Daughter of Satan

by Jean Plaidy

  Tamar felt her cheeks grow hot, as they did whenever Bartle’s name was mentioned. She knew she would never forget him and those terrifying moments he had given her; sometimes she dreamed of him. He was far away now; he had been away for two years. Let him stay away.

  ‘Buccaneers, yes!’ she said. ‘Although I confess to a certain liking for Sir Humphrey which I cannot give to his son.’

  ‘Sir Humphrey has grown mellow. At Bartle’s age he was just such another as Bartle. They have the essence of manhood, and they, Tamar, are the ideals of our times. Such men as they are making our country great, and they will continue to do so. They lead the way to that dominance which our country will attain. Do not despise Bartle too much for what he tried to do to you. Rejoice that he did not succeed. But for Bartle and his kind we should have the Spaniards with us now, and these persecutions of witches and Puritans, Separatists and Catholics – in fact, of all who do not conform to the way laid down by the State and Church – would be a hundred times more rigorous, a thousand times more bloody. You have heard a good deal of the Inquisition in Spain. Let us rejoice that our country has nothing so evil as that. Still, we suffer here, as all the world suffers. I see no way out of suffering until we have learnt tolerance. A man must choose his own religion. Persecution does not – as authority fondly believes – stamp out; it nourishes. King Philip could not drive our men off the seas because of the terrible cruelties he inflicted on those he captured. Men rallied to the ships to fight the Spaniard for revenge as well as gain. My dear child, there are more poor deluded witches in this country since our prickers and suchlike came to seek them out than there ever were before.’

  ‘Richard,’ she said, for as she had explained to him she could never bring herself to call him ‘Father’, and within a month of her coming to his house she had called him by his Christian name. ‘Richard, how can you know these things?’

  ‘That is at the very root of what I wish to tell you now.’

  She waited and after a brief hesitation, as though even now he were reluctant to speak of these things, he began to tell her:

  ‘It is a tale of persecution that I wish to tell you – persecution at which I have been a looker-on all my life. A terrible thing happened to me when I was eight years old, and this brought me close to what I have come to see as the scourge of the world, the great impediment to progress. I must tell you of this, Tamar, because it has made me what I am.

  ‘My father was a gentleman of the Court of Queen Mary . . . that Mary of the bloody persecutions. She married, as you know, King Philip of Spain, and when the King came to England, there was a beautiful lady in his retinue with whom my father fell in love. They were married; and when the King returned to Spain, it was necessary that my mother should go back with him, as she was not strong enough to endure the damp of these islands. My father went with her to Madrid and there I was born.

  ‘We were a very happy family until the time when I was seven years old; then my father was arrested and brought before the Inquisition. I had very early become aware of this evil thing; I had seen the furtive horror in people’s eyes; but it was only when it touched my own family that I understood what it really meant. My father was taken in the night, and I saw him only once afterwards. That was a year later. I hardly recognized him; his ruddy complexion had become yellow, and he had great difficulty in walking, for he had suffered much torture in the gloomy chambers of the Inquisition.

  ‘A boy of my age should not have been there, of course; but there was fear in our house. My mother lay in her sick bed, and there were leeches ready to say that she was unable to attend; therefore her absence was excusable. But I must not be absent, for if I were, that would be noted, and I should be marked as one who was not being brought up as a good citizen and Catholic.

  ‘Tamar, the memory of that day is always with me. It never fades. Early in the morning I was awakened by the muffled pealing of the bells. I was aroused by the servants, hastily dressed and hurried into the streets.

  ‘The autos-da-fé are great holidays in Spain. The population turns out in its best clothes. There is all that pomp and ceremony in which no Church delights as does the Church of Rome.

  ‘I was taken to the gates of the Inquisition so that I might be there to see the tragic procession file out to its doom. Among these miserable men and women was my father. He was dressed hideously in a loose yellow gown; this sanbenito was embroidered with busts surrounded with flames, and the flames pointed upwards; figures of horrible devils had also been worked on it, and these were shown as fanning the flames. This particular type of sanbenito told the onlookers that my father was one of those condemned to be burned alive. I cannot convey to you the horror of it all, and when I thought of it later, it seemed to me that more horrible than anything, more horrible than even the vile torture to which these people had been submitted, was the religious pomp with which these foul ceremonies were conducted. The working people must be present on pain of having suspicion fall on them; their presence was commanded by their Church. Here was a scene more revolting, I imagined, than those played out in the amphitheatre of Rome under savage Nero and Tiberius. The Romans committed cruelty for what in their view was sport; the Spaniards delighted in it none the less, but they tried to hide their delight in a cloak of piety. In later years I came to believe that the Spaniards were guilty of the greater sin.

  ‘Most of these victims were members of the upper classes; doubtless this was due to the fact that the Inquisition seized all the possessions of those it murdered, and the Inquisition was determined to remain rich and powerful.

  ‘To the Quemadero . . . the place of fire . . . where the Grand Inquisitor rose and addressed the crowd, enumerating the sins of those about to face most horrible death.

  ‘Then were the fires lighted, and I looked on, Tamar, at those poor bodies, shattered by the rack, burned by fiery pincers, waiting for the final torture which would at last bring a merciful death. Some were strangled before they were burnt – those had turned Catholic at the last moment; the others were roasted alive because they clung to their own faith. My father was of the latter, and I was there . . . to witness his death . . .’

  Tamar could only look at him, her eyes filled with horror and compassion that blazed into sudden hatred against the tormentors of his father. She could find no words to say to him.

  After a pause he continued: ‘Well, that was many years ago. There have been thousands to suffer torture as my father suffered. Even in this country the scourge of the Holy Roman Church was felt. Fires have blazed at Smithfield and no man has felt safe from his neighbour.

  ‘I was smuggled back to England when my mother died. I had faithful servants – men who had followed my father to Spain and were themselves in fear of the Inquisition, and would, no doubt, have fallen victims to it; the temporary leniency shown to them was due to the fact that there were richer prizes to claim more immediate attention. In England my family owned great estates, and I was brought up by my grandparents in the Protestant religion.

  ‘This seemed a kindlier religion; and one must have religion in this mysterious world into which we come without our own volition, struggled for a few years and then pass on. It is the passing on which makes us long for faith, for we cannot bear that we should die and be no more. Yes, this was a happier reign. Men of England were sickened by the fires of Smithfield, and the men of England are made of different stuff from those of Spain. We do not love solemn ceremonies; we love gay days and holidays; we like our streets to run with wine – not blood. Slow to anger, yet, when aroused, pertinacious in the extreme, we are quick to forget; there is no race in the world as ready to forgive a wrong as the English, providing sufficient time has elapsed for it to be comfortably forgotten. I was happy to be in such a country; but as I grew older I began to hear an echo of those cruelties springing up again in this land. Perhaps they had never really died. The Queen was head of the Church, as her father had made himself, and there were some who would not accept her as
such and wished to bring about a greater reformation of the Church.

  ‘I saw the beginning of fresh persecutions. Now it was the Puritans and Separatists who suffered. I saw men thrown into gaol . . . kept in noisome prisons. This was, I assured myself, leniency compared with Spain’s horrible methods; still, it was persection. And one day in Smithfield, I saw two Anabaptists burned to death – the first to suffer since Elizabeth came to the throne; but nevertheless I could feel little satisfaction in a religion which could permit such things . . . even if infrequently.

  ‘I gave myself up then to the study of men and their various faiths since the beginning of time. Among these was the faith of witchcraft.’

  He paused to pour himself a goblet of wine. Then he looked straight at Tamar.

  ‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘I dabbled in witchcraft, for I found it closely connected with the religion of this country. On the Continent horrible torture is inflicted on witches, who are mostly women – sometimes deluded, sometimes completely innocent of the delusion that they possess the powers of evil. And these tortures are inflicted in the name of God.

  ‘Why, I asked myself, do these people confess to witchcraft in some cases before they are put to the torture? Because they believe in it. They die for their faith just as my father died for his. Your attitude, Tamar, has been of great interest to me. You were brought up to believe yourself a child of the Devil, and from this you derived great satisfaction. And even now that you have the benefit of some education, you cling to your beliefs. Small wonder that the ignorant refuse to renounce theirs.’

  ‘It is very well for you to disbelieve,’ she interrupted him. ‘But I saw Granny Lackwell’s charms work. There is some power beyond the reach of ordinary men and women, and witches can find it.’

  ‘Tamar, I studied witchcraft, and I found it to be linked with the religion of this country before St Augustine came here with Christianity. Witchcraft as practised today has its roots in the days when our forefathers worshipped Woden the All-father, Thor the Thunderer, Tyr the god who gave men wisdom and cunning, Freya the goddess of battle. Witches, it is true, never mention these gods; indeed, they know nothing of them. It is centuries since St Augustine came here, then alas! Christianity was forced on the inhabitants of this land. That is at the root of all religious conflict. Those in authority will not allow free will. Through the ages the so-called Christian Church has fiercely, and with bloodshed and torment, denounced witchcraft because witchcraft is a part of a rival faith.

  ‘I have attended witches’ Sabbats. I have gone masked in a goat’s head. I have seen the dances round a bonfire, and I have recognized these dances as being the same as those performed in this land before Christianity was forced upon its people. In those days our population was very small and there was a desperate need to increase it. These dances, which were in those days performed round the figure of a horned goat, were known as fertility dances. Now they seem lewd in aspect, because their meaning is not understood. They were meant to rouse the participators to an urgency of desire, for it was felt that the greater the desire, the more chance there would be of fertility, and that the children conceived on such nights would be strong – great men to lead their country in war, fine women to breed again such men.

  ‘The witches who dance on their Sabbats do not know all this. They believe that it is the Devil who has called them out to dance. They have been told so, and they are ignorant and credulous. The Church – fearing them – has said: “You are base. You are possessed by the Devil.” And these people, who would find life drab indeed without their belief in their own supernatural powers, cannot give them up. They are ready to die for them. Imagination can work miracles; it can make the weak-minded see what is not there.’

  Tamar was looking at him strangely now. He knew that she was picturing him, masked, dancing at a witches’ Sabbat, and she was beginning to understand how that which had up till now seemed incredible had come about.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, with a faint, ironic smile, ‘now you begin to see. I told no lie when I acknowledged you as my daughter before those people. You are my daughter.

  ‘I am not what one would call a sensual man; nor have I lived the life of a monk since the death of my wife. There have been occasional light love affairs, and you have heard of my dear friend now dead. I had seen your mother in the house. She was a dainty creature. She had a quality which was, alas! too slight to grow. I think I probably desired her without realizing that I did, although I did not think very much about her. Others had noticed her also. One was our friend, Sir Humphrey. I guessed that ere long she would fall to him unless some obstacle was put in his way. I had little intention of making that my business, and if Luce had not gone to the Sabbat you would never have been born.

  ‘Those ancient dances were calculated to warm the coldest heart. There are strange chants. There is magic in them – so the witches think. They arouse the dancers to a frenzy. There is fornication on such nights, and each man or woman who participates believes that, through her partner, she had communication with the Devil. In the days when the gods and heroes of Asgard were worshipped, the horned goat represented fertility; in these days the old beliefs are forgotten and only the ritual remains. The Christian interpretation is put on the goat, and that is that he represents the Devil, for men of one faith readily believe all others to be of the Devil. We have seen that even a variation of the same faith suffers the same condemnation. But I must explain to you.

  ‘I wore the black robes which those attending associate with the Devil. There were horns to my cap. I had joined in the dance which to them was witchcraft, but which to me was the fertility dance of my forefathers. It is calculated, as I said, to arouse desire in the coldest man or woman; and this it does. That much is preserved. I was caught up in the primitive urge of my forefathers; and there was Luce in the woods.

  ‘I did not foresee the terrible thing which would happen to her because of this. My conscience at that time worried me little. You know that I found a husband for her. It did not seem to me that what had happened to Luce was worse than what happened to so many more. I meant to take her into my confidence, to talk to her in some way as I have just talked to you, to explain to her that it was I who had seduced her. I even thought of keeping her here as my mistress. She was a dainty creature. I found her stupid, and I had no patience with stupidity. I married her off, and that, I felt, was all that was needed. When I heard that she talked of what had happened that night, I dismissed her as a little fool. I had tried to warn her, but it was impossible to do so without disclosing the identity of her seducer. You are shocked, child. You look at me with horror.’

  ‘I saw them come to the cottage . . . I saw them take her.’

  ‘I know. I have thought of it often. It was a terrible end for a girl such as Luce had been. I have made excuses for myself, but I see now that what I did to her was far worse than anything Sir Humphrey could have done. I want you to see me as I am. Have no illusions. I sheltered you when they pursued you because of my guilty conscience, not because I had any feeling towards you as a daughter.’

  ‘Yet I do not forget that you acknowledged me as your daughter before all those people when I was in my greatest danger.’

  ‘That was when I knew they had hanged her; and but for me that would never have happened to her.’

  ‘It is all violence and death!’ said Tamar. ‘Perhaps now I understand you more than I did before.’

  ‘And to understand me is to despise me?’

  ‘No. I think to love you as well as admire you. You did a great wrong to my mother . . . a very wicked thing. But you were sorry and you took me in and you told all those people that you were my father. How could I despise you?’

  He said: ‘If you had not been beautiful, intelligent and amusing, I should doubtless have left you to work in the kitchens.’

  She did not speak and he said: ‘Please say what is in your mind.’

  ‘It is that you think me beautiful, intelligent and amusing
.’

  She ran to him and flung her arms about him.

  ‘My beloved daughter!’ he said.

  And she lifted her face to his. ‘I never thought to see you weep,’ she said.

  He held her close to him and she felt his lips on her hair.

  He put her from him suddenly, as though ashamed of his emotion.

  He poured wine into two goblets and handed one to her.

  ‘To Tamar!’ he said. ‘To my daughter. My daughter . . . who now believes that the Devil is exonerated from all responsibility in her birth.’

  ‘To you, dear Father,’ she replied.

  He understood the look in her eyes. He said as he put down his glass and took her by the shoulders: ‘Now you know the truth.’

  But she continued to smile her secret smile.

  ‘They were afraid of me,’ she said. ‘I was protected in my childhood.’

  ‘You were protected by the belief of those about you.’

  ‘I have seen charms work,’ she said.

  He sighed, and she continued:

  ‘They would say that the Devil was in you that night. And indeed, you will admit that you behaved in a way which was not usual with you.’

  ‘I see,’ he said slowly, ‘that nothing I can tell you will shift your belief.’

  She embraced him once more, holding her cheek against his.

  ‘I am glad though that he chose you. I am glad that it was your body he entered.’

  ‘Alas!’ he answered, ‘I see your faith is unshakeable.’ He turned her face up to his. ‘Tamar, can’t you give it up?’

  Slowly she shook her head.

  Plague came to Plymouth.

  In the streets men and women lay dying, calling for help which none dared give. On the doors were large red crosses, warning all to keep away. At night the pest cart went through the streets. ‘Bring forth your dead!’ was the mournful cry.