Witch from the Sea

by Philippa Carr

  I stood watching it. Then it was flung back and there stood Colum.

  “In God’s name,” he cried, “what are you doing here?”

  For a moment I could not speak. He came to me and taking my by the shoulders shook me.

  “What ails you? What is wrong?”

  “I thought you were a ghost.”

  He caught my hair in his hands and tugged it hard. Colum liked to mingle a little pain with his caresses.

  “Who has been talking to you?” he demanded.

  “I pick up bits of gossip here and there.”

  “I’ll have any whipped who have been pouring poison into your ear.”

  “You will do no such thing,” I said, “or I shall tell you nothing.”

  “You will tell me what I ask,” he said.

  “Not here in this room.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Here in this room, with your ghost smirking in the shadows.”

  There was something grand about him. He was not afraid of anything or anyone. One of the Seaward men had told Jennet that the master feared neither God nor man—and it was true. He would be defiant no matter what he faced. So he could not be expected to fear poor Melanie’s ghost—if the idea should occur to him that it existed, which I doubted.

  “I know that this was the room in which your first wife died.”

  “Well, she had to die somewhere.”

  “You never told me that she was a Landor.”

  “She had to be someone.”

  “But the Landors … Fennimore Landor’s sister!”

  “Of course. At one time you had plans to marry that man.”

  “How strange that you should have married his sister.”

  “Not strange at all. It was a suitable marriage in some ways. The girl was of good family and brought a good dowry with her.”

  “And you took the dowry and cared nothing for her.”

  “I had no reason to care for her.”

  “She was your wife.”

  He grasped me firmly and pressing me backwards kissed me firmly on the mouth.

  “There is only one wife for me,” he said. “Praise God I have her.”

  “I wish you had told me that she was a Landor.”

  “Why? It meant nothing to me that you once had a fancy for that lily-livered boy.”

  “You malign Fennimore. He was not that. He is brave and dedicated to his work. He has ideals.”

  “Much good will they do him.”

  “There speaks the buccaneer.”

  “This is a buccaneer’s world.”

  “It is changing,” I said. “Trade will take the place of war and those who persist in making war will suffer and those who live peacefully will prosper.”

  “By God,” he said, “you repeat your lessons well. I will have no more of Fennimore Landor in this house. You are well rid of him. I do not wish to hear his name mentioned again.”

  “Why? Does your conscience fret you?”

  “My conscience?”

  “Yes, for what you did to the Landors.”

  “You are mad, wife. What I did to the Landors was to marry their daughter. She died in childbirth as others have done before her.”

  “But she was sick and ill and you persisted that she should give you a son.”

  “God’s teeth, girl! Has a man no right to a son?”

  “Not if he must kill his wife to get one.”

  There was a brief silence; the ghostly shadows had crept farther into the room. For a few seconds—and a few only—Colum was shaken. I knew then that he had ignored Melanie’s pleas, that he had forced her as in the beginning he had forced me. His will was law in Castle Paling and if he had to trample over the heart and body of any who stood in his way he would do so.

  In those seconds I seemed to have a vision of the future. It was as though Melanie was warning me. He wants you now. You are important to him, but for how long?

  Just that and no more. The moment passed.

  He was laughing. “I can see someone has been talking too much.”

  “Nay,” I said quickly, fearing his wrath for the servants. “I have worked this out for myself. This was the room where she suffered. This was the room where she died. Do you not feel that she is still here?”

  “You have gone mad,” he said. “She lies in her grave. She is no more here than your pretty Fennimore is.”

  “She is dead, Colum, and the dead sometimes return.”

  “Nonsense,” he shouted. “Nonsense.”

  I saw his eyes look about that room. It would be full of memories for him. His step in the corridor, Melanie shrinking in her curtained bed; the onslaught that she feared—cruel and crude to such a defenceless creature, asking herself what she feared most, his intrusion into her privacy or that pregnancy which kept him away and could bring death closer.

  I was full of pity for her.

  “You are morbid,” he accused.

  “I feel drawn towards this room.”

  “On this night of all nights!”

  “Yes, because it is this night.”

  “You want me to stand in this room and ask forgiveness of her. For what? Because I asked that she should perform her duties as a wife? Because I wanted sons? In God’s name, for what other reason should I have married a silly simpering girl who brought me no pleasure?”

  “You made a mistake in marrying her. We have to abide by mistakes.”

  “Nay,” he said. “If we take a false step we right ourselves and go in another direction. Enough of this.” There was a satanic gleam in his eyes. He pulled me towards the bed.

  I said: “No, Colum, please, not here …”

  But he would not heed me. He said: “Yes. Yes. I say yes and by God and all his angels I will have my way.”

  Later we supped in that room where we had on the first night I came to Castle Paling.

  When I was in my chair he came round to me and in his hands was a solid chain set with diamonds on which hung a locket of rubies and diamonds. He put it about my neck.

  “There,” he said, “it becomes you well. It is my gift to you, my love. It is my thanks for my son and for giving me that which I have looked for in my wife.”

  I touched his hands and looked up at him. I had been shocked by what had happened in the Red Room. He had meant to lay the ghost, to superimpose on my fantastic imaginings a memory of our own. I think he was right in believing that I would not want to go there for some time. I would not want to think of us—which I must—on the bed on which Melanie had died.

  How characteristic of him thus to defy the enemy which in this case was the memory of Melanie.

  “You like this trinket?” he asked me.

  “It is beautiful.”

  He kissed me then with that tenderness which always moved me deeply.

  “You are glad of that night? Glad a brigand saw you in an inn and decided that you should be his.”

  “Yes, glad.”

  I took his hand and kissed it.

  “I will tell you something,” he said. “There was never a woman who pleased me as you do.”

  “I hope I shall always do so.”

  He laughed lightly. “You must make sure that you do.”

  “I shall grow old,” I said, “but so will you.”

  “Women grow old before men.”

  “You are ten years older than I am.”

  “Ten years is nothing … for a man. It is only women who must fight off age.”

  “You are arrogant.”

  “I admit it.”

  “Vain.”

  “True.”

  “Selfish and sometimes cruel.”

  “I confess my guilt.”

  “And you expect me to love such a man?”

  “Expect and demand,” he answered.

  “How could I?”

  “I will tell you how. You love me because you know you must. You know my nature. It is all you say it is. But know this too. I am a man who will have my way and if I say this woman is to love me
, then she has no help for it. She must do so.”

  “You imagine you are a god and all other men are nothing beside you.”

  “I know it to be so,” he said.

  “You believe that all you have to do is command a woman to love you and she must needs do so.”

  “That is true too,” he said. “You began by hating me. Now you are as eager for me as I for you. Is that not proof?”

  I smiled across the table at him.

  “I think it must be,” I said.

  I was happy that night. It was only in the morning that I thought again of Melanie and wondered whether in the beginning when they had first married she had supped with him in that room and whether he had spoken of love to her.

  Had it been only when she failed to give him what he wanted that he grew to despise her?

  Into my mind had crept an uneasy thought: What if you should cease to please him?

  Christmas came. My little Connell was four months old, lusty as ever, doing, as Jennet said, all the things a boy ought to do. Showing temper, showing interest, growing plump and healthy. I wouldn’t allow him to be swaddled and Colum agreed with me. If he had not I should have prepared to fight against him on this point. I couldn’t bear to think of my baby bound up in swaddling clothes for weeks. “I want his legs to grow long so that he will be as tall as his father,” I said.

  We loved to see him kick and his legs were straight as a pine tree.

  Such celebrations we had that Christmas. My mother and father came to spend the time with us. With them came Damask, Penn and Romilly. Edwina would not travel because her son being only a few months older than mine was too young, she said. So she and Carlos stayed at Trewynd. Jacko was with the family of his betrothed at Plymouth but he did ride over with the party to see Jennet and stayed with us a night and then went back to Plymouth.

  I enjoyed decorating the great hall with holly and ivy and giving orders in the kitchens. There were special pies made for my father’s pleasure; there were the coins to put in the cakes and puddings, all with their significance, and of course the silver penny for the cake to be discovered by the King for the Day.

  The joy in seeing my parents was great. My father insisted immediately on being taken to see his grandson and had brought a carved ship for him which was a replica of one of his own Lions—The Triumphant Lion. I laughed at him and told him Connell was too young for such toys, and he retorted that real boys were never too young for ships.

  It moved me deeply to see him at Connell’s cradle, putting out a great hand before the child’s face. Connell reached up and his hand curled about my father’s little finger. I had rarely seen my father so moved. I believe there were actually tears in his eyes.

  He stood up abruptly and he said to me, “So my girl Linnet has a son of her own. Bless you, girl. You’ve made me a happy man.”

  Later when we rode together as we used to when I was at home and the understanding had started between us, he said to me: “I spent years railing against fate that denied me a legitimate son. When you came I cursed God for giving me a girl. Now I see I was wrong. I learned in time that you were as good as any boy—and so you’ve proved. Now you’ve given me my grandson.”

  I said I was happy too. Then I added: “I have to watch my son will not be spoiled. His father dotes on him even as you do. He must not grow up to think he has but to smile and the whole world will be at his feet.”

  “Have no fear. That boy will take after his grandfather. I see it. He’ll be for the sea. He’s got that look in his eyes.”

  I laughed at my father, but he was serious.

  “I’m glad,” he said, “you’ve got a man who is a man. Never quite took to Fennimore Landor. Too much of the popinjay about him.”

  “You are not fair to him. He is a brave good sailor.”

  “Squeamish,” said my father. “Can you see him pacing a deck with blood dripping from his cutlass?”

  “I should not admire him for that.”

  “A handsome fellow, I grant you. But you’ve got a man and I’m proud of you.”

  Yes, there was no doubt that my father liked my husband. They rode together and talked a great deal.

  My mother too seemed happy, and Damask’s infatuation for Colum continued. He was amused by the child but he took little notice of her, which she did not seem to mind as long as she could sit near and watch him.

  It was like the old Christmases I remembered at Lyon Court. I suppose I had made it so. All the servants and their families came into the great hall and were given wine and Christmas cake; they sang carols and the mummers came and performed.

  I did talk to my mother when we were alone.

  I mentioned the fact that I had discovered Colum had been married before. “His wife was Melanie Landor,” I said. “Fennimore’s sister. Did you know?”

  “We did discover it after the wedding,” said my mother. “What a time that was! First the secret ceremony and then the other. It was all rather hurried, as it had to be.”

  “When did you realize that Colum’s first wife was Melanie Landor?”

  “It was after your wedding when you had left for Castle Paling with Colum. The Landors were to visit us. Only Fennimore and his father came. Mistress Landor was taken ill. She admitted to me afterwards that she could not face us when she knew that our daughter had married her daughter’s husband.”

  “It must have been a shock for her.”

  “It was. How did you discover? But Colum told you, I suppose.”

  “No, he did not. I found out through Jennet.”

  “Trust Jennet!” said my mother half indulgently, half in exasperation.

  “Yes, Jennet told me who she was. I was surprised.”

  “And you mentioned it to Colum?”

  Memories came back to me—the darkening room, the red bed with the shadows deepening and the ghost of Melanie lurking.

  “I did. He was not very pleased.”

  “He had not wished you to know?”

  “I am not sure of that. He had simply not mentioned it. It was over, she was dead and he was married to me now. Tell me what Mistress Landor said when she knew I had married Colum.”

  “Remember that she lost her beloved daughter. She must have been nearly demented when it happened. She did not wish her daughter to have any more children. She was certain that if she did she would kill herself. Of course she blames Colum. She becomes hysterical over her daughter’s death. We must understand that, Linnet.”

  “She told me that her daughter had been murdered. It was a great shock when I discovered who she was … for that reason.”

  “You must remember she is a mother. That is why she has to blame someone for her daughter’s death. Her grief was assuaged by her anger against her daughter’s husband. Sometimes when grief like that sweeps over you anger is an outlet for it.”

  “I understand. And the Landors have never had any communication with Castle Paling since her death.”

  “Perhaps in time they will come to see reason. In any case, my dearest, you are happy. You have a beautiful son and a husband who loves you. And it has all happened so quickly. Just over a year ago that we … No matter. I rejoice. May God bless you, my darling, and may you always be as happy as you are now.”

  She wanted to see the castle. I told her about Ysella and Nonna. “Ysella’s Tower is locked up. It is used as a kind of storage place. Seaward is where certain of the servants live.”

  “A whole tower to themselves?” said my mother.

  “There is so much space in a castle, Mother.”

  “I remember the Abbey where I spent my childhood. It is very beautiful here, and so interesting. I like to think of my little girl as the châtelaine of a great castle.”

  When I was showing her the rooms in the castle we came to the Red Room.

  It was the first time I had been in it since that night when Colum had found me there. I noticed that there was a layer of dust on the planked hutch and the bedposts.

 
My mother noticed it too and raised her eyebrows. As she grew older she had become a meticulous housewife.

  “The servants don’t like to come in here alone,” I said.

  “The haunted room, is it? Now I see it has that air. What legend is there attached to this place?”

  I said: “It was the room in which Colum’s first wife died.”

  “Ah,” said my mother, “if I were you I would take down those red hangings and the bed curtains and put in another colour. Change it.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “The old legends that should be preserved are happy ones,” said my mother.

  “I will consider it,” I said. And I thought at the time: She is right in a way but changing the curtains and putting in new furniture would not alter the fact that within these four walls Melanie had lived, suffered and died.

  After the New Year my parents went back to Lyon Court. I missed them very much, but I was happy watching my child grow bigger every day. He flourished and our delight in him was greater than ever. But oddly enough I could not cast out that morbid fascination which the Red Room had for me, and I still went there. I did think of changing the curtains. I even went so far as taking my little seamstress along to discuss the matter with her.

  I noticed how reluctant she was and I could see that she was afraid of the task.

  At last she admitted that she thought it might bring bad luck.

  “Nonsense,” I said. “Why should it?”

  “It might be, Madam, that this is how she wished it to stay.”

  Then I knew that I should really do as my mother said. I must change the room entirely so that when people entered it they would not think of poor dead Melanie.

  But I didn’t. I found I had no heart for the task. I assured myself that to do so was to give way to superstition. But that was not quite true.

  Somewhere deep down in my mind was the thought that Melanie had left something of herself behind and that one day I might need her help.

  I will admit it was a thought which flashed in and out of my head and was dismissed immediately, but it came back. It was there in the Red Room; and on dark nights I thought I could hear it in the murmur of the wind on the sea.

  What if he should tire of you as he tired of Melanie? Tire of me? The mother of his son … and the other children we should have. For we should have them. He was sure of that and so was I.