by Wray Delaney
‘Did you hear of Bess again?’ I ask.
‘No. But when Randa came to my cottage, clutching the purse with the hem of the sorceress’s petticoat safe inside it, I knew she was Bess’s daughter.’
‘And did you see Randa as she was?’
‘Oh, yes, my lord. She be a marvel. Her wings, her feathers, her fur. And most men would claim she be a creation of the Devil.’ Mistress Finglas’s pipe has gone out and as she relights it, she says, ‘You must sleep.’
‘No, I will not sleep. I must first find out where Randa is.’
She shows me to the door and says, softly, ‘Do you know of a theatrical gentleman, Master Shakeshaft by name? There are rumours, talk of a play he is to put on in the bear pit, for one evening only.’
‘What is the play?’
‘The Duke and the Demon, I hear.’
XCV
If you want to know the double dealings of London, the best place to hear the scurrilous news is by the river. I have never known a waterman not to be in full possession of all the gossip that this greedy city feeds off and there is rumour and scandal a-plenty to go round.
I take the public stairs down to where the watermen cry, ‘Eastward Ho, Westward Ho,’ and among their bustling company I search out the chattiest one and ask to be taken across the river.
The moment my coin is in his purse and his oars are in the water, I ask if he has heard a rumour about a fantastic beast.
‘Now you come to mention it, a friend of mine, a close friend, related by blood, spoke to a friend of his, whose brother is a rum mercenary. He, having no regiment, was eager to take whatever work there be and has been employed to keep watch over a cage at the Paris Gardens. A quarrelsome man is this mercenary, not given to thinking or the making up of tales. He swore he has seen this monstrous beast, wings and all.’
Such is the sudden heaviness in my heart that I feel the weight of it could sink the boat. Why, I want to scream at the sky, why, my love, did you come back to this city that eats men and beasts alive?
My instinct, a voice I am only now paying attention to, tells me that before I do anything else I must find Master Shakeshaft. As I walk towards Cheapside and the Mermaid Tavern I begin by the power of too little sleep to almost convince myself that with rational conversation I could buy Randa’s freedom.
I arrive at the Mermaid at the busiest hour of the day for the plays have just finished and it appears that every actor and their companies are here, thirsty for wine and ale. I ask one of the potmen if he has seen Ben Shakeshaft.
‘Not here. The bear pit is where he be.’
I am on the point of leaving when I hear a shout above the noise of the crowd.
‘Beau! Over here.’
It is Gally, standing on a bench. As I push my way through, she starts to sing.
‘Much ado at the church
he refused to tie the knot . . .’
‘Stop, Gally, please,’ I say, pulling her down from the seat.
She throws her arms round me then turns to her companion.
‘This,’ she says, ‘is the reluctant bridegroom.’
Her earnest companion glances up from his writing and studies me for a moment before he starts scribbling again.
‘I must speak to you alone,’ I whisper to Gally. ‘And then I must find Ben Shakeshaft.’
‘Then I must change,’ says Gally. And before I can tell her that what she wears is not important on this occasion, she has disappeared into the throng.
‘Sit,’ says Gally’s companion. And having no alternative I do.
‘Much ado,’ he says, ‘and you refused to say the pretty oath of love?’
I nod and he seems happy to leave off any further attempt at conversation and turns to his writing.
I am asking myself one question: how will I free her? One thing I do know is that I cannot sit any longer. Every bone in my body aches and the only cure is movement. I stand and the writer glances up at me.
‘Leaving already?’
Again I nod and scour the room for Gally.
‘Do you, by chance, have any good names?’ he asks.
‘Names for who?’
‘For a witch – or sorceress.’
A name springs into my head, the name Mistress Finglas whispered to me.
‘Sycorax.’ I almost shout it.
‘You do not mind if I use it?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Please do. What do they call you, sir?’
‘Will,’ he says. ‘I am the spear, not the shaft.’
The tavern erupts in a bout of clapping. Gally has come through the door in a man’s clothes, carrying a feather fan, an ostentatious cloak thrown over his shoulder. I think how much I have missed him. He and I make a dramatic exit.
Outside all the drama of him falls away.
‘What brings you here?’ he asks. ‘I imagined you to be gone abroad. Are you ill? You look pale. You do not have a rash or . . .’
‘Gally, listen. I heard a rumour that Ben Shakeshaft has a creature chained up in the Paris Gardens. I beg you – tell me that it is not the case.’
‘I could. I mean, I can. And I would be lying.’
‘Where did he find her?’
‘He bought her . . . no, wait, how do you know that the beast is a she?’
‘She has wings,’ I say, ‘but she has a woman’s eyes, a woman’s mouth, a woman’s breasts and her name is Randa.’
‘Oh dear lord – you know this beast? She has a name? But she is mute, she does not speak.’
‘You have seen her?’
‘Yes. I thought it – thought her – a freak dressed for the part, until she moved her wings’.
‘Gally, where is Ben Shakeshaft? Where is he?’
‘Wait,’ says Gally. ‘You go too fast. It takes time for my mind to whirl on such a thought as this.’
I think, this is hopeless, and start to walk quickly in the direction of London Bridge.
‘Beau, do not walk away. Explain to me how it is that you are acquainted with this creature who is called Randa.’
I slow my steps. I know what I am about to say will make little sense to him and when I have finished I have left nothing out and I am waiting to hear him laugh.
But he takes me by my sleeve and pulls me into the Black Bear Tavern where he orders a jug of wine.
‘Am I to believe,’ he says slowly, ‘that you love this beast – as you would your horse, or as you love your fox, but no more. Is that what you feel for Randa?’
‘No, I am in love with Randa. I have loved no one else. She is why I could not marry. It is pointless, Gally, I cannot expect you to understand. It must confirm to you that I am indeed mad. But I care not what anyone thinks – I must save her and I will do it alone if need be.’
Gally’s face is serious, all the laughter gone from it.
‘Ben Shakeshaft, notorious debtor, crook and thief, has by his own admission had a stroke of good fortune. He bought your Randa on the queen’s highway from an old crone. Never before in his life has he made such a shrewd bargain. There is not a seat to be had for the play and much speculation that our very own faerie queen will honour us. As will Sir Percival Hayes, the Cassells . . . the list of the grand and the noble goes on. If your plan is to free her from the cage before tomorrow then I am afraid it is impossible for the simple reason that she is guarded by mercenaries.’
‘How many?’ I ask.
‘More than enough to kill you.’
‘When last did you see her?’
‘She was brought in for our rehearsal at the bear pit yesterday. Half the company was in much fear when they saw her though the other half said the beast was a fraud. She refused to play the part and lay curled on the floor until Ben Shakeshaft had one of his hired ruffians poke and prod her. She stood upright, spread her wings and everyone stood back aghast. If it was not for the chains I think she would have flown away. There was something so unworldly about her. And I thought, that is how I have felt all my days: half-woman, half-man, a
ll beast.’
He takes a printed programme from his doublet and hands it to me. On the front is a very bad drawing of Randa. The play, The Duke and the Demon, is to be followed by a fight to the death between the demon and the bears.
‘Do you have a part in the play?’ I ask.
‘I play the duke. And, yes, I will smuggle you in. But once you are in there, once you are in the bear pit, what will you do?’
‘Keep the bears off her.’
‘It is not enough.’
‘I know it is not, but how I save her I have no means of rehearsing. I need a barge.’
‘A barge?’ repeats Gally. ‘Beau, they will kill both of you.’
‘Then I will die being true to myself, being true to Randa. I have no more time for lies.’
XCVI
I leave Gally and go again to the house of Thomas Finglas, frustrated that I have achieved nothing except to arrange to meet Gally at Sir Percival’s house tonight. But first I must tell Thomas Finglas where his daughter is. I walk faster, then realise I am walking too fast and slow my pace – I do not want anyone to notice me, I want to remain anonymous. I knock on the alchemist’s door.
‘Back so soon, my lord?’ says Mistress Finglas.
She leads me to Master Finglas’s laboratory where food and a jug of wine are waiting on a table.
‘Mistress Finglas, I have come here to see your husband.’
She says, as if it is a matter of fact, as if I have spoken the words myself, ‘You have not eaten much today.’
She pulls back a chair for me. I feel at odds and do not know if I can sit. Only by moving can I stay awake.
‘Please,’ I say, ‘I must speak to him. I can eat afterwards.’
‘Eat,’ she says. ‘No battle was ever won on an empty stomach.’
I feel I am nine summers old again and reluctantly I obey her.
‘Sir Percival Hayes sent word to him to attend Master Shakeshaft’s beast, as he calls Randa, at the Paris Gardens.’
‘Then I have wasted my time,’ I say, feeling such anger at myself.
‘My lord, you must listen to to what I have to say.’
I take a deep breath and try to keep my my rising panic under control.
‘You speak your truth as I will mine. It will go no further than this room and when it is said it will be done with.’
‘What truth?’
‘Old fears do not die. I might be dressed as a respectable housewife, but my soul be that of a witch, a free spirit, a wise woman who knows the ancient ways. I ran for my life from the forest, from the place where all my roots are buried. I left everything behind and came naked to this city. And Thomas gave me shelter. Thomas told me, do not lose your truth. For that alone I love him. Other men have threatened me with burning, with torture and the rope. They told me I should not long for knowledge that is not woman’s to own. That the things above us be not of woman’s concern, the things below us, no woman should touch. And that those that do meddle in such things are Satan’s whores. All the sorceress’s knowledge is seen as superstition, though she knows of things above and below, she sees the past if she chooses, she sees the future if she wills it. When your father in his arrogance first chopped down one of her great oaks, she knew that the time was coming when this land will lose its trees, when the waters will lose its fish, when the seas will lose their weeds and die. She believed by stopping one mortal, she would stop many. You were born with a curse on your head, but they say the curse was broken. They say, my lord, it was not his son but a black wolf that killed Lord Rodermere.’
‘What if I told you that they are wrong?’
‘Tell me and I will tell you.’
‘In Randa’s house, in the Land of the Beasts, I wore a gown. The fur lining became a part of me, and I became a part of it. I possessed speed in my limbs that I had never owned before. My teeth were razor-sharp and I had a desire beyond desire for the blood of one man. As time has passed, these memories, these broken shards of glass shine back at me.’
‘What do they show you?’
‘I smell him. I smell his sweat as he sat upon his horse. My nose is alive with his scent. He comes through the trees, slices of him join then part and join again to become whole. I know he is armed. I smell the metal of the crossbow, sense the arch of the bolt and I am upon him. He is my prey and I am his death. His horse rears, throw us to the ground and gallops away. He lies dazed. Only when he saw me, when he knew me, did I sink my teeth deep into his flesh and feel such release, as if I had been trailing the world behind me on a harness and was at last free of its burden. When I saw what was left of my father in his coffin, I told myself it was the imaginings of my hatred for him that brought these visions. But I knew it was not and I did what men do when the truth is too sharp to hold: they sheath it in a lie.’
‘It be as I thought,’ says Mistress Finglas. She stoops before the fire and lights it. I am grateful for the heat. She takes out her pipe and lights that too. I watch the smoke rings and we sit in silence until her words float under my skin.
‘Your father, Lord Rodermere, came many times to my cottage when my hair was black, my figure firm, my hips wide. I was, in those days, under the protection of the sorceress. He threatened that if I did not lie with him, he would have me sent to trial for witchcraft. Nine months after he disappeared, you were delivered to the House of the Three Turrets. I hoped that with your birth the sorceress might let things rest and not bring back your father. But her rage with man and with beast went deep.
‘When Sir Percival Hayes sent his man to accuse me I spoke her name. Her punishment was harsh – as I knew it would be. But she made a mistake – an oversight – which led to another and then another, and I have kept the knowledge safe in my heart.
‘Lord Rodermere came to see me after his return, to beg me to find your faerie mother. I told him I needed an offering, that I could not go without a gift. One day he came to my cottage dragging behind his horse the carcass of a great black wolf. I took the pelt, the offering to the elfin world, into the heart of the forest and there I left it. And walked away for I feared that the spirit of such a great wolf would rise again and search out the hunter who had robbed him of his life. When your father realised that your faerie mother would never return, he blamed me and set Parson Pegwell to bring down on me his righteous indignation.’
‘The wolf’s vengeful spirit would inhabit me now,’ I said, ‘if Herkain had not freed me. But my arms still have the strength, my legs can outrun most men. But what is the point in these confessions? At this late hour how can they save Randa?’
‘I have need of your fox,’ says Mistress Finglas.
‘I have not seen him since last night; he often goes his own way. But you have not answered my question.’
‘Your fox has been here,’ she says. ‘He screams impatient at the moon. He knows what I must do. Now, you go. Do you not have somewhere else you should be this evening?’
I rise, surprised to find I feel so light of heart, and I say so.
As I am leaving I ask, ‘Mistress, why is it you need my fox?’
‘That be your question,’ she says. ‘The answer be mine for the keeping.’
XCVII
We are interrupted by noise from the street.
‘What is that?’ I ask, for the sound reverberates through the wooden timbers of the house.
‘It has started. I feared it would,’ says Mistress Finglas. ‘The ghost of my husband’s first wife demands blood and revenge.’
I hear what it is they are shouting: that this is the house where the beast first struck.
‘What do they – what do you mean?’
Putting on her cloak, she said, ‘Come with me, my lord. I know a way where we will not be seen.’
I follow her out of the back door and along an alley.
We part at the river steps, I to take the ferry. I ask Mistress Finglas where she is bound. She would not say and just then my fox appears at her heels.
‘Do not do
anything foolish, my lord. There needs to be cunning if Randa is to be freed.’
I sit in the boat and listen to the waterman tell me about the beast. Oh, this city salivates with blood lust. For once Ben Shakeshaft has a play that everyone is braying to see.
*
In Blackfriars, I walk with measured steps past the shuttered shops whose windows are clamped shut. To my tired mind, the streets are but a playhouse waiting for this nocturnal tragedy to be acted out. Around me, a group of drunken men with torches and a drum cry, ‘Death to the demon, death to the beast.’
I am grateful when I find Sir Percival’s house, hidden behind a garden wall. The low gate looks of little importance and I pass it twice before I realise that this is the entrance. I ring the bell, and am ushered into an oak-panelled dining chamber. The table is so well polished that in the candlelight its surface shines as black as the river. The place smells of beeswax with none of the odours that make up the usual soup of family vapours.
It had been Gally’s suggestion that we should meet here, assuring me that Sir Percival would help with a barge, with men if necessary, though in truth I doubted it. But with or without his or anyone else’s help I am already determined that tomorrow I will use my sword and all my strength to save Randa. I know the futility of my plan, yet it brings some comfort as I wait in this chamber that is so unexpected. All is arranged to perfection with the eye of a connoisseur. In the centre of a wall hangs a portrait and at the bottom of the frame a little plaque says Gallimaufry. An androgynous creature brazenly stares out at the viewer. The portrait is of Gally. Her face, painted white, catches the viewer’s eye and her gaze refuses to leave him. Her hair is worn high and covered in jewels, a ruff frames her face, the gown she wears is open and reveals her chest, one nipple pierced. But what makes it so striking a portrait is the expression of love upon Gally’s face. It is directed towards one person: he who commissioned the painting.