by Wray Delaney
The lid was hastily replaced and I walked out of the church and went to wait at the graveside.
By the time the woeful procession arrived to bury what was left of Lord Rodermere the sky had darkened. Parson Pegwell began, his voice quivering.
‘Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live . . .’ A roar of thunder broke across the sky. ‘. . . and is full of misery.’ Rain began to fall. ‘He cometh up and is cut down like a flower.’
The signal was given and the two gravediggers slowly lowered the coffin into the earth. Whether it was the rain or a flash of lightning or Parson Pegwell’s incoherent speech that distracted them, I could not say, but the loosely nailed coffin lid slipped and spilled a mangled hand. The sight was too much for the parson. The dusty, ashen tongue spoke no more and clutching at his heart he fell as a stone, face down into his lordship’s grave.
LXXXII
My father was dead and with him the curse. The prophecy that had long haunted me had not come true. I was not his murderer – unless I could have inhabited two worlds at the same time. The thought worried me for I, the traveller, had returned from a place most mortals will never find. Inside me was a feeling, jagged and uneasy, a memory of a power in my limbs the like of which I had never known. And there it was: that echo of doubt. Had I, in another shape, in another place, killed him? Had I sunk not a knife in his flesh but deadly fangs? Banish the thought, I told myself, concentrate on this, my return, and open the door wide onto the future. I would bring my mother, sister and Master Goodwin home. We would live as we did before. Even as I said it to myself I knew it could never be. The past is only a memory of the present.
There was something foreboding about the House of the Three Turrets. In the golden light of that spring afternoon it had a garish appearance as if it was trying to hide the heaviness of its timbers. The building had undergone major works: new chimneys and fireplaces in every chamber; furnishings which had never been of great interest were now all resplendent. It was most out of keeping with the tyrant that once I called Father, a man of barbaric tastes who cared little for art or poetry and whose only interests were the hunt, whores and wine.
His old manservant arrived with a sombre suit of clothes for me to wear. I asked him what had induced my father to make such extravagant changes.
‘A visit from Her Majesty, my lord.’
The statement seemed incongruous.
‘The queen came here?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Why?’
I waited for the answer. It was slow to be spoken.
‘The forest, my lord.’
‘The forest? Are you sure?’
‘Yes, my lord. A great and terrible honour.’
I picked up a white ruff.
‘No, my lord. Mourning requires black.’
It was only then that I noticed myself in the mirror. I was taken aback by my reflection in the amorous glass for I no longer possessed the enchantment of outrageous beauty. That blemish, that spell, that had so long defined me in others’ eyes, had vanished. Randa, in the wildness of her lovemaking, in the ecstasy of pain, in the love lines of scars across my back – she had brought me into myself. She had changed me as I had failed to change her and sorry was I for that. My love, was I so devoid of magic?
Gone the glow from my features; gone the glamour that had the bewitched so many. The mask finally cracked. I have you to thank for that, my love. I am no longer afraid of the dark side of the glass.
LXXXIII
I went reluctantly to join Sir Percival and take my place upon the stage. I had no idea of my entrances or my exits, neither was I sure if this be Comedy, Tragedy or Farce. I would improvise and hope my performance would so convince him that it did not warrant too many questions.
Sir Percival bowed when I entered the antechamber to the banqueting hall where the feast was to be held for villagers and neighbours to honour the memory of my father. Sir Percival was almost unchanged, still an elegant man, only the flick of white hair more pronounced. I had never known if I liked him and I thought that feeling to be mutual. I knew him to be cruel but he had always been so very kind to my mother, and instrumental in bringing about her marriage to Gilbert Goodwin. And strange as it was to me, Gally seemed to love him. I was braced for the questions Sir Percival was bound to ask.
But he poured two goblets of wine, handed me one and said, ‘What an unholy mess.’
I knew not if this remark related to my father, the demise of Parson Pegwell or was a general comment on the situation. He took a long drink then put down his goblet.
‘Your father,’ he said, ‘was a fool and I admire you for having the courage to leave and take nothing with you.’
His anger interested me.
‘You perhaps think, seeing all these changes,’ – he stretched out his arms – ‘that fortune smiled on Francis Rodermere. But it did not.’ Sir Percival looked oddly uncomfortable. ‘His pigheaded stupidity has brought this great family to the brink of bankruptcy.’
‘But,’ I said, ‘the forest, his estate – his interests were, I believe, enormous.’
Sir Percival refilled his goblet.
‘His lordship decided that he should marry again and have a legitimate son to inherit. He wanted to disown you.’
I smiled. ‘That was my suggestion when he first returned here but he would not listen.’
‘How I hate men like him. I loathe buffoons that believe money to be a shield against ignorance. Your father was a man of crossbows and gunpowder. Gunpowder that exploded without reason. But all might have been well had he not gone to court.’
‘I cannot picture my father at court,’ I said, entertained by the image.
‘It is better that you cannot. Rodermere was a bore. He had always been a bore. No conversation, no charm, no wit. And certainly no talent for the Galliard.’
I bit my tongue to stifle the laughter that was growing in me. This was surely Farce in the best sense of the word.
‘At court he was of interest only because of the story of his vanishing for eighteen years. It was a tale that had intrigued Her Majesty and one which your father’s grape-soaked mind elaborated on.’
‘But surely his lack of courtly accomplishments cannot account for his ruin.’
‘No. And though grievous, it was not his worst offence.’
‘Which was?’ I said, mirth bubbling in my chest.
‘Attempting to take by force one of Her Majesty’s most favoured ladies-in-waiting.’
‘In a public place?’
‘In a passage at Hampton Court. He had relieved himself on the staircase, she saw him exposed there, he chased after her and . . .’
‘He was an animal,’ I said.
‘Precisely. No better than a dog. He told me she had a look in her eye, and hips destined to bear sons. He was lucky he was not thrown into the Tower.’
‘What was his punishment?’ I asked, for I doubted that such a serious offence would go unreported to the queen.
‘Your father was summoned by Her Majesty. She said she wished to see the enchanted forest that he boasted of. And more than that, she would dine with the King of the Faeries, the ruler of his land. Note: his land.’
‘More,’ I said, ‘I note the word king.’
Whereupon Sir Percival, unable to stop himself, started to laugh.
‘My apologies, Lord Rodermere, this is not amusing . . .’ he said, wiping his eyes.
‘How wrong you are,’ I said. ‘This is a true comedy of muddleheads. Pray continue.’
Sir Percival took a deep and measured breath and failed to compose himself.
‘Your . . . your father . . . your father returned here with no wife and six months only to prepare this wind-filled house for the visit of Gloriana and three hundred courtiers, servants, cooks, et cetera, et cetera. Never subtle of mind, he took this honour to mean that Her Majesty had consented to him marrying the said lady-in-waiting, that her visit was as good as a blessing.’
&n
bsp; I howled with laughter and Sir Percival, defeated, gave up all attempts to regain solemnity.
‘The forest,’ he continued, ‘was to be abundant with walks to delight a faerie queen. Entertainment, music was to be provided and . . . and . . . and . . . ’ Tears of laughter streamed down our faces. ‘And – oh dear God – and the faerie king was to be the guest of honour at a banquet here.’
We fell back in our chairs and roared.
‘It is good to laugh,’ Sir Percival said when he could again speak.
‘I take it my father did not comprehend the satire, nor the lethal nature of Her Majesty’s wit. Did she dine with the faerie king?’
‘Did she? No. As the gods would have it, it rained for the royal visit and all the forest entertainment was washed away. The queen pronounced herself deeply offended that the King of the Faeries had not been here to greet her.’
‘This is Comedy.’
‘My dear Lord Rodermere – it deteriorates further. Prepare yourself for Tragedy. Her Majesty found the house gloomy. The fires smoked and the garderobes began to smell. Fearing sickness, she and her courtiers departed after two days for more luxurious accommodation and before the royal carriage wheels were but a distant rumble your father was ruined.’
Sir Percival could not help it. I could not help it. We laughed. I laughed until my belly hurt. With tears in my eyes I asked what was left.
‘Debts,’ said Sir Percival.
‘So the only souvenirs of Her Majesty’s visit are debts and the smell of shit?’
‘My lord, your understanding is impeccable. That is the sum total of your inheritance.’
LXXXIV
Shortly after the funeral I wrote to my mother and told her of Lord Rodermere’s death. I did not tell her about the debts that now weighed down the estate.
I assured myself that Master Goodwin would know what should be done once they had returned. It was, I admit, one of the more cheerful thoughts that whirled round my mind. But such hope was dashed by the arrival of a letter from him.
A year ago, a cloth merchant I have come to know well had a ship arrive from Constantinople. Among the fabrics on board he found a cloth bag full of what he mistook to be onions. Having tried a few with a little butter and garlic he felt these Turkish vegetables were not to his liking, nor did they agree with his digestion.
I believed them to be bulbs of the lily type and told him so. He gave them to me. I planted them in the autumn and am now rewarded with the most intriguing flowers that have blossomed into cups of yellow and white. These bulbs are becoming highly sought after and will be extremely valuable. There is much that can be done with variation in colour if I knew but how, and I have, after much consideration, decided to invest all that I own into the growing of this rare plant, this tulip.
The letter made my heart sink. Surely this was folly. I had no idea what a tulip looked like and would never have imagined Master Goodwin to be so unwise in his business dealings. It seemed most out of character for a man so measured with money and who, in the years he had run it, had brought the estate into great profit. He ended his long letter assuring me that he, my mother and sister would be in England as soon as his business allowed.
I saw no point in writing to tell him of the financial woes I had inherited and instead did my best to salvage what I could from the jaws of the creditors. Land was sold, as were paintings, tapestries, silver and nearly every piece of furniture that was not physically joined to the structure of the house. The silver plate alone was of sufficient value to keep the bailiffs further from the gates than otherwise might have been the case. The forest I refused to part with.
It was the most unrewarding task. I could not have imagined that so many petty and trivial debts could add up to such a great sum that it amounted to near bankruptcy.
No, no, a thousand times, no – I had not forgotten Randa. The chaos delayed my trying to find her and when I did have time I realised I had no idea of the path that would lead me to her.
Once, when I was young, my sister told me, I had walked between the two worlds as if they were divided by no more than a curtain. Now my charm was gone and I possessed not the magic to find my way back to Randa. All I could do was hope. A thin thing is hope. It starts off rope thick and one pulls and worries at it until it comes down to no more than a spider’s thread that eventually snaps.
I slept in my old chamber, kept the window open and hoped. Randa never came. I knew all my hoping had become but a thread when the rose turned the colour of dried blood. I had lost her and doubted I would see her again. I found it such an unbearable thought that I told myself it could not be – and knew it was.
Summer came, autumn was already waiting in the wings, blowing at the scenery, and Sir Percival introduced me to Master and Mistress Cassell.
Still my family did not return. Their letters were full of plans to do so but there was always something that prevented them from making the voyage.
By the time my engagement to Mistress Marian Cassell was announced I could congratulate myself on the estate being free of debts – in no small part assisted by a generous loan from Master Cassell. It had been given on the understanding that the house would be refurbished and made a suitable home for his daughter, my betrothed.
It was as if I was a sleepwalker watching myself, yet not attached to myself. I was doing this, I argued, for the greater interest, for my mother, my sister, for Master Gilbert Goodwin. Once the house was made ready they would come home. I refused to think that then I would be married.
The wedding was to be at the end of May and as the time approached I began to fear that the reason they had not returned was that Master Goodwin’s affairs had not gone well and that he was too proud to tell me as much. I was in a mind to write to say that I was able to help him when I received a letter from Master John Butter. Even his name on the paper jolted me. It seemed to belong to another life. He asked if I, the Earl of Rodermere, would give my consent to his marrying my sister, Lady Clare Thursby. Master Goodwin had refused, fearing that it would jeopardise my own marriage.
I must be with her, he wrote. I must be allowed to raise my son.
THE BEAST
LXXXV
Beau is my last thought when I sleep; the first thought when I wake. I cannot breathe for the longing for him. I cannot live.
I look in the glass. Still I am more beast than woman. Why did love not change me?
Better death than this twilight life without him, trapped to live out my days in this unearthly shape, to know that he is a world away from me.
I cannot live.
Papio tells me I will recover, that I will forget, that it is in the nature of all beasts to do so.
I am not a beast.
I am a beast.
I tear at my fur, would pluck it from me if I thought it would reveal human flesh. But what of these legs that end in claws, what of these spiked wings?
Calm, calm, I tell myself. Calm. Close my eyes, think of Beau’s hand so soft.
If I could but once more hold a book and by reading it find another story by which to escape this prison of my flesh. But it is impossible, my talons make it so.
The fox stays with me. No one comes to the house, I have closed the doors, refused invitations to Herkain’s court. I do not belong here in his realm. But if not here, then where? Where does Randa belong? I am a foreigner, in both lands an exile.
I know the hourglass runs not in my favour.
All the loathing I have for my shape twists the inside of me.
Did he love me? Or was it but a passing blindness for the truth of me would repulse most men. Did Beau close his eyes to such a vision and believe himself tricked by wicked witchery? Banish such a thought.
I would turn his passion into dust, yet knowing this, knowing how he would see me, still I must use all my willpower to stay, not to fly to him. Perhaps I would be cured to hear him say he could never love one as loathsome as me. Still I want the stars to guide me home to him.
Home. Oh, Randa, do you have a home? This house is where you live, home is Beau. I am sick of heart, of mind. Yes, the only cure is to see him. I would live in the rafters again, cling to the shadows that I might be near him.
Banish these thoughts, they are but fleas that suck the blood from me.
Has he forgotten me? Has he wiped Randa from his mind, found himself a beautiful woman to bed?
Banish these thoughts, Randa, banish them. All they do is turn the gravel of the mind, unrest the soul, allow the madness in.
No more do roses grow round the window.
Herkain has sent his emissary; the king demands I attend court. Papio called for the harpies to wash and adorn my fur with jewels.
I want to hide my breasts but was told that they were of such startling appearance that they should not be hidden. At least, I say, let me cover my nipples. Even that is forbidden. I take a pin and pierce them, the pain flooding me is a relief, a freedom from myself for it exists outside of me, unlike the pain of losing Beau. That is a wound that throbs without remorse.
The two harpies look at me in horror.
I smile. I long to scream, ‘I am more human than you.’ Though who am I to say so.
I take two jewels and wear them through the tender holes.
And, so adorned, to Herkain’s palace.
What did I expect? Herkain’s sons I had seen, a few of his attendants, never his courtiers.
The King of the Beasts sits on his throne in a vast hall; either side of him his stunted sons. I enter the great hall to silence. The court slowly bows to me and when they rise again I am surprised to see so many creatures as half-formed as myself, some with human heads and hands, all part-beast, all part-human. None as tall as I and none with wings.
I hold them out, my wings, and hear the whispered voices. Magnificent, they say. Randa is magnificent. Randa is a queen among the beasts.
Herkain comes to greet me. His eldest son lazily rises to his feet. He looks to be of small importance, his features those of a rat. He looks at me and turns petulantly to the queen, his mother, who sits behind the throne. Her small eyes, rat’s eyes like her son’s, glimmer in the darkness.