The Pure Heart

by Trudi Tweedie

  ‘I am sure to sleep well,’ I said, slumping back heavily into the luxurious mattress and wondering when I would be required to take one of these strange hot baths.

  But also, I couldn’t help feeling disappointed that this wasn’t to be my room after all. I had lain here since the day of my arrival and I was guilty of becoming accustomed to its opulence. I caught a glimpse of the grand marbled fireplace before Maria tugged the bed-curtains closed. Would they put me in the kitchen with the servants? I wondered.

  ‘Goodnight, sweet Iseabail.’

  I waited until the latch clicked shut, then sat up and pulled back the rich brocade.

  So, this room belonged to Plaustrell: the mysterious merchant seeking a girl pure of heart; the man who sealed his scrolls with a lion of wax.

  It was then that I noticed the delicate embroidery on the bed-curtains; it was made up entirely of woven lions! There must have been thousands of them, each one painstakingly stitched on to burgundy cloth with exquisite gold thread, each creature rearing up on tufted legs, tongues curling out from ferocious little mouths. And now the fireplace tiles became clear too: they featured the same image, each one stamped at the centre with an identical beast.

  I lay down and stared at the underside of the canopy. I wondered when I would meet this man who had spirited a seventeen-year-old girl away from her homeland – just to accompany a coddled child. It was evident that he hadn’t informed his daughter that I was only here temporarily. Why else would she ask about my family in a way that would suggest I might never see them again?

  Still, I had to admit that, despite my illness, I was enjoying my time here: the supreme comfort – all the things of wonder, the prospect of exploring the merchant’s estate. My intentions to make the most of every opportunity here were galvanized.

  I closed my eyes, sleepy again, all the tiny images of lions still embedded in my vision. How they swam behind my closed lids, pranced around in my mind’s eye.

  Then I recalled an etching I had been shown of a lion once, which is why I had been able to identify the animal. It had been in a Bible belonging to one of the travelling priests that visited the island in summer to baptize the babies. The words that accompanied the picture came back to me clearly:

  It will not lie down till it eat of the prey; and drink the blood of the slain.

  The next morning, the girl was waiting by my bed as I woke.

  ‘Are you ready to see your new room?’ she said, pressing her hands together in one of her thrills. ‘I’ll help you to dress first if you like.’

  I looked around, expecting to see my dreaded trunk, but instead there was an extravagant outfit laid out on a chair complete with undergarments.

  ‘Do you like it?’ Maria breathed, stroking the rich velvet as she helped me into it. ‘Father brought it all the way from Spain.’

  ‘Are you sure this is for me?’ I said uncertainly, but obediently stepping into it. I had expected to be clothed in a manner similar to the old nurse with a plain gown and apron, but these were the robes of a noble lady.

  ‘Of course,’ said Maria, cheerfully fixing up the back fastenings. ‘It’s fairly chilly outside and I wanted you to be warm when we explore the garden . . . Is the dress not to your liking?’

  ‘No . . . I . . . love it?’ I began warily. ‘It’s just . . . a little big, that’s all.’

  ‘I’ll get Sylvia to take it in for you,’ said Maria, urging me to take a spin. ‘You are a skinny little thing.’

  ‘But . . . I surely cannot wear such a fine gown!’

  ‘Why not?’ said Maria haughtily. ‘There is no one else to give it to. Papa brought it back from one of his voyages – it has not even been worn. It would give him such pleasure to know that you can find use for it.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, bowing my head, realizing that I must have seemed most ungrateful. I had upset Maria and her cheeks had flared with red spots, the skin around her neck taking on a mottled look. ‘Thank you for your generosity.’

  Pacified, Maria’s colour returned to normal. She stood behind me and fixed my hair, then steadily placed the matching coloured cap over my head.

  ‘There,’ she said, all bright again. ‘You look perfect! Now we are ready to join the others for prayer. After which, I’ll show you where you are to sleep tonight.’

  Prayers were taken in a concealed chamber just off from the upper landing. I did not see its entrance until Maria clicked open a wall panel and the door sprang out from nowhere.

  ‘This is our chapel, where we take Mass,’ said Maria. ‘Only those who live here know about it – and our visiting priest, of course. We’re waiting for Father Ronan to arrive, so for now we just come here to pray.’

  ‘What happened to the last priest?’ I asked, but Maria didn’t reply.

  The chapel was crammed with the other members of the household, already gathered to pray. The servant who had first greeted me stood towards the front with two other men, also dressed in white shirts and scarlet pantaloons. Behind stood the old nurse, Sylvia, along with several barely younger women, and finally, at the back was a ginger-haired young man. This must have been the stable hand that Maria had mentioned as hailing from the village, though I found it odd that she had referred to him as a boy, despite him being closer to my age.

  All the rest of the servants shared the same olive skin, thin bones and shiny grey or brown hair and all the men were clean-shaven. I tried hard not to stare at all the bare faces as Maria ushered me to the back of the room, pressing something hard into my hands before she took her place up towards the front.

  I felt puzzled at why she should leave me at the back, but as the rest of the household knelt on blue cushions to pray, carrying out all sorts of murmured prayers and hand gestures, I realized that Maria wanted me to be able to watch and learn without feeling self-conscious. The thing she had pressed into my hand, when unravelled, revealed itself to be a string of beads identical to her own. One by one, the rest of the household revealed their own set which they twiddled dexterously in the ritual of prayer. I had seen such beads before when the priests visited our islands but had never owned a set before.

  I held my beads and tried to follow, but mostly I just stared around the secret chapel, for what it lacked in size it made up for in reckless decor.

  The panels of the walls were inlaid with vibrantly painted scenes, some of which I recognized from my fleeting teachings from the Bible: Jesus feeding thousands with just a few loaves and fishes, the Virgin and her Child, Moses on a cloudy mountain-top receiving God’s tablets, and several others whose tales I couldn’t fathom. The main characters were painted wearing vivid blue, their faces captivated with ecstasy or pain.

  At the front there was a monumental altar encased beneath serrated pinnacles of wood growing down from the ceiling. At its centre was a heavily carved cabinet on which stood a solid gold cross. More strangely, a silver cast of an arm stood next to it, its finger pointing up to heaven.

  How very opulent, I thought, the worship of these Catholics. Prayers back at home were held within an ancient arc of stone. There was no building that could claim to be a chapel.

  I tried to concentrate on prayer, but when I looked up the stable boy had turned and was watching me. He studied my incompetent fumbling with the chain of beads with interest before winking and turning back to face the front.

  Although I was mortified, his wink had been more of an encouragement than an inappropriate gesture. And I remembered Maria saying he was from the village. So he was an outsider here, just like me.

  When we finally filed out, I loitered near the door, hopeful of making conversation with him. But Maria was already standing waiting. She took my arm firmly and let me back down the corridor.

  After the prayer ceremony, Maria showed me my new quarters.

  I had expected to be led off to a less grand part of the house, but instead she took me back past the merchant’s bedroom and down a slightly narrower corridor that branched off from the landing.


  ‘Close your eyes,’ she instructed, holding my hand tight after stopping outside a door. Despite the fires burning everywhere in the house, her skin was cool and clammy. ‘I do so hope that you like it.’

  And with this, she pushed the door, led me inside and bade me open my eyes. I gasped, for the room in front of me was every bit as magnificent as her father’s! Within it sat yet another carved four-poster bed, a black stone-flagged fireplace and beautifully carved furniture.

  ‘We thought it best you used Papa’s bed when you were sick,’ she said, gauging my reaction as suitably impressed. ‘To keep this one fresh for when you were well again.’

  ‘But won’t I be sleeping with the . . . other servants?’ I said, wondering if this was a test or a game the little girl wanted to play. ‘I mean, this bedroom is meant for . . . a lady.’

  ‘And that is how Papa wants you to be treated,’ said Maria, dancing across a spectacularly woven rug.

  ‘But . . . I mean . . .’ I began, daring to touch the exquisite bed quilt with the tip of one finger. ‘This bed is all for me?’

  ‘It’s very comfortable,’ said Maria, proceeding to jump on it. ‘But Papa thought that we could sleep in here together, if you like, that is. There is lots of room. Look, there’s even a bed for Whitefoot in the corner.’

  Sure enough, there was a stuffed sack big enough to take the huge canine. After sharing a tiny bunk with Eilidh, I could accept any roommate, even a dog the size of a horse.

  ‘That would be wonderful,’ I said, genuinely – for the room felt so big and detached from the rest of the house that it would feel lonely to take it all to myself.

  ‘And of course, these are all yours,’ said Maria, leaping from the bed and pulling me over to a recess covered by cloth. ‘From now on, you can choose what you want to wear for the day, though I will want to guide you.’

  And at this she pulled back a swathe of cloth concealing an annexe crammed full of fine clothing. Inside hung richly coloured dresses, skirts of pure silk, gowns of velvet, capes trimmed with animal fur.

  ‘Isn’t it marvellous that you can make use of Mama’s clothes,’ she went on, running her hand up and down the heavenly gowns whilst I gaped like a codfish. ‘How I wish I was big enough to wear them.’ She looked me up and down carefully. ‘Though they will require some alteration.’

  ‘They belonged to your mother?’ I whispered, intimidated.

  Maria nodded.

  ‘No . . .’ I began. ‘Surely not . . . I cannot accept them.’

  At this Maria stopped dead and turned to face me fully, a piece of purple silk still held tightly in her hand. ‘You do not like them?’ she said, slowly dropping the fabric so that the dress to which it was attached rustled back into the wardrobe. ‘You would rather wear the rough clothes of a peasant?’

  Once again, I was left feeling most ungrateful and yet yes, I would have preferred to be given the clothes of a maid, anything to clarify my true place here. Had the merchant really sanctioned my sharing of his daughter’s bed and the daily parading of his dead wife’s clothing? It seemed so unlikely. Maria was only seven and a half, I reminded myself. Was this anything more than a child’s dressing-up game?

  ‘I mean to say . . . that I am most grateful but . . . I could not possibly accept,’ I said firmly.

  I expected that I would be truly reprimanded but Maria burst out into hefty sobs. She ran back to the bed and flung herself face down upon it.

  ‘Papa said that this might happen,’ she said between wet sobs, kicking her legs up and down wildly. ‘You don’t like it here. You hate me and you hate this house! You don’t want to be here at all, do you?’

  Stunned at this outburst, I looked about the bedroom, at the rich furniture and tapestries plastered around the walls, at the leaded window, at the china vase overflowing with orange orchids. It was so beautiful, more than I could ever have hoped for. The merchant had promised a life of luxury for the chosen girl, he was simply delivering on that promise. Maria was so distressed now, crying so hard that I feared she would stop breathing altogether.

  ‘No, no, no,’ I said, taking a deep breath and settling on a seat beside her. ‘Why, my old house . . . well, it really can’t compare. This house . . . this bedroom . . . why, it’s the best I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘Is it?’ said Maria between sniffs. When she glanced up at me, I noticed the distinctive red spots had risen again on her cheeks and neck. ‘Is it better than from where you are from? Will you not be too homesick here?’

  ‘It is so much better than where I am from,’ I said, thinking of the contents of my trunk and hoping that wherever it had been taken, no one had opened it. ‘It’s just that I’m not used to being in such a place. I’m only upset because . . . I . . . grew up surrounded by the ocean and I have not seen it for so long.’

  I interjected this last bit to explain my discomfort at living in such a luxurious house, though there was of course some truth in it.

  At this Maria stopped sobbing and jumped down from the bed, her colour slowly returning to normal.

  ‘Look, look!’ she said, urging for me to follow again. ‘Papa has already thought of everything!’

  She stopped by the window this time, one hand pointing out fiercely through the glass.

  I followed her tentatively wondering what treasure she might reveal this time.

  ‘Here is your ocean,’ she said proudly, stepping aside so that I could look. ‘Every time you are homesick, you can look out right here.’

  Through the window I could make out in the distance the thing the wagon driver had shown me. A pale grey line on the horizon almost indistinguishable from the snow-covered moor.

  ‘That is the North Sea,’ Maria said airily. ‘I myself have sailed over it before.’

  ‘I’m afraid that it’s too far away to look like my sea,’ I said, leaning into the sill as Maria moved the vase of orchids to one side. What little I could see of the flat grey ocean was chopped into fuzzy diamond shapes by the lattice glass; it was a world away from the white crashing waves of the Atlantic.

  ‘I told you,’ said Maria, now across the room again and fumbling in a drawer. ‘Papa has thought of everything.’

  Seconds later she was back, holding out a familiar-looking metal tube. Just like Marcus Amanza’s but the tube was a little longer.

  Confidently, I took it from her and held it up to one eye.

  ‘You know what it is for?’ she said, taken aback, whilst I opened the latch in the window for a better view, letting in an icy blast.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, taking care to put the right end to my eye this time. ‘I have seen an eyeglass before, you know.’

  And although still underwhelmed by the magnified grey ocean, stilted like flat iron on the horizon, its presence renewed my confidence, cemented my resolve that I would stay strong, make the most of my experience here before returning home to my own shores.

  That’s what I thought, at least, as I stared through the eyeglass across the borderlands at the pitiable North Sea. If only I could have seen what really waited on my own horizon, if only I could have seen the true horror that lay ahead.

  The next morning, Maria showed me the merchant’s estate. More unseasonable snow had fallen overnight: as we stepped on to the frozen ground, it felt more like February than late autumn.

  First Maria showed me all kinds of animals kept at the back of the house and beautifully coloured wandering birds called peacocks which stood out drastically against the snow. Maria said that the house was almost self-sufficient with only flour for bread having to be brought up from the village and goods sent back from the merchant’s travels to supplement the larders.

  The orchard was breath-taking, despite being suppressed by the chill of the early winter, and Maria’s descriptions of how it would look come summer conjured up trees heavy with sunburst fruits, thrumming with honey bees and blossoms, from the lines of skeletal branches.

  The kitchen garden was vast and walled, with
never-ending furrows for cabbages and beets lying dormant beneath a crust of frost. Clustered around the perimeter sat cribs in suntraps, poised for growing precious herbs come the spring.

  I pointed to a trough jutting out from an archway of stones.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked, expecting it to be ready to house yet another kind of plant or vegetable.

  ‘Oh, that’s one of the branches of the mineral spring,’ explained Maria as we walked over to the trough. ‘The reason why Papa bought this entire estate.’

  The water emerged from a pipe hammered into the bedrock, a trickle fusing into the frozen pool in the trough, which was emblazoned – like so much else on the property – with Plaustrell’s lion motif.

  I pulled my hand from my rabbit-fur glove and touched a finger to the icy trickle.

  ‘It’s the same stuff as you’ve been drinking since you arrived here,’ said Maria.

  ‘So it is,’ I said, warming my finger in my mouth, recognizing the faintly metallic notes. ‘I mean, it’s good – but wouldn’t you say that it holds a certain aftertaste?’

  Maria looked pleased with my observation. ‘That’s because it has drained through special rocks,’ she said taking off her own glove and cupping her hand below the trickle. Then she drew her hand up towards her lips and tipped the liquid into her mouth. ‘Papa says that’s what gives it healing properties. The main spring is channelled directly into the bathhouse.’

  I had already experienced the bathhouse, having been encouraged to take my first dunking there yesterday evening. It was a wondrous room which sat behind the kitchens so that the warmth from the ovens could be used to heat the water. Maria explained how this was possible, but I was more enraptured by the steamy room itself, its ceiling billowing with fine muslin sheets filled with petals and sweet green herbs. The tub itself was wooden and secured to one wall into which fed two pipes of water – one hot and one cold.

  But I hadn’t enjoyed the experience of the bath so much. I had been attended by Sylvia who had insisted on the water being almost scalding and proceeded to scrub my back hard with lye soap. She seemed astounded at the dirt that had come off me.