‘But how did he manage to purchase the land?’ I asked Maria as she replaced her glove, thinking of the amount of this precious resource the household must get through. ‘Surely the villagers must know of the spring’s existence?’
‘The locals know of the water’s benefits only too well – but something else kept them from living up here on the moor. Come look!’
Maria pulled me out of the walled enclosure and down through a sunken garden. This brought us out at the hillock atop which the ancient tower was perched. Here she showed me the distinctive tree I’d noticed the day I’d first approached the house.
It was a strange tree, even to my untrained eye, with spindly branches weighed down by the snow. The lower branches almost brushed the ground, but their tips still curled stubbornly skywards, like shepherd’s crooks.
‘The tower and the tree were already here when Papa bought the land,’ reported Maria. ‘But because the tree is so unusual, the locals believe it cursed the whole place.’
I looked up at the tree which had grown almost as high as the tower. ‘Why not just cut it down then?’
‘They say that it cannot be felled,’ she replied, her voice becoming mysterious, ‘because the Devil lives in the trunk – and he will escape.’
‘The Devil?’ I laughed uneasily. ‘And the villagers believe this?’ But there was something off about the tree. Not only were the branches sinister, but the bark on the trunk seemed unnatural, running in perfectly smooth patches before erupting in sharp, concentric waves. It might persuade the most even-minded of people that there was something trapped in there, trying to claw its way out.
‘The locals are terrified of it,’ laughed Maria, throwing back her head. ‘They say that even its shadow can bring on nightmares. But Papa says he’s seen these trees growing in hot countries. They are nothing to be afraid of.’
‘But how would such a thing get here?’ I continued, not completely convinced. Maybe this was the reason that the wagon driver had refused to enter the estate.
‘I don’t know. But Papa has travelled the world – he knows everything,’ continued Maria with conviction. Then her face took on an impish look. ‘He claims that the leaves are so sharp they can pierce the hide of a cow.’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ I said, turning to walk away, but Maria deftly caught one of my gloves, wrenching it from my hand. ‘I dare you to touch it, Iseabail!’
‘Thank you, but no,’ I said, going to retrieve my glove, but Maria snatched it out of reach again.
‘Don’t be a spoilsport,’ she said, angry now, the colour rising on her cheeks. ‘Now touch it – I order you!’
Reluctantly, I approached the tree. I supposed that I had been brought here to be the girl’s companion and this, along with her dressing me up, was just another one of her little games. Surely the leaves weren’t as sharp as her father claimed.
Carefully, I placed my thumb against the spine of a leaf, surprised to find it was as hard as bone, its ridge as sharp as the edge of a broken seashell.
‘Press harder,’ she said, joining me at the tree and pushing her own gloved hand down over my thumb. ‘Do it properly!’
‘Stop!’ I said, feeling a sharp painful scratch. Maria stepped away – but it was too late. As I snatched my hand away from the tree, two fat beads of blood spouted from the bulb of my thumb.
Maria watched them drop to the ground, obviously fascinated, a shard of glorious redness bursting across the snow.
I turned away, sucking at the injury furiously, then gathered up my glove that she had let drop to the wet ground.
‘I didn’t mean for you to bleed,’ she cried out peevishly. ‘Now don’t you dare sulk!’
‘Let’s just say that the leaves live up to their reputation, shall we?’ I said as coolly as I could, turning and starting to walk away. I wouldn’t let it show that she had hurt me. She had made me bleed on purpose and I would not give her the satisfaction of my anger.
Instead, I ran up the seven snow-encased treads of the tower steps. Breathing deeply, I swallowed my fury.
‘That’s Papa’s workshop,’ Maria called up at me. She had trailed me to the base of the steps, but I did not turn to listen to her. ‘No one is allowed in there – and he keeps it locked when he is away.’
I stood with my arms folded, staring at the entrance to the tower. The wooden door was patched with frost, its black metal handle furry with icy crystals. It looked like it hadn’t been opened for quite some time.
‘I snuck inside once when Papa was home,’ continued Maria boastfully, as I craned up at the vertical line of three windows, their clover-leaf panes reflecting black and unlit. Up close the tower showed its age, lichen and moss carpeting the cracks of the curved stones. ‘But he caught me.’
I wanted to ignore her, poking a lichen frozen to lace, but badly wanted to know what she had seen in there. However, the girl, desperate to regain my favour, answered my unspoken question.
‘He wasn’t too pleased,’ she went on feverishly. ‘I hardly had time to look at a thing before he shooed me out.’
‘But what did you see?’ I asked, curiosity superseding my sulk.
‘Treasures from all over the world,’ said Maria. ‘Strange creatures, animal skins . . . rolls of ancient parchment.’
‘What else?’ I demanded, still without turning.
‘Disgusting things floating in jars,’ she added, now revelling in my interest. ‘And books piled high. My eyes hardly had time to take it all in. But I’ll tell you all about it back inside the house. Come now, it is beginning to snow again!’
‘There’s more books in the tower?’ I said, as fat flakes began to fall again. ‘Why not keep them in the house, with the rest of his library?’
‘He says that they are very old and delicate,’ said Maria, wincing as a tiny maelstrom stung her face. ‘And that there is no point in letting anyone else look at them as they are written in alphabets that few understand.’
‘There are other kinds of alphabets?’ I asked, fascinated now, planting my boots firmly in the compacted snow the wind had pushed up against the door.
‘Greek, Cyrillic, Chinese and others long forgotten since ancient times,’ announced Maria, raising her voice against the gathering squall. ‘It takes Papa an age to read them, to work out of what they speak. Now do come along – I’ve lost all feeling in my toes!’
‘I wish I could see them,’ I said, touching the frosted door with my glove. I didn’t care a jot about her toes – she was always moaning and making a drama about being cold. ‘Even if I couldn’t read a thing that they said.’
‘I’ve told you already – Papa allows no one in there,’ said Maria, stamping her boots on the ground in a bid to warm her feet. ‘Besides, isn’t there more than enough to keep us going in the library? Which is where I’m going before I freeze to death!’
At this, she stomped off over the frosty grass.
But I could not tear my gaze from the door. There was something magnetic about that tower. Something drawing me to it. A locked room that only one person was permitted to enter, full of ancient wonders collected from all over the world. And that beastly tree growing up beside it, reaching out its devilish branches in a bid to keep prying eyes away.
Reaching out on instinct, I scraped a patch of frost away from the top half of the door with my glove. I was surprised to find the timber beneath to be smooth, un-splintered, not in keeping with the aged stone of the tower. Further scraping uncovered part of a carving.
My fingers soon traced out the rest of the outline, uncovering a familiar-looking lion rearing up in profile on tufted back legs, an oversized tongue curling from its mouth.
The Lion Rampant.
I had already learnt from Maria the name of the figure that appeared all over the house. She claimed that it was a common symbol of heraldry, but the merchant seemed quite obsessed by it: from the wax seal he stamped on to his letters, to the delicate embroidery on his bedclothes. I wondered why it h
eld such sway with him.
Then I noticed that there were letters engraved into the bottom of this particular carving which I had at first mistaken for the render of the animal’s foot: A M A P. I traced the curling letters curiously with my finger, wondering what they could stand for.
But the wind had become bitter now and I was worried that Maria’s temper would worsen if I didn’t follow her back to the house soon. Glancing up at the lion one last time, I ran down the steps and followed Maria’s dainty footprints dutifully back through the garden.
Father Ronan arrived on horseback a few weeks later from Melrose Abbey and it was I who witnessed his approach through the lattice glass of the upper landing. I was basking in the coolness of the velvet window seat, trying to fathom the Latin in a medical journal when I caught movement on the moor out of the corner of my eye. Maria, who was off taking one of her lengthy baths, would be peeved that she had missed his arrival.
The priest had been expected the day before and we had taken books up to the landing to occupy us whilst taking turns to watch over the moor. Now, in her absence, I observed the stoutness of both the rider in his flowing, hooded robes and his short-legged mountain pony. At the posts, the pony wavered, tossing its rough head this way and that, refusing to pass through. With obvious annoyance, the priest dismounted and urged the pony to circumnavigate the posts, rejoining the snowy track to bring them down into the trees.
Father Ronan proved to be a barrel of an Irishman with an affection for whisky. His slurred homilies would inadvertently recount (in unnecessary detail) some poor Catholic’s execution. But I quickly developed an affection for the man, who was kind and clever, and had a refreshing lack of regard for the household’s schedules. And although I would come to seek him out for conversation when the girl was taking her baths, his presence here still troubled me.
‘Are you not worried that the Protestants will follow a priest here?’ I whispered to Maria one afternoon whilst we were supposed to be taking Latin in the library. Father Ronan, having set us each a writing exercise, was now slumped over the bolster of the settee, sleeping fitfully. He had turned up to the lesson carrying heavy fumes on his breath.
‘We are quite safe here in the borders,’ said Maria, finishing a line of cursive with a flourish. ‘Father Ronan says that Scotland has not yet fallen to the tyrants.’
‘But what about England? Surely the borderlands sit within its reach?’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Maria firmly. ‘Papa has ensured that the estate here is well protected.’
‘Protected?’ I queried, my own quill pausing in the air. Although I was enjoying what little Latin the priest managed to impart each lesson I was worried this came at a price. ‘By what means?’
‘I’ve already explained to you about the tree,’ said Maria tersely, wiping her quill tip against the edge of the inkpot. ‘And then there are the posts on the moor – even strangers to the area are afraid to enter through them. They offer us all the protection that we need.’
At the mention of the posts, Father Ronan stirred in his sleep, his fat fingers twitching, like he was flicking away serpents.
As I turned to observe the priest, Whitefoot, who was as usual lounging by the fire, took this as an invitation to slink over and lick my hand.
‘It is their markings that induce fear,’ continued Maria, eyeing Whitefoot then my hand suspiciously, as I discreetly pushed away his whiskery head. ‘Even though no one understands their dead alphabet.’
‘Those symbols – are an alphabet?’ I said, now desperate for the dog to leave me alone. Maria couldn’t stand it when the dog showed me such affection when he had nothing but barks and growls for her.
‘Yes, it’s ancient Egyptian,’ announced Maria, her eyes back on her parchment. ‘Papa says that the stones are called obelisks and that they once guarded the tomb of a desert king from robbers.’
Now I remembered that the pictures on the posts were carved in lines of sorts, as though they were indeed meant to be read like text. ‘And what is it that they speak of?’
‘Old magic,’ replied Maria, without looking up from her study.
‘Magic?’ I repeated incredulously.
Father Ronan stirred again but was still not roused from his slumber.
‘Shh!’ she scolded, staring at me now. ‘By old magic, I mean simply superstition. Surely that is the greatest deterrent of all.’
I thought of the rings of standing stones back on the island, some of which were scored with strange whirling marks. Some of the elders said that they had been put there by the faeries and that it was bad luck to use the stones for new buildings. It was this kind of thinking that Artair and I planned to curtail, yet those beliefs still held sway over many of the islanders.
‘Don’t you agree?’ Maria went on, ‘that the best form of protection is simple fear?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Now how about a walk in the gardens?’ she said, making to pack up her box of inks. ‘I could do with taking some air before my bath. And I take it that you will be having one today?’
I nodded reluctantly, as we left Father Ronan sleeping and passed through the entrance hall to don our furs. Maria had figured out my dislike for baths and knew I would make excuses to get out of them.
But I wasn’t worried about bathing; instead the words of the wagon driver had invaded my thoughts.
They won’t go no further, neither will I.
‘What about animals then?’ I pursued as we worked our way through the back of the house to the kitchens. ‘Why don’t horses like going through the posts?’
‘Animals pick up on the fear of their masters, nothing more than that,’ said Maria airily. ‘You’ll learn all about that when you take your first riding lesson.’
I didn’t mention Father Ronan’s pony refusing to go through the posts. If it had picked up on fear for its rider, then was it the priest instead who was fearful? It certainly hadn’t seemed that way.
We left through the doors of the kitchen, but just as we made to descend into the sunken garden, there came the snort of an animal. The red-headed stable boy rounded the edge of the tower, riding a sleek grey gelding.
‘Velvet!’ exclaimed Maria, running towards the horse which she had already told me was her favourite. ‘Hey, you boy! Bring my horse to me!’
Looking stunned to come upon us, the boy cautiously brought the horse closer. His eyes locked with mine and we exchanged wary smiles. I had learnt that his name was William.
‘When the snow melts I’ll be able to exercise you myself!’ said Maria, advancing on the animal, scorn in her voice for Velvet’s current rider. ‘Here, Velvet!’
But despite William’s attempt to calm the horse by stroking his mane, the creature was spooked. He had reared up on hind legs before Maria was upon him. The girl fell backwards in shock and I caught her before she fell into the snow.
‘Let go of me,’ she said, squirming in my arms as the boy calmed Velvet with a series of tongue clicks. But the horse continued to whinny and back away from Maria with sharp steps. ‘Am I not allowed to pat my own horse?’
‘Velvet did not expect you, that’s all,’ I assured her as the animal stilled. ‘You sprang right out of nowhere.’
I gestured for the horse to be taken away though I was sad that my encounter with William had been so brief.
‘You just wait till my papa gets home!’ Maria screamed at William as he rode the horse away back towards the stables. ‘I’ll tell him that you’ve turned my own horse against me!’
I managed to coax Maria down the steps and into the relative shelter of the arbour where she sat down at the bench furiously. But the colour in her cheeks was already changing, plum-coloured spots pulsing beneath her delicately thin skin.
‘That wretched boy,’ she mumbled through angry tears. ‘I wish Papa had never taken him in.’
I approached the bench with reserve, disappointed once again that I had not been able to speak with William. Since our first
encounter in the chapel, I had been desperate for a chance to meet the boy alone. Surely he would be the only person in this entire household who could understand how it felt for me to be here. Another young person, living away from their family.
It was as if Maria had read my thoughts. ‘Iseabail, you must not engage with that boy,’ she warned, as I took a seat beside her. The girl had regained some composure, straightening her back as she drew her furs closer, the red welts on her skin fading. ‘Even when the snows thaw and he prepares our horses for riding on the moor. He’s not one of us and he can’t be trusted.’
‘Because he is from the village? Because he is English?’ I said, trying to understand her hate for him.
‘Just because you have never heard him speak either Gaelic or Italian,’ said Maria, her eyebrow arching incredulously, ‘you assume that he must only speak English?’
‘Yes,’ I said, because I had already given great thought to the matter.
‘For your information, he cannot speak English,’ said Maria, with a look of satisfaction. ‘Or any other language come to that!’ She took great joy in watching me work it out.
‘You mean . . . ?’
‘That’s right, the boy is a mute,’ she continued, a cruel smile playing on her lips.
‘I suppose that makes sense,’ I said soberly, picturing William diligently thumbing his rosary during Mass. He always mouthed away at the psalms but it was true; I had never once witnessed him speaking out aloud and he commanded the horses using only tongue clicks. ‘And you say that your father took him in?’
‘Papa found him wandering on the moor when he was out riding one day,’ said Maria, now basking in her story. ‘He was half-starved and full of fleas. The villagers had banished him, you see. Because he survived the pestilence.’
‘William survived the plague!’ I said, astonished, sitting down beside her. The plague had never made it to our island, but we had heard of it – how it wiped out whole villages, decimating towns and cities. How hardly any poor soul that succumbed to it was spared.
The Pure Heart Page 6