Angelet said quietly: ‘It’s all right, Mrs Cherry. I understand everything now. I’m still here, you know. I’ve as much chance as anyone. I know why you did it all. I know what happened to Magdalen … but it doesn’t matter any more.’
There was silence broken by Arabella. ‘Are you angry with Mrs Cherry?’ she asked me.
‘No, no,’ I replied.
‘She thinks you are. She’s crying.’
The silence of the tunnel was broken by the stifled sound of Mrs Cherry’s sobs.
‘It’ll soon be over,’ I said to Arabella.
‘Is it still a game?’ she asked.
‘Yes, it’s still a game.’
‘I want to play something else now.’
‘You’ll have to wait until this is finished—then we’ll see.’
She snuggled close to me and, seeing that she was satisfied, Lucas and Phoebe’s little Thomas were too.
Jesson crept silently out of the tunnel to investigate. He was soon back.
‘They’ve gone,’ he said. ‘The place is deserted, but they’ve left their mark.’
We went back into the house. The tapestries had been torn from the walls and the brass and pewter ornaments were missing. The chapel had been completely desecrated. I went up the stairs to our bedrooms. The rich hangings had been pulled down and in some cases torn into shreds, and those embroidered counterpanes which they had left were ruined.
The winery was flooded—with wine. I supposed wryly they had thought that was sinful, and though they had not drunk it themselves they had made sure that we never should. Our stores of food had been taken away. Most of the windows had been broken. I sat down on a remaining chair and cursed the stupid war.
Then I thought of Angelet and her approaching confinement. Everything we had prepared would be broken or removed. I was trying to think what we were going to do when I heard loud cries, and, hurrying down, was confronted by Grace in the kitchen.
‘It’s Mrs Cherry. She’s going fair mad. The devils have been in the castle. They’ve smashed everything to bits.’
‘And the boy and his keeper?’
‘They’re dead … both of them. It looks as though they jumped from the turret. Strawberry John would never have done that. It was certain death. I reckon the boy was trying it and John was stopping him. They’ve both lying out there. Don’t go out, mistress, and keep my lady away. ’Tis not a pretty sight.’
For a moment I felt limp, unable to plan, unable to think beyond the fact that the secret of the castle was over now and we had moved another step forward.
It was inevitable that all that had happened should have had its effect, and I wasn’t completely surprised—nor was Grace—when Angelet’s pains began and we knew that the birth was imminent.
The lying-in chamber which had been carefully prepared was reduced to a shambles, and we set about making something suitable to fit the occasion. It was not easy and Grace was disturbed. The baby was coming before its time and that was always somewhat dangerous.
It was good for us in a way to have something so important to do. I kept saying to myself: We have lost so much but we are all here …
We made Angelet lie on one of the few beds which it was possible to use and then we went in search of what we would need. We found a little bedlinen which had been overlooked and Jesson made a fire and we heated hot bricks which we wrapped in flannel to warm the beds. Everyone was pressed into service. The children were slightly bewildered, but I gave them into the charge of Phoebe and made her impress on them that we were still playing some extraordinary game which was sometimes frightening but sometimes exciting and they must do as they were told.
Fortunately the soldiers had not harmed the cows, and they had failed to penetrate some of the outbuildings like the malting house where grain and flour were stored, so we were able to get some food. Mrs Cherry had been too distraught to do anything, so Meg took her place in the kitchen and the men tried to board up the windows to prevent the cold coming in and repair the damage as much as possible.
But our great concern was Angelet, for she looked very ill indeed. The birth was not difficult, though, and within a few hours her son was born. He was puny, being almost a month premature, but he was sound in every way. Grace said we were going to find the first months difficult in rearing him, but once he’d got through them, established himself as it were, there should be nothing wrong with him.
It was Angelet who gave us cause for alarm. She was very weak and we lacked so much that we needed.
I left the baby to Grace and made my sister my concern. I would sit by her through the day and night. Now and then I would doze out of very exhaustion, but I wanted her to know that I was close. This seemed to give her some comfort and it gave me a great deal. My sins weighed heavily on me and they were none the less heavy because I knew that if I had been in the same position again I should have acted in exactly the same way.
I wished I could have explained to Angelet.
She lay still, exhausted by her ordeal, but sometimes she would smile at me, and if I moved away I would see the anxious look in her face.
Four days passed.
The baby was making some progress, and Grace said: ‘He ought to be baptized and christened. I could send Cherry or my father for a priest.’
I said she should do that.
I asked Angelet if she would like to call the baby Richard and she nodded, well pleased. So the child was christened and I called him by the endearing diminutive of Dickon.
Grace talked to me seriously: ‘Our Dickon will live. He’s gaining weight … he’s getting interested in life. But my lady … It’s been hard times for her. I don’t know if we can pull her through. There’s so much we lack. The house don’t have what it should. I knew it was going to be difficult … but if we could have got it over before them Roundheads came …’
I said firmly: ‘We’re going to get her well again. She’ll live, Grace.’
Grace looked at me as Angelet herself had so many times, suggesting that I was pitting my strength against that of God.
But it did seem as though Angelet was getting stronger. She was talking more.
She said: ‘I like to have you here, Bersaba.’
‘Of course,’ I answered. ‘My place is here.’
‘It all went wrong, didn’t it? You should have been the one who came to London. You should have met him. That would have made him happy, wouldn’t it?’
I said: ‘He is happy.’
‘You used to pride yourself on telling the truth. You always used to say “What’s the good of pretending?” You must remember that now, Bersaba. I’m glad it wasn’t you who was trying to kill me. I thought it was.’
‘You couldn’t have thought that.’
‘Yes, I did. Because I knew someone was. I ought to have remembered that first time. But I thought that was due to the shock. They convinced me that it was. But I remember now: Mrs Cherry gave me some posset. There must have been something in that to bring on my miscarriage. She knew a great deal about herbs. She loved that boy. She wanted everything for him. She was afraid if I had a healthy child it would be his father’s heir and she was going to fight with everything she had for that boy.’
‘Don’t think about it now. It’s past and done with. You have your baby. He’s doing well, Angel. He’s going to be a bonny boy. Grace says so, and Grace knows.’
‘I want to think about it. I want there to be complete understanding between us. I can see it all so clearly. Poor Magdalen! What a terrible experience for her, and it happened in the chapel and for nine months she kept that secret from him.’
‘She should have told him.’
‘She couldn’t, Bersaba. I understand. She was afraid of him, afraid it would turn him from her. I understand. I might have been the same. You are strong and so sure of yourself … You would have known what to do. But I understand … and then she died having that … creature … and he was Mrs Cherry’s grandson and she wanted everything for
him. We mustn’t be hard on Mrs Cherry. It was all for love, Bersaba. We have to remember that.’
‘She was endangering your life for that …’
‘For her grandson, and I don’t think she wanted to kill me. She just wanted my child not to be born. Try to understand her, Bersaba. Let’s try to understand everything.’
‘Angel,’ I said, ‘do you remember we used to say the qualities—good and bad—were divided among us. You took all the good ones and left the bad to me.’
‘That’s not true. You’re so much more worthwhile than I am. Richard thought so … so did Luke … so will the children. Let’s be truthful. I want you to marry Richard … if he comes out of this …’
‘Richard’s wife is going to be well, and when he comes back she is going to show him their beautiful child, young Dickon, and he will then be different. Don’t forget this grim secret has been hanging over him all these years. Secrets like that warp people’s natures.’
‘Will he ever come back?’
‘This foolish war is not going to last forever.’
‘And if the Roundheads win?’
‘There’ll be some way out of it.’
‘If he comes back …’
‘When he comes back,’ I said firmly, ‘you will be here waiting for him.’
‘In his house which is little more than a ruin.’
‘You’ll stay here somehow. It can’t be long now and Richard will know what to do.’
‘And you, Bersaba?’
‘I have made up my mind. I am going home. I shall take the children with me—Arabella and Lucas, and Phoebe will bring her Thomas. We shall ride down to Cornwall to our mother. Do you doubt she will be glad to see us?’
‘She will rejoice to see you, Bersaba.’
‘And I shall tell her that you are waiting for your husband. It will relieve her mind.’
‘And when he comes back …?’
‘I shall be far away. As soon as you are strong I am going. You will have Grace to look after you and the servants here. You will manage until he returns. The soldiers will not come back. They have paid their call and left their mark on this beautiful house so that it is beautiful no longer and that should please them. Now rest, Angelet. I’m going to bring you some milk.’
She smiled wryly. ‘You always wanted to bring me milk.’
‘I still do. We have two perfectly good cows which our Roundhead friends were considerate enough to leave us.’
I leaned over the bed and kissed her.
‘You are going to get well,’ I said, ‘and that makes me happy.’
‘Is that a command?’ she asked.
‘Of course.’
Two days later her condition deteriorated and Grace talked darkly of fever.
I was with her all the time. She could not rest unless she had her hand in mine.
‘It’s strange, Bersaba,’ she said, ‘there’s only going to be one of us.’
‘No, no … That’s not so.’
‘It is. I know it. Now I want to talk to you seriously, Bersaba. Care for Dickon.’
‘I promise.’
‘Marry Richard … if he comes back. You can make him happy. I never could. I’m not clever enough. You amused him and were what he needed. Do you think I didn’t know? I think I saw it when you were in the library playing your games. He came alive with you. You’ll be happy … There’s no secret now, is there? No ghosts … no spectre … no living skeletons of the past. It’s all clear now … So please, Bersaba, do this.’
I kept saying: ‘You are going to get well. How could life be the same for me without you? Haven’t there always been two of us?’
‘It’s better for there to be one sometimes. I’m happy that we are together now … in understanding. I have been so foolish. When I knew about you and Richard I thought you were trying to kill me. I deserve to die for that.’
‘I never heard such nonsense—Richard loves you. I am going away … I am going to leave you to be happy. You have your beautiful son. And I have my children.’
‘We both have his children, Bersaba. It seems that was meant. Of course we both loved the same man. We were as one person. I can be happy, Bersaba, if I think you are going to be and there is some purpose in my going.’
I tried to reason with her, for I could not bear to hear her talk like that. I blamed myself for so much that had happened and there was small comfort in the knowledge that she did not blame me.
I sat by her bed through the night, and in the early hours of the morning, she died.
I had never felt so alone in all my life.
Over the Sea
I STAYED AT FAR Flamstead for three months until I considered young Richard was old enough to travel; then I set out for Trystan Priory with my children, Angelet’s son and Phoebe and her child.
Travelling at such times was hazardous; but it seemed hardly likely that either side would attack two women and a band of children. We took two of the young boys from the stable who were too young to be in either army, and we set out.
It took us many weeks to travel, for we had to make so many detours. Many of the inns we had known were no longer there. Sometimes we would sleep in the shell of a building to protect us from the night air. But it was by that time May and the weather was good. There was spring in the air and my spirits rose a little as I listened to the sound of the sedge-warblers in the reeds and the call of the peewits and white-throats. The hawthorns were weighed down with bud and blossom as I smelt their scent on the air, and it was like a promise that life was ready to burst into flower again.
We had not been able to warn my parents of our coming, and I shall never forget the moment when we rode into the courtyard. There was shouting and tumult throughout the house. There were my mother and father embracing first me and then the children; and that agonizing moment when they looked round for Angelet.
It was terrible to have to tell them. I feared my mother would never get over it. Secretly I believed that the balance of her affection had always tipped in Angelet’s favour, but that was because she was the complete mother and her concern went to the one she instinctively knew was in greater need of her protection.
I signed to Phoebe and she came forward and put young Dickon into my mother’s arms; and I believe then that some- thing happened to soothe the pain.
The child was hers from that moment. She was going to rear him, nurture him, make him strong and healthy, and she declared that he had a look of her beloved Angelet.
So I returned to Trystan Priory.
What happened is common knowledge.
There was the defeat at Naseby when the King lost half his army.
The news came slowly to Cornwall, but we knew in spite of our loyalty the Royalist cause was lost. The Parliament was demanding the control of the militia and the establishment of Presbyterianism throughout England, and when this was refused the King became a fugitive and took refuge in the Isle of Wight. He was seized at Carisbrooke and brought to London.
There came that sad January day in the year 1649 when our King was executed on the scaffold in front of the Banqueting House in Whitehall.
‘Nothing will ever be the same again,’ said my father.
Indeed everything was different. We must dress with sombre propriety; we must go regularly to church; we must all conform to the standard set to us.
Grandfather Casvellyn, who was a very old man, had shouted his wrath with such vehemence that he had been seized with apoplexy and died. So life at Castle Paling was very different too. The girls had married, but Bastian had not.
As soon as he had known that I was home he had come riding to Trystan. Since then he has asked me to marry him on three occasions. On each one I have refused, but I have a notion that one day I might accept.
My mother wished me to. The children needed a father, she believed. It was becoming a new, rather drab world, and a family could be a great comfort. I knew that Trystan was home for as long as I wanted, but I believe she secretly hoped I
would become mistress of Castle Paling.
She would miss me. We used to sit in the evenings and talk about the days when Angelet and I were children. ‘You are so like her,’ she said, ‘that sometimes I feel that she lives on in you.’
Phoebe was courted by Jim Stallick who looked after the Priory horses; she married him but still continued to work for me, and I was glad to see her happy again.
It was a year after the death of the King. The war was not completely over for the new King, Charles II, had come from the Continent to Scotland and was trying to raise his standard. But Cromwell was too strong and the Royalists had little hope.
I was in the garden one day when a traveller came to the Priory.
He had asked for me, and one of the servants brought him out to the garden. I took one look at him and knew.
Richard!
He had aged. How many years was it since I had seen him? Six … seven … seven hard years of hiding, secret planning … escaping from his enemies.
He took my hands and looked at me.
He said, ‘I went to Flamstead. They told me you were here.’
‘Are you well? You look exhausted.’
‘I have ridden far,’ he said.
‘Then you must come into the house.’
‘It is not safe for you to entertain a fugitive from the King’s army.’
‘You would always find refuge here.’
He shook his head. ‘I could not allow you to endanger yourself and your family. The news is bad. The King has been defeated and forced to flee the country. We must all go … and plan from some place other than England. We shall not rest until Charles II is on the throne. I am going across the sea to plan for that day.’
‘You must come in. You need food … and rest.’
He said: ‘What I need is a boat that will take me to France.’
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