To Sleep No More

by Deryn Lake

  Every since the change had come about in her body and womanhood had come upon her, a terrifying fear had taken hold, a fear which, she knew, if it grew any worse, could threaten her sanity. For Debora sometimes felt that she had another side to her character, an evil side that lurked just below the surface yet might one day gain the upper hand.

  Timorous, flowerlike Debora would, by choice, have picked her way through life without ever having to see, or hear, or think anything that was ugly, dirty, or revolting. Delicate Debora would have disregarded nature’s functions, never have been visited by the flux, never wished to see a man’s nude body or, worse, felt that part of him that was so horrible, enter her inviolate flesh. But then, beneath the surface, lurked the other one. The one who would grin at lewd passages read from the family bible; the one who would stare at her naked self with a knowing smile; the one who would take over in the dream state and let terrible things roam through the mind of the innocent sleeper.

  Before Benjamin Mist had begun to court her, Debora had been called upon by both John Cosham and Michael Baker, handsome young men born in the same year as she, and had once snatched the hand of Michael and run her lips over it, not so much kissing as drawing out his flesh so that he had been appalled and had visited the cottage no more.

  It had been beyond bearing and Debora felt now, as she fastened her woollen cloak to her neck and hurried down the path past Pound Farm, that her only hope was marriage to a respectable man like Benjamin Mist. Perhaps, if she endured his lovemaking, the other Debora would be satisfied and go away for good.

  Even as Benjamin came into her mind the girl heard hooves on the track and, turning, was amazed to see the carpenter, astride his nag with Jenna Casselowe sitting behind, heading in the direction of Baynden and not even noticing that they had passed Benjamin’s betrothed, standing alone and forlorn in the dusk.

  ‘Benjamin,’ she called, but he did not hear and Debora was left with the dismal prospect of staring at the retreating back of Jenna Casselowe, the girl she disliked more than any other, riding with the man Debora was soon to marry.

  She knew it was weak of her but she started to cry, not loudly or enough to make Mother Maud, the village gossip, peer out of her cottage window, but copiously and miserably.

  She felt so alone and frightened that, when a voice behind her said, ‘May I escort you home, Mistress?’ she turned with a smile, realising that she had not heard anyone approach because of the noise of Benjamin’s mount. However, her welcome faded to an icy stare as she saw, leaning down from his saddle so that he might look better into her face, the heir to the Glynde estates, Robert Morley, a man she had never met but whose reputation preceded him.

  Instantly Debora was in a quandary. It was not politic to be rude to a member of the landed gentry but on the other hand she shrank from him. He was so obviously a womaniser, all swagger, fingers and winks, not at all the kind of man with whom she felt at ease.

  ‘I ... er ...’

  ‘Come now, Mistress, don’t hesitate. I can have you home in an instant.’

  Debora went scarlet, realising he must be aware of what a shrinking creature she really was.

  With a faint touch of defiance she said, ‘Thank you, Master Morley. I’d be obliged if you could take me to Cokyngs Mill.’

  Without answering, Robert dismounted, lifted her to the front of the saddle then swung himself up behind.

  She thought she was going to suffocate. In a fashion that Debora could only think of as lunatic, every nerve in her body became taut, and her heart doubled its pace. Without wanting to, her mind began to dwell on the muscle and sinew that she could feel through Robert’s clothing.

  As the horse moved into a steady trot, Debora thought she was going to be sick; frenzied and ill with all the terrible thoughts that were going through her mind. And then quite suddenly, and quite frighteningly, a feeling stirred within her, a feeling base and vile which would not go away. Her head spun and she believed she would faint.

  ‘Is anything wrong?’ said Robert’s voice, almost at her ear.

  ‘No, nothing,’ she answered breathlessly.

  There was a pause and then he said, ‘I hope I can remember the way. I am not really familiar with this area.’

  Debora peered into the darkness. ‘We seem to have left the track. I think you are heading towards Baynden.’

  Robert did not answer and an unreasonable fear beat down every other emotion in Debora’s breast. A shiver that ran from her shoulders to her heels shook her, and Robert said, ‘You’re cold. I have wine in my saddle bag. Drink some.’

  Without thinking, Debora took the leather bottle and raised it to her lips. As the strong warming liquid reached her stomach she realised that she had not eaten for hours, that every mouthful she took would only serve to make her heady. Yet she drank again, deeply, without knowing why.

  ‘I must be home soon,’ she said slowly.

  ‘I’m afraid you were right,’ answered Robert with a note of apology. ‘I must have taken the wrong track. We are almost at Baynden.’

  She wanted to say: ‘Then turn back,’ but instead she put the bottle to her mouth and again drank her fill, not answering.

  ‘I must call in for a moment to collect a warmer cloak. It is getting very cold,’ Robert said, without looking at her.

  Still Debora remained silent, fighting with every ounce of her strength all the hideous thoughts that were flooding into her brain.

  ‘Well?’ They had come almost to a halt and Debora realised that she must answer in some way or another.

  ‘We’ll go to Baynden,’ she said slowly, and felt herself grow weak as Robert’s arms tightened around her, and he spurred his horse on towards the house.

  *

  ‘No, Benjamin, I’m sorry, I don’t know where she is.’ Goodwife Weston stood in the doorway of her little cottage and looked at the carpenter from narrowed, curranty eyes. ‘I thought she might be with you.’

  Benjamin shook his head. ‘I said I would come here as soon as I had finished working. I’m late only because someone called unexpectedly. Has Debora been home at all?’

  A fearful look came into the little eyes as Debora’s mother answered, ‘No, she hasn’t. I do hope no ill has befallen her. Perhaps her brothers should go searching as soon as they come home.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s safe,’ answered Benjamin. ‘She has probably stayed talking longer than she intended.’

  He did not know why but he had a sudden compulsion to get away from the cottage, overpowering with its smoking fire and smell of constant cooking, to say nothing of escaping Goody Weston’s close dark scrutiny. All he could think of was returning to the quietness of his own home where he could sit alone, his old wheezing cat at his feet, gazing into the fire and drinking the beer that Daniel Casselowe had sent for him.

  ‘Benjamin?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I ...’

  ‘I said shall I tell Debora that you will be here tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, please do.’

  He bowed his way out — a politeness not called for — and then, having mounted the nag, paused for a moment. It was terrible to admit it but he did not want to come across Debora tonight. Vaguely, Benjamin wondered what was the matter with him; why his desire to think things out should be strong enough for him to take a route through the woods that ensured he would meet nobody, even the girl he intended to marry. Almost hastily, almost furtively, he turned his horse’s head in a direction that would take him across country and went at a good speed, not stopping for anything until he had crossed his threshold and closed the door behind him.

  Once inside, he went through his usual routine, throwing sticks on the wood ash that held the embers of last night’s fire and, when the tongues of flame began to leap, blowing them with a pair of bellows till they blazed.

  Benjamin suddenly found himself beyond eating, his one thought to sit down in his favourite chair and stare at the flames. With the grumpy old cat sitting on his lap, he put his head
back and in a moment was asleep.

  He dreamed that he was wandering in a wood white with snow; the valley in the distance a patchwork of sombre trees and milky fields. Only a woodcutter’s hut stood out like a blot of ink in the virgin purity. Coming from a hole in the roof he saw that a thread of smoke rose up like a pointing finger, and Benjamin, his feet leaving the frost unmarked, felt himself drawn closer to see who dwelt within the heart of the deserted forest.

  He pushed the door slightly and, to his horror, realised that he had come across two lovers, caught in a secret act. He would have averted his eyes but something about the long, lean back of the man reminded him of someone he knew well. As he stared the man jumped up and came towards the door as if he had heard something.

  Just for a moment, before he turned to run, Benjamin saw his face; saw the shock of shoulder-length hair, the hawklike features, the lively eyes. Then Benjamin was hurrying over the snow to escape and the dream ended.

  Benjamin woke suddenly and stood up, the old cat sliding to the floor and glaring at him, and thought of his gift of beer. Pouring himself a pint, Benjamin sat down and raised it to his lips, thinking it a delicious taste, quite the best brew he had had in a long time. He finished it almost in one and poured out the remainder, drinking it all before he went upstairs. There he fell into a deep and entirely dreamless sleep.

  *

  ‘I shall wait outside,’ said Debora. ‘Master Morley, it would be better if you went in for your cloak and left me here. I would be embarrassed to meet Goodman Maynard in these circumstances.’

  She was afraid again, her true nature asserting itself over the wicked feelings that had possessed her a moment ago.

  ‘Nonsense,’ answered Robert briskly. ‘Come in and warm yourself before your journey. The servants are already abed and there’s no one about. You need only stay a moment.’

  Without another word, he lifted her down from the saddle, keeping his body tantalisingly apart from hers.

  As they went inside, the fire in Baynden’s great hearth sent out a welcoming heat and, ignoring Robert, Debora hurried to it, holding out her hands. She realised that she was alone with a man whose reputation was worse than any she had ever known. To her horror, she heard herself say, ‘How warm it is here. What a pity we must venture out again, Master Morley,’ and almost seemed to see herself give a slow smile and walk towards him.

  Inside, a voice screamed, ‘Help me. I cannot allow this.’ But the evil part of her held sway and was pressing itself against the Master’s brother seductively. Small wonder that Robert Morley swept her into his arms and without a word headed purposefully for his chamber.

  Twenty-three

  The new play that had begun to form itself in the mind of Tom May woke him shortly after midnight. At once, without having to wait for nebulous outlines to form, he knew the character of the heroine; and this was followed shortly before first light by an insight into the hero’s motive for his wicked acts. After this there was no alternative but to rise from his bed and, by the light of as many candles as he could muster, first write down the development of the comedy and then the compelling opening lines. So it was, with the reedy signs of dawn forcing themselves through his curtains, that Tom finally laid down his pen, throwing back the drapery to look on the morning that lay beyond the palace.

  Rain hung over the hills, not a heavy dulling rain that put the spirits low but instead a lively spray, leaping down over the earth and throwing up vast rainbows in its wake: it was a rain that brought on bracken, that washed the face of the earth with gentle freshness, turning the slopes green and pattering amongst the daffodils. It was a rain that wetted the coats of lambs and made the sweet harsh smell of wool pervade the woods and valleys of Sussex.

  For a poet, standing at the window and looking out at the birth of such a morning, there was no decision to be made. With a pleasant compulsion, Tom put on his roughest clothes and headed for the stables before anyone but the bakehouse servants, filling the air already with the seductive smell of hot bread, was stirring. And then what more sweet than to swing his leg up over a bay horse and hear the sharp clatter of hooves as he headed out over the cobbles to investigate the day?

  As Tom left Maighfield behind him and headed for the valley of Byvelham — that magic place which still belonged to the Rape of Hastings and which was quite separate from Sir Thomas May’s manorial rights — the young man’s artistic soul bounded within, assuring him yet again that he was rather a special person; capable of feeling the raw contrasts of pain and pleasure as intensely as a poet should.

  He was in a green and gold morning; the fields stretching before him like an emerald shawl, the sky the light, clear colour of newly-minted coins and all the earth in that capricious mood which, at a fingersnap, could roll down thunder and wind and lightning to soak the unwary.

  Yet Tom, expansive as only a writer who has put a new idea safely beneath his belt can be, only saw the fine things: the undulating line from hill to hill, the glinting vastness of the never-ceasing sky, the coldness of the sparkling air to the naked cheek, the warmth of it to the heart.

  He felt himself absorbed by the personality of Sussex; by its lack of sentimentality, its cruelty disguised beneath the sweetly rolling hills, the whole huge canopy from brilliant sea to flat dark fields, spread before him.

  Yet, as his horse went forward, nosing and nuzzling amongst the grasses, he became aware of a disturbance in the atmosphere; was aware of a sadness in that morning of hope and inspiration even before he had actually heard a thing. So Tom was not at all surprised as his horse climbed up and stood looking down the slopes that led to Baynden, to see a girl — a pale and ravaged girl at that — come towards him as if her life had just been cast into ruins.

  Tom did not recognise her, bothering little with those who did not work at the palace. Yet he had to agree that for a peasant — which her dress revealed her to be at once — she was exceptionally charming, quite flowerlike and sweet, in fact.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said.

  She paled and drew back, but managed a faint ‘Good-day, Sir,’ before bursting into a flood of weeping,

  Tom looked at her awkwardly, wishing she would go away. But the girl held her ground and continued to gaze at him through a storm of tears.

  Feeling an idiot, Tom eventually said, ‘Is anything wrong?’ He supposed it beholden on him as the Lord of the Manor’s son to enquire, while fearing desperately that she might actually tell him. To his horror she nodded her head even while the tears continued to course.

  ‘In that case do you want to see my mother?’ he asked hopefully, but the swift, sad look in her eye dashed any idea he might have had of getting rid of her.

  ‘Then what can I do to help?’ he went on lamely, wishing that he was more than fourteen years old and had even the vaguest semblance of liking women’s company.

  ‘A great deal,’ she gasped, through terrible sobs. ‘Oh Master Tom, if my father has ever served yours, then please help me now.’

  Much to his dismay she grabbed hold of him, her fingers dangerously close to rending his sleeve.

  ‘Please,’ he said, brushing her off. ‘If you could calm yourself, and tell me quietly what is amiss.’

  She gazed at him from pretty damp eyes, looking like a daffodil after a storm.

  ‘That I never can,’ she answered. ‘I would not dare to. Instead, Master, I am going to ask you to grant me the greatest favour of your life.’

  Tom gulped in horror, sure that she was going to beg for money, a commodity which — despite his father’s legendary extravagance — rarely came his way.

  ‘I’m afraid I ...’ he started but she cut across with, ‘Sir, it is terrible to ask a gentleman in your position to lie, but I beg you please to tell my father I spent last night at the palace.’

  Relieved, Tom said, ‘Well, really I would not like to ...’

  But the girl began to weep again. ‘If you do not help me, Sir, my life will be ruined. I cannot tell you w
here I was but be assured I must never confess the truth. Sir, I implore you.’

  Longing to say no and have done with the girl’s sordid little intrigue, as he now suspected it was, Tom reluctantly answered, ‘Well, I ...’

  She gave him such a piteous glance that he stopped again, filled with the thought that he ought to be kind, that really he ought to try and help his fellows if he was to develop into a true personality, a personality that one day might rival that of William Shakespeare.

  ‘What do you want me to say?’

  ‘That I called round to the kitchens having injured myself, and that it was thought I should stay at the palace rather than walk.’

  ‘Do you think it will be believed?’

  ‘If you tell my mother so, yes.’

  Very reluctantly, Tom said, ‘I’ll help you on to my horse. If you go back riding it will appear that you are still injured.’ Despite the risk, Tom was beginning to be amused by the situation and he said in a low voice, glancing to right and left though there was not another soul visible for miles, ‘I take it there was a man involved?’

  To his horror the girl’s skin became livid. ‘I cannot bear to think about it. Please do not ask.’

  With a look of consternation he said, ‘Surely you were not raped?’

  ‘No, it was all my fault,’ she answered slowly. ‘I cannot soil my lips by speaking of it.’

  The girl would say no more and in silence Tom led his horse back towards Cokyngs Mill and Debora’s parents.

  *

  The knock on the door was so loud that as Robert Morley woke he had automatically shouted, ‘Enter,’ before he remembered that a naked woman was lying in the bed for all the world to see. Yet a rapid glance at the place beside his showed it to be empty, with no sign of the wicked little wanton who had filled his night with never-ending passion and left him exhausted.