“We have been a wild lot,” he said. “What a family you have married into! In the reign of King Stephen my ancestor of that time was a robber baron. He used to waylay travellers and bring them to his castle. He was called the Fiend of Paling. In the Seaward Tower”—he pointed to it—“he used to take his victims there and he would demand a ransom of their family and if it were not paid the victim would be tortured. He would give a grand banquet and bring him out for the amusement of his cronies. At night it is said that the cries of long dead tortured men and women can be heard in the Seaward Tower.” He looked at me sharply and I could see he was thinking of the child I carried. “There is nothing to fear,” he went on quickly. “It was all long ago. Then Stephen died and Henry II was our King. He was for law and order and extorting money for his wars through taxes, so he suppressed the robber barons by means of meting out dire punishments and the Casvellyns had to find a new means of sustenance.”
“I have seen men going in and out of the Seaward Tower.”
“My servants,” he said. “They are fishermen, many of them. They catch our fish and I have a fancy for it. They serve me in many ways. Down there in the lower part of the Seaward Tower are our boats. You may see them venturing out now and then. Have you seen them?”
“No.”
“You will know our ways in due time. I will tell you of another ancestor of mine. He had a fair wife but he was very fond of women. It is a failing—or it may be a virtue—in the men of my family. They adore women. They need women.”
“Are you telling me this to put me on my guard?”
“One must always be on one’s guard to hold a possession which is precious. You should remember that.”
“Should we both remember it?”
“Aye, we will. I was telling you of my ancestor.”
“The one who needed women and was unfaithful to his wife. Is that an uncommon story?”
“Not in my family, nor in any for that matter, I’ll swear, but where this Casvellyn was different was that, being in love with his wife who was a very fair lady, yet he could fall in love with another who was equally fair. The second lady was a very moral woman and although she greatly desired this Casvellyn he knew he could not have her—save by rape—unless he married her. He was not a man for a quick seduction and that be that. Nay, he liked marriage. He liked the cosy comforts of it. But he wanted more than one wife. So what did he do?” He turned me round, so that we were looking at the turrets of those two towers which faced landward. “There you see our two towers, Ysella’s Tower and the Crows’ Tower.”
“I did not know they all had names.”
“Yes, Seaward you know, and Nonna’s. They face the sea and Ysella’s and Crows face the land. Seaward is so called for the obvious reason that it looks to the sea, and Crows because I imagine crows once nested there. Ysella and Nonna were the names of that long dead Casvellyn’s wives. For ten years Ysella lived in her tower and Nonna did not know she was there. He kept them apart. He would say farewell to Nonna and ride away. Then he would come back when it was dark and take the secret door to Ysella’s Tower and behave as though he had come home after a long journey. He would stay with her for a while and then ride away and return to Nonna.”
“I don’t believe it. It’s not possible. Two wives living in the same castle! Why did they not explore their home?”
“He forbade them to and wives in those days were obedient. He told Ysella that Nonna’s Tower was haunted and Nonna that Ysella’s was, and that if either of them ventured near the other, evil would befall the house. He said it was the result of a witch’s curse. He would never allow them to leave the castle unless he accompanied them.”
“It seems quite incredible.”
“It is the legend and when people used to say, as you do, that it is impossible, my father always replied that with the Casvellyns all things were possible.”
“That is blasphemy.”
“Maybe blasphemy can be truth.”
“And what happened? Did they discover each other?”
“Yes. One day Nonna was here on the ramparts and she saw a figure on the ramparts of Ysella’s Tower. Neither of them should have been where they were. It was part of the forbidden territory. Nonna called her servants but by the time they came Ysella had disappeared. This gave rise to the legend that there was a ghost at the tower (it was not called Ysella’s then of course, nor was this called Nonna’s). Nonna confessed that she had been on the ramparts and asked her husband to explore the tower for her, for she pointed out if they were a party they need not fear the ghost. He refused and something in the manner of his refusal made her more curious. It is never good to be too curious, particularly about a husband’s secrets. Nonna was determined to find out more about the ghost of Ysella’s Tower. One day she took her maid with her and explored. They entered the tower but they could not get beyond the barred door; they did not know that there was a secret way in close to the rocks. One day she followed her husband when he went away on one of his journeys and lying in hiding saw him enter Ysella’s Tower by a secret door. She followed him in and came face to face with Ysella. She understood what had happened and there was nothing for their husband to do but admit his guilt. That day Nonna died. She fell from the top of Ysella’s Tower. That was the first time she had entered it. My ancestor then brought Ysella out of her tower and proclaimed her to be his wife. They lived together until the end of their days, but it is said that Nonna haunts Ysella’s Tower from that day. There! That is the most colourful of our family legends, do you not think? It is a lesson too for disobedient wives who are too curious.”
“Was she over curious would you say?”
“If she had not ventured into Ysella’s Tower she would not have died.”
“So it was murder.”
“Who can say? I am merely telling you what I have heard.”
“What a wild family you come from.”
“Remember you belong to it now,” he retorted. “And take care.”
Overhead the choughs were circling. I caught a glimpse of red beaks as they flew near.
“I see,” I said, “that this legend is meant to be a warning to wives.”
“Why, yes. We Casvellyns have always found it wise to warn our wives.” His eyes had grown tender again. “It is chill up here,” he went on. “And you are lightly clad. Come. We will go down.”
He put his arm through mine as we descended and although I was still thinking of the story of the two wives I felt happy and at ease.
My mother visited me at Castle Paling. I was so happy to see her, to show the castle, to take her round and tell her the story of the towers.
“You’re happy then, Linnet,” she said, as though surprised.
“Life has become so … full,” I said.
She nodded. “So it was all for the best,” she mused. She was very relieved.
She asked me a great deal of questions about my health and it seemed that what I had to tell satisfied her.
It was the end of April and what an April that was with the hedges full of wild flowers and the intermittent rain and sunshine. I would listen for the cry of the birds—the ring-ouzel, the sand-martin and of course the cuckoo. There were many questions to be asked about what was happening at Lyon Court. Edwina’s child was due in June and she was all impatience. Carlos was anxious because they had waited so long. Jacko was courting a girl in Plymouth and it seemed that ere long there would be another wedding. Damask wanted to know why I didn’t come home. And my father was eager to know whether there was any sign that the child I was carrying was a boy.
I laughed, recalling them all. They seemed far away from me now and I was ashamed that I had missed them so little.
My mother mentioned that the Landors had visited Lyon Court again. Business plans were going ahead. Very soon they would be sending out their ships. My father was very busy and that involved everyone else. There was a great deal of activity and it was decided that Plymouth should be their headquarters,
as was to be expected.
There was something else she had to tell me. Fennimore had ridden over to hear from her the story of my marriage. She said he had seemed quite bewildered. So must he have been for, according to what we had allowed people to believe, when he had asked me to marry him I had already been married to Colum.
He had not shown any anger, said my mother, just amazement. “I had to tell him the truth,” she went on. “I knew I could trust him. I could not have him believe you to be perfidious. He was very, very sad. He said you should have told him. He would have understood. I begged of him to forget what had happened if he could. I told him that I had spoken to him in the utmost confidence and that what was done was done. He saw the point of it. You were married now. Oh, Linnet, he would have understood. He would have married you. Perhaps we should have told him.”
“It is better as it is,” I insisted.
“You are happy. You would not have it otherwise.”
She smiled at me, understanding perfectly I knew.
She went on: “Soon after I heard he was to be betrothed to a girl he had known all his life. Her family are neighbours of the Landors. It will be a most suitable union.”
“He quickly consoled himself,” was my comment.
“We should be glad of that,” replied my mother.
I said: “He would face up to the situation calmly, accepting the fact that he and I were not for each other.”
I thought how different he was from Colum and I was glad that everything had turned out as it had. In these short months my emotions had been revolutionized. I could imagine no man my husband but Colum Casvellyn.
My mother, being aware of this, was delighted. I was pleased too to notice that Colum had an admiration for her. She would always be a very attractive woman, not so much because of her features and figure which were still quite good, but because of that spirit in her, that vitality which I was sure had attracted my father in the first place and still did.
My mother told Colum that she and my father thought it would be an excellent plan if they took me to Lyon Court a little later so that she herself could care for me at the end of my pregnancy.
“You cannot imagine that I will relinquish my wife, even to her parents,” cried Colum. “No, Madam, my son is to be born in Castle Paling. That is where he shall first see the light of the day in the walls of that castle which will one day be his.”
“I want her to have the best care.”
“Think you that I cannot give her that?” They faced each other squarely, my mother ready to do battle with him as she had so often with my father, and he amused, liking her for it.
They compromised and it was arranged that in August, that month when my baby was due, my mother should come to Castle Paling. It was the only way, for she was determined to be with me when my child was born and Colum was equally determined that the birth should take place in Castle Paling.
It was mid-May when my mother went home promising to return at the beginning of August. Colum and I rode some of the way back with her, and when she had left us Colum told me that I should not be allowed to ride much longer; he was not risking my losing the child. I was happy enough to be so cherished.
The weeks began to pass very quickly. I was preparing for my child and my mother sent Jennet over to be with me. I might wish to keep Jennet, she said; she was an excellent nurse and had a way with children.
I had always been fond of Jennet. I found her a great comfort and it was rather pleasant to have a reminder of my old home in Castle Paling.
Jennet was delighted to come, although she missed seeing her son Jacko, but of course now that he was a man he did not need to be tied to his mother’s apron-strings and for several years he had been away at sea for long stretches of time and she was used to being without him. “As long as he be well and happy, that’s all I ask,” she said. “The Captain will see to him for the Captain looks after his own.” She was proud because he was courting a girl in Plymouth who, she whispered to me, was a very fine lady.
It was not long before she had made friends with one of the serving-men. She talked about him a great deal. His name was Tobias and the manner in which she spoke of him would have led one to believe that she had never known another man.
“He be in Seaward,” she told me, so I knew that he was one of those men I had seen going in and out of that tower and about whose occupation I had wondered.
One June day I needed Jennet to do some sewing for me which I wanted quickly, and as I couldn’t find her I went in search of her. I guessed that she was in or near the Seaward Tower so I made my way there. It was a strange thing, but although I had been in the castle for four months or so there was a great deal of it I had not seen. I knew the Crows’ Tower and Nonna’s very well indeed as we lived in them. As Seaward was occupied by the servants I had not ventured into it, and I often wondered about Ysella’s. Once I had wandered across the courtyards and come to the iron-studded door in the thick wall. I had tried it. It was locked. I made up my mind that some time I would ask Colum to show me every part of the castle.
On this occasion I made my way towards Seaward. I crossed the inner ward and as I came towards the entrance of the tower I could hear a clamour and the sound of much laughter. I pushed open the iron-studded door which was similar to that barred one which led to Ysella’s. Immediately facing me were steps leading down. I went down them cautiously for I was now beginning to feel less nimble. As I descended I could feel the strong fresh air on my cheeks and the unmistakable sound and smell of the sea.
I came down into what seemed like a stable yard. I was amazed at the number of horses and there were some donkeys too. I realized that the voices I had heard had not come from here. It was a strange place. On one side of the courtyard was a door and opening it, I was on a path which wound upwards to the coast road. On the shore several small boats were moored to stakes.
The tide was low and I could see the sharp points of the Devil’s Teeth protruding from the water.
I decided Jennet was not there so I retraced my steps and climbed the stairs. I was now in the small hall-like entrance on the tower side of the iron-studded door. I noticed then another door I had missed, and I realized that it was from behind this that the voices came.
I pushed it open and walked in. There was a large chamber with a big table in the centre of it. Seated round it were several men and a few women. Jennet was among them. These were the people I had seen from the Crows’ Tower—the fishermen of whom Colum had spoken.
I heard Jennet’s shrill: “Why, ’tis the mistress.”
They shuffled to their feet and looked uncomfortable.
I said: “I came to look for you, Jennet.”
“Why yes, mistress,” she said, blushing a little.
“I do not wish to disturb your meal,” I said.
One of the men who appeared to be a leader of them mumbled something.
I said: “Come, Jennet.”
She came at once.
I did not know why but I felt uneasy. These were my husband’s retainers and I was the châtelaine of the castle. Why should I feel that there was something strange about them, that they were not ordinary servants? They were respectful enough and yet in a way they seemed a little shocked to find me here. Why? Wasn’t the castle my home?
The man who sat at the head of the table came over to me and said: “You should be careful, mistress, of the stairs here. They can be dangerous, like. ’Tis easy to trip.”
I said: “I went down them. I had no idea there were so many horses and that there was a path up to the road.”
“Aye,” he said. “But the master would not wish you to use they stairs.”
“I’ll be careful,” I said.
I had a feeling that I had met this man before. There was something familiar about his movements.
I was very conscious of so many eyes upon me. Why should I feel so uncomfortable? Why should the fact that I had disturbed my husband’s servants at a meal—in whi
ch my own maid was sharing—make me feel so uneasy, and that I was in the presence of something rather strange?
It’s my condition, I told myself. Everything that seemed a little strange could be put down to that.
Jennet and I came out into the courtyard.
I said: “You have soon become friendly with your fellow-servants, Jennet.”
She giggled in that girlish way of hers. “Why yes, Mistress Linnet, I was always one to make friends quick, like.”
“And your friend … ?”
She blushed. “He be a very fine man, Mistress. He did take a fancy to me from the first. All that time ago …”
“All what time ago? You have not been here so long.”
She clapped her hands to her lips. A silly habit of hers when she had said something impetuously; she had always done it, I remembered from my childhood.
“Well, Mistress, he did see me long ago … when I were out with you and the mistress.”
“I know,” I said, “it was when we were returning from Trystan Priory.”
She looked so embarrassed that I knew I was right. So she was aware that the plot had been made in this house and that the band of robbers who had beset us on the road were Colum’s men.
I felt angry that she should be aware of this; then I shrugged my shoulders.
“It’s all right,” I said. “I know what happened. My husband … confessed.”
Jennet was greatly relieved. “My dear life, what a man he be. There be only one other to rival him and that be the Captain.” Then she appeared to be contrite. I supposed she was thinking of her present lover whom her optimistic nature would always tell her was the best she had ever had.
She said: “He do say, Mistress, that on the road there he fancied me. He would have run off with me, he says, if orders hadn’t been different.”
“It is over now, Jennet,” I said, “and best forgotten.”
Best forgotten! I thought. What a foolish thing to say. How could something be forgotten which had changed one’s whole life, which had brought me my husband and the child I now carried.
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