by Wray Delaney
The incident had been made more hurtful by there being no letter accompanying the returned painting.
I took the portrait to my chamber and there I turned the glass from the wall and compared our two faces. Surface deep, it showed me only the building that housed my soul, not the chambers therein. There was more honesty to the mirror when I broke it for then I was reflected in many sizes, many parts and many shapes, and not one could claim the whole truth of me. I knew then nothing could be trusted, that all things seen and unseen have many sides to them. Perhaps deep inside me I had always known. It mattered not if I had a cock – that did not make me who I was. The man, though, recognised the woman within.
XXXIII
I was fourteen summers when I felt the beast between my legs wake with a hunger which only my hand knew how to satisfy. My dreams of longing stirred into morning explosions. My cock possessed a demonic need that defied all rational thought. My head shrunk in favour of my small leg.
My limited knowledge went little way to explaining why my thing demanded total dedication and stood to attention at the most inappropriate moments. How this sudden transformation had come about bewildered and thrilled me in equal measure.
As a boy, I would oft go to the Widow Bott’s cottage and there in the rafters of her thatched roof I would listen with fascination and cheeks full of giggles to requests for remedies to ease the frustration of a soft cock, for potions to keep a man hard until satisfaction on both sides had been achieved, or mixtures to relieve the pains of pregnancy. Avoiding pregnancy seem to be the condition most desired by those who visited the widow. One man I remember came to the cottage clutching a religious tract and said that he had tried with no good effect to scrub all sinful arousal from him. Being then but a child I thought I would never be so foolish as to be led by such a small appendage. How wrong I was.
By fifteen, the books that interested me most were not ones my tutor favoured. Instead of studying my grammar I studied a book on anatomy, eager to reach the chapter on reproductive anatomies where the author wrote of the spermatic vessels and explained how they carry blood to the testicles. I was fascinated by the account of the matrix of women and, having read each word thoroughly if not twice, I innocently believed that I understood the erotic conjugation of the present tense of the verb To Be.
I am your cock.
Thou art my prisoner.
She is your desire.
He is your master.
We are one.
You are a virgin.
They are all women waiting.
The notion that anyone was waiting was foolish. Master Goodwin and my mother were careful who they invited to the House of the Three Turrets and who they employed as servants. I neither saw myself nor knew the effect I had on those who saw me, yet for all my family’s concern I could not always be protected.
The first mirror I ever looked into was in the eyes of Sir Percival Hayes’s wife, Lady Judith. His marriage had been most unexpected as it was well known that he preferred the company of men – in particular that of young actors.
He arrived with his new wife for the midsummer celebrations. She, being twenty years younger than Sir Percival, was near my sister’s age and soon became her confidante.
Her sky blue eyes appeared to me to be clouded by sadness. But Sir Percival had been with us less than a month when he was called away to court and the change in Lady Judith was remarkable. She noticed me and talked to me in a way that she had not before. I was flattered. She would press little poems into my hand, wait for me in the long gallery, compliment me on the way I looked. And once she stole a kiss. All this went much to creating on my behalf an emotion that I considered naïvely to be love. I, too, took to writing poems. They talked of a higher love that had to do with the meeting of two souls. Yet every night I thought more about the meeting of her body and mine.
These forbidden kisses, forbidden touches, forbidden longings began by degrees to drive me wild until all I could think of was Lady Judith. Her maid was a sour-looking woman who had obviously been given strict instructions to make sure that Lady Judith remained an honourable wife. I was cast down with the most profound melancholy, certain that under this watchful eye our love would be for ever thwarted. Then, quite unexpectedly, the maid became unwell, and from fear that she was carrying some unsavoury disease she was moved to a chamber far from her mistress.
One sultry night I had determined to risk my life to see Lady Judith and declare my love, nay, my passion for her, when the door of my chamber opened and there was she, naked beneath her gown. Even if God and all his saints had arrived at that moment nothing would have stopped me. Nothing.
I do not think we said one word to each other, our desire spoke for us. At last I saw a purpose in an unruly cock. Before the moon lost its kingdom, I told her I loved her. And believed that indeed I did for never had longing been so soothed in one glorious act.
Her maid, alas, recovered all too soon, and with that Lady Judith departed.
I am ashamed to say I had completely forgotten her when, some nine months later, I heard she had died in childbirth. It never occurred to me that I might have been in any way responsible for her condition.
What my affair with Lady Judith taught me was the perfect understanding of the meaning of the present tense of the verb To Be.
I am my own man.
Thou art my cock, not my ruler.
She is just the beginning.
XXXIV
Lord Rodermere, having rid himself of my tutor, must have felt that my head was no longer in peril of being infected with knowledge. My other lessons – in archery, in fencing – were allowed to continue, both being considered fair sport. As my skills improved I thought more than I should of fulfilling the curse: that my arrow would hit my father or my sword pierce his flesh. And in these thoughts I confirmed all that I dreaded becoming.
He gave me a rambling speech on the importance of mastering falconry, a subject that as far as I could tell had occupied the better part of all his learning. Here then was where I foolishly demonstrated my naivety – I should have had more wisdom, should have known what this hurly-burly of a man might do but, mindless of the consequences, I delighted to show off my haggard. Master Goodwin and I had caught her the last May and I had passed much time in her training, had sacrificed many hours of sleep so that she was not afraid of man or dog. Now being fully moulted, there was no better hawk and I was proud of her for my haggard could not be defeated or left behind by the speed of any other fowl. She sat easy on my fist, bare-headed and docile.
Lord Rodermere had spent a fair sum on a pair of soar hawks that had been brought from Essex. The morning did not start well. His two birds being new he was not fully acquainted with them and was much out of sorts to see how my haggard pitched high above his hawks and, soaring, claimed her quarry every time. I relished the sight of her rising into the sky, disappearing in the clouds, and felt as I always did when I saw her fly that I was with her. I thrilled to watch her drive down upon her unsuspecting prey, delighted in the partnership between man and bird, between food and reward – such a delicate balance. It would have served me better to concentrate on the relationship between father and son for in my excitement I did not see the jealous glint in my father’s eyes.
The next day when I went to the eyrie the master falconer told me that he knew not how but my hawk was dead. I examined her and could smell the clouds in her feathers and saw the pin through her heart. I could have killed my father for that crime alone. It shook me that I could hate with such a passion. It was then I understood that this vengeful spirit that had become my ruler was not me and I acknowledged I had two enemies: my father and the sorceress’s curse. I was determined that neither would defeat me.
Henceforth Lord Rodermere excluded me from his hunting parties for no man, not even his son, should be allowed to outshine him. I refused to be made a whipping post and such was my fury at the cruelty of what this tyrant had done to my haggard that he no longer objec
ted to eating alone.
It was a winter’s morning when I took a horse from the stable and rode into the forest to find the Widow Bott. I rode until I was where the trees made night of day and stood as castle walls against all travellers and there my mare became reluctant to go further and I dismounted and led her by the reins. Overhead the rooks cried and the only other sounds were the tread of my horse and the thud as fallen snow was dislodged from branches. I smiled as I remembered the widow’s house in the clearing. I had a memory of telling my mother that I had found the eye of the witch in the middle of the woods. She had laughed, said that only a child could believe in such a foolish notion.
But Master Goodwin, when we were alone, had knelt down and, tilting my face to his said, ‘Promise me, Lord Beaumont, you will not go that way again.’
‘Why not, sir?’ I asked.
He sighed and I could see he was troubled to know how best to answer.
In the end he said, ‘Is it so hard to promise me that one thing?’
‘No,’ I said.
I did not keep that promise.
XXXV
My mare began to sniff the air, to paw the frozen ground. For all my coaxing she shied and reared when I tried to walk on, and would not be soothed. I could see fear in her eye. I felt it too in my heart but having come this far I had no intention of turning back. Finding no way to calm her I let her go and watched as she weaved her way through the trees towards a safer path.
I stood still, my knife in my hand. The sky darkened and I heard a roaring as if the wings of a great hawk were swooping down on me.
I am behind him. He has dark hair, thick, the colour of ravens’ feathers.
He is before me. I had not imagined anyone as beautiful as this man. Golden eyes, eagles’ eyes. He is graceful on the ground as I am in the air.
I am gone.
Whatever it was that had been so close by me vanished as suddenly as it came. I turned this way, that way – there was nothing. I caught my breath and moved on.
I found it as the sun disappeared behind the clouds. Isolated in a snow-filled clearing, that cottage, more tumbledown and haunted than I remembered.
I frighten you. I want to say, it is me, it is Randa. To ask how came you to be made in perfect symmetry to a design the gods would envy. To have beauty whose power makes jealous the sun. For when you came into the clearing the ball of flame turned its back to the heavens.
I had not seen the Widow Bott for many years. I was wondering if she would have forgotten the small boy who had often visited her when the door opened and there was a woman I did not at first recognise, her white hair tangled with ivy and feathers, her clothes dark and of many layers. Surely this could not be the Widow Bott? I remembered her with coal black hair, that she had been proud and tall. Had time really robbed her of all her colour?
I am lead. Father, could this man turn me to gold? If he loved me would I be transformed? What would he think if he saw me as I am? The whole of me. Would he think to slay me, consider my death less significant than that of any other being? Is my blood not as red as his? Are we not the same, alone in our different shapes?
The widow called out, softly. ‘Bird, my little bird, where are you?’
I watched as she seemed to greet some invisible guest. She was about to close the door when, as if having been informed of my presence, she looked in my direction. To my surprise she called my name.
‘Beau – Lord Beaumont – is that you? What brings you this way?’
‘There are questions I must ask and I believe only you can answer,’ I said.
She looked past me.
‘You came on foot?’
I nodded.
‘Alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘I no longer welcome visitors. They bring naught but trouble. You should leave.’
‘Do you not remember how I used to come here, sit in your rafters and play?’
‘I remember that you stopped coming. And after that they came.’
‘Who came?’ I said.
‘Sir Percival Hayes’s witch hunters came. Go home. I want no more trouble.
‘Please, mistress – I beg of you.’
The widow sighed, shook her white hair.
‘Did you not hear what I said? It was unwise of you to make this journey. I have nothing to tell you. Be gone.’
No, I must see him close. Let him in, let him in.
My quest was nonsense. I knew whose son I was and needed no confirmation.
I was walking away, purpose to my steps, when the widow said, ‘Are you hungry?’ and opened the door for me.
I hesitated. But this was why I had come and so I entered her abode. I had remembered the inside of her cottage being light, homely. Now it was an accumulation of shadows. From the rafters, garments hung, ghosts of her former self dancing in the candlelight. The place was thick with smoke which gave the illusion that there were no walls, just an infinity of dark space, that everything was afloat in perpetual night.
Now I see him close. Oh, what a cruel thing it was to let me live to feel this human emotion called desire. To long for what I can never have. I would give my life for one kind word from his gentle lips, to know he meant it. Would he call me Randa, Mistress Randa? No, he would not see me. He would see the beast.
I was certain I could hear the voice of another; disjointed words not spoken by the widow. Who was there in the darkness? I sensed something, someone else. I felt I had walked into a trap and, making my excuses, again turned to go.
Do not go. Do not go. Old woman, make him stay awhile.
‘Wait, Lord Beaumont,’ said the widow. ‘Sit, eat. Forgive my humour, I have lived too long on my own.’
I had eaten nothing that day and was sore tempted by the smell from the cooking pot.
She took a ladle, filled a wooden bowl and handed me bread and a spoon. The stew was of venison. It had been a cruel winter and by now most peasants had to rely on the remains of root vegetables and hope the spring would come soon. The widow looked too weak to be a hunter. She smoked her pipe and watched me eat.
I perched on the bench by the table, every sinew in me taut. And then I felt a breath on my neck. Whatever was in the forest was now inside.
I have green eyes like my mother. Lips like my mother. Breasts and a cunny like all other women. I have a need for love, a hunger for love, to know what love is and be terrified by it. As you are now by my unseen presence.
‘Do you live alone?’ I asked.
‘Yes. As I said, I always have. Tell me then, my lord – what brings you here?’
‘You used to call me Beau.’
‘I used to have black hair.’
‘Master Goodwin told me you were there the day I was born.’
‘I was,’ she said.
I was much relieved. It was madness to believe anything Lord Rodermere had to say. True, his disappearance was unexplainable, but that did not make me an elfin child.
‘You delivered me into the world, did you not?’
‘I did not,’ she said. ‘I was called to the house after you were born.’
And all hope crumbIed.
‘For what reason?’ I asked.
‘So all would know you were the son of Lord and Lady Rodermere.’
‘And am I?’
She did not reply but said, ‘Lady Eleanor asked me about a star on your thigh.’
‘What of it?’
‘So you have such a mark?’
‘Yes, I do but . . .’
‘She wanted to know its meaning and when I told her that only the infant’s mother would know the answer to that question she begged me not to tell a soul that you had been found in a basket with a note written in Lord Rodermere’s hand, claiming you as his son. But that did not stop her loving you as if you were her own.’
‘Then who was my mother?’
‘Do not ask these questions, Lord Beaumont. You are the son of Francis, Earl of Rodermere – let that be enough for you.’
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��It is not enough. I have seen myself in the glass. I know this much: I do not belong in the Thursby family. I have a face that belongs to no man, no woman that I have ever seen and all of me is lost, blinded by an image that does not reflect me. There is too much that plays on my mind and makes me think I will lose my reason without rational answers.’
‘I have none to give you.’
‘The day after my mother’s wedding to Master Goodwin I was in the long gallery and I became aware of the presence of another being. I saw an outline, the figure was translucent, and I could hear all the poison of the thoughts that ran through her mind.’
‘What makes you think it was a woman?’
‘My father speaks of a sorceress.’ I did not want to say that I was sure I had once seen her lying in her black bed, deep under the forest. Instead I said, ‘She thought me a hollow man. She thought my beauty would corrupt all those I met. Is this sorceress my mother?’
‘A sorceress?’ said the Widow Bott. ‘I know of no such person. This is dangerous talk, Lord Beaumont.’
I heard the sound of another, close by, and the widow looked round her.
‘Who else is here?’ I said. ‘There is someone—’
‘Go. Go now, Beau.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Leave the forest, leave the spirits herein and they will leave you alone.’
I said quickly, ‘My father told me I was of elfin blood. I beg of you, mistress, tell me what that means. Who am I? Where do I belong?’
I, too, am not of this world, Beau. I, too, am lost.
‘Did you hear that? You must have heard it. Please – tell me you did.’
‘Enough,’ said the widow. She opened the door and, to my surprise, pushed me out. ‘Begone now and never come this way again. Never.’
I felt like strangling the truth from her and that made me wonder if I, like my father, was a monster. I stayed a while in the clearing, trying to calm myself and hoped against all reason she might change her mind. But the door to her cottage remained closed. A sharp wind had risen and I took shelter in a thatched lean-to where the widow kept wood for the fire, neatly stacked. Beside the logs hung the carcass of a young deer, brutally killed, its throat ripped out, its pelt in ribbons. It unnerved me for only an animal would have killed a deer in this way. I determined to leave the clearing before dark set in. Then I saw in the gloom a pelt stretched taut on a wooden frame. Tentatively, I touched the frozen fur and my body tingled, a sensation I remembered from childhood – excitement charged with terror. It was the pelt of a black wolf of monstrous size. I had grown up listening to folk tales of such a wolf as this. I could not think how the Widow Bott had come by the pelt, and it occurred to me that perhaps the gossips were right to accuse her of witchcraft. I ran fast from there in the dwindling light, feeling a ghost on my heels.