by Deryn Lake
‘What is it?’ he asked, as Richard Maynard, his strangely pale skin glowing white, stepped boldly into the room.
‘There’s a messenger from Glynde, Sir. He thought he might find you here. Master Harbert has been taken ill and they are requesting that you return immediately.’
Robert leapt out of bed, contriving to pull the covers off as he did so and thus conceal its disarray.
‘Is it serious? What has happened?’
‘The messenger is downstairs, Master. He simply said to me that Master Harbert was ill.’
Throwing on his clothes, Robert said, ‘Thank you, Goodman Maynard. I shall be ready in a moment,’ relieved when the fellow withdrew his strangely staring gaze and went out.
What could be amiss, Robert wondered? Though considerably older than he, his half-brother was still only in the later part of his forties and up to now had suffered little more than a day’s illness. But the servant knew nothing more than that Master Harbert had collapsed with pains in his chest the night before, and the physician had been sent for from Lewes. Robert had to be content with this as he urged forward to Glynde.
Yet despite the seriousness of the occasion and despite the fact that he loved and respected Harbert — even though they did not share the same mother — Robert found his mind going back again and again to Debora Weston. What an inspired lover. He had never come across a woman like her. Yet it was strange that she had not woken him with a word of farewell. Strange, too, that she had been intact, untouched by another. He would not have believed that possible if he had not proved it for himself. For she seemed to be totally knowledgeable of all the things that delighted, of all the thousand and one wicked little acts that could set a man alight and leave him gasping. It was as if she were born wanton, needing no tuition in the art of love.
Robert was still thinking about the strangeness of it all as he crossed the courtyard of Glynde Place and was brought abruptly back to earth by the sight of Dr Bulmer of Lewes, followed by a boy carrying a box of equipment, mounting his horse in preparation to go.
Swinging from the saddle, Master Morley hurried over on foot and said, ‘Sir, what news of my brother?’
Knowing that it was almost obligatory for physicians to pull long faces, he was not altogether surprised when Dr Bulmer looked grave and replied, ‘Ah Sir, there’s the tease.’
‘You do not know?’ Robert answered anxiously.
‘I do, Sir, and then again I don’t.’
‘Meaning ...?’
‘Meaning, Sir, that though I have seen many such cases in men of Master Morley’s age, I am still not sure what exactly the contributory factor might be.’
‘Perhaps if you could spare me a few moments we might step into the house and you could explain it to me in layman’s terms.’
With a sigh Dr Bulmer swung a stiff leg over his horse’s back and allowed Robert to usher him forward. And once again he spoke rapidly, as if even this intrusion into his time was a nuisance.
‘What I am trying to say, Master Robert, is that men of your brother’s years are prone to mysterious pains in their chest which I personally believe to emanate from the heart. An idea with which many of my colleagues might not agree.’
‘And the prognosis?’
‘Reasonable — if they survive this initial attack. And with care and comfort they usually do, Sir. Yes, my patients usually do.’
He paused to let the words sink in and Robert looked at him, slightly amused. The doctor was a little bantam of a fellow, pink of face and round of stomach and defying the world to disagree with his ideas. In common with many men short of stature, he had a slightly defensive air which manifested in a show of truculence.
Robert smiled. ‘Then he is not in danger?’
The bantam ceased to strut. ‘If he lives through another day and night, Master Robert, then he is safe. But after that he must always be careful. I have seen these things recur after a gap of several years. What I am saying is that your brother will never dare to be so active again.’
Robert’s amusement faded. ‘In short I should take over some of his duties?’
‘Indeed you must, Sir, if there is to be a happy outcome. I think it only fair to warn you that in future you will have to spend more time at Glynde and less involved in your other pursuits —’ The doctor allowed himself a wintery smile. ‘— if Master Harbert is to retain his good health.’
‘Then so be it,’ answered Robert. ‘The welfare of my brother and the future of Glynde must always come first.’
*
The moated manor house of Sharnden had always been something which had, for no reason he could pinpoint, both delighted and intrigued Benjamin Mist. His very first glimpse of it as a child — seeing the house where it lay in its naturally protected basin — had him running in excitement down the slope, longing to get near the cool, green water of the moat and the two swans who drifted, with their family of cygnets, on its glasslike surface.
But when Benjamin had arrived at the house he had received a shock. It had not been what the boy had expected at all. He had thought there would be a stately building there, a grandiose dwelling comprising a great hall and other graceful chambers, but instead the child had seen a yeoman farmhouse, large admittedly, but nonetheless austere.
When he had asked his father about it, Ralph Mist had told him that there had once been an older house on the site — or so it was said — but that the present Sharnden had been built in the fifteenth century by the Vicars Choral, into whose hands the manor had passed after the deaths of Robert de Sharndene and, later, his son Hamon.
Now it was leased to Stephen Penkhurst and it was the fact that Master Penkhurst’s favourite bed had broken a leg that necessitated Benjamin’s presence there on this rainbow-filled afternoon, bright with little showers splashing into the moat and diamond drops falling from the glistening feathers of the graceful swans.
Standing in a top chamber at the eastern end of the house, and looking out at the moat’s sweep round the island, Benjamin wondered again why he liked the place so much, why it had such a reassuring atmosphere. Perhaps because that view had changed very little in the last few centuries, giving the impression that he was looking at a vista seen by the original builder all that time ago.
Benjamin gave a start as, without warning, a long dark figure glided into his sight, stopping at the moat’s far edge and gazing up to where he stood. Despite the fact that it was daylight, he felt terrified. For though he could plainly see that it was Jenna Casselowe, there seemed something strange about her. She stood utterly motionless, as if she were sleepwalking, and even from this distance he could see that her eyes stared ahead unblinkingly.
He felt unnerved and he called out, ‘Jenna! What are you doing?’
She made absolutely no response and it was then that the oddest thing of all took place. As he watched her, it seemed to him that she changed. Instead of seeing a gawky beanpole, he suddenly realised that she was beautiful. He saw her height as graceful, a thing to be admired; he noticed that her hair flowed like a torrent of silk, and the colour of her skin was the ripe gold of summer. At that moment Benjamin realised, for the first time, Jenna was a very beautiful young woman.
A sound behind him made the carpenter turn round, but it was only the creak of a floorboard settling, and he turned immediately back to the window. But there was no longer any sign of Jenna. Benjamin felt his spine begin to tingle as he realised that he could not really have seen her at all — no one could have vanished so rapidly in the brief moment he had averted his gaze.
Mystified, Benjamin began to pack up his tools, his repair of Master Penkhurst’s bed complete, but his mind too full of the extraordinary vision to concentrate on anything else. Then suddenly he was filled with such a longing to see Jenna and find out for himself if she had been at Sharnden that afternoon, that he decided he must go to her immediately. Another thought struck him. If it had been a trick of his imagination, did it, by any chance, mean that Jenna was in som
e sort of trouble, that she had been sending him a message through her thoughts?
Anxious now, the carpenter collected his dues from the master of the house and crossed the causeway to the slopes beyond the moat. Then he followed the course of the river to the lands that belonged to Baynden; and on a caprice climbed up the valley through the bluebell wood. As always the silence of the place disturbed him and he felt, with the trees bending together above to form a ceiling, that he had entered not so much a church as a vault.
Passing beyond the house, Benjamin went down towards Daniel’s cottage, pleased to see that the door was open. Jenna’s cat Rutterkin was sitting on the step, cleaning her face and whiskers, and knowing that this meant her mistress was at home, Benjamin went straight through the open door without knocking.
The girl he had come to see stood in the entrance arrayed in a golden gown, complete with a curving farthingale on her hips and a high, white falling collar at her neck, just as if she had been expecting him. Though Benjamin knew at once that it must be a hand-down from Lady May, the gown could have been made for Jenna, for the cut and sweep of the skirt was exactly right for her height, and the boned bodice enhanced the curve of her breasts.
Benjamin stood transfixed, gazing at Jenna as if he had never seen her before; noticing how her eyes tilted upwards at the far corners; how her hair smelled of wild, rare perfume; how her mouth was full, with a slightly drooping underlip that spoke of passion and tenderness and all the great gifts that a woman could bestow on a man.
He could hardly trust himself to speak but eventually managed to whisper, ‘You are beautiful. I never knew.’
He realised he sounded ridiculous, a total fool, but she seemed to understand and smiled a sweet, strange smile before she said, ‘I had hoped you might one day.’
He wanted to ask her whether she had been at Sharnden or whether it had been an illusion, but suddenly it seemed unimportant. All Benjamin wanted to do was touch the exquisite creature that stood before him, lay his fingers, gentle as butterflies, on the curve of her cheekbone, the sweep of her lashes, the delicate pattern of her ear.
‘I must have been blind,’ he said. ‘Jenna, you are perfect.’
Again she smiled that sweet, odd smile and answered, ‘My father and Agnes will be in soon. Would you like to stay and sup?’
He knew quite definitely that he would not; that it would not be possible for him to share with anyone the fairy-being into which Jenna had suddenly turned; that this evening must be for the two of them alone even if, in time to come, they must mix again with ordinary mortals.
At the back of Benjamin’s mind came the thought that this must be enchantment, that this wonderful sensation of floating into glory must be an illusion — but he dismissed it. He was too happy to care as he took Jenna’s long fingers, tapering and fine as the stamens of a flower, between his own and then raised them to his lips.
‘No, I do not wish to sup,’ he said, wondering why his voice sounded so strange. ‘I want to talk to you, Jenna. I want to be alone with you. I feel as if we have years that we must suddenly catch up.’
She laughed for the first time. ‘But this house will shortly be filled with my family.’
‘Then we must go to my cottage. We must be alone together this evening. Will you come with me, Jenna?’
As if she had been high born, Jenna curtsied, the silk of her gown rippling about her knees as she did so.
‘Then let us go now, before they come. Will you leave them a message?’
He watched her write, wondering at her many skills, and then read the words she had put. They were, ‘Agnes — Benjamin has called for me.’
‘But Agnes cannot read.’
‘My father will tell her what is there.’
He did not question further and they walked out together into the April evening, an evening soft with the death of rainbows and the mad, mad call of birds. It seemed then that they must not speak as he lifted her on to the nag who, this twilight, looked younger and more like the fast chestnut mare she once had been. They rode together along the way through the woods, where the horse’s feet fell softly on turf that sprung beneath their touch.
Nor was speech possible until they had come to Benjamin’s cottage, painted pink with the setting sun. They walked together through its welcoming door, Jenna bending her head low in order to enter. Then, secure in the fact they would be alone, they stood looking in silence, one at the other.
‘How could I have been so foolish?’ Benjamin said finally but Jenna did not answer.
They were standing without touching, merely exchanging glances. It was then that, just for a fleeting moment, Benjamin felt all this had happened before. That — whether it had been a dream or reality — he had stood gazing at Jenna like this, and felt his body and mind fill with emotion.
Eventually he said, ‘You know that we must never separate — now that I have at last found you.’
Still with her beautiful smile, Jenna replied, ‘Benjamin, do not be afraid of what we are about to do. The consummation of our love is part of what must be enacted.’
He never remembered afterwards the way in which they found themselves standing in his little room, recalling only the glory of her body as it slowly revealed itself to him; seeing the high, full breasts, the curve of her waist, the dark hair from which he could hardly take his eyes. It was then that they, at last, kissed one another. From that kiss they slid downwards, quite slowly, until they lay upon his bed.
They did not speak at all after that and as he took her for his own, she gave with such joy, such happiness to have a part of him within her, leading her to womanhood, that he felt as if they had been lovers for ever.
The climax of their passion was so perfect that she, still unsure of herself, thought she had leapt over the moon, so intense was her pleasure. And Benjamin at last knew what it was to burst forth in glory, to fill the woman he loved with something of himself and give his heart for evermore.
‘Jenna,’ he said, ‘Jenna, I love you so much.’
In her mind’s eye the girl saw pages of dark writing and read the words, ‘Dittany, verbena and pennyroyal will bring any man you wish to your bed — but jessamine will make him stay forever.’
Twenty-four
It was on her way home from her workplace that Agnes decided to call on Mother Maud, knowing that if news of Jenna’s absence from the kitchens that day — an absence that Agnes had covered with an excuse of illness — had reached the gossip’s ears, it would by now be common knowledge. And if this were the case, Daniel’s rage would be too terrible to contemplate, furious as he already was that Jenna had stayed out all night.
Dreading the interview, the girl nonetheless left the palace and set off in the direction of Maud’s cottage. Even as she approached, Agnes could see that the old woman stood on her doorstep, deep in conversation with a neighbour, their heads wagging like mops at a fair.
As Agnes drew nearer they both looked up and Maud called out at once, ‘Oh Agnes, my dear. How nice to see you. Would you like some ale to refresh you for the rest of your walk?’
Disguising the fact that her heart had just lurched with anxiety, Agnes smiled and said, ‘How kind, Goody Maud. But I am surely disturbing you?’
‘No, I must go,’ replied the other woman rapidly. ‘The men will be in soon. I’ll see you tomorrow Maud. Farewell.’
She hurried away, giving a meaningful glance in Agnes’s direction, and the next moment the girl found herself in Maud’s cottage, a jug of ale in one hand and a cake in the other.
‘Now, my dear, sit down,’ said the gossip, ‘and tell me how you are. And your sister too. In fact, how are all who dwell at the palace?’
‘Well,’ said Agnes, through a mouthful of cake, ‘Sir Thomas is back and entertaining friends and Lady May is concerned about the food, as always. And the master cook wants to argue with her and dares not — and we are all working harder than ever.’
She laughed over-merrily, wishing that Maud wou
ld take her beady little eyes from her face.
‘And what of young Tom?’
‘Oh, he is very well too. I believe he is writing something new.’
‘I heard a very strange thing about Master Tom today,’ said Maud, narrowing her gaze.
Surprised, Agnes said, ‘What?’ thinking that the conversation should have turned to Jenna by now, and wondering if word of her sister’s absence had escaped Maud’s ears.
‘That yesterday morning he escorted home young Debora Weston after she had had an accident at the palace.’
‘An accident at the palace?’ repeated Agnes, astonished.
‘You were not there when it happened, then?’
Sensing a trap, Agnes answered hastily, ‘Sometimes I leave early. When my cleaning is done, Lady May says there is little point in my staying unless an extra pair of hands is needed in the kitchens.’
Maud nodded wisely. ‘Of course, my dear. Well, as you do not know the story I will tell you. It seems that the night before last Debora injured her ankle while visiting the palace and was advised to stay there and be taken home in the morning.’
Thinking it very odd that nobody had mentioned it, Agnes said, ‘And Master Tom took her back?’
‘Yes, but had such a bad attack of stammering that he could hardly utter a word of explanation. Goody Weston was most perturbed, I hear.’
‘And is Debora better now?’
‘On the contrary. She has taken to her bed and refuses to speak to anyone and, even odder, though one of the Weston boys went up to fetch Benjamin, he could get no answer. Though he swore that two people were in the cottage, for he heard the low murmur of voices.’
Agnes stared aghast, unable to think of a thing to say, suddenly full of an inexplicable fear.
Without waiting for her to answer, Maud continued, ‘I believe Benjamin has another sweetheart, Agnes. I believe he is playing Debora false and that is why she has taken to her bed.’