“I would make the attempt.”
“By God,” he said, “I believe you would. You defy me; you give me no more children and yet I have a softness for you. You shall have your way in this, wife. He shall be taken to the chapel and he shall be buried beside his sister. There shall be no name on his gravestone and do not let me hear the name of his ship pass your lips again. It must be thought that he perished far from here. You see how I indulge you?”
I did not answer him. I dropped to my knees and looked into Fennimore’s dead face.
Colum went away and shortly afterwards four of the men came to the shore.
They carried Fennimore’s body to the chapel.
The next day he was buried beside his sister in the burial grounds of the Casvellyns close to Ysella’s Tower.
It was the end of an era, I could never forget it. I was haunted by the memory of Fennimore’s dead face. I wondered what would happen when my mother visited us. I could no longer keep secrets from her. I was rather glad we did not meet for I was sure she would realize the change in me.
The storm had taken place at the beginning of October. Colum had strangely enough tried to woo me back to some semblance of affection. I could not respond. The sight of Fennimore dead on the shore had killed something in me for ever.
It was Hallowe’en again, the night when witches rode on their broomsticks to their covens where they worshipped the Devil in the form of the Horned Goat.
The day was misty and so typical of October in our part of the world—warmish and everything one touched was damp.
Because it was Hallowe’en the servants were talking. I wondered if any of them remembered Maria. It was seven years to the day since she had gone and Senara was nearly eight years old. It was a long time to remember.
But Jennet must have talked to the children of witches, for when I went to the nursery Senara was asking questions and Tamsyn was answering them and she could only be repeating what she had heard through Jennet.
“They go to covens,” Tamsyn was saying.
“What are covens?” asked Senara.
“That’s where they meet. They fly there on broomsticks and there is their master, the Devil. Sometimes he’s a big black cat and sometimes he’s a goat. He’s ever so big … bigger than anybody has ever been, and they dance.”
“I want to go,” said Senara.
Connell said: “If you go you’re a witch. Then we’ll catch you and tie you to your familiar and throw you in the sea.”
“What familiar?”
“It’s a cat perhaps.”
“Could it be a dog?”
“Yes, a dog,” cried Connell, “anything. Sometimes it’s a mouse or a rat or a beetle … or a horse. It’s anything.”
“It could be Nonna,” said Senara. Nonna was her own special puppy whom she had named after the Tower. Her eyes were round. “Perhaps Nonna’s my familiar.”
“You can’t have one,” said Tamsyn protectively. “If you did they’d say you were a witch.”
“And we’d take you out and hang you on a gibbet,” cried Connell with relish—his father’s son.
“He wouldn’t,” said Tamsyn protectively. “I wouldn’t let him.”
“I’d hang him instead,” said Senara.
“I’d like to see you try.”
Connell had Senara by the hair. She kicked him. It was time for me to intervene. In fact I did not know why I had allowed the conversation to go on so long.
“That’s enough,” I said. “You are all talking nonsense. Nobody is going to be hanged by anybody and there are no witches here.”
“Jennet said …” began Tamsyn.
“And I say we do not listen to stories of uneducated servants. Let them have their witches if they will. We are not to be deluded.”
Then I made them take out their books and we read from Sir Thomas More’s Utopia, which was far removed from the distasteful subject of witchcraft.
That night Maria came back.
Colum and I were supping together in the winter parlour. It was a rather silent meal as our meals had become. He made no effort to converse. Sometimes he would eat and leave me at the table.
I think that even he accepted the fact that after the death of Fennimore there was an insurmountable barrier between us. I could sense a tension mounting; I wondered whether he could or whether he cared. He did not always share the bedchamber; he had been away from home for several nights, presumably arranging for the disposal of the cargo salvaged from the Landor Lion, but on those occasions when he came to me, I sensed it was to let me know that he would still claim his rights. It was like staking a claim, an assurance of a right of way, I thought cynically. I hated those encounters yet I still found excitement in them and there was a sense of disappointment when he was not with me.
This was the state of affairs on that night.
She must have walked straight into the castle for she came and stood in the room.
For the moment I thought I was seeing the ghost again. Then she spoke.
“I have come back,” she said.
Colum stared at her—as I did.
“Come back,” cried Colum. “Good God. Maria!”
“Yes,” she said. “I come back. I live here again.”
“But …” began Colum.
I stood up. I could feel myself trembling. “Where have you been?” I demanded. “Why have you come back?”
“It is nothing to you where I been,” she said, in her halting English. “It matters not. I am back.”
“You think you can just walk in …” said Colum.
“I think yes. You took my ship … You kill my friends. You owe me home. I stay. Do not try to turn me away. If you do … you will be sorry. You owe me this. I take.”
I said: “This cannot be.”
“Yes,” she answered, “it can.” She was looking straight at Colum.
She was more beautiful than I remembered. She wore a velvet cloak with a hood which fell back to show her shining dark hair which was piled high on her head. Her dark eyes were long, and smiling serenely. There was something unearthly about her. I am dreaming, I thought. This cannot really be Maria.
“I go to my room, my Red Room,” she said.
“You cannot stay here,” I began.
She ignored me and turned to Colum. “My belongings will come soon,” she said. “I stay here for a while.”
Then she left us.
I stared at Colum. “What does this mean? She has gone to the Red Room. This can’t be true. Where has she come from?”
“She will stay here,” he said.
“It is the price you must pay for murdering her people,” I said, “is that it?”
“Say what you will,” he answered. “She shall stay.”
Then he left me there.
And so Maria came back to Castle Paling. The household was agog with rumour. The witch had returned. She could not have timed her arrival at a better time to suit their theory. First she had come on Hallowe’en; a year later precisely to the day she had gone; and now she had returned seven years later on Hallowe’en.
And she lived in the Red Room, that room where the servants had heard strange noises and where I myself had seen—or thought I saw—her ghost.
I sent for Jennet. I said: “Jennet, Maria is back.”
Jennet nodded gravely.
“I dare swear there is talk of her being a witch.”
Jennet nodded again.
“I don’t want such talk to reach the children’s ears. I heard them talking of witches the other day. I don’t want them to be concerned in such things.
“She be Senara’s mother,” said Jennet slowly.
“All these rumours, they must not touch Senara.”
“Nor shall they,” said Jennet.
“I knew I could trust you,” I said.
The servants watched her furtively. If she gave an order they flew to obey her. They were terrified of the evil eye.
She went out riding alone. Onc
e I met her; she did not acknowledge me but galloped off in another direction, her hair streaming behind her. Each day she rode.
It would soon be Christmas and I longed to see my mother. I was very depressed when I heard from her.
My dearest Linnet (she wrote). The Landors are spending Christmas with us. As you know, they have suffered a terrible tragedy. Fennimore is almost certainly lost and the Landor Lion, which was due to arrive home more than a month ago and had been sighted within ten miles of the coast, has not returned. We feared it might have been lost in that fearful storm we had at the end of October. Your father and Captain Landor have much to talk of. The loss of the ship alone is a great blow to them. But that Fennimore should have gone with it is more than his poor mother can endure. She is distraught and I am going to have them here, with poor Fennimore’s wife and children. I shall try to make them forget a little. It means, my dearest child, that we shall have to forgo our Christmas together, for you could not come without Colum and he could not come for reasons that you know. The loss of Fennimore has brought more bitter memories of Melanie’s death. As soon as they have gone I shall come to see you. Or perhaps you will come here.
The days seemed long. It was late before the sun rose and it set so early. “The darkest days are before Christmas,” my mother used to say.
Into the house had crept something evil. I was sure if Edwina were here now she would warn me again.
I could feel it. It came from the Red Room and it menaced me.
Perhaps it was true that she was a witch. Perhaps she had not really been on the ship. Perhaps she had lain in the sea waiting for me to find her. I began to be beset by fancies.
The fact was that Maria was there and none dared tell her to go. I was aware of her growing power over the household—her evil power. Even Colum was caught in it.
What a beautiful woman she was! Perhaps it was evil beauty but it was none the less seductive for that. She seemed to possess many personalities and she would shed them as a snake sheds its skin. That was how I thought of her—as a beautiful sinuous serpent.
The children were bewitched by her too.
“Does Senara’s mother live with us now?” asked Tamsyn.
I said: “She will perhaps for a while.”
“Most mothers live all the time with their children, don’t they? But Senara’s mother is different from all other mothers.”
Senara said: “You are my real mother. She is my dream mother. I like to look at her. But I like best to know you’re there.”
“I’ll always be here if you want me, Senara,” I told her.
Connell said: “She is the most beautiful mother in the world.”
Tamsyn watched me closely, her face growing red. “That’s not true,” she said, and blushed deeper because she was lying. “My mother is.”
Dear Tamsyn, the protector!
How strange that during those days a thirty-year-old woman should turn to a ten-year-old child for protection. Protection! What a strange word to use.
In the matter-of-fact manner of children they accepted Maria’s visitation as natural enough. That the servants talked of it in their hearing I did not doubt, but there she was and they accepted her.
Senara had a strange, beautiful mother who was above normal rules. She suddenly appeared and became part of the household. After a while that did not strike them as odd. Maria was interested in her daughter now, for Senara was like her; one could see the relationship immediately—the same long eyes, the black hair, the perfectly shaped features. But Senara lacked the mystery; she was an ordinary little girl.
Maria was indeed shedding her skin. She was bringing out a different personality than that we had seen during that long ago year she had spent in our household. She was becoming like a normal woman. She visited the schoolroom and listened to the children at their lessons. She petted Senara and gave her presents, for her belongings had arrived and in them were golden ornaments and rich materials. She instructed the seamstress to make dresses for herself and Senara.
Senara was naturally a little vain. Such a beautiful child could not help but be aware of her beauty. She was naïvely proud of it and my dear Tamsyn, who could be called almost plain in comparison, was proud of it too.
I was pleased to see that the coming of Maria had made no difference to their relationship. They shared a bedchamber and were never really content if they were separated for long.
Maria tried to charm my daughter. Sometimes I had a feeling that she was trying to break the great affection between us. She could not do that in the smallest way and I fancied that Tamsyn had grown even more protective towards me. It was almost as though she were aware of some menace in the house. It may have been, though, that I, being aware of this, had become nervous and showed it.
What was most disturbing was the effect she was having on Colum. I could feel the tension rising. I who knew him so well realized that he wanted her as fiercely as he had once wanted me. I could see the smouldering light in his eyes when he surveyed her. She would join us at our intimate suppers. The three of us would be there at the table, the candlelight flickering on our faces—I knew that mine must have been alert and watchful. I knew too that neither of them paid much attention to me.
I cannot endure this, I thought. I must get away. I must go home to my mother. I should have confided in her long ago. She would have advised me what I must do.
Maria’s beauty was unearthly. Satanic in its way and I could understand that Colum found it irresistible.
Sometimes I thought they were lovers. Then I was not so sure. Those nights when he was not with me, where was he? In the Red Room?
I kept thinking of the time when I had gone into that room and seen a vision of her. That must have been a warning. Why had I not told Edwina? Perhaps she could have advised me.
At night I would lie in my bed unable to sleep. When I did doze fitfully I would be beset by dreams—wild, fantastic dreams of visions. Maria was always in my dreams. And sometimes Colum. I saw them together writhing in an embrace. I would awaken clammy with sweat and fear and believe that there was someone in the room.
Tamsyn said: “You are not well, Mother. Shall I make a brew of the herbs Aunt Edwina gave us? I know how to.”
“What would you give me, Tamsyn?” I asked.
“The pimpernel brings laughter so I would give you that. But it is not the time of year for pimpernel. Poppy brings sleep. But there are no poppies either. But I have an ashen branch and if that is put beneath your pillow it will drive away evil spirits.”
“My dearest child, I am happy just to be with you.”
“I am your dearest child,” she said. “More dear to you than any of the others. I know it. It makes me happy. I will look after you always.”
“Bless you, my darling,” I said.
She was silent for a while. Then she said: “If I were older would you tell me what ails you?”
“Nothing ails me in truth.”
“I think something does. But I will look after you.”
“Then I shall soon be well,” I said; and I held her against me.
Maria came riding into the courtyard. I saw her from my window. She leaped from her horse and a groom hurried to take it away and feed and water it. She came into the castle and, I suspected, went to the Red Room. I sat at my window, wondering about her. Ten minutes later Colum came in.
I said to myself: He has gone to the Red Room.
I knew that he had.
What did he say to her there? There would be no need for words. They were lovers. I sensed it. It was two weeks since he had come to me. I felt a sick resentment against her for being more beautiful than I, more desirable to him.
I hated him; I feared him. There had always been something of these emotions in me. But in a way I yearned for him. It was inexplicable but it was true.
I wished I could have talked of this to my mother. I felt she would have understood. I wished I could talk to her of these sudden bouts of fear which possesse
d me. There was no one to whom I could talk. I seemed to hear my daughter’s voice. “If I were old enough you could tell me.”
Oh Tamsyn, I thought, if only I could!
They were making love in the Red Room. Afterwards they would talk. Would they talk of me? How did they talk of me? But why should they? Of what importance was I to them—only of course that if they wished for marriage I stood in their way.
He was tired of me. I knew that. He would no longer be indulgent as he once had. I would irritate him. Was this how Melanie had felt? He despised her. Did he bring his mistress of the moment into the castle. Was she of so little account to him that he did not care?
It could never be thus with me. Once he had wanted me so urgently that he had gone to great lengths to get me.
He would not come to me now. Perhaps never again. I had not given him the children he wanted. Only two and one a girl.
He wanted sons, many sons, lusty boys whom he could train in his hideous profession.
I went to bed. I lay there, the curtains drawn back. I could not bear to have them closed because if I did I would have strange fancies about what was happening in the room.
As I lay there I heard footsteps in the corridor … slow creeping footsteps. My blood seemed suddenly cold. They had paused outside my door.
I could hear the sound of the latch being lifted.
“Who’s there?” I called out in alarm.
There was no answer.
“Who is it?” I said.
I lay there waiting. Terror upon me. Who could it be? Whom did I fear? Maria? Colum?
For some seconds I lay there. Then I rose and went to the door. I opened it.
There was no one near.
The children were decorating the hall with holly and ivy.
I went out with them to bring in the yule log; they shrieked with happiness and I could feel myself being temporarily caught up in it. The damp soft air made my skin glow and I felt better than I had for some time.
Even the castle seemed less grim. The Christmas spirit had entered the house. And when it was over I promised myself I would go to my mother. I had made up my mind that I would tell her everything. I thought she might advise me not to return to the castle, and that is what I wanted.
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