by Maria McCann
‘There’s nothing to her, she’s like a drink of water,’ the woman said, eyeing me. I understood her: respectably clad and well fed, I cut a strange figure with my scrawny, bedraggled companion.
‘She’s been ill and unable to eat,’ said I.
‘Or comb her hair, by the look of it.’ That was all the comment she allowed herself before taking me into the little shop at the front of the house, where she began to lift down women’s garments from shelves and racks.
‘I want warm things. Everything as warm as possible.’
‘’Tis cruel weather.’ She pulled out a pair of stays. ‘Will she be wanting these?’
I had been thinking more of shawls and cloaks, but I nodded. The woman’s faint answering smile seemed a mask. I wondered what she made of me: a charitable person clothing the destitute, a young blood on a mad freak? I had brought all my cider money with me and I paid for a shift, stays, a dress, a cloak, a pair of gloves, some heeled shoes (perhaps too fine for Tamar, but very good quality) a shawl and woollen stockings. When I saw my five years’ savis in my hand I understood that I had never intended to go straight back to the wood; when I had set out, I had brought my money for precisely this purpose.
I came out with the clothes in a bundle. Tamar did not look at it.
‘How are you now?’ I asked, throwing it onto the cart beside her.
‘Cold.’
*
It was dusk when I drove into the yard of the Blue Ball, lifted down the bundle and told the ostler to feed and water Bully. I led Tamar, staggering with weariness, into the inn where the landlady weighed us with the mistrustful eye of experience.
‘She’s been hurt,’ I said. ‘Do you have a chamber where she can change her garments?’
The landlady folded her arms. ‘I don’t know, as yet. How’d she get into that state?’
‘Set on by ruffians,’ I said, astonished at my own artfulness. ‘I found her lying in a ditch.’
‘Found her, Sir?’ She was growing more and more perplexed. ‘Then you’re nothing to her, it seems?’
‘You mistake, I was looking for her. We –’
‘My ring,’ croaked Tamar in her broken voice. ‘My gold ring.’ The corners of her lips drew down, her mouth became a square hole and she began to wail. It was impossible to doubt this grief, which heaved and choked its way out of her until my own throat hurt at the sound of it.
The landlady now appeared to relent a little in sympathy to a wife who had lost her wedding ring. I was sure the ring in question was Robin’s, taken by my aunt, and Tamar howling for the warmth and food it could have purchased, but I hastened to press our advantage, saying indignantly, ‘I wish I had them here. I’d soon teach them to knock a woman on the head and rob her.’
‘It’s a scandal,’ the landlady said.
‘Two days I’ve been searching – it’s a miracle she’s still alive –’
‘’Tis, Sir.’
‘Then have you a room and hot water?’ I urged.
‘We have; but who’s to pay?’ the woman asked. ‘Are you her husband?’
I hesitated. What should she be – cousin, sister?
‘Husband,’ Tamar replied in her hoarse whisper.
‘Never mind your ring, my love,’ said I. ‘You shall have another.’
*
We were given mulled cider to drink while the chamber was being prepared. Tamar could hardly wait for the cider-shoe to heat up; when it was ready she drank greedily, pushing so close to the inn fire that her skirt, scorching from the embers, released a foul dungeon smell into the room. The men clustered round the hearth made noises of disgust. They would have driven her off, but could not do the same to me, being all too old, so that in the end they, not us, were forced to move away.
‘Why did you say that?’ I hissed when nobody could overhear. ‘I can’t stay with you.’
She had been quietly crying, on and off, ever since I took her from the lock-up. Now the tears started again.
‘It isn’t decent, Tamar.’
She mumbled something in her hoarse, choked voice. Through the sobs I at last made out, ‘Frightened.’
‘Frightened? You?’
She nodded.
‘But I’ve rescued you, what can you be frightened of?’
She wiped her nose on her hand. ‘Dying – on my own. I thought I would. I never felt so bad before.’
‘Not now, though?’
‘Yes, I feel bad now. I do.’
Her head dropped forward; fresh tears fell into the folds of her evil-smelling dress. I put my head in my hands. If my father should ever hear of this night’s work … !
With luck he would not. I straightened and prodded the bundle with my foot.
‘You’ll feel better with these on.’
‘God bless you, Master Jon.’
‘That’s all the thanks I require,’ I said grimly, remembering the constable’s jibe about earning a blanket. ‘And I’m your husband now. Call me Jon.’
The landlady came over to us.
‘The chamber’s ready, Sir.’
I showed her my purse. ‘Is there a woman who can go up with my wife – help her?’
‘There’s Sarah.’
‘Be so kind as to send her here.’
Sarah arrived. She was only a little thing, fourteen or so, with a creamy freckled skin and reddish hair not unlike Tamar’s own.
‘Now Sarah, my wife’s been attacked and left lying in the dirt and cold. You see her condition?’
The maid nodded, her young face full of pity.
‘She’s very weak, and sickly; she needs warm water and towels, to clanse herself. You must help her undress, and wash, and put her into a well-warmed bed. And take food up to her room.’
Sarah nodded. ‘And you, Sir, will you be eating with –’
‘No. She must sleep and get back her strength. Pray lay out these clothes for her.’
Sarah picked up the bundle and stood doubtfully studying Tamar. ‘And the dress she has on, Sir?’ she said at last.
‘Use it for rags, burn it, whatever you please.’
She nodded. In truth the cream-coloured dress was not so far gone as rags; for all I know, a skilful laundress might have done much with it, but I was determined Tamar should never wear it again.
*
I ordered salt pork and ate with relish; there was nothing else to pass the time. After a while the maid came down for Tamar’s food. I could not catch the landlady’s whispered questions. I did, however, hear the words ‘lousy’ and ‘piss-sodden’ from the maid, at which point I could not help glancing round. Both mistress and maid were staring at me as if they no longer put any faith in the robbers of my invention. If they did not take me for a prankster who had brought a street whore under their roof, they must think me a monstrously cruel husband.
I felt myself insulted. Here was I, performing an act of Christian charity while everything conspired to present me as an unchristian, even devilish, man. Yet I no longer cared as much as I might have done, say, a week earlier. For one thing, I was muzzy with cold and travelling and pork and cider; for another (I see now) my sense of right and wrong had coarsened. Mistress and maid whispering together vexed me, to be sure, but I felt I could live without their good opinion; I had begun to discount the judgement of ordinary honest folk.
I watched the maid take a covered dish upstairs to my ‘wife’. The puzzle now exercising my mind was how I should conduct myself once inside the chamber. Tamar’s exhaustion was plain; given food and warmth she must surely fall asleep, and then I could go quietly into the room and dispose myself to sleep also. ‘My heart is pure, and God sees the heart,’ said I to myself. That was my comfort. If the constable, landlady, maid, old-clothes-seller and even my mother and father had gathered round in a circle and cried out against me, it would be my comfort still.
*
As soon as I entered, I heard a faint snoring from the bed. The bed curtains were drawn, so that I was able to keep my cand
le lit without waking her. Even so, I slipped on something and almost fell, so that it was with difficulty that I suppressed a cry. Steadying myself, I saw that the object I had trodden on was a dish, wiped clean of gravy: the relics of Tamar’s supper. I wondered why she had left it thus on the boards, when she could have used a table or a window sill, and concluded it was the habit of the cave.
To my relief, the chamber smelt no worse than any other innkeeper’s room: in shedding her whore’s livery, Tamar had also parted company with its fearful stench.
I cast about for a place to sleep and settled on a scarred ol chair. There I spent the first half of the night, my coat thrown over me, until I woke with a relentless cramp which drove me out of it and forced me to stretch myself out next to the bed.
* * *
Somewhere a bell chimed seven, and then a quarter past. I must have slept again, for next thing it was chiming eight and birds were bickering in the eaves. I opened my eyes upon a strange scene. Instead of my bed, I seemed to be lying on a hard floor; the window was in the wrong place and the shutters had grown great cracks in the night, with grey light leaking through. I must be in some village, pressing; but I had no memory of coming there the night before. Only when I turned my head and saw the bed curtains drawn did I recall where I was, and with whom.
Supposing that after a night’s rest Tamar would be eager to return to Tetton Green, I sat up and listened for her snore. Her breathing being much quicker and lighter, I thought she was coming out of sleep, so I spoke softly through the curtain, saying I was about to rise and would leave her the room to dress in.
Downstairs, I breakfasted on a bowl of hot, salt broth. The landlord, now serving in his wife’s stead, asked if I had passed a pleasant night. I answered that I had (that was polite enough, I think, when every bone in my body ached) and intended to make a start as soon as my wife was dressed. I asked him to keep a portion of the same broth for her as it seemed a good, hearty food to take in preparation for a journey.
After that I listened to the church chime the half-hour, the three-quarters and the hour, yet Tamar did not appear.
I went back up to the chamber and knocked. There was no reply. On entering I found the bed curtains still drawn and the snoring begun again.
‘Tamar, get up,’ I urged her from the other side of the curtain. ‘Tamar, you must wake.’
There was no response. At last I moved aside a curtain and peeped in.
She was lying on her back, one hand flung up beside her cheek. The marks of injury and harsh weather were plainly visible, but I had never seen her look so clean – I would say innocent, but that of course she was not – or so young. Her dreams seemed happy ones, her pointed features no longer sly but childish. It came to me that had she been well fed and comfortably lodged all her life, she might now look very different. Perhaps Mother Nature had intended for Tamar soft and delicate features, a fine complexion and a woman’s gentle form instead of her tough, bony, servant’s shape.
To chase away the sadness occasioned by this thought, I tried again – ‘Tamar! Tamar, wake up, wake’ – and pulled at her arm, but to no avail. She stopped snoring, but was otherwise like a dead woman. I was obliged to go downstairs again and fidget about.
The landlord asked me did I want my horse. I told him I had changed plans, since it seemed my wife must have a long sleep to recover from yesterday’s ordeal. He hastened to assure me that it was common: ‘Folk that’ve had a mishap are always tired next day. It’s the fright.’
I thought he probably said this to gain another night’s fee, but since I was in any case unable to rouse Tamar, there was nothing to be done and I thanked him for his advice.
At noon I went up to her again. I was becoming worried: what of my parents, what of Joan? By dint of calling and prodding I induced her to open her eyes, but she at once rolled over, shutting me out of her sight. All this while she was wearing a good linen shift that I had paid for.
‘Aren’t you ever getting up?’ I demanded.
She murmured, ‘I’m hungry.’
‘You can’t have any more food brought up here. If you want to eat, you must get dressed.’
She burrowed deeper into the pillow and I realised I had blundered. In Tamar two cravings were in conflict, food and sleep. Her being in a soft, warm bed gave the advantage to sleep; hunger could only prevail if I brought her a steaming, savoury dish that tickled her nostrils. I duly went downstairs and asked for chops and eggs, then carried them up to her myself.
This time she turned toward me, her eyes widening in greed.
‘Sit up, then,’ I said, reasoning that once the food was in digestion and the spirits coursing about her body, she would remain awake. I had drawn the bed curtain and she looked beyond me, all over the room, her gaze wandering to the walls and ceiling and window and then back to her plate of chops.
‘I’ve never been in such a bed,’ she said, heaving herself up from the bedclothes. ‘Or an inn, neither. You’re not eating with me, Master Jon?’
I shook my head. Some remembrance flickered in my mind – nakedness – but Tamar’s breasts were concealed by the shift.
‘I’ve never had anything,’ she said, strangely I thought; I could not tell whether she was talking to me or herself.
‘You can have this very good breakfast,’ I said, and moved the dish to her lap.
Tamar fell on the chops: every last scrap of meat, fat and gristle went down her throat. She continued sucking the bones for some time afterwards, laying them at last on the plate with an expression of regret, before turning her attention to the eggs.
She did not know how to eat these. I watched her pick at them with her fingers, trying (I thought) to be mannerly.
‘It’s an egg,’ I said after a while. ‘Haven’t you had eggs before?’
She was indignant. ‘The wood’s full of ’em. But this thing’s flat.’
‘Why, how do you eat yours?’
‘Out of the shell.’ She prodded a yolk, sending it spurting over the bedcover.
‘Mind,’ I said. ‘Sop it up, like this,’ and I dabbed at the mess with a bit of bread.
‘Oh – it’s gone on my neck!’ she cried, vexed; whether at spoiling her unaccustomed cleanliness, or at losing a scrap of food, I could not tell. ‘I can’t see. If you don’t mind, Sir, could you do it for me – please?’
Conscious of a certain charm in the situation, one that I chose not to examine too closely, I wiped the soft traces from her throat.
‘If you ate that bread, now,’ said Tamar.
‘What?’
‘You’d be my sweetheart.’
‘What nonsense! Is that what your mother tells the village girls?’
She only smiled.
‘Let us try the truth of it,’ I said, and bit into the bread.
In that trivial outward action I passed inwardly from one life to another. Tamar, divining the change in me almost before I knew of it myself, said, ‘The spell’s working, Master Jon. The spirits are rising.’
Her hand caressed me so deftly that I had not time to think before I was roused. Roused: it is a curious word, as if something asleep in the flesh wakes and rages. One is roused to anger and roused to lust; I was somewhere between the two. I was ready to curse her insolence, yet said nothing. I could have pulled away and left the room, yet I did not move.
With her other hand Tamar pushed the plate to the far side of the bed and turned to me with a wanton smile. ‘Come in with me, Husband? It’s your rightful place.’
‘Take your shift off,’ I said, my voice abrupt as the Flesh itself. I remember that I disliked hearing it; I suppose that Conscience, though hamstrung, was still feebly grappling with Appetite.
‘I will; but only if you come and keep me warm.’ She knelt up in the bed and pulled off the shift, revealing herself much as I had seen her in my dream: thin, with the same creamy skin and the tufts of reddish hair. Her poor scarred feet were hidden beneath the covers. I touched her between the legs and fel
t something soft, slippery and yielding there. Tamar wriggled so that my fingers slid into her honey pot and my stomach turned over.
‘Ah! Look at you,’ she whispered, busy at my breeches. Freed from the cloth, my prick leaped obediently into her hand. There was not time to do more than climb onto the bed and lie on her. Tamar locked her legs round me and arched her back. Her body opened to me like a flower, and Conscience quit the field.
10
After Fire, Ashes
I squirm with shame at the memory of that day – at my lust, certainly, but more at my stupdity. When a man arrives at an inn with a half-naked woman and presents her as his wife; when her clothing comes out of his pocket; when they share a room and eat together, and all this is paid for by him – would you not say that the end is predestined? And yet (great virtuous booby that I then was) I did not think so!
Nor can I plead virginity (though I was virgin), since I had not the excuse of the innocence that often accompanies it. I knew that my parents, seeing me lodged with Tamar, would have been horrified, and I understood why. I knew how nature is performed, and how, as the fumes of lust rise and heat the brain, Reason is smoked out and Madness takes her place. Knowing all this, I still imagined myself virtuous and clearheaded enough to stay by Tamar’s bedside, untempted. It was sheer pride, and it has been scourged right out of me since then.
I stayed with her the next night, fancying myself her lord and master when in truth I was her pupil and servant. All that I pass over in mortification. One other thing is worthy of mention: I was worn out by lust, yet Tamar told me that all through the hours of sleep I kept waking, crying out in fear of Uncle Robin. ‘He came after you, and beat you,’ she said. I had no recollection of it, and I never afterwards dreamed of him striking me. But then, my conscience that night was more than usually troubled.
It may appear that in recounting this affair, I blacken Tamar in order to clear myself. Let me repeat that I acted in full knowledge, compelled by stupidity and lust; I cannot be cleared of this, nor do I want to be. I am resolved that everything of importance should be told – not to injure her, for I hold her no worse than myself, but to shine a light into dark corners. Some pure-minded folk in this world, who had rather leave such nooks unlit, may cry out in disgust: what good to go peering into them? I can only answer as follows: a man who walks in darkness, from dislike of the cobwebs, may catch a spider in his mouth unawares.