The Witch from the Sea (5 page)

There were a large number of rooms in the west wing, for the house like so many was built in the shape of a letter E; and my mother and I were given rooms side by side and there was a small one for Jennet close by. Our grooms were accommodated near the stables with those of the household; and I was immediately struck by the absolute peace of the place. That night I slept soundly; no doubt because of the previous disturbed night, and I found the atmosphere of Trystan Priory decidedly pleasant.

My mother liked our host and hostess very much and there seemed to be a tacit agreement that Fennimore should look after me.

That first morning he said he would first show me the house and as after three days’ riding I must be in need of a rest from the saddle he would take me for a walk round the estate so that I could really become acquainted with the place.

The great staircase which led up from the hall to the gallery was very fine indeed, with exquisitely carved banisters; in the gallery were the portraits. I paused before that of Fennimore. He looked out from the canvas with unruffled gaze on the world; it was the look of a man who would know exactly what he wanted.

“An excellent likeness,” I said.

There was a space on the wall next to his picture and I knew that another had hung there once. I wondered vaguely why it had been removed.

It was a homely house. Less ostentatious than Lyon Court and so modern when compared with ancient Trewynd Grange. It had its buttery, pastry bolting house where flour was bolted or sifted, and the winter parlour which was much used during the cold weather. The kitchen was large with its great range and spits and ovens. Fennimore pointed out to me how convenient it was being so near the winter parlour and the main hall. That hall was the centre of the house as it was in Lyon Court and Trewynd, and in it dinner was eaten when there was a large gathering. The family frequently used the winter parlour.

We walked in the gardens which were beautifully laid out. There were fountains and shady walks and several marble statues; the flower-beds were numerous and charmingly bordered with rosemary, lavender and marjoram. He showed me the enclosed garden with the pond in the centre. Most houses had them and they were planned on the style of the famous one made by Henry VIII at Hampton Court. Secluded, surrounded by a tall hedge, here members of the family could come in summer, the ladies to sit and embroider or paint pleasant little pictures; the men to talk with them, to relax, to enjoy the sunshine.

Fennimore and I sat by the pond and he talked to me of his dreams of the future. I liked to listen to him and I encouraged him to talk. There was prosperity as yet not dreamed of, he told me. He had been visiting shipyards in Britain and trying to impress their owners with the need to build ships, bigger ships, ships capable of carrying heavy cargoes and holding their own on the high seas.

“They will have to carry armaments I suppose,” I said.

“Alas, such is the way of the world. There will be battles on the high seas, doubt it not. Where there is prosperity, where there is profit, there will always be those who envy it and seek to take possession of it through force. Rivalry there must be and I would welcome that … good honest rivalry but it can hardly be hoped that men will suddenly become reasonable. They will still seek to take what is not theirs and to believe that there is more to be gained by robbery than by hard work. There should be plenty of trade for all who are ready to work for it, but you will never get men to see this. There are some who must be grander, bolder, richer than all others. There are some who must exert their power over others …”

I immediately thought then of the man at the inn and I was on the verge of telling Fennimore what had happened. I changed my mind. The garden was so pleasant; I was enjoying our conversation so much I did not want to introduce a discordant note. The more I thought of that man—and I had to admit I had thought of him a great deal—the more unpleasant the encounter seemed. He was crude; he was bold; and he had dared awaken me and bring me to the window. Had he really thrown a kiss to me or had I imagined that? Had he really been suggesting that I come down to him? Surely he must have known that was impossible. No, he had merely wished to disturb me. He had certainly done that.

Fennimore went on talking about the boom in shipbuilding which must follow the defeat of the Armada. “The Spaniards were only half aware of what prospects there were,” he was saying. “They were obsessed by making the people of the world conform to their religious doctrines. Therein lay their weakness. Their King is a fanatic. What misery he must be enduring now. I could almost feel it in my heart to be sorry for him.”

“Do not let my father hear you say that.”

“Nor shall I,” said Fennimore. “He would not understand, but I believe it to be a fact that even the most cruel, the most misguided of mankind have some spark of humanity in them and if we could but ignite it … who knows?”

I realized then that he was a very different man from my father. He was gentle and tolerant. A faint misgiving came to me then and I wondered whether the quality needed to succeed in this rough world was that ruthlessness which men like my father possessed, that single-mindedness which could only see one side of a problem. I was aware that Fennimore’s nature made him see many.

But Fennimore certainly talked like a man inspired. He made me see our ports alive with peaceful trading vessels. I could picture the unloading on the Hoe—spices, gold and ivory because he planned that his ships should travel not only in the Baltic and Mediterranean ports but right out to the East Indies.

It was very pleasant on that damp November day to walk through the garden with Fennimore, to listen to his plans, to learn about the estate on which he lived when he was not at sea.

I found his parents delightful and so did my mother. His father was undoubtedly a man of the sea and that meant that he shared certain characteristics with my own father. He was not the roaring ranting man that Jake Pennlyon was. In any case there could only be one Jake Pennlyon; but he had clearly had bloodthirsty adventures on the high seas and they must have left their mark on him. Fennimore had inherited something of his mother’s more gentle nature. It had made him more thoughtful and introspective than most men of his profession. He was rather studious; more logical than most and with that ability—which I was not sure was an asset—of being able to see many facets to one problem.

I suppose when two families are of a similar kind and each has a young member of it and these are of the opposite sex there must inevitably be some speculation as to whether or not they might marry. I knew this was in the minds of my mother and Fennimore’s parents. Every mother wants to see her son or daughter married; grandparents long for the marriage of their children to be fruitful. I knew what was going on in my mother’s mind. She liked Fennimore and would welcome him as a son-in-law. I became certain that the Landors would have offered me an equally warm welcome.

And Fennimore? Was it in his mind too? I believe it was. He was not an impulsive man, however; he would wish us both to grow accustomed to each other and the idea of marriage. To him there would be many sides to marriage, and of course he was right.

It seemed to me in those first few days at Trystan Priory that there was a very good chance that one day I would be mistress of it.

Fennimore’s mother was eager to talk about the household and during the second day she asked me to come to her room. She wanted to show me the tapestry on which she was working. She showed me the design which was to depict the glorious victory over the Armada and she herself had composed it. It would take her years to complete, she told me.

The canvas was set up on a gigantic frame and on it was sketched the picture she would work. It was attractive. There were the little ships and the great Spanish galleons. There was the King of Spain in his gloomy Escorial and the Duke of Medina Sidonia with his ships. And on the other hand we had our own Queen at Tilbury and Sir Francis playing bowls on the Hoe. And the battle—the fireships which caused such havoc and the broken galleons drifting out to sea.

“Why,” I said, “it is almost a life work.”

“I shall start it … as indeed I have,” she said. “It will be for future members of my family to finish it.”

It was almost as though she were putting a needle into my hand and telling me to begin.

“It will be wonderful when it is completed.”

“I hope to see it finished,” she said.

“But of course you must.”

“I have hundreds of skeins of silk stored away.” She talked of the colours she would use. Reds, scarlets and gold; black for the costume of the King of Spain; scarlet and gold for our Queen. “Oh my dear Linnet, what a terrible time that was. I hope never to live through such a time. I have never known such a time of wretchedness … except …”

She stopped and bit her lip. Then she brightened; “But it is over now. There are still dangers at sea … but the Spaniards can do us little harm now. I was always terrified of them … terrified that they would come here. And of course when the men sailed away I used to shut myself in my sanctuary—” she inclined her head towards a door leading from her room—“and there I used to pray that they would come back safely. But you are a sailor’s daughter. You know.”

I considered this. It had never occurred to me that my father would not come back. There was something invincible about him, and he always had returned. Though there had been a time when he was gone so long that it had seemed that it was for ever.

“If I had lost them,” she went on, “that would have been death to me. I should have had no one left … no one. After Melanie …”

Her face puckered suddenly and she seemed to come to a decision. She said: “Come with me.”

I rose and she went to the door I had seen. She opened it.

I followed her into a room. It was rather dark as there was only one small window, lead-paned. In this room I noticed a crucifix and before it a table on which were candle sticks. It was like an altar.

“Sometimes,” she said, “I come in here to be alone and pray.”

Then I saw a picture on the wall. It was of a young girl about fifteen, I imagined. She had fair hair which fell about her shoulders and blue eyes. She was remarkably like Fennimore.

“She is beautiful, do you agree?” said Fennimore’s mother.

I did agree.

“My daughter. My Melanie.”

“I was not aware that you had a daughter.”

“I had a daughter. Alas, she died.”

“How sad.”

She lowered her head as though she could not bear to go on looking at that lovely young face.

“I had the picture brought in here. I could not bear to see it every time I passed it in the gallery. I wanted it where I could see it in private, where I could weep over it if I had to, and look at it and remember.”

“Was it long ago?” I asked.

“Three years.”

“So recent?”

She nodded.

I was not sure whether she wanted to talk or not, so I tried to convey my sympathy without seeming curious.

“She was murdered.”

“Murdered!”

“Please, I cannot talk of it. She was too young for marriage. I should never have allowed it and … she died.”

“She was your only daughter?”

She nodded.

“You have your son.”

Her face cleared a little. “He is the best son a woman could have. Thank God we have Fennimore. But we lost Melanie … my little Melanie. I often say to myself: I should never have allowed it. I shall never forget the day she told me she was going to have another child.”

“She had had others?”

“No. Attempts. They all failed. It was clear she was not meant for childbearing and when she told me that yet again … a terrible cold fear came over me. It was as though the angel of Death had entered. It was here in this room. I can see her now, the fear in her fair young face and I wanted to … to … But never mind. I shouldn’t be talking like this to you.”

“Please talk if you want to. I will respect your confidence.”

“She was different from you. She hadn’t your strength. She wasn’t meant to bear children. She should never have married. If only I could go back … I would never have allowed it. And so we lost her.”

She put out a hand and I took it, holding it firmly.

“I wanted you to know,” she said, “because … because … you … you seem like one of us.”

It was almost as though she were proposing marriage to me on behalf of her son.

My father arrived that day. The house suddenly seemed more noisy. He was impressed with the Priory and slightly smug because it did not seem quite as grand to him as Lyon Court. Meals had become more elaborate and were taken in the great hall instead of the winter parlour. We dined at the fashionable time of eleven in the morning and supped between seven and eight. There was a great deal of talk at these meals and my father was often in conference with Fennimore and his. I believed that they were getting along very well and that my father was becoming more and more interested in the project.

He had no intention of staying long though. He was eager to be off. Each morning he rode down to the coast and went on his ship. He was going on round Land’s End to the north coast and would be away some weeks before returning home. My mother and I were to travel back the way we had come.

Neither of us had said anything about our adventure on the way. The man had, after all, allowed us to have the better room, my mother pointed out, so we could not complain about his taking it from us. “Your father would make more out of it than was actually there. You know how he loves a fight,” she said. “Moreover, we should never be allowed to travel on our own again.” So we did not mention it, and it was arranged that we should return as we had come, with Jennet and the two grooms.

Each day my father was being drawn to the idea of trade. It was, after all, a battle of sorts—the fight for supremacy on the sea. He had no doubt as to who would win that battle, and as the days passed he was more and more eager to begin it.

There was still news coming in of Spanish disasters, of ships being washed up along the coast, of men who had come to our coasts at dead of night and wormed their way into our villages pretending to be anything but Spaniards. My father could never hear enough of them, and in his opinion no fate was too bad for them.