abed.”

I could not sleep well that night. I had bad dreams. I was not sure of what for in them events were jumbled, but Colum was there and so were the merchants and the pack-horses, and Melanie too … for my dream had shifted to the Red Room. Melanie was warning me: “Don’t be too curious. If you are, you could uncover something you would rather not know.”

In the morning we rode back to Castle Paling. It was a beautiful morning. There is nothing like sunlight for washing away the fears which come by night. They are exposed as nothing but vague shadows conjured up out of the darkness. I revelled in the green of the conifers and the call of the cuckoo, though he was beginning to stammer now. All was well. In six months’ time my child would be born and now I was going to my home where my son would be waiting for me.

It was August. I could no longer ride and the days seemed long and tedious. One night there was a violent storm and I awoke to find that Colum was hastily dressing.

I sat up in bed, and he told me to lie down and keep the curtains drawn. He was going out because he thought there might be a ship out there in distress.

I said should I not be up in case there was something I could do? He said no, he would forbid it. I had to think of the child I carried.

Nevertheless, I rose and went to look in at the room adjoining ours where Connell slept. He was a year old now. I thought the thunder and lightning might frighten him. Nothing of the sort. He shouted with delight as the flash lit up the room and he clearly thought the violent thunder was part of a game which had been devised for his benefit.

I laughed with him, glad that he was not frightened and because I did not wish him to see that I had expected him to be afraid I left him.

I went back to my bed and drew the curtains around me, and I thought of that other night when there had been a storm and Colum had gone out to see what could be done.

He had told me that on dark nights he caused a lantern to be put in the turret rooms of the towers facing the sea as a warning to sailors that they were close to the Devil’s Teeth.

He said: “It has been the custom of our house to give this service. When sailors see the lights, if they know they are on the Cornish Coast, they will realize that they are near the Devil’s Teeth and keep away—so in the Nonna and Seaward Towers these lanterns shone on all dark nights.”

So I lay in bed and prayed that if any ship was being buffeted by the violent winds it would come safely through.

The storm died down and I slept. It was light when I awoke and Colum had awakened me by coming into the room.

His clothes were sodden with the rain and there was a hot colour in his cheeks.

“Was a ship in distress?”

He nodded. “She’s broken on the rocks.”

“She couldn’t have seen the lights in the tower.”

“She was blown on to the rocks. We did what we could.”

“You are soaked.” I rose and started to dress.

“There is nothing you can do,” he said. “It is over. You’ll see her when it’s thoroughly light. It’s a sorry sight.”

I did see her—poor sad vessel that had once been so proud. I could not stop myself looking at her and I thought of my father who had gone off on a trading expedition to the East Indies. Fennimore had gone with another ship and Carlos was captaining another. This could happen to any of them. It was terrible to contemplate the hazards of the sea.

As I stood by the window Colum came beside me and put an arm about me.

“Do not go out today,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Why must you always question?” he demanded with a touch of irritation. “Why cannot you obey me like a good wife?”

“But why should I not go out?”

“The ground is slippery. I’d never forgive you if aught happened to the child.”

That afternoon Colum went away for a day or two. I watched him go and then because the sun was shining and the sea was calm—only a slightly muddy colour to suggest last night’s trouble—I felt the urge to go out was irresistible.

I would walk with care but I must go out into the sunshine. I would not take the cliff path which could be treacherous but I would just walk in the precincts of the castle.

Thus I came to the cobbled courtyard before Ysella’s Tower. I looked up at it remembering the story and asking myself how it was possible for a man to keep two women in the same dwelling and one not know the other was there. “Preposterous!” I said aloud. But if they were meek women who obeyed without question the husband they shared, it might have been managed. No, I could not believe it. Although with the forceful Casvellyns perhaps anything was possible. Colum would like me to be as docile as Ysella and Nonna must have been.

Then I noticed the sand among the cobbles. There was a good deal of it. I wondered idly how it could have got there. Could it have been blown up in the storm? Impossible. It would have to come right over the top of the tower to get there. The only answer was that people who had been on the beach had been walking here. Strangely enough, I had been here the day before and not noticed it.

I was there on the stone step close to the iron-studded door, so whoever had brought it in had stood on that stone step.

As I stood there I saw a glittering object and stooping to pick it up I saw that it was an amulet. It glittered like gold.

I examined it. It was oval in shape, about an inch wide and two inches long. It was beautifully engraved and what was depicted fascinated me. It was the figure of a beautiful youth about whose head was a halo, and at his feet lay a horned goat; one of the youth’s feet was resting on the goat as though he had vanquished it. There was a name engraved on it in very small letters so that I could scarcely read it: I took it to my room and examined it and at last I made out the name to be VALDEZ. So it was Spanish. Someone must have dropped it. Someone who had been on the shore and brought the sand up on his boots.

I put the amulet in the drawer.

Colum returned two days later. I saw him riding towards the castle with the men and the pack-horses. They were unladen.

I went to the kitchen and ordered that the joints should be set on the spits immediately and that one of his favourite pies should be made without delay—squab perhaps as there was plenty of bacon and mutton and Colum had the Cornishman’s love of pastry.

We dined alone in the little room where we had our first meal together. Colum always wanted us to be there alone on occasions like this. It showed an unsuspected sentimentality.

I put on the diamond chain with the ruby locket and it was a very happy evening. It was when I put the chain and locket away that I opened it and looking at the space for a miniature inside it decided that I should like to have a picture of my son there after the custom.

I smiled, thinking of suggesting this to Colum and that he might be a little disappointed because I did not choose to have his picture. But would he ever allow himself to be painted? Then of course I might have other children and I should want pictures of them all. While I was thus idly thinking I was stroking the edge of the locket and to my amazement the layer in which was a space for a picture sprang up and I was looking into a woman’s face. She was beautiful, with clouds of dark hair, an olive skin and languorous dark eyes. So cleverly had it been painted that in spite of the fact that it was so small all this was apparent.

How strange that an unknown woman’s face should be depicted in a locket which was given to me by my husband. It could only mean that the locket had belonged to someone else before me.

Colum came into the room while I sat there holding it in my hand.

“Look at this, Colum,” I said, and I gave it to him.

He took it and looked down at the woman’s face.

I could see that he was taken aback.

“This is very strange,” he said.

“Clearly it once belonged to someone else. Where did you get it?”

I saw that for the moment he was nonplussed. Then he recovered himself.

“It could not have been the one I wished made for you. The goldsmith has lied to me. People dispose of their valuables and articles of gold, silver and precious stones are sold as new, for how could one be sure whether such articles had been freshly wrought or not?”

“So the goldsmith sold you the locket as new.”

“And,” said Colum, “it was not. I must take the fellow to task. How do you feel about it now; Can you wear something that was not made especially for you?”

I said: “I don’t want to part with the locket. Perhaps some day I might meet this mysterious lady. It is exquisitely done. The painter must have been a man of talent.”

“Give it to me,” said Colum. “The miniature shall be removed. You can put in something of your own family. I shall have your initials engraved on it. That goldsmith must do this, since he has sold me a secondhand article for a new one.”

Later on I said: “I’ll keep it as it is. Perhaps I could have pictures of my babies in it. That reminds me.” I opened a drawer and took out the amulet. “I found this, Colum,” I told him.

He frowned and almost snatched it from me.

“Where?”

“In the courtyard.”

He examined it in silence and I wondered whether he was as interested in the article or just trying to control his annoyance.

“Which courtyard?” he snapped.

“The one before Ysella.”

“I told you not to go there.”

“It was perfectly safe and I must walk somewhere since I can’t ride. What is it? I thought it looked like an amulet.”

“It is an amulet. I’d say this belonged to a Catharist. I have seen them before.”

“What sort of people are they?”

“It is a sect that has been in existence for many years, and has its roots in pre-Christian times. These people, though, profess to believe in two gods, the good one and the evil one.”

“As Christians do.”

“It is so. But the general belief is that these people serve the Devil. They profess they do not and this is the kind of amulet they carry with them to prove it. But they meet at midnight in what are called covens and they worship the Horned Goat. This shows the good triumphant. I have seen this kind of thing before.”

“I wonder whose it is. Do you think we have one of the Catharists in the castle?”

“I will discover,” he said, holding out his hand for it.

“It is beautifully engraved,” I pointed out. “See, there is a name on it. Valdez. That’s Spanish, is it not?”

“By God, so it is. Who could have come by it? A case of another second-hand article I’ll swear.”

“I like it,” I said. “It conveys the idea of virtue prevailing over evil.”

“I must find who owns it.”

He put it into his pocket.

“Let me know when you do find the owner,” I said. “I should like to know who would have such a thing.”

I sensed he was faintly disturbed.

Later that afternoon I went down to the shore. It was warm and there was a faint mist in the air. I could see the sorry sight of a vessel caught on the rocks, toppling drunkenly as the waves washed over her. I thought of the people who had confidently set out from some place on their way to a destination which they had never reached and wondered how many had perished in the storm.

Parts of the vessel still floated on the water, useless pieces of wood—the remains of what had once been a stalwart ship; and again I thought of my father, sailing on the treacherous waters which could be so calm and smiling and in a brief hour so cruel. All people who went to sea did so at their own risk, of course. They all knew that they needed good fortune as well as skill to come safely to land. All his life my father had been a sailor and he had come safely through. Men such as he was thought themselves invincible. Even the sea could not tame them.

A piece of wood was being brought in by the tide—in it came and was carried back, in and back, each time a little nearer. I watched it feeling a great desire to hold it in my hands.

Nearer and farther, tossed hither and thither on the waves. Now a big one brought it right to my feet.

I picked it up and I saw that it had letters on it. There they were: San Pedro.

So the ship out there was a Spaniard. A thought flashed into my head then—the amulet which I had found in the courtyard was also Spanish.

There seemed some strange significance in this but I was not sure what.

My time was fast approaching and my mother had come with Damask to stay with us. She brought Edwina and her little boy with her for it was almost Christmas. My father was on the high seas, so were Carlos and Jacko, who was now married.

They had not returned from the East Indies and my mother told me that so much would depend on the success of that first enterprise.

I was always happy to have her with me. I had been so immersed in preparations for the coming of my child that I had not thought very much about the amulet and the locket. Colum said no more to me about the amulet then and I thought he had forgotten them. He went away from time to time on his business and I did not accompany him.

So it was Christmas again and our thoughts were with the men on the high seas. Edwina I could see was anxious; my mother seemed to have a placid belief in my father’s survival through all conflicts.

She did tell me during her stay that Fennimore’s wife had that September given birth to a son who was named after his father.

My mother and Edwina decorated the castle hall. I was too cumbersome, my confinement being hourly expected.

And on Christmas Day of that year 1590 my child was born.

This time I had a daughter. I think Colum was a little disappointed for he would have preferred another son, but it was only a fleeting displeasure. I was twenty years old and already the mother of two healthy children.

My mother was delighted with the child.

“Daughters can be such a comfort,” she told me and kissed me.

Damask loved the baby and in fact when my mother went back to Lyon Court wanted to stay with us. However that was not possible and they left after the New Year.

For some time I was absorbed in my children. Connell was a lively child. I used to tell myself that this was just how Colum must have been at his age. He was going to be tall and strong, I was sure, and fond of his own way. Colum doted on him and was impatient for him to grow up; and sometimes it seemed that the boy was too, for to us in the castle he appeared to be far in advance of his years.

Mothers I know are supposed to love their children equally but I loved my little daughter with a single-mindedness which I believed I could never feel towards any other child I might have. Perhaps it was because her father showed less interest in her than he did in the boy. Perhaps she seemed more vulnerable than Connell ever had. He had appeared to be born with that self-confidence which he had inherited from his father. We called her Tamsyn, the feminine form of Thomas, the name of Colum’s father, and I added Catherine to that for my mother.

Through the rest of the winter, the spring and the summer I felt cut off from the outside world, so completely absorbed was I in my nursery.

Jennet adored the baby and she and I became more friendly than we had ever been and I was glad my mother had sent her to me.

In the August of that year my mother came to stay with us. She was eager to see the children. Tamsyn was now nearly eight months old and showing a decided character of her own. She was going to be a spirited girl. She had lost that air of helplessness which she had had as a little baby and was beginning to show a lively interest in everything around her.

My mother’s news was a little disturbing. My father with Fennimore and his father, Carlos and Jacko had all returned safely from the expedition to the East Indies. They had brought back rich goods and had started to trade with that part of the world. Alas, the journey had been a hazardous one and not all the ships which had set out had returned. They had mustered a fleet of fifteen vessels. Some had foundered and gone down with all hands; two had been captured by pirates; three had been engaged in an action against foreign ships the identity of which was unknown but clearly they had been some sort of traders. Out of the fifteen only eight had come into harbour, but they had been richly laden with spices, ivory and gold. Therefore the venture could be said to have been profitable.

“I thank God that our men returned safely,” said my mother, “but I pray for those poor souls who have not been so fortunate.”

I nodded and the memory of the San Pedro smashed on the rocks came back to me.

“I sometimes wish,” I said, “that my father and the rest were not seafaring folk. How much better if they pursued a profession ashore.”

“You are fortunate,” replied my mother, “in that Colum is occupied with his lands. I am glad for you, Linnet, that he does not make these long and hazardous journeyings.”

I nodded, and I thought of Colum who left mysteriously now and then and did not tell me where he had been.

My mother stayed until the end of September. I missed her very much after she had gone and a certain restlessness came over me. It was in this mood that the certainty that a great deal went on in Castle Paling of which I was ignorant persisted.

It was October. The evenings were fast drawing in and there was more than a touch of autumn in the air. Soon, I thought, the gales will be with us and my thoughts again went to the San Pedro which I had never quite been able to get out of my mind.

I found myself in the courtyard facing Ysella where I had discovered the amulet, and as I approached the iron-studded door I was aware of something different about it.

Then I realized what it was. The door moved. It was swinging ajar on its hinges.

The impulse was irresistible. I pushed it open and went in.

The first thing that struck me was the smell. It was strange and yet familiar. The place was close of course—little air came in. Then I realized what it was. It was the odour of sea water, seaweed, and a sort of musty dampness.

The door opened on to the hall which was very similar to that of the other towers. It was dark not only because little light came in but because this hall was full of articles. There were great boxes and piled objects of all kinds strewn about the floor. My foot touched something which made me cry out. I thought it was a man lying there trussed up. It was a bale of cloth. I bent over it. The sea smell was strong. It was slightly damp.

I made my way across the hall, stepping carefully round the objects which littered the floor. There were goods of all descriptions. What on earth could it mean? I could not understand it. How long had these things been here and whence had they come?

I went up the stairs. Along the gallery everywhere was permeated by this damp sea smell.

I pushed open a door and went in. I saw a wooden case. I went over it and looked inside. Some trinkets lay in it. They looked like gold and silver. I lifted one. It was a long gold chain. The workmanship reminded me of the chain Colum had given me with the ruby-studded locket.

As I stood there I heard a noise. I felt the hair on my head rise a little. I remembered suddenly that I was in Ysella’s tower, the haunted tower, the tower where Ysella had lived all those years ago in secret.

Almost immediately I overcame my fear. Someone was in the hall below. The door had been opened. Someone must have come in to get something.

I started along the gallery and reached the staircase. There was no one in the hall. Hastily I descended the stairs. A sudden feeling of panic had come over me. It was because the hall seemed darker than it had when I had entered. I saw why. The great iron-studded door which had been open and which I had left open was closed.

I hurried to it. I could not open it. Then I realized that it was locked.

I pulled at the enormous handle, but of course it would not move. The answer was simple. Someone had come in here, had either been in here when I entered and not seen me, or gone out for a while leaving the door unlocked and then returned, and locked the door.

Whatever had happened the fact remained. I was locked in Ysella’s tower.

I banged on the door with my fists. Whoever had locked the door could not be far away. But I realized quickly that this could do little but bruise my hands. I shouted, but my voice could not penetrate those thick walls.

I was faced with the alarming fact that I was locked in Ysella’s Tower.

What could I do? Was there possibly some other outlet? I must not panic. I must explore. There might well be another door. I knew the layout of the tower because it was similar to the others. I wished I could escape that horrible musty odour which seemed to grow stronger every minute. I found my way into what in Ysella’s day must have been the kitchens. There were the great oven, the fireplace and the roasting spits. There were a few cauldrons. They were filled with objects. There were some coins in one. I looked at them; they were not English coins. In another pot there was some more jewellery.

I thought then: When Colum wishes to give a gift to his wife he comes down here and selects it.

There was a door in a small passage close to the kitchens. I tried it; it was securely locked. There was no way out there.

I made my way back to the hall. The horrible realization came to me that it would soon be dark but I consoled myself that I should be missed and they would come in search of me. But would they think of looking in Ysella’s Tower?

I came into the hall, tried the door again, banged my fists against the stubborn wood, and called at the top of my voice. Then I made my way up the stairs again. Perhaps I could find my way to the ramparts. If I could and made some sign up there it might be possible that someone would see it.

The spiral staircases were like those in the other towers—the stairs narrow at one end and wide at the other, demanding care in mounting and descending and there was a rope banister to help one up or down. They wound round and round so that I had the sudden fear that as I turned a bend I might come face to face with some terrifying sight.

The tower was haunted it was said, haunted by Nonna’s ghost, because Nonna had discovered Ysella here and soon afterwards she had died.

She should not have been so curious, Colum had said lightly. And if I had not been so curious I would not now be in this predicament.

I looked into several of the rooms with their long narrow windows cut out of the thick walls. It was chilly and the odour was even up here.

The door on to the ramparts was not locked, I was delighted to see. I pushed it open and was in the fresh air. For a few seconds I could think of nothing but taking in great gulps of it. I looked through the battlements. There was the Seaward Tower looming up before me. I leaned over and looked down. I shivered. Far below was the courtyard where I had found the amulet. I knew now that the amulet, had it not been dropped in the courtyard, would doubtless now be in the wooden box or in one of the cauldrons with the other trinkets.

I looked up at the sky. Clouds were being hustled across it by a tetchy wind. I called out: “I’m here. In Ysella’s Tower. Somebody come and get me out.”

My voice was lost in the wind. There was in any case no one down there.

I took off my petticoat and waved it between the battlements. I was hoping someone would see it. There was no response.

I called again. Who could possibly hear? Gulls were circling overhead. They were coming inland which was said to mean that the wind was rising and there could be a storm at sea. They made their melancholy cries as they circled overhead.

What am I going to do? I thought. They’ll miss me. But will they think of looking in Ysella’s Tower?

I shouted again. I waved my petticoat. I was beginning to get a little frightened because it was growing dark rapidly and I had an uneasy feeling that no one was coming back into Ysella’s Tower and that no one could see me from the ramparts.

There was a chill in the air. I missed my petticoat. I thought: I can’t stay up here until someone finds where I am. On the other hand the thought of going back into the tower repelled me.

It was quickly growing dark. How stupid I had been to come so far inside. I should have stood at the door and looked about me and then when someone came along—as someone must have—I could have insisted that whoever it was accompanied me on my tour.

I had been foolish and what could I do now?

I walked farther along the ramparts. Here the battlements were fairly low. I leaned over. It made me feel dizzy. Nonna had died after she had found Ysella. She should not have been so curious. It was as though the evil-looking faces carved out of stone up there on the battlements were laughing at me.

Suddenly I heard a shrill piercing scream and looking down I saw one of the women servants running through the archway which led from Ysella’s courtyard to another.

I shouted but I was too late for she had disappeared and again my voice was carried away by the wind.

She must have seen me up here on the ramparts. She would think I was the ghost. But she would tell someone and perhaps they would come. I waited expectantly.

But no one came. It was almost dark now. I could not spend the night up here. It was better to go into the castle.

On impulse I threw my petticoat over the ramparts. They would search for me and that would let them know that they had to come here. They would open the door then and come and find me, for the garment would surely give them a clue as to my whereabouts.

I watched it flutter to the ground. It was uncanny. It looked as though it were a woman falling down. What had Nonna felt when she discovered her husband had been unfaithful to her? Life was no longer good for her and she had decided to take her life.

It was the fading light; it was the tension which I must necessarily feel in this situation which had made me fanciful; but it did seem as though that was a human being falling. There was a screech as she fell, but it was the gulls, startled perhaps by what would seem to them a gigantic bird floating down. Several of them rose overhead calling protestingly.

I stood there shivering.

Someone will find the petticoat soon and come for me, I promised myself.

I found my way down the spiral staircase, not so easy to manage in the gloom. I reached the gallery and went down to the hall.

It looked different now. There was very little light coming through the windows, which were few and so narrow. The Tower was built for defence and the lower windows were meant to supply the minimum light and air, for in a fortress the lower part was the most vulnerable.

I picked my way between bales of cloth that had been sodden and were drying out, garments, spices, goods which had been carried from one place to another—gold, silver, ivory; the kind of commodities which my father and the Landors were dealing in. Trade.

So much slipped into place. Colum going out on the nights of storm. His clothes soaked with rain and sea water. The Ysella tower to be locked and intrusion into the courtyard discouraged. Jennet dismissed from the Seaward Tower on the nights when Colum and some of his men were going on a journey. The men who inhabited the Seaward Tower who were not quite the same as the other servants. “They are fishermen, they catch our fish and I am very fond of fish,” he had said. They were men of the sea, those who inhabited the Seaward Tower. There were boats there, there were horses and donkeys, pack-horses.

I felt sick. I did not know whether it was the smell of these sea-saturated goods or the knowledge which had come to me or the thought of Colum’s anger if he ever knew that I had intruded into his tower. And he would know. Even now he would be looking for me. He would search for me and they would find my petticoat in the courtyard. That would surely lead them to Ysella’s Tower.

It was clear now. These goods which filled the tower had come from shipwrecked ships. On the night of a storm when ships were unable to withstand the fury of the elements, when they broke up on our coast, Colum and his servants were there. They salvaged the goods; they brought them ashore; they stored them in Ysella’s Tower and then he made bargains with men such as those he met in The Traveller’s Rest.

And it was a secret.

Was it against the law then to take goods from the sea? Was this why it must be done in secret? He had been angry when he had discovered my curiosity about the tower. He had told me the story in the hope that I would be afraid to go near it because it was said to be haunted.

He had not wished me to know of this. When I found the amulet, he knew that it had fallen from some goods which had been brought into the tower. The locket he gave to me he knew to have been part of these goods. When he gave me a present of jewellery, and he had given me one or two, he came down here and selected it. Something which looked like new … or would have done if I had not discovered the secret spring and the name in it.

What was this business of his? It seemed that there was something callous about a man who could come by his merchandise through the distress of others.

I shivered. Deep down in my heart I knew that there was something frightening about Colum. I knew that had I married Fennimore Landor I should have lived a peaceful happy life; my only anxiety would be when he took his sea voyages, and that would be for his safety, not for my own.

What a strange thought that was. But my mind felt so lucid now. It was as though a misty mirror had been wiped and I could now see clearly what was reflected.

Colum would be angry. What form would his anger take? If he raged against me, if he struck me—he never had but there were times when I had thought he was about to—I think I should be more at ease than if he silently accepted what I had done.

He would give me some explanation of course. But I did not need an explanation. I knew the answer. This was his profession. He owned much land, it was true, and he was said to be rich. But was he so because he sold jewels and the like which he took from sinking ships?

No wonder he was a little contemptuous of my father’s plan and that of the Landors for trading. Here was an easier way of bringing in merchandise than sailing the seas for it; here it was brought to his own shores.

It was growing darker. There was very little light coming into the hall. I could make out the shapes of the various objects; and I thought of people who had sailed with them. I could see it so clearly, the wind and the storm lashing their useless masts, the creaking of their vessels, the dying cries of the drowning and the cargo breaking free to be flung hither and thither on the frothing waters of the sea until it was picked up by the scavengers.

The scavengers! That was how I thought of them. I knew this much. I hated my husband’s profession. And he must be ashamed of it, or why should he attempt to keep it a secret from me?

I looked about the hall. If I could but find some light, I thought, I would feel better. I hated the gloom of the place. It was eerie, ghostly.

I sat down by a bale of cloth and tried to shut out its musty odour.

“Oh come, someone,” I prayed. “Rescue me. Am I to spend the night here?”

They would miss me of course. They would come to search for me. Perhaps already Jennet was telling Colum that I had not come to the nursery to put my children to bed, for that was a task I insisted on doing myself.

It was dark now. I sat very still listening. A strange scuttle on the stairs. It would be mice perhaps. Or rats. I shivered. Rats who had secreted themselves in some of the bales. They always left the sinking ship though.

One imagines noises. That sounded like a step on the stairs. Could it be the ghost of Nonna? She had given way to her curiosity and died soon after. Died because of it. Nonna had been murdered. She was the unwanted wife. If that long dead Casvellyn had been satisfied with his wife, why should he have set up Ysella in her Tower?

It was a crazy story. It did not make sense. How would it have been possible to keep two wives in the same castle and one not know of the other’s existence?

The wind was rising. How clearly I could hear the sound of the sea. It was washing now about the foundations of the castle; it was completely covering the Devil’s Teeth. Somewhere out to sea a ship might be in distress. And Colum would be watching so that he and his men might go out and profit from it.

I hated this. Yet my father had been a pirate. He had thought it right to rob the Spanish galleons who crossed his path. How many times had he sailed home, the hold of his ship crammed with treasure—filched from the Spaniards.

My mother said it was robbery. “You are a brigand,” she had told him, “a pirate.”

And the answer: “This is an age of pirates.”

How dark it was. How the wind buffeted the great walls of the castle. And then the lull and the silence which was more frightening than the noise of the wind. The sudden noise from above. What was it—some rat or mouse … or the footfall of one who was dead and could not rest?

I am fanciful, I know it. I do imagine things. I kept staring into the gloom expecting at any moment to see the ghostly figure on the stairs. Nonna walking slowly, coming towards me, a terrible coldness enveloping me as I am close to the dead and Nonna whispering: “I warn you. I have come back to warn you.”

It was imagination. There was nothing … only the dark hall with the shapes I could see as my eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom.

What time is it? I wondered. How long had I been here?

Long enough for them to miss me.

I am going to spend the night in Ysella’s Tower, I thought. I remembered how many times I had wished to look inside. Well, now I had, and here I was, a prisoner.

I was trembling. I was certain I was not alone in the tower. The thought sent a shiver down my spine. What had Nonna felt when she knew that her husband had a mistress whom he kept in this tower? I could picture her bewildered grief. And then she had died. Had she died of her own will or was she helped to her death?

I wondered how long I had been in the tower. It must be two hours. It had been about three o’clock when I came. Now it must be five. They would have missed me by now. I was sure of it.

If only I had a light. If only I could find a candle. I would set it in one of the windows. What of the serving-girl who had seen me on the ramparts? Had she not gone back to her fellow servants and told them what she had seen? They would laugh at her. How many times had one of the servants sworn she had seen the ghost of Ysella’s Tower?

Perhaps I should go up to the ramparts. Someone might come into the courtyard. If I shouted someone might hear me in time.

I stood up. The fearsome eerieness wrapped itself about me. I almost fell over a bale which I had not noticed. Its sea-damp odour swept up as I touched it.

My footsteps echoed hollowly on the stone flags as I groped my way to the gallery and found the spiral staircase. I could feel the rope and I grasped it.

I really felt terror going up that staircase. I was overcome by an awful presentiment that something malignant was waiting for me at the turn. Still I went on. I had to get out of this place and I had more chance from the ramparts. If I shouted, there was a faint chance that someone might hear me, for they would surely begin to look for me when they found me missing.

I must surely be nearly at the top of the staircase. I seemed to have come a long way. I touched the wall—it was cold and clammy. I turned. The staircase was less curved than it had been. Gingerly I felt my way, taking care not to lift one foot from the stone before I was sure the other was firm.

I could feel the cold air from the ramparts and then suddenly my heart leaped in terror, for a flash of light illuminated the scene and came to rest on the hideous face of a gargoyle carved in the stone. He leered at me in the sudden light and I gave a scream as I fell backwards.

I could not have fallen far though because the turn of the staircase stopped that. I lay inert on the stone staircase and I felt consciousness slipping away from me.

Noises everywhere—voices. I was lifted in a pair of strong arms.

“Colum,” I said.

He said: “It’s all right. You’re safe.”

I knew I was in Ysella’s Tower because of the smell. It was everywhere. It was light now because there were several men and they all carried lanterns.

Colum brought me down the staircase to the hall. It looked different now with so many lanterns to light it up.

He said: “I’ll carry my wife. She cannot walk, I think. She has hurt her ankle.”

Two of the men went ahead, their lanterns lighting our way. I was aware then of the darting pain in my ankle.

I was taken up to our room and Jennet was sent up to me. She took off my clothes and wrapped me in a warm gown. Then she drew the curtains about my bed. Some of the women came up—those who were specially skilled with herbs and such like. One of them examined my foot and put a paste of herbs on it and wrapped it up tightly.

I must not stand on it, I was told.

So I lay there, thinking of Ysella’s Tower and I went on living those moments as I had mounted the stairs. Then I was given a posset to make me sleep and I did.

I did not see Colum next morning. I remained in my bed for it was painful to walk and it was dusk when Colum came in to our bedchamber. I still lay on my bed.

He drew the curtains back and looked at me lying there.

“Now I wish to know what you were doing in Ysella’s Tower,” he said.

“I found the door open and looked in.”

He leaned over me. His eyes were narrowed. He looked cruel. “You have been told not to go there.”

“The door was open. I saw no harm in looking in.”

“Yes,” he said, “that has been taken care of.”

“What?” I asked.

“He who left open the door has been punished.”

“Punished. How?”

“You ask too many questions.”

“It was my fault for going in.”

“It was indeed,” he said. “You knew you had no right.”

“I saw no harm,” I retorted. “I wanted to know what was in there.”

“If I had wanted you to know would I not have told you?”

“If it had been something of little importance you would have told me. As you did not I knew it was significant.”

“I expect you to obey me. Has it ever occurred to you what could happen if you angered me?”

“You could kill me, I suppose, as your ancestor killed his wife Nonna.”

There was a silence in the room. He did not move; he stood like a stone statue, his arms folded.

Then he said slowly: “Do not provoke me. You have yet to learn that I can be an angry man.”

“I know it well. I have seen something of your rages.”

“You have seen nothing yet.”

I had a feeling then that I did not know him. He was a stranger to me though he was the father of my children. I felt that he had worn a mask and that it was slowly slipping from his face.

I was not afraid of him, strangely enough. I knew that his rage could be terrible; I had lost sight of the man who had stormed into the inn, who had taken me to his Castle. I had forgotten that man in the gratified husband, who was so delighted with his son. But he was still there.

I thought: He is capable of killing me if I angered him, or if he wanted to be rid of me.

It was almost as though the ghost of Nonna had lingered with me, that she was telling me this, that she was warning me to take care.

I felt strangely reckless. I was going to confront him with my discovery. I was not going to pretend.

He stood there in that pose as though he kept his arms folded to stop their seizing me; and whether they would have caressed me or his fingers would have gripped my throat and he strangle the life out of me, I could not be sure.

What I realized in that moment was that I knew little of this man.

He said: “You should not have been in the courtyard. You should not have entered the tower. You could have stayed there for days and we not discover you. But for the fact that one of the servants was hysterical because she had seen a ghost on the ramparts and we found your petticoat there we might not have found you. When I knew you were missing I sent men out looking for you. You caused me great alarm.”

“I am sorry to have done that.”

“So should you be. Never behave in this way again or you will be sorry.”

“You sound … murderous. I believe you would kill me.”

“It is right that you should fear me.”

“I did not say I feared you. I said I thought you capable of killing me. You are hating me now because I have discovered the nature of your business.”

“What have you discovered?”

“That in the tower there are goods salvaged from the sea.”

“And why not?”

“You could tell me why you wish to keep them so secret.”

“Is it not better for me to take them than to let the sea have them?”

“They are cargoes of wrecked vessels. Do they belong to you?”

“Salvage belongs to those who bring it in.”

“Surely sometimes there are survivors. What then?”

“If there were, then the goods would doubtless be theirs, but if there are none we take them from the sea.”

“But why did you not wish me to know?”

“I do not intend to answer your questions. It is you who shall answer mine. Have you spoken of this to your mother?”

“How could I? I have not seen her since I discovered it.”

“Perhaps you were suspicious.”

“I have not spoken to my mother.”

He leaned forward suddenly and gripped my wrist.

“Then you will speak of it to no one. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you perfectly well.”

“What happens in my castle is my affair. Remember that. No one else’s.”

I said: “I never want to wear the ruby locket again.”

He said: “You will wear it.”

“It belonged to someone … someone drowned in a ship. Did you take it from her corpse?”

“Be silent, you foolish woman. Be glad that you have a husband who cherishes you enough to bestow gifts on you.”

“I don’t want those which have been snatched from the dead.”

He turned away and went to my trinket box. When he came back the chain with the ruby locket was in his hand.

“Put it on,” he said.

“I prefer not to.”

“You will put it on,” he told me.

I refused to take it.

With a savage gesture he fastened it about my neck. I felt it cold against my skin.

I shut my eyes and lay there. I felt helpless to resist him although my whole body cried out for me to do so.

He threw himself down beside me.

He caressed my neck and played idly with the chain.

He said: “You please me now as ever you did. I have never been so long delighted with a woman. You are fortunate, wife. We have our children and they please me. I want more sons though. We’ll have them. And there is something else we’ll have. You will do as I say and be happy to. You will say I have no will but his. And whatever he does, still for me it will be right. Say it.”

“Nay,” I said. “You may put a chain I do not want about my neck, you may do to me what you did on the night you drugged my wine. But you cannot change my feelings. If I do not like what you do, even if I do not say so I still dislike it and nothing will change that.”

He laughed aloud.

“You’ve got spirit. I grant you that. That’s good, for I want to see spirit in my sons. What should it be like if they inherited the mealy-mouthed fear of a silly woman. Nay, you please me.” He had my ear between his teeth suddenly and he bit it savagely. “But know this,” he went on, “I will do as I will and you will not spy on me. You will talk of nothing you see here. Is that understood? You will close your eyes if you are squeamish. You will accept what you see here, and you will never whisper a word of it to anyone. Do you understand?”

“I understand what you say.”

“And you understand that you will be expected to obey.”

“And if I do not?”

“Then you would let forth the full force of my wrath and that can be terrible. Remember it.”

Fear came over me then. I felt as though I had been deceiving myself and when he made love to me I knew there was no tenderness; there was only the will to force me to his.

The coldness of the dead woman’s trinket seemed to cut into my flesh. I kept seeing the dark beautiful eyes in the miniature. I wondered: Did he see them in reality. Did he take the necklace from her while she still lived?

I began to wish that I had never ventured into Ysella’s Tower. I had been more at ease in my ignorance. Yet something told me that if there was evil it was better to be aware of it. Evil! Was I applying that word to my life with my husband?

I knew that life had changed. I was now aware and alert, waiting for something … I was not sure what.

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.

All through the month of January when it was cold—exceptionally for us, for there was snow—she scarcely moved from the Red Room. She ordered that a great fire should burn there throughout the day and most of the night and I did not countermand this order. When I felt inclined to, I remembered her lying there in the water so near to death and the men coming in with their donkeys, and I could do nothing.

My mother stayed until mid-February because the weather was too bad for travelling and while she was there I did not notice the change so much. It was after she had gone that it seemed more apparent.

I gathered from Jennet’s conversation that the servants were aware of it.

“They don’t like going to the Red Room,” she told me. “They’m in and out quick as can be. They say they’ll look up, like, and see her eyes on them. ’Tis like she be fixing a spell on them.”

“A spell, Jennet!” I said sharply. “What nonsense!”

“Well, she did come on Hallowe’en, Mistress.”

That alarmed me faintly. They were going to fasten the name “witch” on Maria.

I knew that she would be able to look after herself, but it was dangerous. Witches were taken and hanged or even burned to death on the flimsiest suspicion. I did not want the shadow of witchcraft to touch our household.

“It just happened that she was on the wrecked ship,” I said sharply.

“That’s what ’twould seem, Mistress.”

“That’s what it was, Jennet.”

“Well, they be saying that if she be a witch she’d make her coming seem natural. She could stir up a storm at sea if need be.”

“This is dangerous talk,” I said.

“And she pretends not to speak so’s we can understand.”

“She is a foreigner so of course her language is different from ours.”

“You can’t be sure, Mistress, with foreigners.”

I could see that Jennet, too, was tainted with this belief.

I said: “If they accused her of being a witch, what of Senara?”

Jennet then did look alarmed.

“They would soon be accusing the daughter of a witch,” I went on.

“She be but a babe.”

“Would they care for that? If they took one they’d take the other too.”

Jennet’s face was as resolute as it could only be when there was a child to be protected.

“’Tis all a parcel of nonsense,” she said hotly. “There were a wreck and she were from that broken ship. And just because it happen to be Hallowe’en.”

I could see that I had said the right thing.

I was sure Jennet would have some effect on the others but she could not eradicate suspicion altogether. Maria had come at the time of Hallowe’en, and to a community which was beginning to be more and more obsessed by witchcraft that was significant.

March was unusually mild and the spring feeling came early that year. There appeared to be a bigger crop of daisies and dandelions making the meadows a mass of white and gold. I had inherited a love of flowers from my grandmother and I always took special delight in their coming. At this time of the year I would ride out and search for the wild daffodils and wood anemones and the purplish-blue flowers of the ground ivy which I called gill-go-by-the-ground, a name I must have heard from my mother who got it from hers. This year was different. When I rode out I would be thinking about Maria and wondering what was going to happen to her and Senara, for they could not stay indefinitely at Castle Paling.

Where could they go? I wondered. I guessed Maria was Spanish but how could she leave for Spain? Perhaps I thought one of my father’s ships could take her, but in view of the animosity between our countries that could not very easily be arranged.

In time, I suppose, Maria would tell us. She had been in the house five months. Of course if there had not been the child she could not have remained so long.

I wondered why Colum ignored her presence. She was living as our guest and I had to admit that at times she behaved almost like the mistress of the house. Colum was not of a temper to tolerate such an invasion into his household, yet he had raised no objection after the first outburst. I could not get Edwina’s warning out of my mind, for Edwina’s prognostications had so many times proved to have some substance.

Returning from one of my rides on a lovely day in March, I left my horse in the stables and as I was coming into the courtyard through the narrow arch I heard voices.

I paused, for I recognized those of Colum and Maria, and it so surprised me that without realizing I stopped short. From where I stood they could not see me, nor I them, but Colum’s voice with its deep timbre was one which carried easily on the air.

They were quarrelling and I sensed the suppressed fury in him.

“Get out,” he said. “I will not have you under my roof. Get out and take your brat with you.”

I heard her laugh. It was a deep laugh, full of malice and hatred.

She spoke haltingly but there was no doubt of the gist of her remarks. “This you owe me. As long as I wish. You destroy our ship … You … you. Murderer. You take our goods … you take our lives … I live … my child live … and because this is so you owe us all we take.”

“I owe you nothing.”

“Think, lord of the castle. I go from here. I tell …”

“You tell … tell what?”

“How you become rich …”

I drew back into the shadows. I felt sick with fear. I thought of those stormy nights and the men coming back to the Seaward Tower with their donkeys.

“Some things I remember,” she said. “The ship … the lights … The big rocks are there … in the sea. There were lights to warn us … But the lights were not where the rocks were … I know what you do. You lure the ship to the rocks and you plunder us.”

“Who will believe this nonsense?” he cried.

She laughed again.

I could not stand there. At any moment Colum could come striding from the courtyard and find me there, listening.

I turned and fled. I went up to my bedchamber. I could not say that I had had a shock. For some time the thought had been in my mind … ever since I had seen the men on the donkeys … and perhaps before.

So this was what he did. He sent his men out on the donkeys with their lanterns and they would stand some miles away with their lights to indicate that that spot was Castle Paling and the Devil’s Teeth were just before it, and thinking to avoid the treacherous rocks the ships would come straight on to them.

It was diabolical.

And this he did that he might salvage the cargoes and sell them. How many ships had suffered in this way? I could remember five storms and the nightly activities of the men. They might not have succeeded in every instance, but that he could do this horrified me and changed my feelings towards him.

I did not know what to do. He was my husband, the father of my beloved children; and his profession—if such it could be called—horrified me.

It was a mistake to have come to the bedchamber for within a short time the door was open and there he stood, flushed with rage after his encounter with Maria.

I faced him. I could not keep silent.

I said: “I have just come up. I was in the courtyard. I overheard what Maria was saying to you.”

He looked at me in astonishment, his eyes narrowed suddenly. “Well?” he said.

“I know it’s true. Oh Colum, it’s horrible.”

“You too,” he said. “Have done. I am in a mood to do you a mischief … both of you.”

“She was right. You lured the ship in which she was sailing on to the rocks, for the sake of its cargo. By chance she managed to survive. I …”

“And you, by God, brought her here. Had I known what you were doing …”

“Yes, you would have thrown her back into the sea, for that is the kind of man you are. You care nothing for human life. You dispense with it if it is in your way. It sickens me to think of it.”

“Then, Madam, you had best prepare yourself for this state of sickness. If I have married a lily-livered woman, God help her, for I will have her obey me and keep her mouth shut when I command it.”

“I have suspected this.”

He came towards me suddenly and caught my arm. “You have mentioned this to any?”

“To whom should I mention it?”

“To your mother perhaps.”

“How could I? She would be disgusted. She would insist that I return to my home with her.”

He released his grip on my arm. “This is your home,” he said, “and by God, you shall stay in it as long as I wish to keep you. As for your mother’s disgust, I do not believe your father is so nice in his ways. I wonder how many Spaniards he has killed.”

“We were always at war with Spain.”

“Was it for war that they met their deaths or because they had gold and treasure? Answer me that.”

I could not. I knew what he said was true. And I knew that my mother, who was honourable and good, remained with my father and loved him in her way, in spite of his bloodstained hands.

I wanted to go away, to be by myself, to think. To ask myself what I wanted to do, for I could not be sure. I wanted to be with Colum. I had to admit it, he satisfied my senses. When we were together I could forget everything. The strength of him, the power he wielded over everything and everyone in the castle. At such times I felt I wanted to be subdued; I welcomed his rough love-making; it satisfied a part of my nature; but when he was not there, when I thought about him I felt repulsed and wanted very much to go back to Lyon Court. I wanted to talk to someone, to understand myself. I could not talk to my mother because what I had to tell I believed would cause her great concern. She would not want me to go on living with a man who lured people to their deaths for the sake of profit. Yet she had lived with my father.

It was a cruel world. Once my mother had said: “Was it so vicious in the past? Will it be so in the future? I find it hard to reconcile myself to the fury of the times. Perhaps I was born into the wrong world.”

I remembered that now and asked myself: Was I?

Colum was watching me; his black eyes alight with a passion that I had seen in the early days of our acquaintance.

He shouted: “Answer me. Answer me!”

“What other men did has no bearing on this,” I said.

“Has it not? You have a fine opinion of your father. I shall insist that you have as fine a one of your husband.”

“You cannot force people to have opinions.”

“We shall see,” he said. Then he came close to me and took me by the shoulders. “Now you know the nature of my business,” he said, “what do you propose to do about it?” I was silent and he went on: “I will tell you. You will accept it. You will help me in all I do, as a good wife should.”

“I would never help you to … murder.”

He shook me violently. “Have done,” he said. “A ship founders. I have as much right to its cargo as any.”

“A ship that has been helped to founder?”

“Should I be blamed because a captain does not know how to navigate?”

“If you lead him astray with false information, yes, you are to blame. You have caused the death of countless people … so that you could grow rich on their possessions.”

“Have done, you fool. Why did you have to save that woman from the sea?”

“Because I am not like you … a murderer.”

“You have brought her into this house with her brat. What good will that do us?”

“At least it has saved two lives to set against all those you have taken.”

“You have the tongue of a shrew.”

“As you have long discovered.”

“And you are too virtuous, are you, to stay under this roof?”

“I … think I would like to go to stay with my mother.”

“And leave your husband … and your children?”

“I could take the children with me.”

He laughed. “Never,” he said. “Do you think I would allow them to leave this roof? Or you either? They shall be brought up as I wish.”

“You would make a murderer of my son.”

“I would make a man of mine.”

“I will take my daughter and go.”

“You will leave your daughter and stay.”

“I have to think about what I have discovered.”

“There is one lesson you must learn and I had hoped you had learned it by now. I am the master here and of you and my children. You disobeyed me when you brought that woman here.”

“You had given no order that she should not be brought … Master,” I added with sarcasm.

“Because I had not seen her. She will bring no good to you. Rest assured of that.”

“I was not thinking of the good that might come my way. She was in distress, and as any normal human being would, I saved her.”

“You are a fool, wife, and I doubt not will live to regret your folly.”

“Why am I foolish?”

“Because she is as she is …”

“I understand not.”

“You must not think you are the fount of wisdom.”

“I must be alone. I want to think.”

“To plan your departure. You will stay here. I will not let you go. Take off your riding habit.”

“I am not yet ready to.”

“I am.” He snatched my riding hat from my head and threw it on to the floor. He caught my hair in his hands and pulled it in the rough manner with which I was familiar. I could sense the rising passion in him and although I thought of this later, there was something different in it. He wanted to teach me a lesson. I had to learn that I was his … to give way to him when and where he pleased; and these encounters often took place after I had shown some resistance to him. It was his way of subduing me; and it was effective, because he had aroused in me a desire which matched his own, revealing to him a sensuality in my nature which I had not known existed until he found it.

Now, I had talked of going away; and he would show me that I wanted him as he wanted me. I could not do without him just as he was pleased with me, in this respect.

It was as before—but there was this difference. Perhaps I should have known. But like so many significant things in life it only occurred to me later.

Maria stayed with us. Her status in the household had changed, and she behaved like a guest. She joined us at meals and her daughter was cared for in our nursery with our own children.

I was not sure how this had come about. Colum and I rarely ate alone but when we did it was in the room which I called the winter parlour—after the one at Lyon Court—the small intimate kind of room which people were beginning to use instead of the great halls where all the household sat together.

There were occasions when we dined in the hall. If there were visitors—which there were quite frequently—and on special occasions—then it was natural that Maria should be there. What was strange was that when we dined in the winter parlour she should join us. I could not understand why Colum accepted this.

I guessed that in a way either his conscience worried him—although that was difficult to believe—or that she was threatening him in some way. It was hard to imagine his allowing anyone to threaten him, but she had accused him of being a murderer. He had been responsible for the death of her husband—for I must believe she was travelling with her husband—and perhaps even he would feel he should make some amends.

Colum kept me with him a great deal after that encounter. He seemed determined to make me accept him for what he was. He told me, soon after that scene, that if I attempted to leave him, he would come to Lyon Court and get me, no matter if he had to kill my father in the attempt.

He said: “Don’t provoke me, wife. Never provoke me. You would find my anger terrible. I would stop at nothing to gain satisfaction. Is that something you have learned yet?”

“I begin to,” I said.

“Then be a good wife. Deny me nothing and you will be cared for. I want more children. Give them to me.”

“That is hardly in my hands.”

“You gave me Connell that first night. That was because you and I were made for one another. You responded.”

“How could I, drugged as I was?”

“Nevertheless you did. That was when I knew that I’d make you my wife.”

“I thought it had something to do with my dowry.”

“That came after. But that first night I knew. And look how soon we got ourselves our daughter. But all this time you have been barren. Why?”

“That question must be answered by a higher power.”

“Not so. You have slipped away from me. You have become critical of me. I will not have that. Take care, wife.”

“Take care of what?”

“That you continue to please me.”

What did he mean? I wondered about slipping away. Had I during that first year or so of marriage loved him not only with this physical passion of which I was so acutely aware, or had my feelings for him gone deeper than that? Had I built up a false image? Had I seen him as the man I wanted him to be? I could do that no longer.

And he allowed Maria to join us. Those meals à trois were not easy. Colum and I talked in rather a forced fashion; she appeared to watch us thoughtfully and contributed very little to the conversation.

I had a feeling that this state of affairs could not continue. We could not go on day after day sitting thus at table together. Something was going to happen. Then suddenly I was aware.

I caught his gaze fixed on her and he looked just as he had looked at me on the memorable night when I had first seen him at The Traveller’s Rest.

I felt a wild twinge of alarm.

I was deeply aware of them. They were playing a kind of game together. She was haughty, aloof, scornful of him; and he was maddened by her attitude. It was something of a repetition of what had happened between him and me.

There was an occasion when she stayed in her room and sent one of the maids down to say she was indisposed, for all the world as though she was the mistress of the house. We ate alone on that night. Colum was moody, speaking scarcely a word.

She had taken one of the horses from the stables and made it her own. I had supplied her with riding clothes; I had set the seamstress to make garments for her. That was in the beginning when I was sorry for her and wanted to make up for the wrong which had been done to her by my husband.

She never hesitated to take these things. She herself designed her clothes and was with the seamstress while she was working. When they were completed they were beautiful in an exotic way. She walked gracefully and held herself so proudly that she looked like a queen. Her beauty seemed to intensify with the passing of the months. She loved the sun and on hot days rode off and sometimes did not come back all day.

Colum continued to watch her broodingly; and he had ceased to mention her to me.

When we entertained she joined the company. She would seat herself at the table on the dais and even though Colum and I were in the centre she would have given the impression to a stranger that she was the mistress of the house, not I.

There was often something jaunty about her manner; it was as though she were secretly amused. One of the neighbouring squires had fallen in love with her and implored her to marry him. She would not give him a definite answer and consequently he made pretence after pretence to visit us.

“Young Madden is here again,” Colum would say. “Poor lovesick fool! Does he think she will have him?”

Once I said: “Colum, how long will she stay here?”

He turned on me angrily. “I thought it was your pleasure that she stayed. Was it not you who were so eager to make up for my cruelty?”

“Yes, but she doesn’t belong here, does she?”

“Who shall say who belongs where? Once you did not belong, now you do.”

“Surely that is different. I am your wife.”

“Remember it,” he said rather sourly.

That was a strange long summer. The heat was intense. The sea was as calm as a lake and from the turret window looked like a sheet of silk shot with blue and grey light; its murmur was gentle as it washed the walls of the castle. I would often look out at the sharp teeth of the Devil protruding above the water, and the dark smudge of battered vessels there. I wondered what Maria thought when she looked out and saw the remains of the Santa Maria. Did she think of her husband who was lost to her forever? One could never tell; she glided about the castle with that aloof look in her eyes and no one could know what she was thinking.

Colum was different. He talked often about another child. What was wrong with me? Why did I not conceive? He had changed towards me. I was sensitive enough to realize that. There was a certain lack of spontaneity in his passion. I thought I knew why.

I wished that my mother would visit us. In the months of June I wrote and asked her to come. I told her how I missed her and how long it seemed since we had been together.

There must have been a plea in my letter for she wrote immediately and said she was making plans to leave. I felt relieved then. I had decided that I must confide in her. I knew that was the last thing Colum wanted but I did not care. I felt I must talk to someone. But she did not come. Damask had a fever and she neither dared leave her nor bring her.

“When she is well, we will come, my dear Linnet,” she wrote. She told me what was happening at home. My father had returned from his second voyage and this time he had been equally successful as far as trading was concerned and had achieved this without the loss of ships. The Landors had visited them and they had talked most of the time about the success of the venture.

“Fennimore’s little boy is the pride of his life,” she wrote. “He is called Fenn and must be a month or so older than our own little Tamsyn.”

Her letter brought back so clearly to me the great hall in Lyon Court and my father at the head of the table talking of his adventures and my mother, watching him and now and then bickering with him.

There was a great comfort in thinking of my mother and father. I imagined that Colum and I were rather like them. Their marriage had survived the years and it was clear that they could not live happily without each other. We should be like that, I promised myself, perhaps rather too vehemently.

I watched Maria walking to the stables. She swayed as she walked, so graceful was she. When she sat a horse she looked like one of the goddesses from Greek mythology. I thought that so much beauty concentrated in one person was disconcerting.

I wondered where she went on her long rides. That was a mystery. Mystery must always surround Maria.

July came and the heat had turned sultry.

“There’ll be thunder,” said the weather-wise; but they were wrong. The heat persisted. St. Swithin’s Day came and we watched for the rain. It did not come.

I remember my mother’s quoting to me:

“St. Swithin’s Day, if thou dost rain

For forty days it will remain.

St. Swithin’s Day, if thou be fair

For forty days ’twill rain nae mair.”

But what did I care whether it rained or the sun shone? The weather could not alter the strangeness in the Castle.

Then came August—hot nights when the bed curtains were drawn back to let in a little air. There was a swarm of wasps. Connell was stung and I treated the sting with a remedy Edwina had given me. How I wished I could see Edwina. I remembered then how she had said that there was something evil in the house.

Evil. Yes it was evil. There was no mistaking it. In my heart I thought: It was brought here by the woman from the sea.

I awoke in the night. It was too hot for sleep. Colum was not there. How many times had I awakened and found him gone. I went to the window and looked out to sea. It was calm and still. A shaft of moonlight made a path on the still waters. I could see the tips of the Devil’s Teeth clearly. There was no ship in sight.

Some impulse made me take my robe and wrap it round me. I opened the door and stepped out into the narrow corridor.

It was dark for there were no windows to let in the moonlight. I went back into the room and lighted a candle.

I knew where I was going and if I found what I felt I might find, what should I do? I would go to my mother. I would steal out of the house in secret and take the children with me. Or I might write to her and tell her that she must come for I needed her even as Damask did. Damask was recovering now. She could come to me and she must.

The candlelight threw shadows on the thick stone walls. I stood outside the Red Room, my fingers on the latch, yet I could not bring myself to open the door. In my mind’s eye I could picture them. It would be as it had been with us, for she had bewitched him.

Why did I use that word? Bewitched. It was wrong. There was no question of witchcraft. She was a beautiful and voluptuous woman, he was a sensual man. He desired her as he had once desired me, and did I not know that he would allow nothing to stand in the way of his desires?

The room of ghosts and shadows, I thought. She suffered here, poor Melanie. And if he visited Maria here, what did the poor sad shade of Melanie think? Could it be true that unhappy people walked, as the servants said? Did they hope to regain some happiness by so doing? Did they seek revenge on those who had made them suffer?

How like him it would be to join Maria in that room, on that bed where Melanie had died! … just as he had made me share it with him. I remember then his passion had been not only desire for me but a need to show Melanie’s ghost if it existed that he cared not a jot for it. It seemed that in Colum’s passion there must always be double motives.

Quietly I opened the door. The curtains were drawn back from the bed and a shaft of moonlight shone straight on to it.

It was empty.

I felt ashamed as I tiptoed back to my bedchamber. I lay on the bed. Colum did not join me. It seemed strange that they were both absent on that moonlit night.

September had come and the heat was still with us. I had to see my mother. I told Colum that either she must come to me or I would go to her.

He did not answer me; his thoughts appeared to be on other matters.

There had been no disasters at sea during the summer months. Colum rode off on long journeys by himself and often stayed away for several days. He never told me where he had been. Maria was at the castle—quiet, brooding almost; there was a secret smile in her eyes.

Colum came back after one of his long journeys. It was September—nearly a year since that night when I had gone out and rescued Maria from the sea. Senara was taking notice now. Her eyes would light up when I entered the nursery; I wondered what happened when Maria did. But of course she rarely did. She had borne her daughter and passed her over to us, as though it were our duty to care for her.

Soon the autumn would be with us. A whole year would have passed. At the end of October it would be Hallowe’en again.

When I rode inland I saw the birds congregating ready to leave for a warmer climate. The butcherbird, the nightjar, the chiffchaff and the common sandpiper were leaving us. Our ever-faithful gulls would remain to wheel over our coasts and utter their mournful cries.

I said to Colum: “I have written to my mother. It seems so long since I saw her. I am insisting that she comes.”

He looked at me steadily, his dark eyes cold.

“You have not heard,” he said. “I did not wish to disturb you. The sweat is raging in Plymouth.”

“The sweat!” I cried. “Then she must come to us at once.”

“Nay, that she will not. Dost think I will allow my children to run the risk of catching it?”

“She may be ill.”

“You would have heard had she been.”

“I must go to her.”

“You shall stay here.”

“But if she is in danger?”

“I doubt she is ill. But she is near the sickness and it spreads like wildfire. You must stay apart.”

“I want to see her so much,” I said.

“You talk like a peevish child. You have your home to think of. Know this. She shall not come here nor shall you go to her, I’ll not have danger brought to the castle.”

I was worried about my mother, but letters came. The sweat was taking toll of many people in the neighbourhood, she wrote. She did not go into the town. She had feared that Damask was sickening, but it turned out to be only a return of the fever she had had earlier.

She wrote that she thought it unwise of her to come to see me or me to go to her.

“I shall write often, my dearest child,” she said. “And until this terrible thing passes, we must be content with our letters.”

She sent me a pair of stockings such as I had never seen before. The art of weaving had been introduced by a gentleman of Cambridge. He was the Rev. Mr. Lee and my mother wanted to know if I had ever seen such stockings.

See how they mould themselves to the leg as stocking never did before (she wrote). I have heard from your grandmother in London that they are always worn by the quality and she says that soon there will be no other kind. I have more news from London. A Mr. Jansen who has been making spectacles has invented an instrument which makes things far off seem close. It is called a telescope. What will happen next, I wonder. What times we live in. I would instead they could find some means of preventing this terrible sickness breaking out every few years—and a cure for it when it comes.

To read her letters offered me some comfort; but I wanted so much to talk to her. I wanted to tell her of the strange atmosphere which was slowly creeping into the castle.

That it had something to do with Maria I was certain; and Colum was involved in it.

Are they lovers? I wondered. If they were, that would explain so much.

It was Hallowe’en again. Now the weather had changed. There was rain—a light drizzle which was little more than a mist.

Jennet’s eyes were dark with her thoughts. I wondered what she knew.

“’Tis a year,” she said, “since she came here. ’T’as been a long year … a long strange year.”

So Jennet had felt it too.

“And little Senara is ten months old.”

“A proper little miss,” said Jennet, her eyes softening and the mysterious look going out of them. “It does me good to see young Tamsie with her. Proper little mother. And Senara, she knows her too. Screams for her. I swear she said ‘Tamsie’ the other day. Mark my words, that’ll be the first word that one says.”

I was glad that my daughter was kind to the baby. It showed a pleasant trait in her character that there was no jealousy, for I knew that Jennet spoiled Senara. How far away that nursery world seemed from what was going on in the rest of the castle!

Hallowe’en was with us. A dark and gloomy day—quite windless; the mist hanging over the castle, shrouding the turrets and penetrating into the rooms. The coastline merged into a bank of mist. It would be hard for any ships who were near our coasts in this. They would not need the lights from Colum’s donkeys to deceive them. They would not be able to see anything through the mist.

It was a silent world—chill and dark. I thought of the raging storm of last year. I wondered whether Maria was remembering too.

There was no bonfire that night.

I asked Jennet why.

“Weather bain’t fit,” she told me.

But I didn’t think it was only the weather. Many of the servants believed there was a witch among us and it might have been that they feared to offend her.

So the night of Hallowe’en passed quietly.

But in the morning we discovered that Maria was missing. The bed in the Red Room had not been slept in. All that day we thought she would come back. But she did not. And as the days began to pass, we began to realize that she had disappeared.

She had left us Senara as a memento of that night a year ago, but she herself had gone as suddenly as she had come.

CHRISTMAS NIGHT IN THE CASTLE

WHAT A STRANGE TIME that was. Christmas came and passed. My mother did not visit us because of the threat of the sweat. Silence had settled on the house; the servants whispering together. None of them would go to the Red Room.

Every day I waited for something to happen. Sometimes I would go to that room and quietly open the door, expecting to find her returned. The room was empty, silent; yet I sensed a presence there. Was it Melanie or did some mysterious aura of Maria remain?

The servants were convinced that she was a witch. She had come and gone on Hallowe’en. I could imagine that that was some wry joke of Maria’s; for I had often had the feeling that she was laughing at us in a contemptuous kind of way.

I thought during the first days that she would be back. In the first hours I had thought she might have eloped with James Madden. That was soon dispelled when he arrived at the castle. The news had reached him that she had gone and he had to discover for himself. I had rarely seen a man so stricken. At least it proved the theory wrong that she had gone to him.

A month later he had killed himself. He was found hanging in his bedchamber.

When we heard the news at the castle the servants were horrified. They were certain then that she had been a witch.

I myself wondered if this were true. Once I spoke to Colum about it. He did not seem disturbed by her departure. In fact, at times I thought he seemed relieved that she had gone. He had been attracted by her without doubt, and when I think of that incomparable and rather strange beauty, I was not surprised. I knew it must have been irresistible. I warmed towards Colum. It was amazing how easily I could. I believed that he had been attracted against his will and that now temptation had been removed he was glad.

With each day I felt myself growing away from the horror the first revelation of his way of life had brought to me. Could one grow accustomed to such things? My mother had. Was I the same?

I suppose in fact we were women with deep physical needs. There was nothing of the retiring female in either of us. Physical contact brought us that pleasure which is said to be somewhat repulsive to women of refinement. I knew from my mother’s revelations that she was of a similar nature. Colum could give me complete physical satisfaction as I knew I did to him. It was as though my relationship with him was on two levels. But for this physical relationship I should have been horrified by what he did—and indeed I was—and yet he was my husband, I could not leave him for he would not allow it, and even had I found a way of doing so it would have meant losing my children. Perhaps I was weak in suppressing my revulsion. I was certainly not happy and it haunted my life. On the other hand I could not leave him.

As that year progressed we settled into a way of life which did not change much. There were one or two wrecks but I tried not to think about them. While the storm raged I would lie in my bed, the curtains drawn and try to shut out of my mind the thought of what was happening outside the castle. There were one or two facts which forced themselves on my attention. I knew that Colum had agents in various foreign shipping ports—and English ones too—who informed him when cargo ships were leaving. He would know what route they would take and if they were likely to come near to our coast. Then he would watch for them. His men would be out on the coast and if the weather favoured him he would attempt to bring the ship on to the Devil’s Teeth.

I would lie there trembling sometimes, saying to myself: “You are a devil, Colum. You are cruel and wicked and I should take my children away from you. What can happen to them with such a father?”

My daughter was safe. She was essentially mine. Colum was proud of her healthy looks but he showed little interest in her. The boy was all his. Connell, now five years old, was beginning to look like his father. Colum would take him out on his pony; I had seen the boy riding on his shoulders. Connell could give that unadulterated adoration which Colum wanted. I think that Colum loved Connell more than anything on earth. He was determined to “make a man of him” and that meant bringing him up in his own image. He was succeeding admirably. The boy only came to me when he was sick, which was rarely. Then he would be like any other small child needing his mother. Colum had little patience with sickness, although if Connell was ailing he would be frantic with anxiety.

How different was my little Tamsyn. She was a bright child. Although a year and four months younger than Connell, I could see already that she was going to be more intelligent. She had a quick probing mind and asked continual questions. She was by no means pretty; she had a rather snub nose and she had missed her father’s darkness—which Connell had inherited—and was mid-brown, with large hazel eyes. Her mouth was too large and her brow too high; but to me she was perfect.

There was in Tamsyn a protective quality. It may have been that she sensed something of the relationship between myself and her father and instinctively knew that it was not all that could be desired. I always fancied that when Colum was in the nursery she was standing guard to protect me. To look at that small stalwart figure, ready to do battle on my behalf, moved me deeply. She had the same protective attitude towards Senara, which showed an uncommon trait in her character. She was going to be of the kind that fights for the rights of others.

Then there was that other occupant of our nurseries: Senara. She had been ten months old at the time of her mother’s departure and had very quickly forgotten her. Maria had never played an important part in her life in any case. It was Jennet and myself who gave her that affection and security which children look for.

It very early became clear that she was going to be a beauty. It seemed impossible that it could be otherwise with such a mother. Her hair was of the same black and silky texture as that of Maria; her eyes were long and dark; her skin of the magnolia petal kind, her nose was straight and perfectly formed and she had a lovely mouth. I wondered whether she would be as beautiful as her mother—it was too soon to say, but there was a sweet innocence about her which I felt sure Maria could never have had even in her cradle.

When Maria had left and there was all the talk about her being a witch I feared that some harm might come to Senara. She was, after all, the witch’s child. Some of the servants would not go near her and I talked seriously to Jennet about this.

“Jennet,” I said, “you must always let me know what the servants are saying. What do they think about Maria’s going away?”

“On Hallowe’en which was when she came,” said Jennet. “It goes to show. There can’t be no gainsaying that.”

“They are saying she’s a witch no doubt.”

“She be a witch, Mistress. How did her come, and where be her to now?”

“We know how she came. She was shipwrecked. Where she has gone is a mystery. People often go away discreetly.”

“To a lover, like as not,” said Jennet, touching her lips with her tongue. “She were the kind who would bewitch a man. Why …”

I stopped her. I knew she was going to say she had bewitched the master. Jennet’s tongue always ran away with her.

“It is Senara who worries me, Jennet.”

“Senara!” Jennet’s maternal feelings began to bristle. “What be wrong with Senara?”

“Nothing wrong with her health. You have been like a mother to her.”

“It do make you feel young again, Mistress, to have a little one in your arms.”

“Make sure no harm comes to her.”

“What should, Mistress, a baby … little more?”

“They will say she is the witch’s child.”

“They wouldn’t harm a baby.”

“Make sure they don’t, Jennet. Watch over her.”

“My dear life, Mistress, no one’s going to harm that pretty creature while I’m there.”

“What of those nights when you’re at Seaward with your lover?”

Jennet blushed like a schoolgirl. “Well, there be those,” she admitted. “But there’s the girl, Amy. I talk to her. ‘If any harm should come to my babies,’ I said to her, ‘I’ll break every bone in your body.’ And there’s young Tamsie. She’s there. She’ll look after Senara. They lie close together, and Tamsie holds her hand all through the night. If she cries, Tamsie soothes her. A regular little mother she be. Nay, no harm will come to Senara.”

“Watch the talk, Jennet. People can work themselves up into hysteria over some matters and witchcraft is one of them. Maria has gone. If she was a witch then she has taken her influence somewhere else.”

“And in good time,” said Jennet. “I could see the bewitchment in her.”

I knew she was thinking of Colum. Jennet who was wise in the ways of men would have sensed the growing tension in his relationship with Maria.

So the time began to pass, and although the servants refused to go into the Red Room and crossed themselves when they passed it, I was sure that there was less talk of witchcraft in the kitchens than there had been.

It was not until August of that year that my mother came. It was wonderful to see her. I told her in detail of Maria’s departure and she was pleased that she had gone. “A woman like that is unsettling in a household,” she said.

She loved the children and Tamsyn was her favourite. There was something very appealing about my grave little girl.

My mother had all the latest news from London where, she told me in hushed tones, twenty-eight thousand people had died of the plague.

“These terrible epidemics,” she sighed. “Is there no end to them? How I wish some means could be found of stopping them!” She went on: “You must come to Lyon Court and bring the children with you. Your father complains that he sees you rarely.”

“He should come here with you.”

“He is always engaged on a voyage or preparing for one.”

“Is he getting along amicably with the Landors?”

“As well as can be expected. You know your father. He is not the easiest man to work with. He wants all his own way.”

“And Fennimore … ?”

My mother looked at me sharply. She sensed that something had changed at the castle and I knew she was wondering if I were regretting my marriage. I was not sure whether I could truthfully say that I did. I could confess to myself that now and then I thought of Fennimore Landor, with the gentle kindly face and the idealism of his expression. He wanted to make a better world. He was that sort of man. Colum cared nothing for the world, only his own profit. Now I was beginning to think as I had long ago of how different my life might have been if I had not gone on that journey and met Colum. I should I was sure, have married Fennimore. We should have had children. I should have spent my time between Trystan Priory and Lyon Court and I was sure I should have been happy—in a quiet, secure and peaceful way.

Did I regret? How can I say? At times, yes. But then my children would not have been Connell and Tamsyn and when you have children whom you love how can you wish that you had others, which you undoubtedly would have had with a different father.

“Fennimore,” said my mother, “is as enthusiastic as he ever was. He believes wholeheartedly in this project. And so does your father now. They have built a new ship. It is a joint project. They have named her the Landor Lion. She is due to go out to the East Indies early next year.”

“And his son … ?”

“He is at Trystan Priory with his mother.”

“You see them now and then?” I asked.

“Oh yes indeed.” I wanted to ask what Fennimore’s wife was like and if he was happy with her and did he ever think of me. Which was vanity, of course. It would be better for us both if we never thought of each other.

“And … his son? Are there any other children?”

“There is a girl besides young Fenn.”

“What is she called?”

My mother hesitated a moment and then she said: “Melanie.”

“I see. After Fennimore’s sister. They are happy, I suppose?”

“Yes. It is a quiet household. Of course Fennimore is away at sea a great deal, as your father, Carlos and Jacko are too. Romilly misses Penn a great deal, for he sails now with your father.”

“I am glad,” I said, “that the trading business is proving successful.”

“You are lucky to have a husband who does not go to sea, Linnet. Always when they set out one wonders when and whether they will return.”

I was silent, thinking of Colum battling with the waves in his small boat, luring men to their deaths for the sake of their cargo.

I was on the point of telling my mother, but as was to happen so many times, I did not.

Time was passing and Maria was hardly ever mentioned now. I often wondered whether Colum thought of her. There were my mother’s visits, but Colum raised objections when I wished to go and stay with her. I had the feeling that he believed I should never come back. There would always be an excuse when my mother wanted me to go. He had heard that there were robbers on the road and could not himself spare the time to take me. He wanted to take Connell with him somewhere and he was not sure which day he was going. How could I travel with three young children? There was always some excuse. I must wait until he could travel with me.

“Vagabonds and robbers are being driven out of the big cities,” he told me. “And where will they come? Into the country! There are so many of them in the cities that the mayor of London and the Star Chamber are determined to rid the capital of them. They beg constantly and make a nuisance of themselves, and because they persist they are hanged on the gallows in London as a warning for all to see. And what will they do? Come to the country. They will beg by the roadside and if you do not give they will take—and like as not murder you for good measure. Do you think I am going to allow my children to make a journey in such conditions!”

There was truth in this for my mother wrote that she had heard from London that those who persisted in begging were hanged by order of the magistrates.

So we did not go to Lyon Court, though my mother made the journey to us. When she came she brought a bodyguard of servants and any robbers would have had short shrift from them. I suggested to Colum that I travelled likewise protected, but he would not hear of it.

That Christmas, however, he agreed that we should go to Lyon Court and we travelled there with the three children, Jennet and two other women and about four grooms.

My father was home and delighted to see us, particularly the children. He was greatly attracted to Connell and loved to see my son, legs apart, imitating his grandfather and father. I sighed to myself because I knew that he was going to be such another as they. They sensed this too but it delighted them.

My father took him on his ships and was eager to make a sailor of him. I encouraged this. I would rather he followed my father’s trade than that of his own father. Tamsyn was my mother’s favourite and I was so pleased that my little daughter was determined that Senara should not be left out. Not that my mother would have attempted to do that, but wherever Tamsyn was, there was Senara.

The child was three years old, rather precocious and undeniably beautiful—quite the beauty of the family. My father studied her closely and nodded at her. I could see he thought that she was one of Colum’s bastards.

He listened attentively to the story of Maria’s being washed up on the shore and brought to the castle to bear her child. I could see the twinkle in his eyes as he surveyed Colum. It meant, he understood. This was Colum’s way of introducing his child into the castle.

He would not have thought so if he had seen that poor half-drowned woman I had found on the shore. His connoisseur’s eye was quick to note Senara’s appearance.

“She’ll be a little beauty, that one,” he commented, and choked with laughter. He liked to think of other men’s misdemeanours. I supposed that made his own seem in the natural course of events.

I remember the fierce arguments that Christmas. My father raged against the Spaniards as he used to in the days of my childhood. He choked with rage when he talked about the descent they had made on Penzance that July.

“By God, the Dons have raided our coast. Have they forgotten we have driven them off the seas?”

“Have we?” said my mother. “If that is so, how did they get to Penzance?”

“Our own coast!” spluttered my father. “What say you, son-in-law? Do you not think we should take out ships and harry them?”

“I do indeed,” said Colum.

“Trade,” spat out my father. “’Tis fair enough when we have done for the Dons. But while they show such impudence and raid our coasts, there’s only one thing to do. Raid theirs.”

“You disconcert them more by taking their trade,” said my mother.

“Disconcert them!” stormed my father. “I’d murder the lot of them. I’d wipe them off the seas.”

He was all for diverting his ships from their trading ventures and putting them in action against Spain.

“We haven’t finished with the Spaniards yet,” he growled. “By God’s teeth, will they never learn their lesson?”

Colum and my father talked of the Spaniards with loathing. My father was pleased with Colum, except that he could not understand why Colum did not go to sea.

“I would,” said Penn, “that I could discover a gold mine, like Sir Walter Raleigh.”

“He has not discovered it yet,” my mother reminded him.

“He will,” cried Penn. “I know he will.”

“He has to,” put in my mother, “if he is to regain the Queen’s favour which he lost through seducing one of the maids of honour.”

“Poor Raleigh!” said my father. “I doubt not she asked to be seduced. No woman is taken against her will, to my mind.”

“You men imagine you are quite irresistible, I am sure,” said my mother, “but you have unwilling victims now and then.”

My father’s eyes were on my mother, suppressing his amusement. I looked up. Colum was watching me.

I thought: I wish I could stay here with my mother, and my children with me always. Here I feel safe.

Edwina and her son were of course with us. Carlos was at sea and at such times she more or less lived at Lyon Court. My mother knew how anxious she could be and with that strange gift of hers my mother was always afraid that she would see some disaster.

Edwina talked with me during that visit when we were alone.

She said: “I feel happier about you now.”

“Were you unhappy before?”

“I had an uneasy feeling that there was something evil at the castle. You remember I told you.”

“Yes, I remember. It had something to do with Maria. She disappeared, you know, as suddenly as she came.”

“It was a strange feeling … vague, insubstantial. That’s how it is often. Now I feel … much happier.”

“So, I’m safe,” I said rather lightly.

She answered: “It is as though the evil which threatened has receded. I can’t explain more than that.”

It was clearly the influence of Maria. I often wondered what became of her. She went away taking nothing with her. It was all very strange.

Edwina embraced me. “Take care, Linnet,” she said.

And I wondered whether she was still a little uneasy about me.

That year slipped away almost unnoticed. I was glad that Maria seemed to have been forgotten; I felt that was better for Senara’s sake. The Red Room was still the haunted room, but Maria’s name was only occasionally mentioned.

Senara was growing up to be a normal little girl and the only difference between her and the others was her exceptional beauty. The devotion between her and Tamsyn had not diminished but was even more marked. Senara who had a tendency to naughtiness could be called to order immediately by Tamsyn.

I spent a great deal of time in the nursery. I was teaching the children so this was necessary. I dare say I was prejudiced, but my daughter’s quick mind was a delight to me. Her affectionate nature charmed me and perhaps most of all that protective streak which was so marked in her relationship towards me and towards Senara.

I tried to shut out my doubts and fears about Colum. I had my children; and my mother was not so very far away. I knew that she had suffered a great deal because such a long distance separated her from her mother, so I told myself I had much to be thankful for.

If I had never discovered the nature of Colum’s business, I could have been very happy during those years. There were to be two more of them before I realized that they were but a lull, a waiting period, and that the storm which had begun to gather about me had merely receded and could return and break over my head.

During those years the country remained at peace although there were skirmishes with Spain, the perennial enemy. The defeat of the Armada had saved us from invasion but it had not completely eliminated the enemy.

It was a sad day for the country—and particularly for the West Country—when we heard that Sir Francis Drake was dead. He and Sir John Hawkins had set out with a fleet of men-of-war to attack the Spanish settlements in the West Indies. Both of them had died. If they had but stayed at home, both of these men would have lived. It seemed a pity that Sir Francis who had done so much good should have gone away to die. He had brought water to the town through the river Meavy and had built six mills for the grinding of corn. He went into Parliament—representing Plymouth, naturally—and he had organized the building of walls and fortifications there.

My mother was sadly angry. “So much good he did in peace, why did he have to go on this expedition? What did it matter that the Spaniards had a treasure store in these places? Let them keep it. Better so than that a great man should lose his life in attempting to take it.”

But that was the way of such men. “He died as he would wish to die,” growled my father.

Then there was the apprehension when he heard that the Spaniards had taken Calais. Did this mean that our enemies were rising again? The Queen entered into an alliance with the French, but they were not liked much more than the Spaniards.

There was great rejoicing when Admiral Howard plundered Cadiz. My father talked of it for a whole year. “The Spaniards’ losses amounted to twenty million ducats,” he gloated.

We would hear such news and then there would be silences of months. What happened in the capital affected us little.

I was now visiting my mother often. The more I made the journey, the less arduous it seemed. The children were getting a little older and that made it even easier.

My relationship with Colum was changing. I was no longer so necessary to him. There were occasions when the passion flared up between us, but at others he seemed almost indifferent to me. He was away a great deal more than he had been. I had learned that it was unwise to ask where he had gone. Nor did I wish to know. I shut myself away. I could see no way out of my situation. I must accept Colum and what he did or refuse to and leave him. To leave him meant leaving my children. That I could not do. So I did what seemed to me the only thing I could do. I shut my eyes to what I did not want to see and I stayed.

My visits to my mother were my salvation. Sometimes my father was there; sometimes he was not. The Landors I knew were frequent visitors but they were never there when I was. It was not only due to my earlier relationship with Fennimore but to the fact that I had married Melanie’s husband. My mother, with her extreme tact, arranged that our visits never coincided.

I heard that the trading company was doing well. It now owned a fleet of ships. Trade was proving very profitable, and there was an amalgamation of several trading companies who could well be incorporated under a charter.

“Of course,” my mother said to me on one occasion, “it is Fennimore Landor who is at the heart of the business. Your father is enthusiastic at times and then his enthusiasm wanes. His heart is really in buccaneering, but I tell him that more good will come to our country through trade than all the fighting. He won’t agree and then he instances the case of the Great Defeat. I know it had to be and I know it was glorious, but the expense almost crippled this country as well as Spain. How much better it would have been if they had gone about their peaceful ways.”

I knew she was right and I knew also that my father would never agree with her. And how I wished that Colum would join them instead of plying his horrible trade!

There was one matter which surprised us both. Since the birth of Tamsyn I had not conceived. Sometimes I thought that this was something to do with my state of mind. I was willing myself not to have another child. I might say that I did not want a murderer of men and women to be its father. Yet how many of us could say that we were not the children of such? Not I, certainly. My father had killed many men for the simple reason that they were Spaniards or because he wanted something they had. That somehow seemed different. He risked his life in the killing. Colum lured men to their death simply that he might salvage their cargoes. Deep within me I could not reconcile myself; I think too that I believed that some opportunity would arise and then I would escape.

If I could be free of him, if I could take my children away, if I could go back to my old home, could I start afresh and be happy?

I did not know. I sensed somehow that this was a waiting period. My children were no longer babies. They were growing up fast. Later on, I promised myself, I shall make a decision.

Then the strange thing happened.

I had been to Lyon Court for several weeks and returned home.

It was a hot still day. The children were pleased to be back home as they always were, although they enjoyed Lyon Court. Looking at the castle Towers as I rode up, I felt the thrill I always did when I had been away for some time. The first that came into view were Ysella’s and Seaward Towers, and I could never look at Ysella’s without thinking of that day when I had been shut in there. I could still smell the musty damp smell of stale sea water. I thought too of the ridiculous legend of the two wives who lived so close to each other and never knew of the other’s existence. It would always be with a kind of apprehensive fascination that I returned home.

Connell was eager to see if Jerry the groom had looked after his dogs and falcons during his absence. Tamsyn, Senara and I went to my bedchamber, and Jennet and the little girls went off to their own room together.

I looked about that bedchamber of many memories. There was a strangeness about the place on this day. Was that so, or was I imagining it? When I came back after an absence the antiquity of the place forced itself upon me. Lyon Court was modern in comparison and modern houses seemed less touched by the past.

I don’t know what took my steps to the Red Room on that afternoon and so soon after my arrival. It may have been that I was simply overpowered by the difference in the place from my old home. The little chambers, the short spiral staircases, the unexpected nooks, all these things had the effect of taking one out of this world into another era. I almost felt on that afternoon that I was impelled towards the Red Room.

I went along and stood for a few moments outside the door. Edwina would have said some uncanny force had sent me there.

As I opened the door, I felt a shiver run down my spine and the hair really did rise from my scalp. It was not a bright room—perhaps it would never have acquired its reputation if it had been—for very little light came in from the long slit of a window, but my eyes accustomed to the gloom saw clearly and I am sure did not deceive me. I knew as soon as I opened the door that someone was in the room. Then as I stood there, the shape took form, emerged as it were from the hangings on either side of the window.

I caught my breath. I felt my knees tremble.

Then she came towards me—gliding slowly. The smell of musk scent enveloped me. She brushed past me and went into the corridor.

For a few seconds I could not move. I was too shocked. I just stood still, that unmistakable scent assailing my nostrils.

Then I said: “Maria! What are you doing here?”

There seemed to be a terrible silence, and then my limbs suddenly regained their bones.

I ran from the room. There was no sign of her.

“I have seen a ghost,” I said aloud.

Where was Maria? No one knew. I could not keep my vision to myself.

I told Colum. “I saw her, Colum. I saw her as clearly as I am seeing you now.”

“How could you have done so? Where is she?”

“I swear I saw her. She came towards me and walked past me. I smelt her scent.”

“Then why did you not take hold of her? Wouldn’t that have been the reasonable thing to have done?”

“I was so taken by surprise. I just stood there.”

“And let her pass you!”

“You don’t understand how shocked I was.”

He took me by the shoulders and shook me, in an exasperated way.

“You’re as fanciful as the servants. If she had been here, how could she have got away without someone’s seeing her? Be reasonable, wife.”

I was certain … and then not so certain.

Where did she go? I had been as though rooted to the floor, it was true. I had given her a few seconds to escape, but, as Colum said, where could she have gone to?

I told no one but Colum what I had seen.

Jennet volunteered the information though that the servants were more convinced than ever that the room was haunted.

“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.

Tamsyn was cleverer at her books than the others and she wrote the play which they would present in mime, for Connell declared that he would not learn words. Two or three of the local squires were being invited and as they had children these would be brought in to play their parts.

Senara was to be the Virgin at first but somehow she didn’t look the part, but she did make an enchanting shepherd boy who saw the star in the East and to her surprise Tamsyn was the Virgin. I was pleased because in spite of her somewhat retroussé nose and her wide mouth there was a purity about her and I set about devising her costume. This was where Maria showed herself in a new light. She found materials for the costumes and appeared to enjoy helping them to dress up. Even Colum watched with amusement and Connell who might so easily have imagined such mummery only fit for girls was delighted to be one of the Three Kings.

There was a great deal of speculation as to who would find the silver penny and be King for the Night. Connell boasted of what he would do if he were.

There was to be dancing, music and singing, the children would sing madrigals in which we would all join; then they would show their skill with their lutes and recorders.

From the kitchens there came the smell of baking. There was to be feasting as never before.

I was almost lulled to a sense of security, but not quite, for as soon as I retired for the night and was alone in my room I would begin to wonder what was in store for me and I would remember glances which I had—or imagined I had—intercepted between Colum and Maria. The excitement of Christmas could not dispel the suspicions that they were lovers. I think perhaps at the heart of my fears was the fact that Colum should seek to hide this from me. I was sure he had hidden nothing from Melanie. Why should he attempt to delude me if he no longer cared for my feelings? Was it because he realized this passion for Maria was a fleeting thing? Did he fear that she would disappear again as she had once before?

No sooner had I got into my bed than the fears would descend on me. I could only sleep fitfully. It was as though my instincts would not let me, as though they were warning me that it would be dangerous to do so.

There was one night about a week before Christmas when these fears seemed stronger than ever. I tossed and turned in my bed and it must have been soon after midnight when I could stay there no longer. I got out of bed, wrapped a gown about me and sat at the window.

What thoughts came back to me then as I looked down on the sea, calm as a lake, with a shaft of moonlight making a path on the waters! I could see the Devil’s Teeth just protruding for it was going to be a high tide. The gentle swish of the waves soothed me and I began to nod.

Then suddenly I was awake. I felt a tingling down my spine, that previously experienced raising of my hair on my scalp. I gave a little cry for there had been a sound in the room, and in my half sleeping state I believed that the door had opened and someone had looked at the bed and then at me. I was sure I heard a click as the door closed.

As before I ran to the door. There was no one there. It was a bad dream. But I was trembling. I could not go back to bed. I was afraid that if I did so, frightened as I was, I should sleep. Something warned me. I must not sleep. Twice I had thought someone had meant to enter my room. The first time I had called out and whoever it was had not entered. The second that person had entered and seen me at the window. If I had been sound asleep … what then?

I was haggard in the morning. I had scarcely slept all night.

Tamsyn looked at me with anxious eyes. “Are you well, Mother? You look not well.”

I said: “I did not sleep well. I had a bad dream, I think.”

She nodded gravely.

That evening Jennet came up with a posset.

“The master said you were to have it, Mistress.”

“Why?” I demanded.

“He said he thought you were doing too much for the Christmas preparations and had got tired. He said he was worried about your health and if you did not improve he was going to call the physician.”

That lifted my spirits somewhat. So I did care about him. If he were to me as he had been in the beginning, I thought, I could be so too, in spite of everything.

I thought of that other beverage which had been prepared for me, the one which had made me lose my senses on that very first night in the castle.

I said to Jennet in sudden alarm. “Did he make the posset?”

“Oh no, Mistress. He bid me make it.”

“Then you know what’s in it.”

“Surely I do, mistress. ’Tis the posset I make always when the children have their ailments. I have the herbs by me, dried they be and all in their sweet-smelling jars as I did learn from your mother as learned from hers. This be a good one if you are feeling out of sorts. There be goose grass to sweeten the blood and a sprig of woodruff for the liver, for ’tis very often the liver as will affect your poorly.”

“Give it to me, Jennet,” I said. “I will drink it and tomorrow you will see me brimming over with health.”

So I drank the posset and indeed it did soothe me to such an extent that when I lay on my pillow I was almost immediately fast asleep.

I awoke startled. Someone was in my room, standing at my bedside. I felt as though a thousand ants were crawling over my skin. I could not see very clearly. The moonlight must have been obscured by dark clouds. Hands were reaching out. I was caught and held.

“No,” I screamed.

Then a soothing voice said: “It is all right, Mother.”

“Tamsyn.”

She was laughing as she clambered into my bed.

I held her tightly against me. “Dearest Tamsyn.”

“I frightened you,” she said.

“I must have been dreaming.”

“I should have awakened you gently. How you shiver!”

“It was waking suddenly. Why did you come, Tamsyn?”

“I was worried about you. I couldn’t sleep. You looked so tired yesterday. Not like yourself at all. Then I thought, I will go and be with her. She may need me. And without thinking very much I came.”

“Oh Tamsyn, it makes me so happy to have you with me.”

“Do you feel comforted then because I am here?”

“Greatly so.”

“I shall stay with you.”

“Yes, do. I feel so happy to have you with me.”

She clung to me.

“You feel better with me here?”

“I feel so happy, Tamsyn. So much better already.”

After a while she said: “I thought to find my father here with you.”

“Nay, he is not always here.”

She was thoughtful. Then she said: “He is away so much. I’ll swear he does not want to disturb you.”

“That may be so, Tamsyn.”

“You are getting sleepy.”

“Yes, I am.”

“I shall stay with you, because I feel you like it better when I am here.”

“I feel so happy to have you, Tamsyn … so safe.”

“Let us sleep then, Mother. You need to sleep. Then you will be gay and happy as you used to be.”

So we slept together and in the morning I felt better.

Tamsyn said: “I shall stay with you, Mother, until you are quite well again. I think you need me. Who knows, you might want something in the night.”

It seemed absurd but I felt a great relief sweeping over me, for it was true that with my little daughter there I felt safe.

Christmas day came and in the morning the carol singers arrived. There was a great bowl of mulled wine from which everyone drank and we all joined in the singing. We gave each other gifts and we kissed and declared no presents could have pleased us more than those we had received.

In the afternoon the children did their miracle play. I was deeply moved to watch Tamsyn in her role. It was declared a great success and the children enjoyed it very much, as did we all.

I sat with our guests and watched Colum and Maria. Perhaps it was not obvious to others but it was to me. There was something about the manner in which they avoided looking at each other and then suddenly they would be unable to prevent it. There was scorching passion there. I sensed it. The children played their recorders and lutes and the feasting began. The table was laden with food of all descriptions—there was beef, mutton, sucking-pig and boar’s head, pies of various kinds—muggety, natlin, squab, leek and herby. There was dash-an’-darras, a kind of stirrup cup, and metheglin and all kinds of wines—cowslip, gillyflower, blackberry and elder.

All seemed to eat heartily and afterwards there was dancing, singing and the choosing of King for the Night. Strangely enough, this fell to Colum. There were loud cries of protest as he produced the silver penny. He was lord of the castle in any case. Connell was bitterly disappointed. Then the games began and when we went in search of the treasure, Colum chose me as his partner.

I was suddenly happy and told myself that I had been mistaken in him. He really cared for me. He would have chosen Maria, who had gone off with one of the visiting squires; and all knew that for the grown-ups this game was an opportunity for getting together and being alone.

Colum said: “It has gone well, eh?”

“The children are enjoying it, which is the main thing.”

“Nay,” he said banteringly, “we have as much right to enjoy Christmas as the children. Come,” he went on, and we climbed the stairs to the ramparts.

We were up there alone in the cool night air.

It was a beautiful sight—the calm sea, the slightly protruding Devil’s Teeth, and to our left the Seaward Tower with the light burning from the lantern.

Colum leaned over and looked down.

“How far away it seems,” he said.

“A long drop,” I answered.

Then he came close to me and caught me round the waist, and I had a panic-stricken moment when I thought he was going to throw me over. I felt my body go rigid with terror.

“Yes,” he said slowly, “it’s a long, long way down.”

I drew away from him and looked at him in the night light. His eyes were brilliant. I thought: He is going to tell me something. He is going to tell me that he loves Maria.

For a few seconds the thought flashed into my head that he was inviting me to throw myself down there on to the rocks.

I said in a voice, the steadiness of which surprised me: “I think we should join our guests. Someone will have found the treasure by now.”

“We must not find it,” said Colum. “That would be wrong. They would say it was contrived. It is bad enough that I should have found the silver penny and become King for the Night. King for the Night … anything I want tonight is mine. Whatever I ask, eh?”

“Are you not always king in your castle?”

“Can it be that you recognize this at last?”

I laughed and we went down to join our guests.

Connell and his partner, the young daughter of one of the squires, had found the treasure—which were two little gold amulets in a box. The box was brought to Colum, who then presented it to them with the customary remark that the contents of the box would protect them from cursed devils, sprites, bugs, conjuring and charms.

Connell was delighted. It was a consolation for not finding the silver penny.

There were bound to be casualties and one was Senara. She was sick and Tamsyn said she would take her to her bed.

Several of the visitors were staying for a few days and in due course they were lighted to their rooms.

I went to mine and I could not resist writing my account of what had happened that day. I liked to do it while it was fresh in my memory. As I wrote I heard footsteps outside my door and I hastily put the papers away.

It was Tamsyn.

She had come every night to look after me.

“Senara is very sick,” she said. “She wants me to be with her. She says she is better when I am there.”

“Go to her, my dear,” I said.

“Well, you are better today, Mother.”

“Yes, my love. Do not fret about me.”

“Jennet is giving Senara a dose of Herb Twopence. She says that will cure anything.”

“She will be better in the morning.”

She clung to me for a moment. “You are sure, Mother, that you are all right without me?”

“Of course, my darling. Good night. Go and look after Senara.”

I kissed her fondly and she went out.

I went on writing. I would finish right up to that moment when I had kissed her good night. Then I shall put the papers away and go to bed.