by Wray Delaney
XXII
She finds him in the long gallery by a tall window, juggling three wooden rings. He has the art of it well but it is his face – no, his whole demeanour – that steals her breath and makes her delight in her powers. His hair raven black, thick his eyelashes of the same colour framing golden eyes. His lips sensuous, full, made for pleasure, he possesses a natural allure that shines in him, a charm, she would call it, that bewilders even her. He is both male and female, united in one body.
Up the three rings go as the sunlight that has failed to make an appearance all day breaks through the snow-filled clouds and casts him in a rose gold light. An artist would give his soul to paint him. He moves with a natural grace, the very air around him accommodates his being. Here is an ethereal creature who man or woman both would desire, would lose riches and reason for one night of passion. All then is as it should be. He is empty of emotion, of that she is certain. He is indeed almost perfect in every respect, his beauty but the mask of an unfeeling monster. Try as she might she cannot hear his thoughts; his is a shallow vessel, nothing inside his head but the mirror of his own perfection. The Widow Bott, blinded by his looks, had failed to see that nothing lay beneath the surface but her own imaginings. The sorceress is not so easily duped. Oh, she thinks, but this is too joyous – he will be the light of all men’s desire, he will be the heart that no woman can possess. Take pride in your work, enjoy what is about to befall those who enter his domain.
Beau catches the rings and puts two on a side table. He turns and seemingly stares directly at her. That disturbs her. He cannot see her, no man can unless she wills it and to prove the point she moves but the point is unproven: his eyes follow her. Under her breath she whispers to the icy draught words that protect her from the gaze of human eyes.
I am born from the womb of the earth, nursed with the milk of the moon. Flame gave me three bodies, one soul. In between lies my invisibility.
It does not ease her as it should.
‘There you are,’ he says.
He is speaking to her in her language. This cannot be. She holds her breath.
‘Beau.’
The sound of his name comes from behind her. She moves further into the wooden shadows.
It was not her but his sister, Lady Clare, the boy addressed and the sorceress anticipates that she is about to see the nature of young Lord Beaumont. His sister’s thoughts she can hear clearly and she will tell her her truth of him for the sorceress is beginning to think he has no soul. A pity about her face. If it was not so blemished the sorceress would say she was a striking young woman. She is of twenty-two winters with an enviable figure and holds herself well. The sorceress thinks she was a fool to worry that she might be visible – Lady Clare cannot see her.
What is this? Lady Clare laughs as he tosses a ring for her to catch and she is thinking that she would rather die than be without him, that the very notion of being parted from her brother is unbearable. And what does Lord Beaumont think? Nothing. His mind is blank parchment that the sorceress can easily write upon and shape his character to her desires.
Beau smiles at his sister, takes her hand and kisses it. He looks in the sorceress’s direction and seems to hold her gaze before he turns back to Lady Clare.
‘We have not spoken in that language since we were children,’ she says. ‘This house seems full of spirits today. Beau, did we dream what happened to us in the forest?’
He puts his finger lightly on his sister’s lips.
The sorceress waits to hear his reply expecting it to be cruel. And then she catches Clare’s thoughts – glimpses of a memory dance in her head, children running into the forest – then they are gone.
Lady Clare sighs. ‘We must put aside such childish nonsense. Alas, no one has the magic to alter what has happened.’
Speak, Beau. Let me hear your voice.
The sorceress goes to stand beside him lest she miss a word.
‘Do you believe,’ says Lady Clare, ‘that it is possible for our father to return after so long without the years marking his disappearance?’ Again Beau looks at the sorceress. ‘What is it?’ Lady Clare says, following his gaze. She drops her voice. ‘Is someone listening?’
‘These oak beams listen,’ Beau says quietly. ‘Have you seen our mother this morning?’
His is a voice a stream would envy, a voice that is neither low nor high but has a quiet command to it. Oh, Robin Goodfellow, look what she created in your honour.
‘Not yet,’ says Lady Clare. ‘But, Beau, tell me you will leave with us.’
Delight of delights. The sorceress sees a tear in her eye. All this love for an empty shell of an androgyne, a man for all desire, shallow as a puddle.
‘Sir Percival had the alchemist, Thomas Finglas, brought here from London last night,’ she continues. ‘He is locked in the turret with our father. It is hoped he may bring him to his senses.’
‘Then there is even more reason that you must be gone before Lord Rodermere wakes further from his trance and his temper rekindles.’
He takes her hand and walks with her down the long gallery.
She says, ‘He will not miss you, he does not know you. He does not believe you are his son.’
‘That was last night,’ says Beau, ‘but he is by all accounts an irrational man.’
He gives her a look of such tenderness. The sorceress sees how well he acts the part. Oh, beauty, what a beast you make.
‘What will I do without you?’ Lady Clare says. ‘Who will see me as you do?’
‘It will be for a short time only, I promise.’
And he turns round and looks straight at the sorceress.
XXIII
It must not happen. Young Lord Beaumont must not leave this place. His destiny is to murder his father as I foretold when I wrote my curse on the bark of that felled oak. If the death of Francis Rodermere means the death of his son, what care I. He is a puppet and I the puppet master, his strings are at my command.
The sooner the deed is done the better for there is a wildness calling me, a yearning to relish once more my powers as an enchantress. I needs must be free to find a new lover, to be ravished by him. I have almost forgotten the alchemy of sex. This mortal world has twisted passion into such a bitter coil that it makes soil barren, fills rich earth with sand. I must replenish myself, lest all of me withers. Still by my curse I am tied. Still by my hem I am caught. Let it be done, let it be over.
My mood is black, thick. And sticky is the rage that runs through my knotted veins. The boy unsettles me, his look unsettles me. Did his mother lie when she said she never kissed the infant? And if she did what gift did she give him? I shake the thought away. No, he is empty of soul, of feeling, he is but a pretty knife to pierce a heart.
Thomas Finglas is locked in the tallest turret where Lord Rodermere prowls about as would a wolf. It is not a small chamber and is encircled by windows. Leaning against the wall is a large collection of mirrors. Some have lost their frames, others broken. All the shards reflect Lord Rodermere in a bright light of fury.
Thomas is seated, head in hands, the very picture of melancholy, as Lord Rodermere rails a vomit of angry words. Such a din is it that it has nearly defeated Thomas. Where are your powers now, alchemist? The painting that was missing from the long gallery is propped against the wall. Francis Rodermere looks no different than he did when he sat for the portrait some eighteen years before and this is what he wants Thomas to explain.
‘If, as you say,’ he roars, ‘I have been lost for near eighteen years, why, tell me, have I not aged? I do not believe you. Neither do I believe that boy is my son.’
The sorceress has no wish to hear more of his meaningless curses. Sleep is the saviour of the insane, and she gives Lord Rodermere dreams of a May morn, of a stream, of a maiden. The first and last day of love. He flops onto the trundle bed and lies still.
Thomas looks up when the shouting ceases, startled by the abruptness of the silence. He stares anxiously round the
chamber.
‘You did not finish your story,’ she says.
‘Mistress,’ he says, going down on his knees, ‘please show yourself. Please take me away from here and I promise . . .’
‘What then happened, Thomas?’
He rises, begins again.
‘Slowly,’ she says. ‘We will not be disturbed.’
‘She – my wife – caused the news to spread. An author, larding his lean words with thees and thous to make more of the story, printed a pamphlet claiming I had made a beast from a babe.’
‘And had you, Thomas? Had you made a beast?’
‘Bess begged me to revive the babe and I, confronted by so much grief, knew not what to do but to experiment with my elixir of everlasting life, a potion no more proven than any others. I poured it into the crucible, stirred it over the heat, my heart warmed by my love’s belief in me. I put in the feather of a bird, the wing of a bat, the hair of a cat, I anointed the infant’s lifeless body with oil of acorn to ward off noisome things. It was Bess who placed her into the mercury. Together we watched her vanish in the silvery water and I was bewildered when she rose again – alive, unrecognisable, an abomination. Three years we kept her safe from prying eyes. But the rumours and gossip did not abate and neither did the nagging of my wife. She took out her rage on Bess. As the child grew, the sounds from the cellar became louder and my wife became more terrified. She plagued me with questions and hearing no satisfactory answer, threatened she would let the whole world know that I had the Devil living in our house. Soon after this threat, John Butter found her at the foot of the stairs. She was dying and the physician called to attend her could not – to my relief – explain the marks he found on her body, nor fathom what animal could have had the power to tear flesh from her bones. Blame fell on me and the strange sounds that came from the cellar. I was arrested on suspicion of murder and wizardry and that night . . .’ He hung his head. ‘That night Bess vanished, never to be seen again. I near lost my reason. All I had for company in the darkness of my cell was the cackle of my dead wife. I heard her all the time. “As long as I be alive, as long I be dead, I will haunt the whore.” Why did I never hear my beloved Bess?’
He took a gulp of air.
‘Go on, Thomas.’
‘At the inquest my apprentice was asked where he had been the day his mistress died. He trembled on being questioned and appeared to be an idiot with little understanding. He stammered, tripped, fell and faltered over his words to such a degree that he was found to be incomprehensible and his testimony disregarded. But John is a wise soul. He knew I hoped to find peace at the Tyburn Tree. But it was not to be. The landlord of the Unicorn alehouse swore that I had been with him all morning until the time of the accident and no man, as far as he knew, could be in two places at one time. The charge of wizardry was unproven, the case against me dismissed. There was no relief. I have lived in torment ever since.’ Thomas paused then said, ‘Let me see you, mistress.’
She does. Abruptly, he sits, startled by the sight of her. She, the sorceress who time does not age, neither does her beauty fade. Her resources are various and plentiful and she will not be tied to any man, nor be his footstool or wishing bowl, to come hither, go thither. Now she will offer Thomas a way out of his troubles. If he accepts but fails to keep his end of the bargain she will bring such sorrow to him that his days will be unbearable. She smiles, feels light coming from her, her feet rooted once more to the ground. She will be glorious. Thomas is in awe of her. She takes pleasure in his surprise and watches his confusion turn to bare-faced desire.
‘Promise to give me back my hem,’ she says, ‘and I will have you home.’
She bends and kisses his lips, tastes his hunger. He puts his arms round her, holds her buttocks and softly weeps.
‘You do wish to return home, do you not?’ she says.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes . . .’ And then as if remembering the reason he is locked up he turns to look at the sleeping lord. ‘But how? Tell me how.’
‘I will return Francis Rodermere’s missing years. Then the question of where he has been will be his own to answer, not yours. Sir Percival will claim that he lost his memory and has only recently recalled where he lived or who he was, but, alas, has no idea where he’s been.’
‘You would do all that?’
She pulls back his gown, lifts his night shift, his cock already hard and of a goodly shape and her hand slips up and down the length of it, peeling back the skin.
He groans with pleasure. She stops. He opens his eyes, tries to take her hand.
‘I promise,’ he says. ‘I promise that when we are in London . . . I promise on my child’s life . . . I will return your hem.’
She lifts her silken gown above her belly and lowers her cunny onto his weapon, wet at the point.
XXIV
She enjoys such carnal acts and Thomas’s desperation has a tenderness to it. He is not, as she would have supposed, a greedy lover. But she is in control, not he and her mind is elsewhere.
She is thinking it would be wise to trust the power of her curse and let it work its fatal magic. And yet she cannot for a maggot of a thought niggles at her: she fears the boy was faerie-blessed.
Lady Clare’s deep love for her brother goes back to infancy. Her memories trouble the sorceress. She had willed Lady Clare to return to them but she did not, her mind flooded with thoughts of being so soon parted from her brother. Has the sorceress been too quick in her judgment? For it appears from the affection Lady Clare holds him in that he possesses a true beauty: he has kindness, love, intelligence. Not one ounce of his bastard of a father shows in him at all. When Beau smiles, it is a smile that would bring a queen to her knees. That is as it should but not the rest. Could it be that he as yet has no knowledge of his power? Lady Clare is not in one small part envious of his looks. The sorceress had imagined that she would loathe her brother, resent his beauty. Surely that is the pattern of human nature: to be shaped by jealousy, to be broken by envy. It shivers her to think she had been so unwise as to believe that her powers were incorruptible. She comforts herself with this thought: Lord Beaumont has many chambers of his soul yet to grow into. If he is not corrupted now there are years enough for him to become so.
No one interferes with her curses.
‘Where are you going?’ says Thomas Finglas. ‘Stay, I beg you.’
Invisible once more, she is gone.
XXV
Mistress Eleanor Goodwin, still dressed in her bridal gown, was seated staring into the embers of the fire. Her husband Gilbert stood opposite her.
He was silent, immovable. It appeared that both had said all the words they had to say.
But Eleanor returned to the round. ‘I will not leave, not without him.’
‘My love, Lord Beaumont is right,’ said Gilbert. ‘If you stay, what will become of you? Of us? Remember what Lord Rodermere did to you? Think what he might do to Lady Clare.’ Gilbert’s voice softened. ‘If Beau is seen to leave with us and Lord Rodermere decides he wants his son then our fates are sealed – he will come after us.’
‘But to go abroad, to leave him here to that monster’s mercy, how could you think of such a thing? You who love him as a son.’
‘He will follow. You and Lady Clare must have time to escape and when you are safe, I will send a message and then he will be with us again.’
‘Could we not stay in London and be closer to him?’
Eleanor looked up to see her son and daughter in the doorway.
‘Is the the carriage ready?’ Beau asked and his voice had a note of calm authority to it.
Gilbert nodded as if saying the words might reawaken the argument that had occupied their wedding night.
Beau knelt beside his mother.
‘My lady, to stay here would be folly. You are married to Master Gilbert. Best by far you leave today and go abroad. Take my sister away from here. It is what you have long wanted. Sir Percival has advised you to do as much.’
> ‘Only if you come too,’ she said.
The sorceress has to admit surprise at this young man’s elegance of language, his careful argument. She can see his speech holds weight. And she is wondering how she might make them stay here a while longer until the deed is done. But one look at Master Goodwin tells her it would be his knife, not Beau’s, that would pierce the earl’s heart and that would never do.
The wind whirled, the chamber door flew open and in the sudden breeze the fire flared.
Beau glanced up to where she stood as if to say, ‘You are still here?’
Beau’s words seemed to shake Mistress Goodwin into action. Her husband called for a servant.
‘Bring the carriage and my horse to the front of the house,’ he said, and he helped his wife to her feet.
This parting causes each of them great sorrow and it appears as genuine in Beau as it does in the others. Surely, thinks the sorceress, this is an actor playing his part, nothing more.
‘How will I find you?’ said Mistress Goodwin to her son. ‘When will I see you?’
‘I promise, soon,’ said Beau. ‘Now, my lady –’ he kissed her hand ‘– the quicker you are away from here the nearer you will be to seeing me again.’
An hour later saw the carriage containing Mistress Eleanor and Lady Clare leave the house, accompanied on horseback by Gilbert Goodwin. The three cloud-capped turrets stared down on the walled forecourt to the gatehouse where the porter and other outdoor servants lived. It was they who ran out to open the gates, to wave farewell. The rooks cawed against the oncoming darkness as the carriage disappeared onto the main road. Beau stood bare-headed on the drive and only when it was lost from sight did he turn and walk back to the house.
I am torn. For this boy is everything he should not be and despite of it I am enchanted with him and his girlish looks. At the grand door where once I had come with a basket he stops, turns to look at me and holds the door open as if waiting for me to enter.