The Witch from the Sea (12 page)

There was silence in the room. I was aware of the thudding of my heart as it shook my body. He was right. It was a way out. Even those who did not believe that we had been secretly married in November would not dare say so. My child would be born with all honour—the heir of Castle Paling. There would be no bitter subterfuge to darken my life. And I should be his wife. The thought I must admit filled me with terror and yet it was a delicious sort of terror. I was beginning to think it was a terror I must experience.

He was the first to speak. “Tomorrow,” he said, “I shall come here with the priest.”

“We must have time to think of this,” said my mother. “Tomorrow is too soon.”

“There is little time to waste, Madam. Remember our child grows bigger with every day. I will come tomorrow with the priest. By then you will have seen that this is the answer!”

He bowed and went out into the courtyard. I heard him shouting for his horse. My mother and I were silent, listening to the sound of his horse’s hoofs as he rode away.

Then she took my arm. “Come away from here, Linnet,” she said. “We must go somewhere where we can talk in peace.”

All through that day we talked.

“My dearest child,” said my mother, “it is a decision which only you can make. You must not forget that this is for life. Marriage with him would provide an immediate solution, but don’t forget you have to consider the future. If such a marriage were distasteful to you, you must not enter into it. Anything … yes, anything is better than that. What happened was no fault of yours. Everyone will see that.”

“Will people believe it?” I asked. “There will be hints. They will follow me all my life.”

“That is not so. You have the example of Romilly. She gave birth to a child and your own father fathered it. Can you imagine a greater scandal than that? Yet somehow she has continued to live here and she feels no shame.”

“I am not Romilly.”

“Nay indeed. The situation is different. He has wronged you and surprisingly has come to make amends.”

“He has come because he wants the child.”

“He could marry if he wished and have one. Yet he has offered you marriage.”

“Yes, it is true,” I said.

“But, my dearest, you must think clearly. You must not take a solution merely because it seems easy to you. Tell me what is in your mind.”

I raised my bewildered eyes to her face. “I do not know,” I said.

“Has he perhaps fascinated you a little?”

“I am unsure.”

“I understand it. There is something strong about him. You know something of what happened to me. I did not want to marry your father yet compared with him all other men seemed small and insignificant. You see how it is with us. We have always quarrelled. Often we have hated each other, and yet there is something between us. Is it love? I don’t know. It is a bond, the severing of which would take something vital from our lives. I suppose that is love … in a way. As soon as he came into the inn he reminded me of your father. They are the buccaneers of the world, such men; and this is an age of buccaneers. They are the men of our times—the ideal, one might say. The times are not nice and gentle. We are fighting for our place in the world … and we produce men such as these to make and hold our place there. That’s how I see it. But such talk does not help us. Tell me how you felt for Fennimore?”

“I liked him. His manners are charming and he is good to look at. I think he would be a good husband.”

“I think so, too. He is kind and gentle and would understand what happened was no fault of yours.”

“If there had not been a child … Perhaps I should try to rid myself of it, but I don’t want to, Mother. Already I feel that it is mine and in spite of everything …”

“I understand. And I would not allow you to rid yourself of it. Many girls have died through such a thing. Whatever the outcome, you will have the child. Shall we speak to Fennimore? Shall we tell him what has happened?”

I shook my head.

“Then you will go to my mother?”

“I couldn’t bear to leave you.”

“Then you need not. You could have the child here. You and I would bring it up together.”

“My father …”

My mother laughed and the derisive smile was on her face as though he were there to see it. “He will have to accept what is done.”

“There will be trouble. He will never let Colum Casvellyn escape his fury.”

“That’s true.”

“And if aught happened to my father …”

She put her hands on my shoulders and looked at me earnestly. “Linnet,” she said, “somewhere in the depth of your mind you want to marry this man.”

I lowered my eyes. I could not look at her.

She held me against her and stroked my hair. “You need feel no shame. I understand. So much happened to me. It is not always easy to understand one’s emotions. There is a virility about him. You need not be ashamed because you want to respond to it. It is natural. By marrying him you would be taking a great risk. It would be like going on a journey into the unknown, on a ship of which you knew nothing and an unpredictable captain in charge of the vessel. Well, Linnet, you are a sailor’s daughter.”

That night I could not sleep. It was after midnight when my mother came into my room. We lay in my bed together, I was clasped in her arms and she told me of her own youth and what had happened to her: and I knew that there was something of her in me and something of my father too. I knew that a perilous adventure lay before me but I could no longer turn my back on it than either of them could have done.

The next day, true to his word, Colum Casvellyn arrived at Lyon Court. He brought a priest with him. And in the chapel he and I were married.

I was amazed how sober he could be. When the ceremony was over he embraced me with gentleness; and he docilely agreed to go away until my mother had been able to speak to my father.

She would lie to him for it was necessary. She wanted no bloodshed. She would tell him that I had quietly married Colum Casvellyn some months before and, fearing his disapproval, as he had wished for an alliance with the Landors, had kept my secret until I was with child and realized it had to be told.

We stood together watching Colum ride away. Then she turned to me and looked at me steadily.

“So we found our solution, Linnet,” she said. “Pray God it was the right one.”

C
OLUM AND I WERE
riding to Castle Paling.

That morning we had had a second ceremony, this time with the customary festivities.

My father had been far from displeased.

“You sly creature!” he shouted at me. “It’s what I’d expect of you. And already carrying my grandson. Take care of him, or it will be the worse for you.”

“It might be a girl, Father,” I said.

“So you’re going to be such a one as your mother, are you? Can’t get boys? We’ll see.” His chin wagged with amusement as I remembered so well from my childhood. When he had seemed to be angry and glowered at me, and shouted abuse, if I saw that movement of his chin I had known that he was secretly amused. Thus it was now.

We rode a little together, although he wouldn’t allow me to gallop. “Remember my grandson,” had become a catch-phrase. He was pleased. He liked Colum.

“By God,” he said, “you’ve got a man there. And went off and married him in secret, eh.” He slapped his thigh with delight. “To tell you the truth, daughter, I never greatly cared for Fennimore Landor. A good fellow in his way, but no fighting guts. It won’t be like that with your man, I’ll tell you. There’ll be fights a plenty, I doubt not, but remember, you’re your father’s daughter and fight back. Be like your mother. I’ll tell you something—she has the occasional victory.”

I could see that he thought that his marriage was the perfect one. A peaceful union such as I might have expected with Fennimore Landor was in his eyes faintly despicable.

How different it might have been if he had known the truth. We were right to lie to him.

And so we had married early that morning, partaken of the wedding feast and allowed the guests to continue with it while Colum and I left for the journey to Castle Paling. As it was only some fifteen miles from Lyon Court I would not be so far from my family which was a comforting thought; and strangely enough as I rode along with Colum, although I was conscious of a certain fear, my excitement was intense and odd as it may seem I would not have had it otherwise.

He was smiling, well content; and I could not help a little pride because he had been so eager for our wedding. It was nearly three months since that night which had changed my life, but it seemed years ago. I could hardly think of a time when I had not known of Colum’s existence.

“Very soon,” he said, “we shall come to Castle Paling, your home, my bride. There we shall live happily ever after.”

There was a hint of mockery in his voice but I did not heed it. It was a beautiful day, the kind we get sometimes in the West Country in February, the sort of day when it seems spring is tired of waiting and is making a premature appearance. There were tufts of new leaves on the elder bushes and yellow flowers of the coltsfoot on the banks. In the fields there was a spattering of crimson-tipped daisies and as we forded a shallow stream I noticed the purple catkins of the alder trees there, which toned with the butterbur flowers blooming near the water.

I was smiling and he said: “So you are reconciled to your marriage so hastily enforced by circumstance?”

“I was thinking of the beauty of the countryside.”

“It is said,” he reminded me, “that when one is in love the grass is greener and the whole world becomes a more beautiful place.”

“I am inclined to think it is the spring,” I said.

“I shall soon convince you what a fortunate woman you are. You will one day bless the night you first came to Castle Paling.”

I was silent and he went on: “I shall have to insist that you answer me when I speak to you.”

“I did not think your comment needed an answer.”

“It does indeed. You must answer fervently that you will always remember that night as the happiest of your life … to that time.”

“I did not think I should begin my married life by lying to my husband.”

“Nor would you if you said that, for it is true.”

“How could I say I remember when I remember nothing?”

“You do remember. There was much of which you were aware.”

“Do you mind if we do not speak of it?”

“I am determined to indulge you.”

He sang as we rode along, the same hunting song I had heard before.

“It sounds joyous,” I said.

“It is the song of the hunter bringing home his prey.”

“It is fitting then.”

“Oh entirely so.”

Then he laughed in the loud way I was becoming accustomed to and for some reason, although I feigned indignation, my spirits were lifted.

Castle Paling! My home! It rose before us, grim, forbidding but immensely exciting. I looked up at its grey stone walls which had stood for four hundred years and doubtless would stand five hundred more and even beyond that. There was an invincible durability in those strong walls. They had been built to defend and they would go on doing so.

Those walls forming a plinth at the base were made to withstand the picks and battering-rams of an enemy. There were four towers, two facing the land and two the sea, battlemented and with their look-outs and their apertures for pouring burning pitch down on to the heads of intruders. The window-openings on the low levels were few—narrow slits which could be well guarded to prevent intruders.

“Welcome to Castle Paling, wife,” he said, and together we rode under the portcullis and into a courtyard.

As if by magic several grooms appeared. Colum leaped from his horse, threw his reins to a groom and lifted me down from my horse.

Side by side we crossed the courtyard and as we reached the small door in the great stone wall, he lifted me up in his arms and stepped into the castle.

“The three of us together,” he whispered.

Then he set me on my feet.

We mounted a narrow staircase and came to the hall, which was lofty with a gallery surrounding its upper level.

“Your home,” he said, with pride. “My family have lived here since the days of the Conqueror—for they came from Normandy with him. We have always been conquerors. It has changed since then for improvements have been made. My Norman ancestor came here, built a castle and took a Cornish maiden to wife. She gave him many sons and daughters and they married and bore more so that we became a clan. We have in five hundred years become Cornishmen. Of course the castle was not like this in the first place. Just a fortification—guard-room, dungeons and thick impenetrable walls. We added to it as time passed. I doubt not I shall add to it. Why, I have begun by adding a bride.”

Then he lifted me up and kissed me heartily and said: “We are tired after our journey. We will sup quietly, and to bed.”

Then we ate and drank together and it was like that other night in many ways.

It was a different bedchamber, much grander, containing a large four-poster, the tester hung with embroidered silk curtains. Candles burned in the sconces and I noticed a big court cupboard boldly carved with acanthus and leaf work. There was time to notice nothing else, nor think of it, for my husband was beside me, removing my gown and my petticoats and carrying me to the curtain-shrouded bed.

And after that I knew I would cease to think of that fateful night at Castle Paling because there were others and in time they would all merge into one and I would forget that I had been taken so unwillingly for as though by magic my unwillingness had gone, leaving me excited and eager to embark on the voyage of discovery in which this man, who was already beginning to dominate my life, was showing me the way.

An indication of my feelings towards him was revealed to me in the early morning when I lay awake watching the dawn slowly filter through the silken curtains which shut us in.

He was awake also.

He said: “I arranged it, you know.”

“You arranged what?” I asked.

“I was determined to have you when I saw you in the inn. How well guarded you were! By God, your mother is a tigress of a woman. She would have fought to the death for you. I knew I had to plan and could do nothing that night.”