“Love,” he said, looking intently at me. “You talk fiercely of love. What do you know of it?”
I had difficulty in controlling my features then because I had a sudden vision of what I had dreamed life would be for me: Carey and I together. Our home would have been Remus Castle; I could see the park at Remus, the walled rose garden, the pond garden with its pleached alley, and beloved Carey, with whom I used to quarrel when I was a child—as I quarreled with this man now, only differently of course—Carey, whom love had made gentle and tender as this man could never be.
He had bent closer and was looking at me earnestly.
I said: “I have loved. I shall never love again.”
“So you are not the virgin I promised myself.”
“You sicken me. You know naught of love; you know only of lust. I have lain with no man, but I have loved and planned to marry, but it was not to be. My father and his mother had sinned together. And he was my brother.”
He studied me with narrowed eyes. Why had I attempted to talk to him of Carey? It had weakened me in some way, made me vulnerable. He had no pity for me; if he loved me, I thought, he would be tender now, he would be gentle with me. But he had no tender feelings for me; his need for me was nothing but desire, a determination to subdue.
He said: “I know much concerning you. It was necessary for me to discover what I could of my wife. Your father was a charlatan.”
“He was not that.”
“He was found in the crib at Bruno’s Abbey. The whole of England knew of it. It was said to be a miracle and then it was found that there was no miracle; he was the son of a wayward monk and a serving wench. Should I marry a charlatan’s daughter, the granddaughter of a serving girl?”
“Indeed you should not,” I retorted. “Such a refined cultured gentleman cannot be allowed to do such a thing.”
“But,” he went on, “this charlatan became a rich man; he was possessed of Abbey lands; your mother was of excellent family, so in the circumstances perhaps I might be lenient.”
“You surely would not wish a woman of such ancestors to become the mother of your sons?”
“Well, to confess, she hath a way with her which pleases me, and since I have gone so far as to become betrothed to her I’ll take her to my bed and if she pleases me I’ll keep her there.”
“She will never please you. Escape while there is time.”
“I have gone too far in this.”
“She would release you, I am certain.”
“The truth is that I am never going to release her and in a short time she will be mine so utterly that she will beg me never to leave her.”
“A pretty fiction,” I said. “I know it to be far from the truth.”
“Come with me now. Let us slip away. Let me show you what love is like.”
“You are the last from whom I could learn that. I shall stay in this company until we leave. And it must almost be time that we did so.”
“Tonight we will be together.”
“Tonight? How could that be?”
“Easily. I will arrange it.”
“Here?”
“I will ride back with you and you will open your window and I will climb through to you.”
“In my sister’s house!”
“Your sister is a woman. She will understand. But she need not know.”
“You still do not understand that I am not as eager for you as you appear to be for me. You know full well that I despise you.”
“Is that why your eyes sparkle at the sight of me?”
I stood up and went back to my seat at the table. He must perforce follow me.
Morris dancers had arrived. They had been engaged to entertain us and so they came into the hall in their Moorish costumes with bells attached to them and their capers were greatly applauded. They did a piece in which Robin Hood and Maid Marian figured and this was greatly appreciated. There was more singing and dancing, but at last the banquet and ball were over.
I rode back with Edward and Honey in their carriage, but Jake Pennlyon insisted on coming with us. He rode beside our carriage as he said he was not trusting his bride to the rough roads and any vagabond who might attempt to rob us.
I whispered to Honey: “He will try to come to my room. He has said as much.”
She whispered back: “When we get back to the house I will feign sickness and ask you to look after me.”
At Trewynd when we alighted from the carriage Honey put her hand to her head and groaned.
“I feel so ill,” she said. “Will you take me to my bed, Catharine?”
I said indeed I would and gave Jake Pennlyon a curt good-night. He kissed me on the lips—one of those kisses which I was beginning to hate and tried hard to avoid. I turned away and went with Honey to her room.
“He’ll go away now,” she said. But she did not know Jake Pennlyon.
I crept cautiously to my room. I did not open the door. I put my ear to the keyhole. I could hear the window squeaking slightly as it swung open. True to his threat, Jake Pennlyon had climbed the wall and come through it. I knew that if I went into that room I would find him there.
I pictured his leaping from behind and locking my door. I should be at his mercy and this time there would be no escape.
I turned and tiptoed back to Honey’s room and told her what I suspected.
“Stay with me tonight,” she said. “Edward will sleep in his own room. Catharine, tomorrow you must return to your mother. This man is dangerous.”
What a night that was. I could not sleep at all. I kept thinking of Jake Pennlyon in my room, ready to spring on me. I could hear his cry of exultation when he caught me as I entered the room; I could hear the key turn in the lock, I could feel his great powerful body crushing mine. It was so vivid in my imagination that I seemed to live it.
It was not until dawn that I slept and then I was late waking.
Honey came into the room. “If he was here he has gone now,” she said. “His horse is not in the stables.”
I went cautiously to my room. The sun was streaming in; it showed my bed—empty but tousled. He must have slept there.
Fury possessed me. He had dared sleep in my bed. I pictured him there, waiting for the bride who did not come.
When I stood gazing at my disturbed bed, I was overcome with a sense of powerlessness. I felt like a hunted animal with the baying of the dogs coming nearer, knowing that the relentless huntsman was bearing down on me.
So far I had escaped. I kept thinking how easily I could have stepped into that room last night to find myself trapped.
He was the sort of man who so far had always won. I knew that. But he should not do so this time. I knew that I must slip away and return to my home. But would that deter him? He must sail in six weeks’ time, but I might well be carrying his seed at that time. I felt that if I allowed him to subdue me I should despise myself forever; and in a way so would he. It must not happen. I must go on fighting.
I couldn’t remain in the house. I guessed he would shortly be riding over. I must make sure not to be alone with him.
I went down to the stables. Honey had seen me and followed me there.
Her brow was furrowed. “You are going riding … alone?” she asked.
“I have to do something quickly.”
“We should never have let it get to this.”
“He was in my room last night. He must have waited there for me to come back. He slept in my bed.”
“What … impudence!”
“Honey, what am I going to do?”
“Wait there,” she said. “I’ll ride with you. Then you won’t be alone. We’ll talk about it.”
I went back to the house with her while she put on her riding habit and we took our horses and rode out … in the opposite direction of Lyon Court.
I said: “I must go home.”
“I am sure you are right.”
“I’ll have to slip away secretly. Perhaps in a day or so.”
“I shall miss you sorely. Jake Pennlyon is determined, but at least he will marry you.”
I laughed. “Can you imagine marriage with such a man? He would try to reduce one to a slave.”
“I don’t think you are the stuff that slaves are made of.”
“Sometimes I feel I’d like to make him understand that.”
She looked at me oddly.
“Are you a little attracted by him, Catharine?” she asked.
“I loathe him so much that I get satisfaction in thwarting him.”
“I think his wife would not be a very happy woman. He would be an unfaithful, demanding husband. I have heard stories of his father. There is not a girl in the village who is safe from him.”
“I know that well. Such a man would never do for me.”
We had come to the crest of a hill and were looking down on the little village of Pennyhomick, a charming sight with the little houses cluttering around the church.
I said: “How peaceful it looks. Let us ride down.”
We walked our horses down the steep hill and as we came into the winding street with its gabled houses almost meeting over the cobbles I called to Honey to stop, for I had seen a man crouching in a doorway; and there was that about him which was a dire warning.
“Let us go back,” I said.
“Why so?” asked Honey.
“Look at that man. I’ll swear it’s plague.”
Honey needed no more than that. Swiftly she turned her horse. At the foot of the hill we saw a woman coming toward us; she carried panniers on her shoulders and had clearly been to a brook for water.
She shouted to us: “Keep off, good folks. The sweat has come to Pennyhomick.”
We rode up the hill as fast as we could, and only at the top turned to look back at the stricken village.
I shuddered. Before the night was out there would be bereaved households in that little hamlet. It was a sobering thought. And as we rode off the idea came to me. I realized then that I did not want to go home. I wanted the satisfaction of outwitting Jake Pennlyon and the stricken Pennyhomick had given me this idea.
I said: “Listen, Honey, if I go home he can take two courses of action. He can follow me and perhaps catch me. Or he may have his revenge on you. He is cruel and ruthless. You can be sure he would show no mercy. I’ll not run away. I’ll stay here and I’ll outwit him at the same time. I am going to have the sweating sickness.”
“Catharine!” Honey had turned pale.
“Not in truth, my dear sister. I shall pretend to have it. I shall stay in my chamber. You will attend me. We have been to Pennyhomick, remember. We are infected. You will nurse me and my illness will last as long as the Rampant Lion remains in the harbor.”
Honey had pulled up her horse and stared at me. “Why … Catharine … I think we could do it.”
I laughed. “Even he could not come where the sweat was. He dare not. He has to sail away with the Rampant Lion. He could not risk carrying the infection on board his vessel. I shall stay in my room attended only by you. From my window I shall watch what goes on. Oh, Honey, it’s a wonderful plan. He’ll have to sail away without submitting me to his hateful lust. I shall die of laughing.”
“It seems like tempting Providence.”
“I would never have thought the great-granddaughter of witches would be so lily-livered. You shall make me some concoction—a mixture of buttercup juice and cinnamon and a paste. I shall look ill and I’ll appear at the window. If he passes by he will quickly fall out of lust with me.”
“No one must know except Edward and the two of us.”
“Honey, I can’t wait to begin. I shall go straight to my room, complaining of a headache. I shall go to bed and send Jennet for a posset. Then you will come in and from then on I have the sweat and no one must come near me except my beloved sister, who was with me at the time I was in Pennyhomick and may therefore be another victim.”
We returned to the house. As one of the grooms took our horses I said: “I have such a lightheaded feeling and pains in my head. I shall go to my room.”
“I’ll send up a potion,” said Honey. “You go and get into bed.”
And that was the beginning.
The news traveled fast.
Ten people had died in Pennyhomick and the dread disease had crept into Trewynd Grange. The young mistress of the house was nursing her sister, with whom she, with great ill luck, had gone into Pennyhomick and they had brought the sweating sickness to the Grange.
Honey had ruled that no one was to penetrate the turret wing of the house to which I had moved, the better to isolate myself. Food was brought and placed in a room at the foot of the spiral stairway; Honey would descend and bring it to my room.
Edward did not come to us; for him to have done so might have betrayed us. We had to act as though I were in truth suffering from the sweating sickness and was being nursed by my sister, who might also be affected.
The first day I found exciting because it was not long, as I had guessed, before Jake Pennlyon came riding over.
Honey had ready the paste we had prepared and we coated my face with it. I looked into the mirror and did not recognize myself. I lay in my bed, the sheet pulled up to my chin. I heard his voice—resonant, suited to giving orders on the deck.
“Stand aside. I’m going up. Sweat! I don’t believe it.”
Honey stood by the door, trembling. I lay still waiting. He burst open the door and stood there.
“For God’s sake go away,” muttered Honey. “You are mad to come in here.”
“Where is she? It’s a trick. I’ll not be tricked.”
Honey tried to hold him off. “We went to Pennyhomick,” she said. “Have you not heard? They are dying like flies in Pennyhomick. Don’t imperil your life and those of many others.”
He came to the bed and looked down on me.
“Good God!” he whispered, and I wanted to burst into laughter. How grotesque I must look. He will have done with me forever! I thought.
I muttered as though in delirium, “Who’s that? … Carey… Is that you, Carey … my love … ?”
And I wondered that I could laugh inwardly while I said his name. But I did and I was exultant because I could see the incredulous fear and horror on that bold and hated face.
He had turned a different shade. It was visible even beneath the bronzed skin. He stretched out a hand and drew it back.
He turned to Honey.
“It is indeed … true …” he murmured.
“Go,” said Honey. “Every moment you spend here you are in danger.”
He went; I heard his heavy tread on the stairs. I sat up in my bed and laughed.
The days began to pass. They were tedious, monotonous. There was little to do. We worked tapestry, but it was not much to my taste. Often I saw Jake Pennlyon. I had to be careful, though, for he always looked up at my window and if he had caught me there and guessed at the truth I couldn’t imagine what his reaction would have been. I used to laugh sometimes to think how I was deceiving him; and that was the only thing that made these days bearable.
Once I suggested to Honey that we slip out at night and ride by moonlight. She pointed out to me that if we were discovered, even by one of the servants, all our efforts would have been in vain.
So I resisted the temptation; but how dull were the days!
My death was expected daily and it was considered something of a miracle that I was still alive. It was remembered that there had been an aura of mystery about my father. Honey was the great-granddaughter of a witch. The story went around that she had remedies which could cure even the sweat.
Jake rode over every day, but he didn’t come into the house. He talked to the servants. He questioned them closely. Perhaps he was still suspicious.
The plan was working satisfactorily in more ways than one, because it was giving John Gregory time to make his plans in comfort. Everyone was chary of visiting Trewynd when the sweating sickness was there.
After t
hree weeks of this life Honey brought news.
Jake Pennlyon had decided to leave two weeks earlier. The weather would be more favorable and he would leave before the gales set in. There could in any event not be a wedding for some time.
From my window I surreptitiously watched the activity on the Hoe. They were loading fast; the little boats were going back and forth. I was fascinated. And at last came the day when the Rampant Lion drew up her anchor and sailed away, taking Jake Pennlyon with her.
He had written to me and the letter was delivered while I was watching the ship fade into the distance.
“The voyage will wait no longer, so I go earlier the sooner to be back,” he had written. “You will be waiting for me.”
I laughed exultantly. I had won.
As soon as the Rampant Lion had sunk below the horizon my recovery began. In a week I was about again. It was a long week, but we had to give our subterfuge some semblance of truth. The servants were amazed. Few people contracted the sweat and lived. Moreover, Honey had nursed me and come through unscathed.
Jennet came back to me at the end of the week. It was good to listen to her gossip.
She regarded me with something like awe. “They be saying, Mistress,” she told me, “that you have powers.”
I was not displeased that this should be said.
“They be saying that you be the daughter of him who was a saint. Didn’t he come not like others come and go in a mysterious way? And the mistress herself … she come from witches. That’s what they be saying.”
I nodded. “Well, here you see me, Jennet, almost as well as I ever was.”
“It be a miracle, Mistress.”
The days were long and the zest had gone out of them. The Hoe had none of the old excitement when the Rampant Lion no longer rode the waves and there was no danger of Jake Pennlyon’s suddenly appearing.
I began to think of going home to the Abbey. My mother would be pleased to see me.
Perhaps because there was so little of interest I began to notice Jennet. She had changed in a rather subtle way. There was something a little sly about her, secretive; often when I spoke to her she would start as though she feared I would discover some guilty secret.
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