To Sleep No More

by Deryn Lake

  ‘Don’t be startled,’ he went on, looking at her with an appraising gaze. ‘I have come to see Master Casselowe and was told that I would find him here.’

  Jenna bobbed a curtsey, painfully aware that she was taller than he was.

  ‘He’s out, Sir, but will be home soon. Do you want to wait for him?’

  Her heart sank as the man took a step forward into the room. ‘You are his daughter, I take it.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  The man bowed and Jenna wondered if he was making fun of her. But he said quite simply, ‘I am Robert Morley of Glynde,’ and took another step inside. ‘That jug of ale looks very good, may I have some?’ he added.

  How could she refuse in view of who he was? Though she had never actually met him, tales of Harbert Morley’s younger half-brother — and the heir to the Glynde estates as Harbert had only fathered daughters — ran wild in the valley, and had often been recounted to Jenna. Some said that more bastards in Byvelham and Maighfield had been fathered by Robert than could ever be counted on a clear day, and others claimed that he had brought one of the Pelham ladies to bed of a son when he had been a mere twelve and she forty-one! Whatever the truth, Jenna had to admit that he had a scamp’s grin and eyes and looked ready for merriment.

  ‘I’ll pour you some,’ she answered reluctantly.

  The man sauntered to the table and sat on the edge, one leg wearing a close fitting and thigh length boot, swinging. ‘And what is your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Jenna, Sir. Jenna Casselowe.’

  ‘How very unusual. I can’t recall having heard that before.’

  ‘I was to have been Jenet, Sir, but my mother changed her mind, thinking Jenna more musical.’

  Master Morley downed his ale, then stood up.

  ‘Will you tell your father I called on him and that I will return tomorrow at this time? My brother has asked me to see that all is well in the valley.’

  Jenna dropped a respectful curtsey. ‘I will, Sir, thank you.’

  ‘Farewell until then. I hope you will be here when I come, musical Jenna.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not the musical one, Sir,’ she answered. ‘That gift belongs to my sister Agnes.’

  *

  A tiny drop of blood ran down Benjamin’s chin, falling, like a crimson raindrop, into the bowl of water before him. He stood in the downstairs room of his cottage, bare to the waist, washing and scraping his chin in preparation for his supper with Daniel, but dreading the ordeal that lay before him. For this evening he was duty-bound to tell the Casselowes of his betrothal to Debora, and something of her unease about Jenna had conveyed itself to him.

  Benjamin paused reflectively, his razor in his hand, gazing out of the cottage window to the land that lay beyond. In the far distance the slopes of the Rother valley rolled away softly, covered by patterns of densely growing trees, while from his bedroom, if he gazed to the left, the fields belonging to Baynden appeared as slashes of emerald.

  Immediately before him, Benjamin could see the top of the deep well which provided his water and behind that the shelter for his animals. In common with most of the other villagers he had a smallholding which he worked to supplement his main occupation of carpentry.

  Benjamin had inherited the cottage, which lay a quarter of a mile away from the palace near iron-master Aynscombe’s house, Aylwins. In this matter of possession he was better off than Daniel Casselowe, who rented his cottage from the Lord of Glynde, and something of the quality of Benjamin’s furniture reflected this. For Benjamin had a cupboard and his other wooden movables were jointed. Though not affluent, the carpenter’s home bore the sign of someone making a respectable living for himself.

  Realising that his preparations were not yet complete, Benjamin resumed his shaving, contorting his features before his wood-framed and homemade mirror. As he did so he thought he saw another face reflected behind his, an elfin face with a pointed chin, but when he whirled round to see who was there, there was nothing, only a trick of the light — a shadow thrown by the afternoon sun. Nonetheless, it was unnerving and the carpenter hurried through the last of his tasks, pulling on his clean woollen shirt and stockings and buttoning his good breeches below the knee. Then he left the house, locking the door behind him, and mounting the old nag who plodded him round the countryside in pursuit of his occupation.

  The afternoon was so fine that Benjamin decided to make his way through the woods and fields to Baynden. Plunging into the dense trees he stopped short as the sound of a lute burst out so suddenly that his horse shied. For a moment or two Benjamin did not move, listening to the rapturous sound. Then he walked the nag over and looked down at the player. It was Jenna’s sister Agnes, as fat and unappetising as ever. Yet when she played she looked strangely changed. Unaware that he was watching her, even now she bore an entirely different expression from that of the podgy, noisily-breathing girl that was her usual self.

  She heard him and looked up, and just for a second held his gaze. Benjamin had the strange impression that somebody else was looking at him; that out of Agnes’s round grey eyes someone else was peeping. Then the moment was gone.

  ‘Good-day,’ he said.

  She flushed and scrambled to her feet, her hands clutching the lute as if it was a lifeline. ‘I did not hear you approach, Benjamin. Are you on your way to see us?’

  ‘Yes.’ He hoped his apprehension did not show on his face.

  ‘I’ll go ahead and warn Jenna.’

  Then without another word the girl turned and ran off through the trees, the carpenter leading his old nag by the reins behind her.

  As he approached he saw that Baynden lay peacefully in the light of the setting sun, its far windows diamond-bright as they picked up and reflected the sinking rays. The house had always been the property of the Lords of Glynde and at one time had been a manor house in which courts were held. Now it was simply a farm leased to the yeoman Richard Maynard by Harbert Morley, though a farm in which Harbert still reserved the right to hold courts should he so wish.

  As he walked down the slope beyond the house, Benjamin wondered who had been the tenants centuries ago and what sort of life they had led; whether they had known joy or sadness, hope or despair. For no reason he gave a violent shiver.

  In the distance lay Daniel’s little cottage, the smoke rising from its chimney, and the pond, beside which it had been built, a sheet of gold dancing with lights. It seemed so peaceful and picturesque that it was difficult to believe a woman had once been taken from there to answer charges of witchcraft; that, as the sun had set like this one evening some thirty years ago, an elfin creature had been dragged out, screaming, to go to her eventual death.

  Benjamin crossed the few remaining yards to the cottage door. It lay open and in the room beyond he could see Daniel, his sleeves rolled up, pouring out a goodly measure of ale. Behind him, busy with her cooking pots, was Jenna, her dark hair clean and silky and tied back beneath a lace cap that had once belonged to her mother.

  ‘Good evening,’ said Benjamin from the doorway, and they both looked up. Jenna’s eyes promptly slid away from his, and he felt certain that Debora was right and that the girl was in love with him.

  ‘Benjamin,’ said Daniel heartily. ‘Welcome. Come in and sit down. I was about to have something to drink. Will you join me?’

  ‘Indeed I will,’ answered the carpenter, taking a seat at the wooden table and removing his hat. ‘Your brew is the best for miles, Daniel, or so it is said.’

  He was being over-enthusiastic in his attempt to avoid the bright, golden gaze that Jenna had now fixed on him. But poor Jenna, watching as her father and her beloved chatted together, wept inwardly that he would not return her glance.

  ‘... delicious smell.’

  He was looking at her at last, saying complimentary things about her cooking, but only doing so because he felt obliged. Unbidden, a page from Alice Casselowe’s book came to Jenna’s mind. She saw the close, dark writing as if it was in front of her: Crush
all together dittany, pennyroyal and verbena and mix with a woman’s most secret blood. Then, when blessed by a waxing moon, let the potion be given.

  The consequences were clearly detailed: no man born could resist — within the passing of a day and a night he would be begging for one’s love, one’s bed, for the most private parts of one’s body.

  ‘I hope you will enjoy the meal, Benjamin,’ said Jenna slowly. ‘And indeed any refreshment you may take within this house.’

  *

  Good food, strong ale and a warm fire had taken their effect on Benjamin Mist. He sat grinning comfortably, his legs stuck out before him and his hands folded over his stomach, looking benignly at his host, who was talking of folklore. Or at least Benjamin thought he was, only lending half an ear to the conversation, the rest of his concentration being given to Agnes, who sat in the shadows playing her lute. Tonight she seemed inspired, the notes sobbing out a song of both love and despair.

  ‘... famous local name,’ Daniel was saying. ‘Do you know about your forebears, Benjamin?’

  ‘All connected with this area, I believe,’ the carpenter answered slowly, his mind on the music, wishing Daniel would stop talking.

  ‘Much as I thought. I believe at one time your family name was le Mist. Did you know that?’

  ‘No.’ The carpenter wished more than ever that Daniel would be quiet. Agnes had begun to play a lilting air to which she was singing, her odd, hoarse voice filling the room.

  In the half-dark of the doorway, Jenna stood watching the scene: Daniel silent at last, the hiss of the wood on the fire the only other sound besides that of the song. Her eyes, dark in the scant light, went first to her father, then to her sister, seeing how her head bent forward over the strings, the barley-coloured hair hanging like a concealing veil. Finally they came to rest on Benjamin. She wondered, as she had a hundred times, why he should arouse so much feeling in her, when he obviously cared nothing at all in return.

  ‘There’s a full moon outside. Will you look at it with me, Benjamin?’ she said very softly.

  He gazed at her startled, not wanting to go, and then said abruptly, ‘Oh very well. When Agnes stops playing.’

  ‘She won’t,’ Jenna whispered. ‘She will either go on till we take the lute from her or go upstairs and play it in bed. That is her way.’

  Benjamin rose reluctantly to his feet, knowing that this must be the moment to tell Jenna he was to marry. ‘Then I’ll come,’ he said.

  Outside the tiny cottage a night so infinite in its proportions dwarfed not only the little building but the entire world. A black sky riven with mysterious stars soared above Jenna and Benjamin, in the midst of the glistening canopy an enormous moon, full of faces and shapes, shining down on them so clearly that they could see each other distinctly.

  In the strange light, Jenna’s hair was full of little gleamings and shades of blue, while her eyes were green, slanting beneath the curve of her dark brows. Benjamin, on the other hand, looked pale, his skin and hair bleached of colour, only his eyes vivid and strangely penetrating.

  ‘What is it you want to say to me?’ she asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You have avoided me even more than usual. What have I done?’

  He tried to smile but found himself unable to speak.

  ‘You are going to marry Debora Weston,’ Jenna went on flatly.

  Benjamin was astonished. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘There have been rumours. But you have been more eloquent than any of them. Your very silence told me everything.’

  He tried a laugh which fell flat as lead. ‘Aren’t you going to wish me joy?’

  The unpredictable side of Jenna’s nature suddenly flared. ‘No, Benjamin, I am not. If that pretty sop is your choice I have nothing further to say to you.’

  She turned on her heel and strode off in the direction of the river and though Benjamin tried calling her name once or twice, the only answer was the cry of a fox, out hunting and sporting in the excitement of the silver night.

  Twenty

  The night and Jenna’s wretchedness of spirit became one — stretching on endlessly, with no sign of the life-giving dawn.

  ‘Surely’, she thought, ‘this must be hell. To lie here in such a gaudy setting — all stars and moon and nightingales — and feel myself begin to die.’

  There was such an ache in her, such a pain, such a hurt where there had once been a heart, that she did not know how she could bear another second of life. She had plummeted to the nadir of existence. And now, lying in their suffocatingly tiny room, staring out of the window at the whorish moon parading in all her finery, she must listen to Agnes sobbing as if she was the one who was in love with him.

  The moon began to dip and at last came the moment that Jenna had been dreading. Soon daylight would come and though the night’s ordeal would be ended, another trial would begin with the first pennants of red. Life must continue; meals must be cooked, work must be done, a face for the world must be decided upon and worn. She must bear the derision of those who knew where her love lay and who would soon be hearing for themselves of Benjamin’s betrothal.

  Suddenly Jenna knew what she must do. She did not even have to struggle with her conscience before deciding. The answer was so simple; she even had the means at her fingertips. Earlier that evening she had looked at the first part of Alice Casselowe’s book. Now she would consult those other pages, the pages that gave power over people and events, and would use them ruthlessly.

  Jenna sat up in bed, collecting her thoughts. The penalty for bewitching another to unlawful love was imprisonment, not death. Surely the risk would be worth it, for who could prove a thing? Without further hesitation, Jenna lit a spluttering candle, feeling a cold thrill of elation as she took the book from its hiding place and turned to the part she wanted. It was just as she had remembered — the dark writing listing the ingredients for the charm; herbs that she grew herself in the garden that lay beside the cottage. Those and her most private blood must be mixed to give the potion its full power.

  Something had been written underneath the spell and, in the poor light, Jenna strained to see what it was: ‘Let the moon be new or, at most, a day old for the enchantment to be at its strongest. Let the consummation take place before the moon has had time to die.’

  So she had six weeks: two to see this moon gone and for her own secret flow to come and go, and another four before the magic wore off. But need it ever wear off? Turning to another page, her face hard and secretive, Jenna found what she knew to be there: ‘Jessamine gathered at full moon and crushed to liquid, will keep love alive for ever.’

  All the answers were here. Her great aunt’s legacy to the niece she had never lived to know. She had put the key to happiness — and perhaps also death — into the girl’s hand.

  Jenna pushed all other considerations away and in the candlelight her eyes gleamed green fire. Then a voice startled her so violently that she dropped the precious book to the floor. ‘What are you doing?’ Agnes said.

  ‘Reading. I thought you were asleep,’ Jenna answered sharply.

  ‘It was the light. It woke me up.’

  ‘Well go back to sleep and leave me in peace.’

  Agnes looked suspicious. ‘Are you going to witch Benjamin Mist?’ she said.

  Jenna’s fury was instant and ice-white. She leapt over to their shared bed and shook the hapless girl violently. As she did so, Jenna had the extraordinarily vivid feeling that this moment had happened before; that she had stood, just like this, with murderous intent towards Agnes, and that the victim’s eyes had rolled up to look at their attacker just as piteously as they did now.

  ‘Jenna, why are you so angry?’ gasped Agnes, ‘Do not hurt me. Please! You know how much I love you.’

  With a cry, Jenna let her sister go and stumbled to the edge of the bed where she sat down, her head in her hands.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘Oh Agnes, forgive me. I love you too. It is just
that I am so desperately sad tonight I would wound anyone to be avenged.’

  Agnes got out of bed, her plump form trembling in its white shift as her feet touched the cold floor.

  ‘Jenna, there is no need to explain to me. Benjamin is going to marry Debora Weston and it is not right. You must marry him even if you have to witch him.’

  ‘But you know the punishment.’

  ‘That could only happen if you were accused. And who would there be to accuse you?’

  ‘His bride.’

  Agnes looked thoughtful. ‘Supposing she were to fall in love with another?’

  ‘It might be possible,’ answered Jenna slowly.

  ‘Then that’s the way to do it. Make her lose interest in Benjamin. There must be someone to take her fancy.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jenna. ‘I believe you might be right.’

  *

  The great moon waned and, when she was nearly spent, the silent mystery of her cycle mirrored within a woman’s body came to Jenna. She caught some of the crimson drops in a phial and mixed them with the volatile oil secreted by the aromatic plant known as dittany, adding to this that species of mint called pennyroyal and finally the pale and delicate petals of hedgerow verbena. Then she locked the mixture away to await the night when the moon started her life again as a timorous crescent. When that time came, Jenna would cross the Rother in the darkness and climb the hill beyond to the ring of trees that grew on the summit almost opposite the little cottage. There she would keep vigil until the dawn came up.

  Without being quite aware of what she was doing, Jenna went to Alice Casselowe’s book again. It was two days since she had made the love potion and as she scanned the pages it occurred to her that she was turning to witchcraft once again to achieve her ends. In a moment of clarity she saw that the situation was feeding upon itself, that one twisted action was leading to another.

  ‘This final time,’ she murmured, as she raised the candle and read, ‘To bring a person to your bidding take the bladebone of a lamb’s shoulder and for nine nights stick a knife through it in varying places, saying, “Tis not the bone I mean to stick but —’s heart I mean to prick; wishing him neither rest nor sleep, till he comes to me to speak”.’