To Sleep No More

by Deryn Lake

  Richard closed his eyes and must have dozed off, for he dreamt that he saw the Dark Lady sit beside the pond’s edge and draw from its shallow waters a bronze ring with a strange design upon it.

  He woke abruptly, full of fright, and then gasped. Before him stood no ghost but a girl, watching him intently. Richard stared aghast as he recognised Debora Weston, though this was hardly the respectable woman he knew, for her face was twisted with desire.

  ‘God’s life, what are you doing here?’ he said, startled.

  She did not answer but sat down beside him, then said shockingly, ‘I’ve come to give myself to you, now, and if you like what you discover you can marry me. I don’t care. My father threw me out of doors for being a fool. Now let’s see who wins in the end.’

  Despite his fear, Richard felt aroused and his mouth suddenly went dry.

  ‘But Debora ...’

  ‘Don’t give me buts, Richard. Give me yourself.’

  His thoughts came in a horrifying welter: that the girl was obviously deranged, that she was cheap as the lowest doxie, that she was as fierce as fire, and that he would die if he did not enter her at once.

  ‘Oh God, God,’ he gasped. ‘I never knew it could be like this. You glorious, beautiful slut. What am I to do?’

  ‘Make me your own,’ she answered, laughing huskily. ‘I am no longer betrothed to Benjamin Mist. If you marry me, Richard Maynard, every night of your life will be like this.’ And as she pleasured him again unbelievably, he knew that he could no longer live without her.

  *

  The double calling of banns by Mr Whitfield the Vicar — Jenna Casselowe and Benjamin Mist, spinster and bachelor of this parish, and Debora Weston and Richard Maynard, likewise — caused a sensation in Maighfield. What could have occurred, everyone asked, to bring this sudden change about? What could have persuaded Benjamin Mist to give up the prettiest girl for miles and take as a bride a dark, gawky creature, taller than he was?

  Goodman and Goody Weston were saying little, merely hinting, without directly saying so, that Debora had tired of the carpenter and formed a love match with the tenant of Baynden. But this had not altogether been believed, and when Mother Maud’s opinion had been sought it had seemed to many that she had found the right solution. She had winked a hard eye, formed a tight mouth and whispered, ‘Perhaps there have been dark doings. Do you remember Alice Casselowe ...?’

  That witchery was the cause of the upset seemed a likely explanation, and though no one had given public voice to the theory, it was repeated again and again behind the closed doors of Maighfield. It was said that Jenna had followed in her great aunt’s footsteps, yet there seemed no case to bring against her. No child or adult had died, no ox or ass had fallen sick. Her only crime seemed to be that of enchanting Benjamin — and he was lodging no complaint.

  In fact, standing in the cool of Maighfield church and watching him as he awaited his bride at the altar, wearing his very best clothes, Maud thought spitefully that she had never seen the carpenter look better. It was patently obvious to all that the man was glowing with love. The gossip experienced a curious moment, remembering a dream in which she had taken a bridegroom, dark and handsome, with black pearl eyes, vaguely reminiscent of young Master Tom. But as she sought to recall more of it, it faded, leaving her with just a moment’s excitement as she thought of the wedding night that she had never, in reality, experienced.

  She looked round the church. Debora Weston, the next bride, was there with her parents, her eyes cast to the floor, meek as a harvest mouse. Beside her sat Richard Maynard, his blond hair curling tightly about his head, his pale face gleaming above the brown of his clothes.

  ‘No doubt he is keeping his best till his own wedding,’ thought Maud with a malicious grin.

  But even she, cruel as she was, had to admire the bride who appeared a moment later in the doorway. Jenna wore white — one of the two bridal colours — in a material given by the ever-generous Lady May, the cut and swathe of the gown and bodice so fine that there was general surprise at the beauty of Jenna’s figure, not usually so noticeable in practical working clothes. On her sleeves she had stitched favours in the form of ribboned lovers’ knots, which would later be fought over by the young men at the wedding feast.

  Though only a country girl, Jenna had made every effort to look beautiful and had woven a garland of fresh flowers to circle her brow, while others tumbled in the long black hair which hung loose to her waist. Beside the bride walked two sweet boys, Daniel’s nephews, with bride’s laces and rosemary about their sleeves, and behind came Agnes, radiantly happy, carrying a bridecake and a gilded garland of leaves.

  It was the grandest wedding for years, and the obvious patronage of Lady May, who swept into the church late and took her place in her private pew, set everyone wondering what particular beauty potion had been so successful that Jenna Casselowe had earned these many favours. But conjecture ceased as the ring was slipped on the bride’s thumb and the couple exchanged a kiss and a look that spoke of love — raw and sweet, wild and gentle, tender and fierce.

  After this happy moment the bride and groom walked from the church, hand in hand, and all those present followed them, marching along in bright procession amidst the clamour of bells: children running, old dames waddling, husbandsmen and labourers striding out, till they reached the barn where the feast had been spread, enough for all the village. Once again the hand of Lady May could be seen as the people gazed in delight and astonishment at beef sides, mutton, venison pasties, and barley and rye bread with great hunks of cheese. There was beer and ale; sack and Rhenish — a spread fit for the gentry, of whom Jane May, joined late by a panting Master Tom, were the sole members

  ‘Do you reckon Jenna has witched her too?’ said one unkind soul to Maud, nodding her head in the direction of the Lady of the Manor.

  But for once the gossip was in a good mood as the unaccustomed warmth of wine glowed in the pit of her stomach. ‘No, she mixes my lady’s beauty lotions. And Jenna’s cured her ailments. That’s all it will be.’

  But Lady May, smiling graciously, did not stay to dance, though Tom — a little drunk and utterly incoherent — remained to whirl with the village girls. As Benjamin and Jenna took to the floor, everyone rose to their feet, and so it was that Richard Maynard found himself with Debora in his arms and felt her shudder as she drew away from him.

  It was incomprehensible to him. Ever since the frenzied episode amongst the bluebells she had treated Richard so coldly, bearing his kisses with such scarcely concealed dislike, that sometimes he wondered if he had imagined the whole abandoned scene.

  Feeling utterly confused, he offered a tentative, ‘In a week’s time we will be bride and groom.’

  ‘Yes,’ came the stony reply.

  Richard’s pale cheeks whitened further. ‘But, sweetheart, are you not pleased at the prospect?’ He pulled her hard against him. ‘Remember what you said, “Do you want every night to be like this?” Why are you so distant?’

  The flowerlike face hardened. ‘That was another side of me that spoke. A base side which I do not admire.’

  Richard’s fingers tightened around her. ‘Be that as it may, I intend to marry you. I’ve tasted your sweets once — and I swear that I will taste them again. Make no mistake, Debora Weston, next week you will be my bride.’

  She raised miserable eyes. ‘And if I refuse?’

  ‘Your father will turn you out for good. He tolerated your broken betrothal to Mist merely because you told him you loved me — and a yeoman is a better prospect than a carpenter! Make no mistake, you’ll have nowhere to go if you rid yourself of me.’

  In a way he regretted his harshness, for the girl trembled in his arms, but in another way he did not care. His obsession with his house and the woman who haunted it was too strong to allow a great deal of other emotion. Almost cruelly, he whirled Debora so fast that she had to hold him tightly to stay on her feet. ‘That’s better,’ he said, ‘press close against
me.’

  She did not answer, excused from speaking by the sudden hush that fell on the company as Agnes Casselowe began to play her lute. And though one or two drunken voices went on babbling, these, too, were quickly silenced by the glory of sound that burst forth. Sitting on the floor of the barn or perched on bales of hay, the villagers of Maighfield listened to the soaring notes that seemed to speak of birth and death — and birth again.

  Without knowing why, Richard began to shake, thinking how wrong it was that a dull-wit like Agnes should have that glorious gift, and how terrible to see Jenna Casselowe happy, when all she deserved was anguish. Even as he thought these things he wondered why, searched his soul for the key to his inexplicable hatred of the girls. But no answer came, only the nonsensical belief that the sisters in some way represented his rivals.

  Eventually, as candles were lit, the feasting and dancing resumed until that long awaited moment, the time when, with teasing and jesting, rudery and japes, they must escort the bridal couple to their marriage bed. Though not everyone present liked Jenna, Benjamin was popular. So, for his sake, the couple were raised shoulder high and carried through the village and down the track to the cluster of dwellings beneath the shadow of Aylwins. Then the carpenter’s cottage was besieged as Jenna was taken up the ladder by the women while, in the room below, Benjamin was stripped amidst ribald comments; after which, dressed in a nightshirt, he was taken to where his bride sat awaiting him in bed.

  As he got in with her the villagers cheered and, while a last toast was drunk and some sang a marriage song, the bride and groom kissed one another. This gave rise to wild shouts and improper jests but had the desired effect. Slowly, the guests began to descend the ladder to make their way home.

  Jenna laughed in the candlelight. ‘So ...’

  ‘So we are alone.’

  She laughed again, producing from beside the bed a flagon and two mugs. ‘I have made a special loving cup. Will you drink it, Benjamin?’

  ‘I will. I shall drink to our love and happiness, and to our lives together.’

  ‘Dittany, pennyroyal and verbena will bring him to your bed, jessamine will keep him there.’

  As Benjamin downed the draught and blew out the candle, Jenna smiled in the darkness.

  *

  June, a glorious morning in Sussex; and Robert Morley riding out from Glynde with a scarlet feather in his hat, all about him rolling downs, and a crystal-bright sea on the horizon. A glorious day and glorious thoughts to match — for he was, at last, on his way to Debora, the beautiful, wanton girl who had stolen the heart of that cynic and seducer, the heir to Glynde.

  Everything appeared more intense than usual, an ice-blue lake, glimpsed through the trees, shot here and there with splinters of argent, so calm beneath the peacock sky that Robert felt a mere breath would shatter its stillness to a million fragments.

  Everywhere he looked he saw an array of colours: emerald fields rose to hills that changed from amber to purple beneath sealskin shadows and a gilded sun. So, too, the air was shot with specks of gold, so fresh and alive was the atmosphere. And, like strips of ebony, flowing forests smudged darkly against a vista that glistened dew drops in the early light.

  Robert left the downs and started towards Maighfield, bending low over his horse’s neck and urging it on. He could already imagine a lifetime spent with Debora as his mistress, and her fragile beauty was so much on his mind that when he saw a woman in the Five Acres, Robert did not — just for a moment — realise who it was. For here was a drab thing, bent over the earth tending the soil, her clothes dull brown, her finespun hair tucked in a sensible cap.

  ‘Debora?’ he called uncertainly, and saw her hand fly to her mouth in shock. But before she could hurry away, he had crossed the short distance between them and leapt out of the saddle to stand before her, realising only then who she really was.

  She looked so distraught that the smile died on his lips. ‘Sweetheart, what’s wrong?’ he said. ‘I came back as quickly as I could. But you left me that morning without a word. I was not sure what to do.’

  The very sight of her aroused in him instant longing, remembering — as he had done every night since they had been apart — all the lovely lines of her body.

  ‘Debora, don’t look at me so angrily. I mean no harm. I want to regularise our position,’ he said, as it slowly dawned on him that she seemed a different person, regarding him with a cold and unfriendly stare.

  ‘Go away,’ she hissed through clenched teeth.

  ‘Why? What have I done? That night I thought you loved me.’

  Her hands flew over her ears and she shrieked, ‘Don’t ever speak of it. It was disgusting. We were base as animals.’

  He gazed at her in horror, seeing for the first time the ring that glinted on her thumb. He snatched her hand, then held it up between them.

  ‘What’s this? What have you done? This is a wedding ring.’

  ‘Yes, yes it is. I married last week to give your bastard a name.’

  ‘My bastard? You mean I left you with child?’

  ‘Yes, I have had to pay for my sins. That is what happens when one’s baser side dominates.’

  Robert grasped Debora by the shoulders.

  ‘What are you talking about? What baser side?’

  ‘The side of me that allowed you to seduce and despoil me. I believe my soul once belonged to a whore.’

  ‘That makes no sense, you wanted it,’ answered Robert savagely, shaking her until her teeth chattered. Debora struggled free and burst into tears, weeping with rasping sobs and only controlling herself as Richard Maynard appeared from the far field.

  ‘Good day, Master Morley,’ he called, then shouted to Debora, ‘wife, make your curtsey to Master Robert. We owe him respect.’

  But ignoring him, Debora turned on her heel and ran, crying, towards the manor house.

  Twenty-six

  The flow of the seasons, one into the other, could not be better observed than from the little vantage point beside Benjamin’s well. It was from there, as she drew their daily water, that the carpenter’s bride watched the stainless blue sky, the wine-grape hills, the vivid fields, give way to the first fine fingers of scarlet, the russet threads, the blaze of spice that suffused the trees beneath a hunter’s moon.

  Then she saw follow the whole rich panoply of autumn: villagers dancing in the fields when the harvest was gathered in, clapping hands and jugs of ale, and the old fiddler working till he dropped. And then blackberry time and stained fingers and flying dark hair as Benjamin chased his dear love until they fell, laughing, beneath the haystack.

  Finally there came winter, and the hills glittering white, every pond sparkling diamonds, and a great silence lying over the land as out of the sky fell that soft and gentle blanket that brought death and sickness in its wake.

  Most unusually, for she was strong as she was tall, Jenna fell victim to quinsy and no sooner was Christmas out and the end of the year but a day or two away, than she took to her bed, unable to raise her dark head from the pillow. And it was then, for the first time since her marriage, that she found she no longer had the strength to mix the posset of jessamine which, every week without fail, she had poured into Benjamin’s ale.

  It was then that old thoughts came to torment the carpenter, as he sat by the fire, his wife asleep in the room above. Thoughts of his affection for Debora before Jenna burst upon the scene, of the strange twist of fate which had brought Benjamin’s former love to marry Richard Maynard.

  Angry with himself for his disloyalty, Benjamin stood up and walked about the room. But still his mind wandered down dangerous paths and as he thought of how close he had been to marrying Debora, he wondered what would have happened if the revelation about Jenna had not come to him.

  As if she sensed something was amiss, Benjamin heard his wife call his name from upstairs and, hurrying up, found her leaning against the pillows, her face white and drawn.

  ‘Benjamin,’ her voice was weak.
‘I heard you pacing about. Is anything wrong?’

  ‘Nothing, my sweetheart,’ he lied. ‘But how are you? Is there anything I can get you?’

  ‘Only a drink containing herbs. But I would rather prepare that myself.’ As if she could read his mind, Jenna added, ‘What news of Debora? Have you seen her about the village?’

  ‘No, her child is due in February and Richard is keeping her indoors, at least so I am told.’

  Jenna got out of bed. ‘I must mix her some potions to ease the birth. Agnes can take them to Baynden. I doubt Debora would receive them from my hands.’

  Benjamin shook his head. ‘I never thought you to have any liking for Debora Maynard — and now here you are struggling up to compound possets for her sake.’

  His wife looked slightly guilty. ‘Sometimes I feel that I took you from her, that I owe her a debt.’

  ‘How could you think that? I came of my own free will.’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Jenna, with a little laugh. ‘Of course you did. It was only a figure of speech.’

  *

  The hunters were out from Glynde, pursuing a white hart through the winter forest, anxious for fresh meat for their board and glad to breathe in cold crisp air, leaving behind the stifling atmosphere of smoking fires and unaired rooms.

  They had travelled far that day, crossing fields iridescent beneath the crimson sun, and fording streams running at full spate. So far had they come, in fact, following the clamouring hounds, that now they found themselves drawing near Harbert Morley’s territories at Byvelham and, even before they were aware of it, entering the confines of Hawkesden Park, Sir John Waleis’s old hunting ground.

  Below them lay the moated site, the timber-framed hunting lodge surrounded by the more recent addition of an impressive wall, clearly visible. Beyond it the hart, running as if possessed, had plunged into the dense trees.

  ‘Come on,’ shouted Harbert, raising his gloved hand. ‘We’ve come too far to let it outrun us. Follow me.’