Daughter of Satan

by Jean Plaidy

  There was a short silence. Tamar, cowering behind the door, had heard every word.

  They were coming up the stairs. They would take her, for even he could not save her. He was only one; and they were many.

  Then he spoke:

  ‘You make a great mistake in coming here for the child. Why should the Devil take a poor silly serving wench and get her with child? Such would be without sense. Is the Devil senseless? If he is like a lustful man and nothing more, you waste your time in seeking out his creatures. Come! Why should the Devil get a girl like Luce Lackwell with child? Why? Why? Do you agree that it is an action without purpose?’

  ‘This man prevaricates,’ cried Simon Carter. ‘Let us waste no more time with him. Come, my friends, search the house!’

  ‘Be careful!’ commanded Richard. ‘My friends down there – you who have come to take a child and submit her to indignity before you murder her – take care that I do not have you all thrown into prison for trespass.’

  ‘Master!’ cried a man in the throng. ‘We but want the young witch. Give her to us, sir, for that’s all we do want.’

  ‘You fools!’ cried Richard. ‘Can you understand nothing? Have you not noticed all these years how I have watched over her? Ask the women of my kitchen. She has come here regularly for food. Clothes have been given her. Ask the girls, ask my housekeeper if I did not say that she was never to be turned away. You are stupid people. Is it not clear to you now? You were so anxious to give the girl a devil for a father that you did not see what was under your noses. What has the girl done but be the victim of a filthy story? Her mother lay with the Devil. Is that so?’

  There was silence.

  ‘Is that so?’ he shouted.

  There was still no answer from below, and he went on in a loud and ringing tone: ‘I demand to know. Is there any other charge against her but that of her mysterious coming into the world? Speak to me there! You, Hurly. Don’t stand gaping at me, man. What charge against the girl?’

  ‘Naught, sir,’ stammered Hurly, ‘save that she be the child of the Devil.’

  Then Richard laughed loudly. ‘Naught save that! Well, I have the girl here. And here she stays. Have you forgotten that Luce was my serving wench? And a comely one. Think you that I, having lost my wife, have always lived the life of a celibate? Think again, my friends; and this time think with good sense. Luce’s daughter is also mine. This girl here in my house is where she has a right to be, since she is my daughter.’

  ‘I had the woman’s confession!’ screamed Simon Carter. ‘She was at the witches’ Sabbat and the Devil pursued her!’

  ‘She dreamed that. I visited her in her room. There was to be a child, so I married her off to Lackwell. Is that such an unusual story, so difficult to believe? Now, Simon Carter, get you out of my house, and if you are not gone in half a minute, I’ll have you clapped in gaol. The magistrates of this town are friends of mine. I’ll see they show you no mercy. And that is for all of you. Go! Unless there is any among you who dares doubt my story!’

  He paused. No one spoke.

  ‘Go then!’ he shouted. ‘But one moment. If any one of you dares harm my daughter, let him know that he will have me to answer to for his offence.’

  He stood there, watching them turn sheepishly away. He did not move until the last of them had disappeared; then he stood for a moment looking down with disgust at the mess they had made on the tessellated floor of his hall.

  He went into his study. He looked at Tamar and she looked at him. Her eyes were wide with faint wonder and disbelief; his held a hint of amusement.

  Tamar thought: It is as though I have never really seen him before . . . nor he me.

  THREE

  WHEN RICHARD TOOK Tamar down to the kitchen, the two serving girls, Moll Swann and Annis Hurly, were there with Mistress Alton.

  Richard said mockingly: ‘Mistress Alton, I don’t doubt that you heard the noise those people were making.’

  The housekeeper nodded slowly, being too bewildered for speech. Her mind was full of images – the master and Luce Martin! The sly wanton, so mild all the time that she and the master . . . And that black-eyed creature the result! It was more than she could believe. She had known, of course, of the master’s visits to the lady of Pennie Cross, who had recently died; but that lady was of the gentry. The master’s lapses in that direction were deplorable but understandable. But Luce Martin! That slut! And she had always thought the master so fastidious. What could you know of anybody?

  As for the two girls, they could only stare. They had been expecting to see Tamar searched, pricked and hanged; and instead, here she was standing before them.

  ‘If you heard the noise, you doubtless heard what was said,’ went on Richard. ‘Then you will know of the relationship between this child and myself. I wish her to help in the house as her mother did, so I shall leave her with you. Teach her to become as thrifty a housekeeper as yourself.’ He paused at the door. ‘And, Mistress Alton, I pray you, do not cut off her hair.’

  Mistress Alton said afterwards to Betsy Hurly, when she came to talk over the affair, that she felt as though the wind had been taken out of her sails by what she’s heard him say to the crowd, so that she felt becalmed. But for that she would have told him she was not going to stay in his house and train his bastards.

  As it was, the housekeeper merely nodded and he went out, leaving Tamar in her care.

  Tamar advanced towards the table. There was silence in the kitchen. If they were bewildered, she was more so. She had just heard a most astounding revelation, and she knew that if she could have chosen her own father, she would have chosen him. But she did not really believe he had spoken the truth. He had said what he had said because he knew that it was the only thing that could save her. Tamar herself was certain that no human being was her father; and although it would be pleasant to be connected with the gentry, how could she abandon her belief in the secret power which could only come to her through the Devil?

  And now, remembering that power in her which set her aside from all others, she was able to face the hostile eyes of the woman whom – ever since she had so callously smashed the seagulls’ eggs – Tamar had known to be her enemy.

  Mistress Alton’s lips were moving; she was saying the Lord’s Prayer, so Tamar knew that she herself was not the only one who refused to deny the Devil’s part in fathering her.

  The two serving girls were waiting for the housekeeper to speak, and Mistress Alton knew that she must exert her authority before those two. She still wore her cane dangling from her waist, and she used it frequently, but not so frequently as she had done on Luce and Annis’ mother, Betsy. She was shorter of breath now, and those two were apt to giggle when being belaboured. That was humiliating; still, they were afraid of her tongue, if not of her cane.

  ‘So you’ve come to work for me in the kitchens, eh?’ she said, playing for time.

  ‘Not for you,’ flashed Tamar. ‘For him.’

  ‘We will see. What are you girls standing about for? Moll, take the key and go to the bolting house. Bring flour and put it into the pastry. I’ll be there to do my baking very soon . . . so look sharp. Annis, take the girl and draw some ale. I could do with a drop myself after all I’ve been through.’

  Annis came reluctantly towards Tamar.

  ‘Go on! Go on!’ cried the housekeeper, sitting down heavily upon a stool and mopping her brow with her apron. ‘I was all of a tremble,’ she told Betsy Hurly afterwards. ‘So I was to have in my kitchen, at best a bastard, at worst a witch!’

  Annis took Tamar into the buttery, where Tamar looked eagerly about her, and Annis looked eagerly at Tamar.

  ‘So this is the buttery,’ said Tamar, dipping her brown finger into a pot of butter and tasting it. She watched Annis draw ale. Then she took that from her and tasted it.

  Annis giggled.

  ‘Did she cut your hair like that?’ asked Tamar.

  Annis nodded.

  Tamar tossed her own luxur
iant locks. ‘She cut my mother’s. My mother told me.’

  ‘The master said not to cut yours.’

  ‘If she had tried, it would have been the worse for her.’

  Annis shivered; then she saw that Tamar’s eyes were full of tears. Tamar dashed them angrily away. ‘I was thinking of my mother . . . in the cottage. They did terrible things to her . . .’

  Annis could cry easily. She picked up a corner of her apron and wiped her eyes.

  ‘Why do you cry?’ asked Tamar curiously.

  ‘She was your mother, even though she was a witch.’

  Tamar smiled to herself. The world had ceased to be full of hostile people.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ she said. ‘I won’t hurt you. It’s only those I hate who need to be afraid.’

  They had been a long time in the buttery, but Mistress Alton said nothing about that. She was still, as she said, made all of a tremble by this savage creature who had been brought into her kitchen.

  Tamar shared a room with Annis and Moll. Moll was only ten years old – Clem Swann’s girl – and she went to sleep as soon as her head touched the straw. But Annis lay awake. So did Tamar.

  ‘Tamar,’ whispered Annis, ‘be you really a witch?’

  Tamar was silent.

  ‘You know most things, I reckon,’ said Annis. ‘Do you know how to make milk turn sour and make cows so that they won’t give milk?’

  Tamar still said nothing.

  ‘I remember you,’ went on Annis. ‘’Twas when my mother came to ask yourn for a charm. ’Twas years ago. I took a stone from ’ee and you thought I’d stole it. You looked like a witch then. My mother said she could see the Devil looking out of your eyes. Natural eyes couldn’t look so big and blazing, she said. She got my father to use his belt on me for touching that stone. I ain’t forgot.’

  Tamar contemplated this new friend of hers and felt protective towards her. Apart from Richard Merriman, the girl was the first one who had ever shown friendliness towards her, and she liked friendliness, particularly when it was given with a certain awe and reverence.

  ‘I didn’t mean you to get the belt,’ said Tamar. ‘But you ought to have give up the stone when I asked for it.’

  ‘Was it a magic stone, Tamar?’

  Tamar did not answer.

  Annis moved nearer to her. ‘You don’t think Moll’s awake, do ’ee? I’ll whisper . . . in case she is. Could you give me a charm, Tamar, some’at as would make a man turn towards me?’

  Tamar shivered, for Annis’ words had brought her encounter with Bartle very near. She lay silently thinking of it, seeing him clearly, that smile on his face, the lips half parted, the eyes of blazing blue.

  She let herself imagine being caught by him, and she could smell the hot grass, feel his breath on her face . . . just as she had when he had tripped her and fallen on her, pressing her down on the ground.

  She said sternly: ‘Why do you want a man turned towards you?’

  ‘Why? Because I do. ’Tis natural like.’

  ‘But . . . you want that?’

  Annis rolled over and lay staring into the darkness. ‘Wouldn’t matter telling you. I ‘spect you do know. ’Tis John Tyler, who do work on the farm with Father. He’s terrible handsome. You wait till you see him. Well, John ain’t the man a girl can say “No” to and . . .’

  Tamar drew away; she was alarmed by the excited note in Annis’ voice. Annis . . . a girl younger than herself . . . and already that which had almost happened to Tamar had happened to her; and it seemed as though she had been far from reluctant.

  ‘You did . . . that?’ said Tamar, shaken out of her role of wise woman.

  ‘’Twas only once. I’d gone over to see my mother and father and to give a hand in the dairy . . . and John, he walked back with me . . . and then well, he being the terrible handsome sort of man a girl couldn’t say “No” to . . . But that Bess Hollicks in the dairy . . . it seems she were after him too, and she’d been down to see old Mother Hartock in Looe Street down in the town, and she got this charm that would take him from me. Old Mother Hartock be caught now. She were one of the first the pricker took; but that don’t help me, for the charm do still work; and it be her he takes into the barn . . . not me.’

  ‘Did he . . . force you?’ asked Tamar, her voice trembling.

  Annis laughed softly in the darkness. ‘Well, I did make a show of being frightened like . . . but I’d always had my eyes on John.’

  There was a short silence, then Annis said: ‘Will you give me a charm, Tamar? Will you make a brew for me? For it does seem to me that if you don’t I shall never know another man . . . for I do know there be no one in the world for me but John.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tamar. ‘I’ll make a charm for you. But, Annis, have you thought what happens to girls? Remember my mother. She got a child and then she was married to Bill Lackwell.’

  ‘Oh, but she were different. ’Twas the Devil . . . I didn’t mean that, Tamar. It sort of slipped out. ’Twas the master . . . not the Devil. But I dunno. Couldn’t expect the master to look at the likes of me. If I had John’s child, he’d have to marry me.’

  ‘Suppose he didn’t?’

  ‘He’d have to . . . seeing he works for my father. Besides, John’s a good man. He did tell me so. He told me in the barn. He said, “’Twas wrong and ’tis wicked, Annis, and I don’t want to do it to ’ee, but for the life of me I can’t stop myself.” Now, that do show goodness, to my mind. I prayed in church for forgiveness of my sin, I did. “Dead Lord,” I said, “I didn’t want to sin, but it was so that I couldn’t help it . . .”’

  Tamar listened to all this, entranced. No one of her own age had ever chatted to her as this girl was chatting. She wanted to Stretch out a hand and, taking Annis’, say: ‘Don’t you ever be afraid of me.’ But caution restrained her; she loved her power too much to throw it lightly away.

  ‘I don’t know as I ought to brew for ’ee, Annis,’ she said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘’Tis wrong for ’ee to go in the barn with John Tyler, and I won’t help wrong.’

  ‘You’re a white witch, then?’

  ‘I don’t want to hurt nobody . . . ’cept they hurt me.’

  ‘’Tis a good thing to take John away from Bess Hollicks, for she ain’t a good girl. She don’t ask the Lord’s forgiveness for her sin, I reckon.’

  ‘Annis, I’ll make a brew for ’ee.’

  ‘Oh . . . Tamar, will ’ee then?’ Annis giggled her pleasure.

  ‘And when you’ve drunk it, he won’t have eyes for anyone else.’

  There was silence. Annis was thinking what a fine thing it was to have the Devil’s daughter working and sleeping beside a girl, so that she could take advantage of the Devil’s power without giving up one little bit of her soul for it!

  As for Tamar, her thoughts were mixed. She did not know whether she was glad or sorry, happy or unhappy.

  The house absorbed her. So many things to learn. So many things she had never seen before.

  Friendship with Annis grew. She had gathered the herbs which she would brew to make the charm, though she warned Annis that she must not be impatient, as some of the ingredients were not easy to come by. She needed a hair grown on the nethermost tip of a dog’s tail, the brains of a cat or a newt, the bone of a frog whose flesh had been consumed by ants, to say nothing of herbs which did not grow by the wayside. These must be collected before she could begin to brew.

  Mistress Alton saw the girls whispering together and made the sign of the Cross, while she went about muttering the Lord’s Prayer.

  Betsy Hurly came to the kitchen to chat with the housekeeper. Betsy – now a comfortable matron – had aged quickly; she no longer indulged in amorous adventures, andhad become a friend of Mistress Alton’s. They enjoyed many a gossip together concerning the scandals of the neighbourhood, from which occupation they both derived much pleasure. Mistress Alton was prepared to forget that Betsy had once been what she called ‘a flighty bit of
no-good’, because of the news she brought; as for Betsy she had been delighted to find a place for her daughter, and she was ready to forget the cruelty she herself had suffered at the housekeeper’s hands.

  ‘Well,’ said Betsy, sipping her ale, ‘so you’ve got that young savage here, I see.’

  ‘I was all knocked of a heap,’ said Mistress Alton. ‘They came to take her . . . as was right and proper that she should be took . . . and when I heard what he had to say . . . well I was as I told you, like a ship without a sail. Bold as brass he said it, leaning over the balustrade. I had the door half open, so I saw. Bold as brass he says, “She’s my daughter,” he says. “Luce was my serving wench . . . and a comely one . . .” Fancy that Luce! Can you believe it?’

  ‘No, I can’t. And what’s more I don’t. You forget how Luce and me was together. I remember the night . . . I remember her lying here. There was mud on her skirt . . . and bits of leaf clinging to it. She was staring wild like . . . and I got it out of her. She said: “Big he was . . . and he had horns at the top of his head. His eyes was like a man’s eyes . . . shining through the black. I fainted . . . but I knew I’d been took. I knew I’d been ravished by the Devil.” Were that going with the master? Why, ’twould have been a different story then, I reckon. We’d have had her giving herself airs. There was that girl over at Stoke, remember: Sir Humphrey fancied her and for a week or two she couldn’t spare a nod for the likes of we. That’s how it is when gentry fancies a girl. But the Devil . . . that’s another matter.’

  ‘’Sh!’ said Mistress Alton and recited the Lord’s Prayer right through. Betsy followed her, stumbling. Then, feeling herself reinforced against possible evil, the housekeeper gave vent to her feelings: ‘’Tis terrible. What would happen if I lifted my arm against her? I reckon it would be struck stiff like. My father was struck that way by a witch. Right as rain one day, and the next he fell down . . . never spoke again. We knew he’d been overlooked, for he’d had words with an old woman on the road. We boiled his urine up in a pan over the fire, knowing that, as it boiled, that witch would feel her inside burning. We knew she’d have to come to make us stop, and it would be the first as came to the house after the pan began to boil. It were a steady sort of body that come, and we’d never have thought it of her. We hung her, but even that didn’t do no good. She were dead, but ’twere a lifelong spell she’d laid on Father, and he never spoke again.’