Witch from the Sea

by Philippa Carr

  Carlotta talked of her coming marriage and what it would mean to her.

  ‘I hesitate,’ she said. ‘I am not sure that I would wish to be buried in the country.’

  ‘You’ll get used to it,’ said Fennimore easily. ‘Bastian will be involved with the estates and that can be a full-time job, I assure you.’

  ‘When we were in Madrid we went to Court often. I am already beginning to find it somewhat dull here.’

  ‘Then,’ said Angelet logically, ‘you should not marry Bastian, unless you have other interests.’ Angelet looked slyly at me, and I thought: Oh no, sister, not now.

  ‘What interests are there in the country?’

  ‘There’s riding, for one thing. You can ride far more in the country than in the town. There are exciting things … like the May revels and Christmas when we bring in the holly and the ivy. We do have the occasional ball.’

  ‘They are nothing like the Court balls, I do assure you,’ said Carlotta coldly.

  ‘There are exciting things, though,’ insisted Angelet, ‘like going to see the witch of the woods.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘They hanged her some time ago,’ said Angelet soberly, ‘but there’ll be another. There are always witches.’

  ‘What do you know of them?’ Carlotta was animated.

  ‘That they do all sorts of interesting things, don’t they, Bersaba?’

  ‘They sell their souls to Satan in return for special powers on earth which enable them to get what they want.’

  ‘It’s strange,’ said Fennimore, ‘that witches so often seem to be ugly old women. If they could have what they want you’d think they’d be beautiful.’

  ‘Perhaps there are some beautiful ones,’ said Carlotta.

  I thought exultantly: She is. I am sure she is.

  ‘My grandmother was said to be a witch and I never saw a more beautiful woman,’ she went on.

  ‘I wonder,’ I said slowly, ‘if witchcraft powers are passed down through families.’

  Carlotta looked steadily at me: ‘I think that could be very likely,’ she replied, and I knew that she wanted me to think that she had special powers, powers to get what she wanted—attract people to her, for instance, take them away from those whom they loved by making herself irresistible.

  Fennimore—how typical of him—evidently considered the subject unsuitable for his young sisters and determinedly and deliberately changed it.

  I didn’t listen to what was said. I was excited and felt better than I had since I had heard the news.

  Two days after Carlotta and Senara had come to Trystan Priory Bastian rode over. I saw him from one of the castle windows and I did not know what to do. Part of me wanted to run to our room and shut myself in, but it was Angelet’s room too and how could I shut her out? Another part of me wanted to go down to him, to rage at him, to abuse him, to tell him that I hated him.

  Neither of these actions could I take, and there is another trait in my character which I don’t quite know whether I should be grateful for or deplore. When something good or bad happens I seem to stand outside the event, to look in and watch myself and others, so that whatever my feelings I can always curb them and ask myself what action will bring most advantage to me. Angelet never stops to think; she does what comes naturally. If she is angry her anger bursts forth, so does her joy. I sometimes think it would be easier for me if I were like that. As at this time. If I did what was natural—either to go to my room and burst into floods of tears or go down and abuse Bastian—people would know what I was feeling. But being myself, even in my most abject misery and hatred, and feeling everything so much more intensely than Angelet ever could, I must be outwardly calm and say: What is the best thing for me to do? And by best I always mean advantageous to myself.

  So now I pondered, and I decided that I would go away from the house, so that if he looked for me he would be unable to find me. That would give me time to think.

  I quickly changed into my riding-habit and went down to the stables, saddled my mare and rode out. As the wind brushed my face and caught at the hair under my riding-hat, I could smell the dampness of the earth, for it had been raining in the night. I felt the tears coming to my eyes, and I knew that if I could have cried I should have felt relieved to some extent. But I would not cry. Instead I nursed my anger. I thought of the insult to my pride, and I knew that I had loved Bastian because he had noticed me more and liked me better than my sister and that it was my pride which had made me love him; now he had wounded that pride he had taken away my reason for loving him and I hated him. I wanted to hurt him as he had hurt me.

  I heard a small voice within me saying: ‘You never loved Bastian. You loved only yourself.’

  And I knew it was true and I wished that I were like Angelet who never probed her own secret mind as I did.

  I went down the old pack-horse track where the flowers on the blackberry bushes were out in abundance, and where we came with our dishes at the end of summer and gathered them so that they could make preserves in the stillroom. I started to gallop past the fields of deep green wheat and I came to the woods—the woods where I had lain with Bastian when he visited us at Trystan Priory. The foxgloves were flowering there. Angelet and I once gathered them and took them into the house, and old Sarah who worked in the kitchens said they were poison flowers and witches knew how to brew a potion from them to make you sleep forever.

  I would like to make Carlotta sleep forever.

  I was wrong to have come to the woods where there were too many memories. I thought of the last time we had been here together. It was six months ago—in January—and the trees were bare—lacy branches seen against a grey sky. How beautiful they had been; more beautiful, I had said to Bastian, than they were in summer.

  ‘I’d rather have the leaves to shelter us,’ he had said. ‘It’s dangerous here.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I had replied. ‘Who’d come to the woods in winter?’

  ‘We did.’

  It was cold, I remember—the wind was chill; but I said to him: ‘While our love is warm, what matters it?’

  And we laughed and were happy and he said: ‘This time next winter we shall announce our betrothal.’ And it was an enchanted afternoon.

  When we rode back I pointed out the points of yellow in the jasmine which climbed over one of the cottages we passed.

  ‘Promise of spring,’ said Bastian. It seemed significant. The future was full of promise for us.

  Why did I want to come here to revive memories? Better to have stayed in the house.

  Then I saw a man riding towards me, and I felt a sudden quiver of alarm because I was doing what was forbidden—riding out alone. I spurred up my horse and, turning off the road, broke into a canter across the meadow. My alarm intensified, for the man who had been on the road was coming across the meadow in my direction.

  There is nothing to fear, I admonished myself. Why should he not come this way?

  I seemed to hear my mother’s voice. ‘I never want you girls to go out alone. It is all right if Fennimore or Bastian is with you. But always make sure that there are two grooms at least.’

  He had ridden past me and was pulling up his horse. Strangely enough my fear had left me; excitement took its place, for the rider was no ruffian. Far from it. He was elegant in the extreme and a stranger, for we did not often see such gentlemen in the country.

  I noticed his hat first because he swept it off and turned to me, waved it in his hand as he bowed his head; it was of black felt, broad-brimmed, and adorned with a beautiful white feather which trailed over the brim. His hair—light brown, almost golden, curled at the tips—fell to his shoulders. We did not wear our hair like that in the country, yet I had heard that it was the latest fashion. Fennimore had laughed at the time and said he would never wear his hair like a girl. But I had to admit that if the face it framed was manly enough the effect was not effeminate. His doublet was black, with wide sleeves caught in at a cuff with lace ed
ges; his breeches were of black material that had a look of satin; and he wore square-toed boots fitting up to his leg to just below his knees. I suppose I noticed his appearance so minutely because I had never seen anyone like him before.

  ‘Your pardon, mistress,’ he said. ‘I would ask your help. Do you live hereabouts and know the country?’

  ‘I do,’ I answered.

  ‘I am looking for Trystan Priory, which I believe is in this neighbourhood.’

  ‘Then you are fortunate to have met me, for I live there and am returning there now.’

  ‘Is that truly so, then this is indeed a happy meeting.’

  ‘If you ride beside me I will take you there,’ I said.

  ‘That is kind of you.’

  Our horses walked side by side as we crossed the meadow to the road.

  ‘I think you may wish to see my father,’ I said.

  ‘I have business with Captain Fennimore Landor,’ he answered.

  ‘He is away at this time.’

  ‘But I had heard his voyage was ended.’

  ‘Yes, it has. He is only gone to Plymouth and will be home within a few days.’

  ‘Ah, that is better news. I shall not be too long delayed.’

  ‘I dare say it is business concerning the East India Company.’

  ‘Your assumption is correct.’

  ‘People often come to see him. But you have come far.’

  ‘I have come from London. My servants are at an inn. I left them with my baggage and rode out to see if I could find the Priory. You have made my quest easy.’

  ‘I am pleased. My brother will talk to you. He knows a great deal about the Company.’

  ‘That’s interesting. May I introduce myself? I am Gervaise Pondersby.’

  ‘I am Bersaba Landor. I have a twin sister, Angelet. She and my brother will be very pleased to see you.’

  I pictured their astonishment when I rode in with this elegant stranger. I was grateful to him, for he had made me forget temporarily the hurt Bastion had inflicted on me.

  The Priory came into sight.

  ‘A charming place,’ said Gervaise Pondersby. ‘So this is the Landor home, is it? And how far from the sea?’

  ‘Five miles.’

  ‘I had expected it would be nearer.’

  ‘Five miles is nothing much,’ I answered. I told him that the house had been built with stones from the ruined priory as we rode up the slight incline and into the courtyard.

  We had been seen, and I imagined the consternation that had caused: Bersaba arriving home with a gentleman from London!

  I shouted to a groom to take our horses, and when we stepped into the hall Fennimore was already there with Bastian. I would not look at Bastian but spoke to Fennimore.

  ‘I met this gentleman on the road. He was looking for Trystan Priory. He has business with Father.’

  The bow was elegant as he said: ‘Gervaise Pondersby at your service.’

  ‘Why, Sir Gervaise,’ cried Fennimore, ‘my father has often spoken of you. Welcome to Trystan. Alas, my father is not here at this time.’

  ‘Your sister told me so. But I believe he is not far from home.’

  ‘He will be back in a few days. May I present my cousin, Bastian Casvellyn.’

  Bastian bowed. I thought: he seems awkward beside this man, and I exulted in the fact.

  ‘I pray you come into my father’s private parlour. I will send for refreshment.’

  ‘I will take a little wine and perhaps you can give me more exact information as to when your father will return.’

  ‘I can send a messenger to Plymouth to tell him you are here,’ said Fennimore. I was rather proud of my brother because he did not seem in the least overawed by the stranger.

  As Fennimore led him away I ran upstairs. Bastian ran after me but I was fleeter than he.

  ‘Bersaba,’ he whispered.

  ‘I have nothing to say to you,’ I hissed over my shoulder.

  ‘I must explain.’

  I sped on, but he came after me, and caught up with me in the gallery.

  ‘There is nothing you can say to me,’ I told him. ‘It is I who must say to you congratulations.’

  ‘You must understand, Bersaba.’

  ‘I do understand. You have asked Carlotta to marry you. That’s clear enough, is it not?’

  ‘I can’t think how it happened. Bersaba, I love you.’

  ‘You love me so much that you are going to marry Carlotta. Oh, that is perfectly clear.’

  ‘It was a moment of madness. I don’t know what came over me … I was sort of bewitched. That’s how it is, Bersaba. You must understand. When she is there …’

  Every word was like a knife in my heart. I wondered how such a simple man as Bastian could inflict such pain.

  I pushed him from me. ‘Go to her then. Go to your witch. I promise you this. You’ll be sorry … sick and sorry …’

  Then I turned and ran and I reached our bedroom. I was thankful that Angelet was not there. I locked the door. He was outside tapping on it, whispering my name.

  ‘I must explain, Bersaba …’

  Explain. What was there to explain? Only that she was irresistible. He wanted her. He was ready to thrust me aside for her.

  ‘Go back to her,’ I whispered venomously. ‘Go back to your … witch.’

  Fennimore immediately sent a messenger to Plymouth to tell my father of Sir Gervaise’s arrival, and while he was taking wine my brother persuaded him that he would be more comfortable at Trystan Priory than at the inn, and he begged him to come with his personal servants and baggage, and rooms would be made ready for him.

  Sir Gervaise graciously accepted the invitation, but would not come until my father returned.

  At supper everyone was talking about Sir Gervaise, and I explained how I had discovered him when out riding and was immediately reprimanded for riding alone. ‘You know our mother says you are always to have the grooms with you,’ said Fennimore. ‘It was wilful of you to do that while she was away.’

  ‘I’m not a child any longer, Fennimore,’ I said sharply.

  I knew Bastian was looking at me and that he blushed a little, remembering our unchildlike behaviour, I was sure. He sat next to Carlotta and I was aware of the spell she had laid on him. He was hurt and bewildered by what had happened to him, which was just the way he would be if he were bewitched. But he could not keep his eyes from her; I saw his hands reach out to touch her. How I hated them both; and I must sit there and pretend that nothing was wrong.

  Carlotta said: ‘He seemed a very courtly gentleman. I saw him when he left—but from a window.’

  ‘He will return when my parents are here,’ said Fennimore, ‘and then I expect he will stay for a few days.’

  How I lived through that meal I did not know. Bastian must go home or I would break down. I could not bear to see him and Carlotta together. It was asking too much of me.

  After supper the minstrels played soothing music from the gallery, and Thomas Jenson, who taught us music and had a beautiful voice, sang madrigals with us. Of course there was the inevitable one about the faithless lover, which did not help me.

  As soon as I could I said I was tired and I would go to my room, but my sister had to come up with me and to tell me that I looked pale and strained and that I had been very wrong to ride out alone. Chiding me with this tender scolding was more than I could endure, and I begged her to leave me alone that I might close my eyes and try to sleep.

  Sleep! As if I could sleep.

  I lay there for half an hour when there was a knock on the door. I closed my eyes, thinking it was Angelet returning, but it was not. It was the maid Ginny with some posset Angelet had sent up for me.

  I looked at Ginny. She was twenty-one, very wise. She had had a child when she was fourteen and kept him with her in one of the attics, because my mother said that it was not right that a mother should be parted from her child. There had been many lovers since for Ginny but no more children.
‘Foolish girl,’ said my mother. ‘She will find herself in trouble again one day.’ But I understood her. She wasn’t so much foolish as helpless.

  ‘Mistress Angelet said you was to take this, mistress,’ she said now. ‘Her said it ’ud make you sleep.’

  ‘Thank you, Ginny,’ I said.

  She gave it to me. It was hot and soothing.

  ‘Wait a bit while I drink it.’

  ‘Yes, mistress.’

  ‘Have you ever talked to a witch, Ginny?’

  ‘Oh yes. I went to one when I had my trouble. It was too late, though … she could do nothing for me.’

  ‘That was Jenny Keys, wasn’t it? They hanged her in the lane.’

  ‘Yes, mistress, it were. There was naught wrong with Jenny Keys. She’d helped many a girl from her trouble and it was beautiful to see the way she could charm off your warts. She did good, she did. My granny used to say, “There be white and black witches, Ginny, and Jenny Keys be a white one.” ’

  ‘Some didn’t think so.’

  ‘No, there be some terrible people about. Jenny Keys could turn off a bad spell. Why, when my young brother had the whooping cough Jenny Keys cured him by tying a bag of spiders round his neck. I don’t reckon Jenny Keys ever laid a spell. Some of them do, though, and there’s always them as will tell against a woman who’s a witch. Tain’t safe, being a witch … black or white.’

  ‘What happened to Jenny Keys?’

  ‘There was people who hated her. They started to talk about her, build up against her, like. A cow died in calf … so did the calf, and the cowherd he were so mad he said he’d caught Jenny Keys ill-wishing it. Someone else said she’d gone along for a remedy and had seen Jenny Keys in her cottage with her black cat there at her feet and she was roasting a bullock’s heart stuffed with pins. She was saying:

  “’Tis not this heart I wish to burn But Jack Perran’s heart I wish to turn Wishing him neither rest nor peace

  Till he be dead and gone.”

  And when Jack Perran died all sudden in his sleep—people started whispering. They started remembering other witches and how in the times of King James there’d been regular witch baiting. They reckoned a lot of them had been driven under ground at that time but now they was coming out again. They reckoned they ought to make an example of one. They talked … they remembered … they spied on Jenny Keys. Then came the day when they took her and hung her on a tree in Hangman’s Lane.’