by Wray Delaney
LXXXIX
A wedding. The sorceress has no liking for such contracts, such binding prisons of hypocrisy. A blessing given, sworn in the eyes of a lord who knows not of this earth of hers and cares little what man does or says in his name. Better by far the couple had asked for her blessing for there would be a truth in her refusing it.
Much has been made of this marriage, that she can see. The drive leading to the House of the Three Turrets is strewn with flowers. Why should so many tender petals be slaughtered for this occasion?
No, she does not like weddings and even before she enters unseen she knows this marriage is wrong. Love has always been the one thing that can undo her but here there is none. She has nothing to fear. Money there is, money and rank a-plenty. And she is safe to wander through the chambers, to see the preparations for the celebration. The kitchens are a furnace, the tables full of slaughtered fowl – the swan, the peacock, the lark – waiting to be turned into dainty morsels. Servants work to prepare the banqueting hall. It is decked in more flowers of the fields as if bringing nature inside will encourage reluctant lovers to their bedchamber. Three days’ festivities are planned. And then what?
She must find him, this boy, this beauty, her charm.
She goes from chamber to chamber in search of him and stops awhile in the great hall where a stage has been placed, draped in cloths of gold. Out of amusement does she dally. Among the curtains and the baskets of costumes stands a man in ass’s head.
‘What do you think, Crumb?’ he says. A tall man steps forward. She takes him to be an actor for his costume too makes her smile. He has two horns upon his head. ‘Well, Crumb, do I look like a beast?’
‘No, Ben, you look like an ass.’
The first player takes off the mask.
‘The trouble, Crumb,’ he says, ‘is that the beast’s mask looks altogether too frightening for a wedding. Surely we are supposed to entertain the guests, not scare them.’
What Crumb says next interests the sorceress a great deal.
‘Do you know,’ he whispers, ‘that this is the house of Beaumont Thursby, Earl of Rodermere?’
‘You mock me. What, you think me a buttock? Of course I know whose house this is.’
Master Crumb sighs and is about to speak further when an enchanting creature emerges from behind a curtain. Her voice surprises the sorceress as it has much of a man about it.
‘What Crumb is trying to tell you, Master Shakeshaft, you witless baboon, is that this is the house of your late apprentice, Beau Sorrel.’
‘No, no, no, Gally. Very funny, very amusing. You jest with me. Beau Sorrel was no earl and Beau Sorrel is dead, eaten by a beast. And it would have been far worse had I not possessed the wit to save two of us out of the three. It was a tragedy but there was nothing I could do.
‘Nothing you could do but write a play about a beauty and a beast,’ says the enchanting girl with the voice of a man.
‘And give it a happy ending as is expected at a wedding.’
Crumb throws his hands in the air. ‘It is no use, Gally, he will not listen, will not believe that Beau Sorrel is not dead, not eaten by the beast. He lives, Master Shakeshaft, he lives as ever I do, and shits and pisses as ever I do. Now, how do I know this, Ben? Because I have seen him. Lord Rodermere is none other than Beau Sorrel.’
‘Oh, rich, Crumb. Very full of wicked wit be you. It is a liar’s pie that I will not sup on. I know what happened. It was I, not you, remember, who saw the terrifying creature – and it was hungry for human flesh.’
‘Quiet,’ hisses Crumb. ‘Here comes Sir Percival.’
The actors stand to attention and bow as one.
This drama much delights the sorceress.
So here again is Sir Percival Hayes; he who does not believe in magic, he who tormented the alchemist, he whose henchman frightened the Widow Bott into revealing the sorceress’s name. Dressed in a lordly manner, his face painted, he looks as artificial as his actors.
‘What is that?’ asks Sir Percival of Master Shakeshaft.
‘It is an ass’s head, Sir Percival.’
‘It looks a much-used disguise, Master Shakeshaft. Where, pray, is the beast mask that was made to your design?’
‘I have it, Sir Percival, but so lifelike is it that I fear it would alarm the bride.’
Master Crumb fetches the beast mask. It is a poor design but nevertheless, to the sorceress’s eye, it holds a likeness of Randa. Oh, veiny roots of my great oaks, she thinks, what truths did you withhold from me?
‘That feeble thing would not alarm an infant,’ says Sir Percival and with a clicking of his heels and great authority he walks away.
The sorceress follows him out the hall and along the length of the house until he enters a chamber. At first she does not recognise who she sees: a handsome young gentleman, yes, who has strength in him and would make ladies blush with desire. But where is Beau?
‘All is ready, Lord Rodermere,’ says Sir Percival.
‘I would have a moment to myself,’ says the bridegroom, and in the dance of the morning light she sees the ghost of her charm still clings to him.
This was her beauty. Who took it from him? She listens to his thoughts that before she could not hear and now are hers for the taking.
Forgive me, Randa. Today I set my life on a different course and leave my dreams behind. I am only half a man and my lack of courage appalls me. I had such hopes for us. Look what they have become. I am the beast, Randa. I am the beast.
Picking up his gloves, he turns and for a moment seems to look at the sorceress. But she knows he cannot see her, can no longer hear her.
Sir Percival is waiting outside the chamber.
‘It is a time for new beginnings, my lord,’ he says.
No, she thinks. It is a time for old scores to be settled, once and for ever.
XC
Follow me down in the drizzle, follow me down on this grey May morn to the church where the wedding will take place.
Here is the grave of Lord Rodermere and with my finger all unseen, I write on the headstone as if it be butter and deep into the marble my words sink:
My curse.
Your death.
Let the joyful couple see it when they emerge from the church. I do not like these hollow buildings, these empty spaces of longed for answers. Let all believers float away up into the sky of my earth. Why have mortals not the wit to see that this ground, that this soil, is all there is to hold their heavy feet? They could not walk on clouds.
The congregation is made of the grand and the noble. Knights, gentlemen and their ladies all eager to seem younger than they are; false hair, painted faces, padded garments with much bombasting and quilting so they might appear better framed, better shouldered, better waisted, fuller of thigh. This sham fools no one. All here are in disguise, the truth of their puny flesh well-hidden in mountains of fabric.
Three faces she is pleased to see. Master John Butter is aglow, all worry stripped from him. He stands beside his new wife, Mistress Clare. Unlike the other women here, who take refuge behind their coyness and their painted façades, she makes no effort to hide her scars. This is the only honest couple among a congregation of hypocrites. They stand close to each other, finger tips touching. At Mistress Butter’s side a small honeyed boy looks up at his mother. Next to the child is Mistress Eleanor Goodwin. Age has been kind to her. Her figure is fuller, she looks content and holds the hand of her little grandson. But where, the sorceress wonders, is her husband? Where is Master Gilbert Goodwin?
By the altar Beau waits for his bride and the congregation begins to sing. There are so many people that neighbours and villagers spill out of the church door and into the graveyard. She moves between the worshippers so she may have a better view of the proceedings.
The bride, snub-nosed, her long, borrowed locks falling about her shoulders, enters ready for the merry dance. Her dress, a garment Gloriana herself might envy, is sprinkled with jewels, the bodice cut so low tha
t her breasts are on show for the delight of her soon-to-be husband.
Alas, Beau looks unimpressed. Perhaps someone should whisper to his bride that her groom loves an ill-formed creature; that snub noses and fakery are not to his liking.
At the church window she glimpses a feathered face with human eyes and she smiles. Look, Randa, he is marrying another.
One sneeze is all it takes for the sorceress to stop time, to make its greedy hands let go of the present and there they stand, lifeless puppets. Oh, how she relishes this moment before all things change. Beau stands beside his bride as if facing his grave. Never has such a handsome man looked more miserable. With this marriage he will be buried and it soothes the sorceress to think that, his charm now gone, there is no escape for him. He has been exiled from her world that was his by his birthright. He will live the remainder of his days with leaden feet.
She clicks her finger and time rushes in. The minister begins to speak and the bride holds out a ring to slip on Beau’s finger.
And before she does, before all this is binding and irreversible, a fox walks into the church and up the aisle with assured steps as if searching for someone. At Beau’s feet he stops.
The sorceress knows him, knows his blue eyes, knows this fox is hers. What better time to give the creature the gift of fire. After all, this is a wedding and gifts are expected.
There is a scream. The service stops.
Sir Percival approaches the fox with sword drawn. The fox does not move, fire licks its breath and Sir Percival backs away.
The bridegroom bends and holds the fox close. Only the sorceress hears Beau’s whisper.
‘Where is she? Where is Randa?’
And before Beau can act the sorceress is gone from there and swift she is upon Randa’s trail. The creature’s wings drag behind her and it does not take long to find her.
I have her. I have her and I will make her suffer for what she has done. He will never find her again.
Randa is surprised to see the sorceress.
‘Come away, child,’ says the sorceress with a sweet voice that hides the deadly nightshade of her feelings.
Pretending all the while to understand her heartache, she takes Randa into the heart of her forest, to the clearing, into the shell of the Widow Bott’s cottage. She plays her role: the kind, caring sorceress.
‘Why, my dear, are you here?’ she asks.
Randa does not answer; grief strips all words from her. It pleases the sorceress greatly to relish her pain.
‘Once I showed you where you belonged, in the Land of the Beasts. It is dangerous for you to be here in this world for you will be hunted and killed.’
Randa looks at her with those human eyes.
‘Leave me alone to die,’ she says.
The sorceress’s voice is harder now and she says, ‘What made you think that a one such as Beau could ever love one such as you? You are a beast and always will be. These ornaments of human form you possess do not a mortal woman make you. How could he love you? Your very size and shape make such a match impossible. And he is in love with another – surely you could see that?’
‘Did he marry her?’
‘Yes.’
As the sorceress says it, Randa crumbles and says as if she cannot believe it, ‘He is married? He married her?’
‘Why, yes, child. Did you not see the ceremony take place?’
She nods.
Love is such a weakness and makes even a beast vulnerable. The sorceress blows a sleeping potion in her eyes, and seeing her lying there feels pleasure at her inevitable destruction. A body half of this world, half of another belongs to the earth. Let her remains feed the soil. There is, the sorceress admits, sadness in her form that predicts a future, that touches the past. Mortal and beast entwined.
The sorceress leaves Randa to dream. But a plan comes to her and she turns back. It pains her but she tears a corner from her hem and places it in Randa’s talon. Vanish from human eye, Randa. Now Beau will not find her even if the fox leads him this way. The sorceress wants for her a spectacular death, watched by a queen, one the city of stones will not forget.
Follow me, oh follow me down, I sing as I return to the church.
XCI
The players of this wedding drama have lost their lines, the leading actor has left the stage and the audience, baffled, waits in silence at first. Then the whispering begins.
A fox, they say. Who would believe a fox would have the audacity to come into the church? It is witchcraft, certainly. And stories long forgotten, spider threads of embellished gossip, spin from one person to another.
When this comedy is over, I will sleep, leave mankind to his twisted dealings that do nothing but destroy my earth. I will sleep and treasure my acorns, gold beyond price. And when the wind comes and all mortals are blown away I will rise up, I will plant my seeds in the bones of the soil. But first to end what I began.
She looks around, notes that John Butter alone is missing from the congregation and supposes he has been sent to find the reluctant groom.
In the church, time becomes impolite. Minutes of hope tick slowly away and Lord Rodermere has not returned. She wonders if all these ladies and gentlemen can see that the folly of their rituals, by ever widening degrees, separates them from their roots in the earth.
The bride waits, stiffness fills her dress, her face, her whole being. And still her groom does not return. Alas, her thoughts are not of love lost, but the humiliation, all that comes with being so publicly abandoned in front of so many witnesses. She thinks, how will she find an earl to marry her now? A whale of self-pity swims through her. She catches the eye of Mistress Butter and, as often happens in church, her conscience trips on the mundane. She feels the pettiness of her words, the emptiness of her ill-conceived thoughts and regrets her hasty tongue. When first she was introduced to Lord Rodermere’s sister, she had put her hand to her mouth and recoiled at the sight of her, and said, as if Mistress Butter did not have ears to hear, ‘I will not be in her presence unless she is veiled.’
Alone now at the altar, she is embarrassed by foolish words that had at the time been so courteously dealt with.
Like everyone else, she turns to look when there is a stirring at the church door, a fluttering of excitement. A string of expectant faces, a wave of disappointment. It is not Beaumont, Lord Rodermere but Master Butter. Mistress Butter goes to her husband as does the sorceress for like everyone else she wants to hear what he has to say. What he says does not surprise his wife.
‘Lord Rodermere,’ he whispers, ‘has taken his horse from the stable and left. I believe . . . I believe there may be . . . someone else.’
John Butter and Sir Percival Hayes speak together in lowered voices and are joined by Master Cassell. After a few minutes of hushed, agitated conversation, it is the bride’s father who announces that the wedding will not take place. Not today.
No, not today. The sorceress laughs. Not ever.
The trees, her great trees, move nearer to the House of the Three Turrets as if waiting to reclaim it. The chambers that once had light now are darkened by leafy greens. In the great banqueting hall, while musicians play, servants rush about making sure all is ready.
The guests trickle into the house, not knowing what to do but wishing to be out of the rain. The table is magnificent and they look at one another, embarrassed. But if they do not eat, it will all go to waste and so they sit, drink the wine and eat the food. The air is more suited to a funeral than a wedding. But then both occasions demand a feast.
Upstairs, in the long gallery, the stage is ready, chairs arranged, for after the banquet the play will begin. Master Shakeshaft has squirrelled away six flagons of good Bordeaux and one of port from which he takes the occasional swig. His thoughts are all about money and it is with a sense of relief he thinks of what he will be paid for today. But more than that, after the guests have seen the calibre of his work, he will be assured of many more such engagements. He has an imagination of tind
er, fast to light, and it spirals into images of great wealth.
Only Gally seems to have the measure of the situation. She returns from the open window where below the bride and her parents walk, the bride weeping, her mother furious and Master Cassell was heard to say, ‘He will pay. My God, how he will pay for this.’
‘What is happening?’ asks Master Shakeshaft.
Gally takes off her wig and scratches her head. ‘It appears that young Lord Rodermere has not played his part. He left before plighting his troth.’
‘Oh, very droll, Gally. Very funny.’
‘I wish it were,’ says she.
Oblivious, Crumb continues to rehearse his lines, perfecting the tone of his voice. Sir Percival enters the long gallery and all jump in surprise for Sir Percival’s shoes have a particular sound to them, they click heavy on the wood. Everything about him is irritated, irritated that he has paid out so much money for nothing.
‘The play is cancelled,’ he snarls.
He is in no mood to be questioned.
‘Sir Percival – wait one minute,’ says Ben Shakeshaft. ‘Would you be so kind, sir, as to tell us what has happened?’
‘Leave. Take the costumes and go.’ Sir Percival throws down a purse of coins, turns to Gally and says, ‘Come.’
Ben Shakeshaft is about to speak again, but one look at Sir Percival is enough to make even this insensitive man realise it might be a mistake.
The other actors having departed by barge, the sorceress goes with Master Shakeshaft and Master Crumb as they set off at the mercy of the elements, the trunks of costumes rattling in the caravan. Ben Shakeshaft takes another drink from the flagon.
‘What a miserable day, what a mismatched wedding. Blood and bollocks, what a waste of time.’
He is thinking it will take a miracle to get him out of the financial mire he is in and is wrapped up in the perceived injustice of it all. The drink has gone to his head, and he is not looking where the horse is going.
‘Poor compensation, poor compensation indeed,’ he says and hands the flagon to Master Cuthbert.