How different was my little Tamsyn. She was a bright child. Although a year and four months younger than Connell, I could see already that she was going to be more intelligent. She had a quick probing mind and asked continual questions. She was by no means pretty; she had a rather snub nose and she had missed her father’s darkness—which Connell had inherited—and was mid-brown, with large hazel eyes. Her mouth was too large and her brow too high; but to me she was perfect.
There was in Tamsyn a protective quality. It may have been that she sensed something of the relationship between myself and her father and instinctively knew that it was not all that could be desired. I always fancied that when Colum was in the nursery she was standing guard to protect me. To look at that small stalwart figure, ready to do battle on my behalf, moved me deeply. She had the same protective attitude towards Senara, which showed an uncommon trait in her character. She was going to be of the kind that fights for the rights of others.
Then there was that other occupant of our nurseries: Senara. She had been ten months old at the time of her mother’s departure and had very quickly forgotten her. Maria had never played an important part in her life in any case. It was Jennet and myself who gave her that affection and security which children look for.
It very early became clear that she was going to be a beauty. It seemed impossible that it could be otherwise with such a mother. Her hair was of the same black and silky texture as that of Maria; her eyes were long and dark; her skin of the magnolia petal kind, her nose was straight and perfectly formed and she had a lovely mouth. I wondered whether she would be as beautiful as her mother—it was too soon to say, but there was a sweet innocence about her which I felt sure Maria could never have had even in her cradle.
When Maria had left and there was all the talk about her being a witch I feared that some harm might come to Senara. She was, after all, the witch’s child. Some of the servants would not go near her and I talked seriously to Jennet about this.
“Jennet,” I said, “you must always let me know what the servants are saying. What do they think about Maria’s going away?”
“On Hallowe’en which was when she came,” said Jennet. “It goes to show. There can’t be no gainsaying that.”
“They are saying she’s a witch no doubt.”
“She be a witch, Mistress. How did her come, and where be her to now?”
“We know how she came. She was shipwrecked. Where she has gone is a mystery. People often go away discreetly.”
“To a lover, like as not,” said Jennet, touching her lips with her tongue. “She were the kind who would bewitch a man. Why …”
I stopped her. I knew she was going to say she had bewitched the master. Jennet’s tongue always ran away with her.
“It is Senara who worries me, Jennet.”
“Senara!” Jennet’s maternal feelings began to bristle. “What be wrong with Senara?”
“Nothing wrong with her health. You have been like a mother to her.”
“It do make you feel young again, Mistress, to have a little one in your arms.”
“Make sure no harm comes to her.”
“What should, Mistress, a baby … little more?”
“They will say she is the witch’s child.”
“They wouldn’t harm a baby.”
“Make sure they don’t, Jennet. Watch over her.”
“My dear life, Mistress, no one’s going to harm that pretty creature while I’m there.”
“What of those nights when you’re at Seaward with your lover?”
Jennet blushed like a schoolgirl. “Well, there be those,” she admitted. “But there’s the girl, Amy. I talk to her. ‘If any harm should come to my babies,’ I said to her, ‘I’ll break every bone in your body.’ And there’s young Tamsie. She’s there. She’ll look after Senara. They lie close together, and Tamsie holds her hand all through the night. If she cries, Tamsie soothes her. A regular little mother she be. Nay, no harm will come to Senara.”
“Watch the talk, Jennet. People can work themselves up into hysteria over some matters and witchcraft is one of them. Maria has gone. If she was a witch then she has taken her influence somewhere else.”
“And in good time,” said Jennet. “I could see the bewitchment in her.”
I knew she was thinking of Colum. Jennet who was wise in the ways of men would have sensed the growing tension in his relationship with Maria.
So the time began to pass, and although the servants refused to go into the Red Room and crossed themselves when they passed it, I was sure that there was less talk of witchcraft in the kitchens than there had been.
It was not until August of that year that my mother came. It was wonderful to see her. I told her in detail of Maria’s departure and she was pleased that she had gone. “A woman like that is unsettling in a household,” she said.
She loved the children and Tamsyn was her favourite. There was something very appealing about my grave little girl.
My mother had all the latest news from London where, she told me in hushed tones, twenty-eight thousand people had died of the plague.
“These terrible epidemics,” she sighed. “Is there no end to them? How I wish some means could be found of stopping them!” She went on: “You must come to Lyon Court and bring the children with you. Your father complains that he sees you rarely.”
“He should come here with you.”
“He is always engaged on a voyage or preparing for one.”
“Is he getting along amicably with the Landors?”
“As well as can be expected. You know your father. He is not the easiest man to work with. He wants all his own way.”
“And Fennimore … ?”
My mother looked at me sharply. She sensed that something had changed at the castle and I knew she was wondering if I were regretting my marriage. I was not sure whether I could truthfully say that I did. I could confess to myself that now and then I thought of Fennimore Landor, with the gentle kindly face and the idealism of his expression. He wanted to make a better world. He was that sort of man. Colum cared nothing for the world, only his own profit. Now I was beginning to think as I had long ago of how different my life might have been if I had not gone on that journey and met Colum. I should I was sure, have married Fennimore. We should have had children. I should have spent my time between Trystan Priory and Lyon Court and I was sure I should have been happy—in a quiet, secure and peaceful way.
Did I regret? How can I say? At times, yes. But then my children would not have been Connell and Tamsyn and when you have children whom you love how can you wish that you had others, which you undoubtedly would have had with a different father.
“Fennimore,” said my mother, “is as enthusiastic as he ever was. He believes wholeheartedly in this project. And so does your father now. They have built a new ship. It is a joint project. They have named her the Landor Lion. She is due to go out to the East Indies early next year.”
“And his son … ?”
“He is at Trystan Priory with his mother.”
“You see them now and then?” I asked.
“Oh yes indeed.” I wanted to ask what Fennimore’s wife was like and if he was happy with her and did he ever think of me. Which was vanity, of course. It would be better for us both if we never thought of each other.
“And … his son? Are there any other children?”
“There is a girl besides young Fenn.”
“What is she called?”
My mother hesitated a moment and then she said: “Melanie.”
“I see. After Fennimore’s sister. They are happy, I suppose?”
“Yes. It is a quiet household. Of course Fennimore is away at sea a great deal, as your father, Carlos and Jacko are too. Romilly misses Penn a great deal, for he sails now with your father.”
“I am glad,” I said, “that the trading business is proving successful.”
“You are lucky to have a husband who does not go to sea, Linnet. Always whe
n they set out one wonders when and whether they will return.”
I was silent, thinking of Colum battling with the waves in his small boat, luring men to their deaths for the sake of their cargo.
I was on the point of telling my mother, but as was to happen so many times, I did not.
Time was passing and Maria was hardly ever mentioned now. I often wondered whether Colum thought of her. There were my mother’s visits, but Colum raised objections when I wished to go and stay with her. I had the feeling that he believed I should never come back. There would always be an excuse when my mother wanted me to go. He had heard that there were robbers on the road and could not himself spare the time to take me. He wanted to take Connell with him somewhere and he was not sure which day he was going. How could I travel with three young children? There was always some excuse. I must wait until he could travel with me.
“Vagabonds and robbers are being driven out of the big cities,” he told me. “And where will they come? Into the country! There are so many of them in the cities that the mayor of London and the Star Chamber are determined to rid the capital of them. They beg constantly and make a nuisance of themselves, and because they persist they are hanged on the gallows in London as a warning for all to see. And what will they do? Come to the country. They will beg by the roadside and if you do not give they will take—and like as not murder you for good measure. Do you think I am going to allow my children to make a journey in such conditions!”
There was truth in this for my mother wrote that she had heard from London that those who persisted in begging were hanged by order of the magistrates.
So we did not go to Lyon Court, though my mother made the journey to us. When she came she brought a bodyguard of servants and any robbers would have had short shrift from them. I suggested to Colum that I travelled likewise protected, but he would not hear of it.
That Christmas, however, he agreed that we should go to Lyon Court and we travelled there with the three children, Jennet and two other women and about four grooms.
My father was home and delighted to see us, particularly the children. He was greatly attracted to Connell and loved to see my son, legs apart, imitating his grandfather and father. I sighed to myself because I knew that he was going to be such another as they. They sensed this too but it delighted them.
My father took him on his ships and was eager to make a sailor of him. I encouraged this. I would rather he followed my father’s trade than that of his own father. Tamsyn was my mother’s favourite and I was so pleased that my little daughter was determined that Senara should not be left out. Not that my mother would have attempted to do that, but wherever Tamsyn was, there was Senara.
The child was three years old, rather precocious and undeniably beautiful—quite the beauty of the family. My father studied her closely and nodded at her. I could see he thought that she was one of Colum’s bastards.
He listened attentively to the story of Maria’s being washed up on the shore and brought to the castle to bear her child. I could see the twinkle in his eyes as he surveyed Colum. It meant, he understood. This was Colum’s way of introducing his child into the castle.
He would not have thought so if he had seen that poor half-drowned woman I had found on the shore. His connoisseur’s eye was quick to note Senara’s appearance.
“She’ll be a little beauty, that one,” he commented, and choked with laughter. He liked to think of other men’s misdemeanours. I supposed that made his own seem in the natural course of events.
I remember the fierce arguments that Christmas. My father raged against the Spaniards as he used to in the days of my childhood. He choked with rage when he talked about the descent they had made on Penzance that July.
“By God, the Dons have raided our coast. Have they forgotten we have driven them off the seas?”
“Have we?” said my mother. “If that is so, how did they get to Penzance?”
“Our own coast!” spluttered my father. “What say you, son-in-law? Do you not think we should take out ships and harry them?”
“I do indeed,” said Colum.
“Trade,” spat out my father. “’Tis fair enough when we have done for the Dons. But while they show such impudence and raid our coasts, there’s only one thing to do. Raid theirs.”
“You disconcert them more by taking their trade,” said my mother.
“Disconcert them!” stormed my father. “I’d murder the lot of them. I’d wipe them off the seas.”
He was all for diverting his ships from their trading ventures and putting them in action against Spain.
“We haven’t finished with the Spaniards yet,” he growled. “By God’s teeth, will they never learn their lesson?”
Colum and my father talked of the Spaniards with loathing. My father was pleased with Colum, except that he could not understand why Colum did not go to sea.
“I would,” said Penn, “that I could discover a gold mine, like Sir Walter Raleigh.”
“He has not discovered it yet,” my mother reminded him.
“He will,” cried Penn. “I know he will.”
“He has to,” put in my mother, “if he is to regain the Queen’s favour which he lost through seducing one of the maids of honour.”
“Poor Raleigh!” said my father. “I doubt not she asked to be seduced. No woman is taken against her will, to my mind.”
“You men imagine you are quite irresistible, I am sure,” said my mother, “but you have unwilling victims now and then.”
My father’s eyes were on my mother, suppressing his amusement. I looked up. Colum was watching me.
I thought: I wish I could stay here with my mother, and my children with me always. Here I feel safe.
Edwina and her son were of course with us. Carlos was at sea and at such times she more or less lived at Lyon Court. My mother knew how anxious she could be and with that strange gift of hers my mother was always afraid that she would see some disaster.
Edwina talked with me during that visit when we were alone.
She said: “I feel happier about you now.”
“Were you unhappy before?”
“I had an uneasy feeling that there was something evil at the castle. You remember I told you.”
“Yes, I remember. It had something to do with Maria. She disappeared, you know, as suddenly as she came.”
“It was a strange feeling … vague, insubstantial. That’s how it is often. Now I feel … much happier.”
“So, I’m safe,” I said rather lightly.
She answered: “It is as though the evil which threatened has receded. I can’t explain more than that.”
It was clearly the influence of Maria. I often wondered what became of her. She went away taking nothing with her. It was all very strange.
Edwina embraced me. “Take care, Linnet,” she said.
And I wondered whether she was still a little uneasy about me.
That year slipped away almost unnoticed. I was glad that Maria seemed to have been forgotten; I felt that was better for Senara’s sake. The Red Room was still the haunted room, but Maria’s name was only occasionally mentioned.
Senara was growing up to be a normal little girl and the only difference between her and the others was her exceptional beauty. The devotion between her and Tamsyn had not diminished but was even more marked. Senara who had a tendency to naughtiness could be called to order immediately by Tamsyn.
I spent a great deal of time in the nursery. I was teaching the children so this was necessary. I dare say I was prejudiced, but my daughter’s quick mind was a delight to me. Her affectionate nature charmed me and perhaps most of all that protective streak which was so marked in her relationship towards me and towards Senara.
I tried to shut out my doubts and fears about Colum. I had my children; and my mother was not so very far away. I knew that she had suffered a great deal because such a long distance separated her from her mother, so I told myself I had much to be thankful for.
&
nbsp; If I had never discovered the nature of Colum’s business, I could have been very happy during those years. There were to be two more of them before I realized that they were but a lull, a waiting period, and that the storm which had begun to gather about me had merely receded and could return and break over my head.
During those years the country remained at peace although there were skirmishes with Spain, the perennial enemy. The defeat of the Armada had saved us from invasion but it had not completely eliminated the enemy.
It was a sad day for the country—and particularly for the West Country—when we heard that Sir Francis Drake was dead. He and Sir John Hawkins had set out with a fleet of men-of-war to attack the Spanish settlements in the West Indies. Both of them had died. If they had but stayed at home, both of these men would have lived. It seemed a pity that Sir Francis who had done so much good should have gone away to die. He had brought water to the town through the river Meavy and had built six mills for the grinding of corn. He went into Parliament—representing Plymouth, naturally—and he had organized the building of walls and fortifications there.
My mother was sadly angry. “So much good he did in peace, why did he have to go on this expedition? What did it matter that the Spaniards had a treasure store in these places? Let them keep it. Better so than that a great man should lose his life in attempting to take it.”
But that was the way of such men. “He died as he would wish to die,” growled my father.
Then there was the apprehension when he heard that the Spaniards had taken Calais. Did this mean that our enemies were rising again? The Queen entered into an alliance with the French, but they were not liked much more than the Spaniards.
There was great rejoicing when Admiral Howard plundered Cadiz. My father talked of it for a whole year. “The Spaniards’ losses amounted to twenty million ducats,” he gloated.
We would hear such news and then there would be silences of months. What happened in the capital affected us little.
I was now visiting my mother often. The more I made the journey, the less arduous it seemed. The children were getting a little older and that made it even easier.
Witch from the Sea Page 22
