by Deryn Lake
Like a human stream the dark-clad hunters and the panting dogs flowed down the hill towards the lake, splashing through the icy water, the dogs swimming where it grew too deep for them.
‘Robert!’ shouted Harbert, over his shoulder. ‘Where are you, man?’ And his brother, coming up hard behind him, thought it difficult to believe that earlier in the year Harbert had lain upon his sick bed, dangerously ill.
Urging his mount on, Robert drew alongside and the two of them raced side by side, stooping in their saddles to avoid the snow-filled branches. It would seem that the hart had vanished, almost by magic, because as they drew into an unexpected clearing there was no sign of it.
‘Damn the creature,’ shouted Harbert, and then wheeled his horse as behind him there was a flash of white. He was off instantly and Robert, close behind, wondered how much longer they could keep this up, pursuing a beast that seemed to have the power of ten.
He saw that ahead of him, Harbert had halted once more, peering through the trees at a building outlined black against the whiteness all around it. Robert saw it was a forge and though this was nothing unusual in an area of iron workings, realised he had never been aware of its existence until now.
‘Whose place is that?’ said Harbert, just ahead of him.
‘It’s a smithy, not an iron forge,’ said Robert, coming up beside his brother.
‘And there’s the smith, by God,’ answered Harbert. ‘What a strange fellow!’
It seemed to the brothers that a monk was working the furnace and beating the glowing metal. A monk in a roughspun habit, his hair close cropped about an ascetic and bony face.
‘Ho there!’ called Harbert. ‘Where are you from?’
Startled by the unexpected shout in the silence of the frozen woods, Robert’s horse reared suddenly, taking him by surprise so that he lost his seat and found himself crunching on to his buttocks, a blow made all the more painful by the fact that the ground was iron-hard with ice. Harbert leaned from his saddle and proffered his hand and Robert hauled himself up again.
‘Who is he?’ asked Robert.
‘I don’t know.’ Harbert appeared thoughtful. ‘He did not answer my call, merely turning to look at me. His eyes were like glowing suns. It was the most frightening thing I have ever seen.’
‘I didn’t see him,’ answered Robert. ‘The horse threw me before I had a chance. What do you mean — he had eyes like glowing suns?’
‘Just that. The light from them was blinding. If I believed in such things I would have thought it an apparition.’
Both men shivered and turned to look at the forge again — but it had vanished. From nowhere at all an unseasonable mist, one they could only suppose was caused by the extreme frost, had come swirling through the trees towards them, catching them in its fingerlike vapours and obscuring the smithy from view.
‘Well, that’s put paid to hunting for today,’ said Harbert. ‘We’ll go back empty-handed.’
But he was wrong. As they picked their way back to the hunting party, guided mainly by the sound of voices, they saw that the hart lay upon the ground, jets of scarlet pumping from its long white neck.
‘It bolted out of the forest,’ said the steward, ‘and came straight towards us. It didn’t have a chance.’
Robert turned away. Something of the creature’s sad, dead eye reminded him of Debora’s cowed expression when he had last seen her; that bright day when he had ridden from Glynde wearing a red feather in his hat, only to find her married to Richard Maynard, and all his hopes of her dashed for ever.
Thinking of her like that, Robert could not believe his ears when Harbert announced to the company, ‘We’ll sleep at Baynden tonight. It can only be a mile away and I’ve no stomach to ride back through this fog.’
Robert nodded in reluctant agreement. He had no wish to see Debora ever again. In fact, as he set his shoulders and followed his brother towards Baynden, Robert Morley felt desperately sad and cheated.
*
The January night grew even colder and the wind whistled round the house as if it were a human voice. Pulling her shawl tightly around her swollen body, Debora went to check that every window was closed.
She had always hated the wind, thinking of it as a beast that rent and tore at houses, sitting upon the roof and clawing off the thatch and sometimes descending into the chimney breast where, because it was caged, it would spit and snarl and fill the rooms with choking smoke.
Debora moved closer to the hearth, resting for a moment before she continued her inspection of the rooms. Beneath her breasts the baby that was due any day now kicked and jumped in its eagerness to see the world beyond its dark dwelling place.
Debora wondered what it would be: a boy, dashing and naughty as his father, or a girl who might take after either of the two Deboras whose body sheltered the unborn life within.
Outside, the gale took up a note like a song. Debora pictured a girl sitting upon a rock, her gown misty, filled with a million diamond lights as it swirled outwards and upwards upon the air, concealing a great fish’s tail thrashing beneath.
‘Oh God,’ she said, beneath her breath, ‘don’t let the wind whistle down this house any more.’
Heedless, the song continued and Debora rose to her feet again and climbed to the Master of Glynde’s room to see that all was secure. Peeping round, she saw herself reflected in the great carved mirror that Harbert Morley had placed there. A frightened creature looked back, a creature haunted by the fact that smouldering beneath the surface lay another being who might at any time break forth.
‘I am the mother of this child,’ said Debora defiantly, running her hands over her mighty womb.
Her features changed and a leering expression came upon them. ‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that,’ said a voice which Debora barely recognised as hers. ‘I had more to do with it than you did, you silly, whimpering milksop.’
With a scream, she ran from the room and descended the stairs, suddenly noticing how the temperature of the house had dropped below freezing point. She came to a halt on the landing, looking down to the place below, barely realising that a woman servant — a servant who wore an old-fashioned white wimple from which a lock of black hair was bursting forth — was about to push past her.
‘Where are you going?’ Debora said. ‘Everything is secure above stairs.’
The servant did not reply, merely bestowing upon her a strange, sad smile; a smile that made Debora freeze with fear.
‘Who are you?’ Her voice was sharp with terror.
Still silence — and then Debora found herself unable to move. The woman vanished even as she watched her; there was nothing there but the smoke-filled chamber and the shout of voices from below. A shout that, as Debora listened to it, filled her with even greater unease.
‘... been hunting and then a mist came up,’ said someone. ‘We’ll stay the night here, Maynard, and move on tomorrow. The men can sleep in the hall. My brother and I will have the Master’s rooms.’
Debora’s baby heaved as she realised that she was walking down the stairs towards its father. That below, in the hall of Baynden, stood Robert Morley, his hat in his hands and his face tight with nervousness as he looked around for her, the mother of his bastard.
There was a fraught silence felt by everybody, even though they were quite unaware of its cause. Then the general noise made by the party from Glynde covered it up, and Debora found herself hurrying around, giving orders to servants and personally supervising the airing of beds, the lighting of candles and the preparation of extra food.
It was not until the hunters were gathered round the table for supper that she found herself catching the eye of the man who had taken away her virginity.
Robert said nothing, merely raising his glass to her, and then looking away. There was something about his whole manner that filled Debora’s heart with misery. She knew that though he had only met her twice, she had captured his affection, and that she could still — gross with child as s
he was — ask him any favour she wished.
With a shock, Debora realised that Richard was staring fiercely at the two of them.
‘... bad day’s hunting,’ Harbert’s voice broke into the sudden silence. ‘Only a hart to show for all the miles we travelled.’ His voice changed. ‘Maynard, I came across a curious thing. Can you enlighten me? In Hawkesden Park, with the mist coming up and nobody else about, my brother and I stumbled across a forge, apparently worked by a monk. Do you know anything about it?’
‘There have been no monks in England for seventy years,’ answered Richard. ‘Not since the monasteries were dissolved.’
‘That is what I believed — and so was much surprised. But I saw the man distinctly. He turned his head and looked at me.’
‘Very strange,’ Richard replied. He paused, then said, ‘Perhaps it was the forge of St Dunstan.’
Somebody gave a nervous laugh as Harbert said, ‘What forge is that?’
Richard’s pale skin glowed white. ‘It is only a legend, of course. They say that the valley of Byvelham is magic and that a vision of St Dunstan, working in his smithy, appears there from time to time.’ He paused as if considering his next few words and finally said, ‘Naturally, it isn’t true. You must have come across one of the others and not recognised it in the snow, Master Harbert.’
‘I suppose so,’ answered the Master of Glynde slowly. ‘Yet the man looked so odd. His eyes seemed to glow in his head.’
‘You saw his face?’ asked Richard, his voice very soft.
‘Yes. Why? Are you hiding something, Maynard?’
‘No, Master Harbert.’
But later on when he and his half-brother had retired, Morley said gloomily, ‘I am sure Maynard could have told us more than he did about that forge. I am sure it bodes no good to look on the monk’s features.’
Half-listening, his brother answered cheerily, ‘Nonsense. It was Hawkesden Park forge, and that was one of the Istead family at work. It is just that everything looks so different in the snow.’
Harbert shook his head in disbelief and lay down wearily upon the bed, falling asleep at once as did Robert. But in the morning, after dreaming of her all night, he was a little dashed by Debora’s absence and when Maynard told the departing hunting party that his wife had taken to her bed, wondered immediately if she was in labour.
‘Perhaps it is the babe,’ he ventured, only to be met with a cold glance and the information that the child was not due for another month. So she had lied and hidden the fact she was pregnant when Maynard married her.
‘Of course, of course,’ Robert answered evenly. ‘But I am told that sometimes they come early into the world.’
Richard turned down his mouth, obviously not wanting to discuss the matter further, giving Robert the impression that the yeoman was guilty. So Debora had seduced him before the wedding and blamed the child on him. A clever woman as well as beautiful. A broad smile crossed Robert’s face and he wrung Maynard warmly by the hand. ‘Whenever it is born I wish you joy of your child, Goodman. I shall return in the spring and bring it a gift, if that is agreeable to you.’
Richard’s features were waxen as he answered, grudgingly, ‘Of course, Master Robert. You are always welcome at Baynden, you know that.’
But his face contorted as he watched the hunters depart, then hurried up the stairs to where Debora lay.
‘What have you been saying to Morley?’ he shouted. ‘I saw the way you looked at each other last night!’
Her only reply was a moan and, drawing nearer the bed, he saw that she was lying in a ball of pain.
‘Debora,’ he said in a different voice. ‘What is it? Are you ill?’
‘It’s the babe,’ she gasped. ‘It is coming before time. You must fetch the midwife.’
To his shame, Richard felt himself grow faint and instead of rushing out sat down weakly upon the bed, his head in his hands.
‘Richard, help me.’ His wife’s voice was distant, and he could think of nothing but that the temperature in the room had suddenly dropped to freezing and there was a strange rushing of currents. Much as Richard suspected, the Dark Lady stood in the doorway staring straight at Debora and shaking her head. Then she raised her hand and pointed straight at the girl, before melting silently into the wall behind.
*
Just after midnight, Robert woke with the strong conviction that Debora had borne him a son. In fact, he was so certain of it that he lit the candles in his chamber and sat up in bed, then decided to venture downstairs for wine to celebrate. But no sooner had he set foot on the top step than the sound of somebody running brought him to a stop. His sister-in-law, Ann, dressed only in her night clothes, appeared before him breathlessly.
‘Robert, you must come at once,’ she said. ‘Harbert has been taken ill.’
Clutching Ann’s fingers he raced towards the master’s bedroom and as soon as he went through the doorway, knew his brother was dying.
It seemed to him that he covered the distance between the entrance and the bed in a single jump, and that he gathered Harbert into his arms in the same movement. But one glance at his half-brother’s face told him that his beloved Harbert — the stern elder of the family and respected father-figure — was beyond speech, beyond even seeing. The grey eyes were already glazing over and there were snowdrop patches on either cheek.
Believing that hearing was the last of the senses to be given up, Robert whispered, ‘I love you, Harbert.’
But his half-brother could not answer. His lips parted silently, his eye set firmly on the distance, and the snowdrops in his cheeks came finally to bloom.
‘Our Father ...’ Robert began, but the words died in his mouth. How could he speak of daily bread at the moment when all was lost?
It was left to Ann to say, ‘Lord, receive this Christian soul in Thy infinite mercy.’
And it was with the sound of her weeping prayers in the background that Robert kissed his brother and then turned away towards the window knowing, with a leaden heart, that all he looked out on was finally his. That he had at last become the Master of Glynde.
Twenty-seven
Bluebell time again, and Richard Maynard ventured into the place he feared most, to pick posies for his wife and baby. For though Debora might not love him she had given him the greatest gift of all in a son to call his own. Armfuls of flowers were the least he could bring her.
Ankle-deep in the glorious lake of blue, Richard thought of the child’s conception in this very place — a conception full of fire and passion which he had never found again with a wife grown cold. For some reason Jenna Mist came into his mind and he thought of the night he had seen her naked beneath her cloak and of the long, lean lines of her body. It was then, right at the back of his mind, that Richard realised that she excited him.
Picking the last of his flowers he was turning to go when — just as if she had been summoned — he saw Jenna coming through the trees towards him, her basket over her arm. Why he panicked, Richard did not know, but he nervously scrambled off towards Baynden, pretending that he had not seen her, all the while conscious of her presence behind him. As she knelt to fill her basket with blooms, Richard heard her sing, and his usual feeling of dislike for her was completely swamped by a desire to see her naked again. He had grudgingly to admit that he envied the carpenter his tall, dark bride.
Watching his retreating back, Jenna breathed a sigh of relief. He was one person she had no wish to converse with, clearly so wild and unhappy these days. It was perfectly obvious to her, if to no one else, that his marriage to Debora was a failure and, as she often had of late, Jenna thought again about the identity of the father of Debora’s child. She dismissed the thought that it was Benjamin’s, but that it was Master Morley’s was a different matter. She had drawn him to Maighfield by stabbing a lamb-bone. Had her spell been wholly successful? Had he seduced the innocent girl as she had hoped?
It was a line of thought she had no wish to pursue and, over-briskly, Jen
na concentrated on gathering flowers, going to the dew-pond and pulling at the soft moss that grew at its very edge. Through the trees above golden shafts of light lit the cool darkness of the place and it was in one of these that she saw something reflected in the water. Slowly she put her hand into the shallows and drew the object out.
It was barely recognisable as a ring, so corroded was it; yet, as Jenna slipped it on to her finger, it seemed to her that it pulsed with power. She had a mental picture of the hawk-faced man who had stared at her across the waters of her own little pond at home. And then everything grew frighteningly still as she saw the man again, quite dead, and lying only a yard or two away from her.
As she knelt, stiff with fear, Jenna heard the sound of hooves approaching, and saw a man ride towards her, apparently unaware of her presence. For, uncaringly, he roughly threw the body over his saddle and passed quite close beside her as he led his horse down the slope towards Daniel’s cottage. She watched horrified until he had vanished from view. Then everything returned to normal.
Puzzled, Jenna stood up, pulling at the ring. Annoyingly, for it was too large, it had stuck on her knuckle, and the more she wrenched at it — terrified of its power to conjure up visions — the harder it seemed to stick. Eventually she was forced to run towards her father’s cottage, where she might find grease to ease the ring off, rather than return home to Benjamin.
*
The instant he crossed the threshold of Baynden, Richard, by now in a towering rage caused entirely by his own hateful thoughts about Jenna, called out, ‘Debora, where are you? Come here at once!’ And was thrown into a fury when there was no reply. But the sight of her sitting outside, staring at the beautiful view and rocking her child gently in her arms, quietened him a little.
‘I’ve brought you some flowers,’ he said, more kindly.
She looked up, a ghost of a smile her only greeting, and he felt all his anger return. She had tricked him into marriage by pretending to want him and now all she did was fob him off with distant looks and icy manners.