The Witch From The Sea Part 44

"Would you have me there weaving my spells?"

"Have done with such talk."

"My mother has gone now."

"She had to. She killed my mother and would have killed me but I discovered in time."

"What do you think happened to her?"

"I think she walked into the sea."

Senara laughed aloud. "Oh Tamsyn, you don't change. Full of remorse, do you think she was?"

"No, she found the position untenable. She was betrayed as a murderess and my father a cripple for the rest of his life. The weight of her sins must have been heavy."

"Never. I knew her well, Tamsyn, better than you ever could. She came of a n.o.ble Spanish family. She was travelling in the s.h.i.+p with her husband, my father, when it was caught on the Devil's Teeth. She never forgave that. She told me much. She came here and determined to destroy the household which had changed her life. She ensnared your father. They were lovers from the first. He never tired of her. She left soon after I was born and he bought a house for her some miles from here in the heart of a wood. He used to visit her and there she wove her spells. Then she came back and she sent your mother away so that she could marry your father. And she did. But she was tired of the life. She remembered Spain and the hot sun and the flowers and the gracious manners of courtiers, for she was highly-born. Lord Cartonel didn't come to see me, Tamsyn. He came to see her. She has gone with him. They will go to Spain and we shall never hear from her again."

"Is this truly so, or is it one of your dreams?"

"It is a good story, is it not? You will find that Lord Cartonel has disappeared too. He is a spy for the Spaniards, I doubt not. You will never see either of them again."

"Can she leave you, her daughter, and never see you again?"

"Quite easily. She left me before, did she not? She did not want children. They do not fit into her scheme of things." She shrugged her shoulders. "It is hard for you to understand ... you with your mother and your kind grandmother. We were different. She was a witch in her way as I am in mine. We are not like ordinary folk."

"Senara, once again I must ask you not to talk so. It is dangerous."

"Life is dangerous, Tamsyn. Even you should have learned that by now. When you are married to your Fenn and your children are playing at your knee, it will still be dangerous."

She was right of course, but whatever life held for me I was ready to face it with Fenn.

Melanie wanted me to marry soon although I had said I would stay awhile and help her nurse my father. But she would not hear of it. He was bewildered and could not believe that this had happened to him, to Colum Casvellyn, the man who had always had his own way. Oddly enough Melanie was the one who could soothe him best. It was a remarkable discovery that there was such power in this quiet girl. My brother Connell was changing too. He was the head of the house now, for that poor wreck which my father had become could scarcely be called that any longer. It was as though his new responsibilities gave him sudden strength. He was regarding Melanie in a new light; she was no longer the dull little wife whom he had married for convenience. Once I had thought he was growing more and more like our father but now there was a sudden halt in that progress. It was as though he had had a revelation and was taking stock of himself. I was glad for him ... and for Melanie.

It was evening and the light was fading fast. Senara was with me in my bedchamber and as we talked I suddenly saw from my window that lights were approaching. It was a party of people, carrying torches, who were wending their way up the slope towards the castle.

I listened to their chanting voices and what they said sent a cold s.h.i.+ver down my spine.

"Give us the witch."

Senara stood beside me, her eyes dilated.

"They are intent on murder," she said, "and they are coming for my mother."

"Thank G.o.d she has gone."

"Yes, she has cheated them."

The torches were now lighting up the scene; the chanting voices were growing louder.

Merry came running into the room.

"They've come for the witch," she said, "the witch from the sea."

"Don't they know she has gone?" I asked.

"They know, but ..." Merry was looking fearfully at Senara. "If they can't have the witch from the sea they'll take her daughter. Oh G.o.d help us all. They wouldn't have dared if the master had been himself. But now he be nothing but a wreck broken on the Devil's Teeth and there be none to stop 'em."

They had always wanted the witch from the sea. They had watched her and blamed her for their ill fortune. They believed she had bewitched my father but they feared him so much that when he was there to protect her they dared do nothing.

"They will find me, Tamsyn," said Senara. "They will tie me to a stake and burn me alive. Or they will hang me from a gibbet. Poor d.i.c.kon, his heart will break."

Connell strode in, Melanie with him.

"The mob is at the gate," he said. "They are calling for the witch."

"She's gone."

He was looking at Senara. "They're greedy for blood," he said. "You must get away. You must never come back here. You'll never be safe. I'll hold them at bay. I'll show them who is the master here."

It might have been my father speaking. I turned to Senara and said: "We'll go out through the Seaward Tower. They won't be round that side of the castle. We'll take two donkeys."

"Where?" asked Connell.

"To Leyden Hall," I answered. "They'll hide her there until she leaves for Holland."

"Go quickly," said Connell.

And we went out. The night airs cooled our burning faces as we rode away.

I saw the exultation in Senara's eyes and I knew it was because she was going to d.i.c.kon.

We were on our way to Leyden Hall by the time the torch-lit mob was in the courtyard. Connell would subdue them, I knew. He was now the lord of the castle.

I must say a sad farewell to Senara but I had the future to think of with Fenn.

THE END.

Turn the page to continue reading from the Daughters of England series

ANGELET.

Visitors from the Past YESTERDAY, THE TWELFTH DAY of June in the year sixteen hundred and thirty-nine, was our seventeenth birthday-mine and Bersaba's. It was fitting that we should be born in June, the birth sign of which is Gemini, for we are twins. In our family birthdays are always celebrated as joyous occasions. Our mother is responsible for that. There are certain women in our family who are born to be mothers and she is one of them. I don't think I am; I'm certain Bersaba isn't. But perhaps I am mistaken, because it can be a quality which is only discovered when one reaches the state of motherhood, and one thing I have learned is that one can be mistaken about a great deal, which is one of the less gratifying experiences of growing up. I once remarked to Bersaba that every birthday our mother thanked G.o.d for giving us to her and Bersaba answered that she did it every day. My mother, Tamsyn Landor, was married five years before our brother Fennimore was born and then another seven years elapsed before she gave birth to us-her twins. I believe she had wanted a large family, but now she would say she had just what she wanted, for she is a woman who can adjust existing conditions to her dreams of contentment which I am old enough to know is a rare gift.

We had the usual birthday celebrations. June is a lovely month for a birthday because so much of it can be celebrated out of doors. On our birthday it became a ritual that if the day was fine we rode out into the meadows and there we would feast off cold poultry and what we called West Country Tarts, pastry cases with the fruit of the season-strawberries for our birthday-in them and custard or clouted cream on the top, which were a very special delicacy. Of course there had been rainy birthdays and on these occasions the friends and neighbours who joined us would come to the house, where we would play games such as blindman's buff or hunt the slipper and then we would dress up and act charades or produce the plays which we had seen the mummers do at Christmas time. Whatever the weather, birthdays were days to be looked forward to and I had said every year to Bersaba that as ours was two in one it should be extra special.

On this particular birthday the weather had been fine and we had been out into the meadows and the young people from Kroll Manor and Trent Park had joined us. We had played ball games and kayles-which consisted of knocking down pins with a stick or a ball-and after that hide-and-seek, during which Bersaba had not been found and caused a certain anxiety because our mother was always afraid that something terrible would happen to us. We were an hour searching for Bersaba and finally she gave herself up. She looked hurt when she saw how worried our mother had been, but I who knew her so well guessed that she was gratified to be so worried about. Bersaba often seemed as though she wanted to a.s.sure herself that she was important to us.

We all went back to Trystan Priory, our home, and there were more games and feasting, and just before dark servants came from Kroll Manor and Trent Park to take our friends home and that was the end of another birthday we thought. But it was not so.

Our mother came to our room. We had always shared a room and sometimes I thought that now we were growing up we should have separate apartments-there were plenty of rooms in the Priory-but I waited for Bersaba to suggest it and I think perhaps she was waiting for me to do so, and as neither of us did we went on in the old way.

Our mother looked rather solemn.

She sat down on the big carved chair which Bersaba and I used to fight over when we were young. It was a wonderful chair with griffins at the end of the arms and I always felt I had the advantage when I sat in that chair, and as Bersaba felt the same there was compet.i.tion to get there first. Now our mother sat there and looked at us with that benign affection which I took for granted then and remembered with nostalgia later on.

'Seventeen,' she said. 'It's a turning point. You're no longer children, you know.'

Bersaba sat quietly, her hands in her lap. Bersaba was a quiet person. I was scarcely that. I often wondered why people said they couldn't tell us apart. Although we looked identical, our natures were so different that that should have been an indication.

'Next year,' went on our mother, 'you'll be eighteen. There'll be a different birthday party for you. It will be more grown up and there won't be games such as you've been playing today.'

'I suppose we shall have a ball,' I said, and I could not keep the excitement out of my voice, for I loved dancing and I excelled at it.

'Yes, and you will be meeting more people. I was talking to your father about it last time he was home, and he agreed with me.'

I wondered idly if they had ever disagreed about anything. I couldn't believe they ever had.

'But that is a year ahead,' she went on, as though she were pleased that it could be postponed. 'There is something else. It's a tradition in our family that the women of the household keep journals. It's a strange one, because it has been carried on in an unbroken line since your great-great-grandmother Damask Farland began it. It is possible to follow our family history in these journals. Now that you are growing up you may read that of Damask and of your great-grandmother Catherine. You will find it of the utmost interest.'

'And Grandmother Linnet's and yours?' asked Bersaba.

'They are not yet for reading.'

'Oh, what a pity,' I cried, but Bersaba was looking thoughtful, and she said gravely, 'If people knew that what they wrote would be read by those living round them they wouldn't tell the truth ... not the whole truth.'

Our mother nodded, slowly smiling at Bersaba. Bersaba had a certain wisdom which I lacked. I said whatever came into my head, just allowing it to flow out without thinking very much about it. Bersaba often thought carefully before she spoke.

'Why should they not?' I demanded. 'What is the point of keeping a diary if you don't tell the truth?'

'Some people see the truth as they want to,' said Bersaba.

'Then how can it be the truth?'

'It's truth to them because that's what they believe, and if they are writing for people to read who might have been there when whatever they are writing about was happening they would tell their version of it.'

'There's some truth in that,' said my mother. 'So, your journal is your own secret. It must be so. It is only years later that it becomes the property of the family.'

'When we are dead,' I said with a s.h.i.+ver, but I was fascinated by it. I thought of the generations to come reading all about my life. I hoped it would be worth reading.

My mother went on: 'So now that you are growing up I am going to suggest that you keep your journals. I am giving you one each tomorrow and a desk in which you can lock them up when you have written in them. They will be your very own private property.'

'Do you still write in yours, Mother?' asked Bersaba.

She smiled gently. 'I still write now and then. Once I wrote a good deal. That was in the days before I married your father. I had a great deal to write about then.' Her expression clouded. I knew she was thinking of the dreadful mystery of her mother's death. 'Now,' she said, 'I hardly ever write. There is nothing dramatic to record. Life has been happy and peaceful for these last years, and happiness and a peaceful existence have one failing only-they give little to write about. I hope, my darlings, that you will find only happy events to record in your books. But write all the same ... write of the ordinary happy things of life.'

I cried: 'I'm longing to begin. I shall start tomorrow. I shall tell about today ... our seventeenth birthday.'

'And what of you, Bersaba?' asked my mother.

'I shall write when I have something interesting to write about,' answered my sister.

My mother nodded. 'Oh, and by the way, I think it is time we visited your grandfather. We shall leave next week. You'll have plenty of time to prepare.'

Then she kissed us and left us.

And then next day we received our desks and journals, and I started mine by writing the above.

There was nothing unusual about visiting our grandfather in Castle Paling. We did it several times a year. The Castle is not far from us-a few miles along the coast only, but going there always excited me. Castle Paling was in itself a ghostly place; terrible things had happened there not so very long ago. My mother had hinted at them and she should know, for she had spent her childhood there. Her mother-our grandmother Linnet Casvellyn-had died there in a mysterious fas.h.i.+on (she had, I believed, been murdered, although this had never been admitted) and now our grandfather Colum Casvellyn lived a strange and solitary life in the Seaward Tower, a trial to all around him and especially to himself. My Uncle Connell and Aunt Melanie lived in another part of the castle with their four children; they were a very normal family, but extreme contrasts like the placidity of my Aunt Melanie and the wildness of my grandfather create an atmosphere which is more sinister because of this very contrast.

As Trystan Priory was five miles from the sea, one of the attractions of the castle was its closeness to it, for even within its thick walls one was aware of its murmur, especially when it was rough. In comparison our house seemed very peaceful, and to a girl of seventeen who was longing for adventure peace could appear dull.

Ours was a fine house really, though I never realized this until I left it. The old priory had been destroyed when the monasteries were dissolved and the house had been built on the site with many of the original stones. As it had been constructed in the days of Elizabeth it was built in the shape of an E out of compliment to the Queen, as so many houses were at that time. It was full of exciting nooks and crannies, and it had its b.u.t.teries, pantries and fine old kitchen. The grounds were beautiful. There were rose, pond, kitchen and herb gardens and some in the Italian style but mostly English; our mother took a great interest in them as she did about anything in the house, because it was the home which sheltered her precious family. This impressed itself on me after visiting Castle Paling, where in spite of Melanie-who was not dissimilar to my mother-one had the impression of something forbidding and menacing.

Bersaba felt it as I did and it was indicative of our characters that it affected us differently.

The day after our seventeenth birthday I asked Bersaba whether she was pleased we were going to Castle Paling the following week. We were in the schoolroom, where we had been left by our governess for what was called 'private study'.

She shrugged her shoulders and lowered her eyes and I saw her teeth come out over her lower lip. I knew her habits so well that I understood she was faintly disturbed. But her feelings could be mixed. There was a good deal she hated about Castle Paling but there was one thing she loved. That was our cousin Bastian.

'I wonder how long we shall stay?' I went on.

'Not more than a week, I expect,' she answered. 'You know Mother hates to be away too long for fear Father should return in her absence and she will not be there to welcome him.'

Our father was often away from home for months at a stretch because he was deeply involved with the East India Company which had been founded by his father-amongst others-and which for a time had prospered. In this year of sixteen hundred and thirty-nine it was less successful than it had been, but to a man like my father that was a challenge. Many people connected with the Company visited us at Trystan Priory and there always seemed something exhilarating to discuss about it. For instance, at this time there was a great deal of talk about the new factory they were planning to build on the banks of the Hooghly River in India.

'Fennimore will be primed to send a message if the s.h.i.+p is sighted,' I reminded her.

'Oh yes, but she likes to be here.'

'I shall take my new m.u.f.f,' I announced.

'A m.u.f.f in summer! You are crazy,' said Bersaba.

I was crestfallen. My m.u.f.f had been a birthday present. I had wanted it because I had heard they were now worn a great deal by the ladies of King Charles's court, which meant that they were the height of fas.h.i.+on.

'Besides,' went on Bersaba, 'where would you wear a m.u.f.f at Castle Paling? I shall take my sketch book,' she added.

Bersaba had drawn a piece of paper towards her and was sketching on it. She was very good and could, in a few lines, create an impression. There was the sea with the Devil's Teeth, those terrifying rocks, and I could almost feel that I was at Castle Paling looking out from one of the turret windows.

She started to sketch Grandfather Casvellyn. What a terrifying man he must have been when he could walk about. Now there was something pathetic about him because he looked so frighteningly fierce while at the same time he was so crippled that he could not walk and had to spend most of his time lying on a couch or being wheeled about in a chair. He had been thus for many years-since more than twelve years before we were born. It seemed to us that he had been there for always and always would be there. He was like the Flying Dutchman, but instead of sailing the seas he had been doomed to sit in his chair in expiation of some terrible sin.