Daughter of Satan

by Jean Plaidy

  ‘A saucy pair of wenches, sir,’ went on Josiah. ‘Betsy’s a bold thing, and she’s showing Luce the way to boldness. I’ll have Mistress Alton whip them for shrieking below your window.’

  ‘Why do they shriek? It was obviously with pleasure. Do they not realize the import of such a time as this?’

  ‘They realize only the import of a riband or a man’s smile, sir.’

  Betsy’s laugh rang out. Richard shuddered as though it grated on his nerves.

  ‘Pray go and tell them to be quiet,’ he said.

  Josiah went, and from the window Richard watched. He was faintly surprised that he should have felt this flicker of interest. He saw each girl receive a slap across her face. Betsy put out a red tongue at Josiah’s back and little Luce clapped her hands over her mouth to stop herself laughing.

  Even after they had gone into the house Richard continued to think of them. What did the future hold for such as they were? Marriage with one of Clem Swann’s boys, life in a cottage close to the house, continuing to work for him mayhap, breeding children – boys who would fight for another hero like Drake against another enemy like the Spaniard; and girls to giggle over a riband and the smile of a sailor.

  Then he forgot them. He took a book from the shelf and sat back in his chair. It was difficult to read when at any moment the first of the Spanish ships might be sighted on the horizon.

  Luce Martin was fifteen years old. She had been sent to work at the house of Richard Merriman when she was thirteen. Her father was a fisherman and he lived in a little cottage in Whitsand Bay, on the other side of the Tamar. This made Luce a bit of a foreigner to the people of Devon. Living was hard to get; sometimes the boats went out and returned with little, and if they returned full of fish it seemed that then there was a glut. There were times when the family lived on buttermilk, with nothing to eat but scraps of rye bread. There were many brothers and sisters, so that even their mother had to stop and count them if she were asked their number; they came regularly each year. Luce was one of the middle ones; and when Mistress Alton, who herself came from the Whitsand Bay neighbourhood, offered to take her to the house in Pennicomquick to work under her, Luce’s parents agreed with great eagerness.

  So she had set out from her home with a small bundle containing her possessions, and for the first time in her life she was ferried over the Tamar; she walked the few remaining miles to her new home.

  She had been afraid of Mistress Alton from the moment she had first heard her name, and she had not been reassured by her first meeting with the woman, for Mistress Alton was, in Luce’s eyes, terrible to behold. A tall, thin woman with a mouth which scarcely opened even when she talked, and shut up like a trap immediately afterwards, she wore the neatest and most sober clothes Luce had ever seen, and her skin was hideously disfigured by a very bad attack of the pox. But she had a reputation for great piety, though this did not lessen Luce’s fears.

  As soon as Luce arrived she had been sent into the yard to strip. Her clothes were lousy. She was given garments to wear which had been chosen by Mistress Alton, for such a fastidious gentleman as Mr Richard Merriman could not demean himself in the affairs of his servants, and he left everything of such a nature to his housekeeper. The clothes were of the same pattern as those worn by Luce’s fellow serving maid, Betsy Cape. Then Luce’s lovely long hair, which hung curling to her waist, was cut short.

  Hair, said Mistress Alton as she cut it, was best cut short, and especially hair that was thick and curly, for that undoubtedly was a gift from Satan.

  The Devil’s name was more often on Mistress Alton’s lips than that of God, who in her eyes seemed to be a superior, vindictive version of the Devil.

  So here was Luce, barely thirteen and frightened, never having seen anything as grand as the house in which she now found herself, each day taught her duty to God and her master, but chiefly her duty to Mistress Alton.

  Mistress Alton managed the house; she cooked and salted the food and bottled her preserves; she supervised everything that had to be done inside the house and was inordinately proud of her work. She never made a mistake; if mistakes were made, others made them; and faults had to be paid for. It was Mistress Alton’s duty to see that they were, and the faults of Luce and Betsy were paid for with beatings administered with the thin cane which hung from the housekeeper’s belt together with the keys of her cupboards.

  Beatings, which were given for the slightest offence, took place regularly. When Bill Lackwell came to the kitchen to bring fish, and Mistress Alton fancied the girls threw saucy glances at him, they were beaten; once she caught Betsy kissing Charlie Hurly when he came with eggs from his father’s farm, and Betsy was treated to a very special beating for that.

  It was her duty, said Mistress Alton, to stop that sort of thing.

  When Betsy was beaten, Luce must be there to look on; and Betsy was always made to witness Luce’s punishment.

  ‘It will be a lesson to you, my girl!’ each would be told.

  They were obliged to strip to the waist for the caning, for what was the good of beating through the thickness of cloth? They must hold their bodices over their breasts though, for it was immodest to show them even to members of their own sex. If they dropped the bodice or it slipped out of place, they must be beaten for immodesty.

  Mistress Alton kept them working hard. The Devil was for ever at their elbows, Mistress Alton explained, waiting to tempt idlers.

  So to thirteen-year-old Luce life was all work and beatings. She did not think there was anything strange about that; her father had been wont to beat her merely because he was in the mood. She was lucky, she knew, to get her food and clothing; but now that she was growing older she was a little resentful about the shortness of her hair, and Betsy fostered this discontent.

  They slept together in an attic. In some houses all the servants would sleep together in one big room, but Mistress Alton would not have young girls and men sleeping together.

  ‘My dear life!’ she said. ‘What goings-on there would be indeed! I’d not get a wink of sleep for the watch I’d have to keep for wickedness.’

  Every night the girls were locked into their attic and the windows bolted. ‘And if,’ said Mistress Alton, ‘I should hear of you girls unbolting that window, I’d turn you out of the house, I would. There’s some wantonness that can’t be beat out, and that sort I would not stand!’

  Luce and Betsy would lie on their straw pallets and talk until they fell asleep, which usually they quickly did being tired out after the day’s hard work.

  On that Whit Sunday night as they lay together on their pallets waiting for the coming of Mistress Alton, Luce whispered: ‘Shall us both be beaten tonight?’

  ‘Neither of us will,’ answered Betsy with such conviction that Luce raised herself to look at her.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because her’s too busy to think of caning us.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Charlie Hurly told me.’ Betsy giggled. ‘He came up to the house this afternoon. I do think he came to see me. He was out there, trying to get me to go out . . .’

  Happy Betsy! A life of hard work and continual punishment could not quell her spirits; she always felt herself to be on the verge of an adventure which involved her seduction, and this evil fate seemed to be what Betsy longed for more than anything.

  ‘You’d taken a bit of the pie,’ Luce reminded her. ‘She saw it on your mouth and you’d spilled some on your bodice.’

  ‘Well, I got a cut or two for that. Besides, she’s too busy, I tell’ ee. ‘Sh! Here she comes.’

  The light in the attic was still good enough for them to see the housekeeper clearly. Betsy was right, thought Luce; something had happened. She looked excited. Luce guessed it was this waiting for the Spaniards to come.

  Mistress Alton was wearing her best dress; her ruff was of cambric and her skirt more wired than the one she usually wore; but it was not her dress that Luce noticed so much as her face
, for Luce had rarely seen the housekeeper look so pleased. Moreover, nothing was said about their misdeeds of the day, and there were no beatings on that Sunday night.

  When she left them, Betsy said, smiling secretly: ‘I could tell ’ee, Luce Martin, where she be going.’

  ‘Where?’ demanded Luce.

  Betsy continued to smile. ‘Have you ever thought that there might be witches among us?’

  ‘Witches!’ whispered Luce.

  ‘And living close to us. Do you know what witches can do, Luce? They can do anything . . . just anything at all.’

  Luce did not want to talk about witches; she wanted to continue with the thoughts which had been with her ever since she had seen Sir Francis come out of church. Listening to Betsy’s continual talk of men and their ways had aroused Luce’s curiosity; and there were things she wished to know and experience. She did not care to make herself understood to Betsy. Better for Betsy to think her cold and prim than that Betsy should know the real reason why she hated it when she was teased about Ned Swann, who stank of the stables, and Bill Lackwell, who stank of fish. She did not like Ned Swann; still less did she like Bill Lackwell, whose grandmother was a witch. No; Luce’s lover must not be as these. She wished for someone great and noble, someone handsome with a lace ruff and a jaunty beard – not Sir Francis, of course, but someone very like him.

  Betsy went on with her talk of witches.

  ‘They can rouse a tempest. They can strike down a man or woman with the pox or an ague. They can do devils’ work. You’re not listening. Why, you should listen. Bill Lackwell’s got his eyes on you, and if he was to set his heart on ’ee, he’d get you. ‘Course he would. Ain’t his grandmother one of them?’

  ‘I’d have nothing to do with Bill Lackwell.’

  ‘That’s what you do say now. But what if she was to get to work on ’ee, eh? Witches can do anything. Then there’s devils that can creep into your bed at night, and no bolts on doors and windows is going to keep them out. They can come in all shapes. Some come handsome – just the way a woman would look for handsomeness; some comes as toads and hares and cats and dogs. Some comes as the Devil himself.’

  Betsy’s voice had risen to a shriek, and she paused for breath before hurrying on: ‘I’ll tell ’ee something else. I’ll tell ’ee why we’ve been spared the cane. It’s because they’re going off . . . They’re meeting tonight. Charlie . . . he told me. They’re going to take old woman Lackwell and look for the Devil’s mark . . . teats where she feeds her familiar . . . and then they’ll tie her up and duck her. ’Twill be the end of old Granny Lackwell, for if she do float then she be a witch and they’ll take her to Witches Gibbet and hang her up by the neck; and if she do sink, well then, she’ll be no witch, but she’ll be drowned all the same.’

  Luce began to shiver.

  ‘Don’t I wish I were there!’ said Betsy. ‘Why, if we’ve got one witch among us, then we may have others, and if we have, then we should look for them. It don’t do to have witches round us. No wonder Charlie’s father lost a whole litter of pigs last month. He says ’twas witches’ work, and we ought to find them, if they do be among us.’

  They were silent.

  Darkness fell and the stars came out; there was a thin rind of moon to shed a little light through the diamond panes of the window. They could not sleep, and at last Betsy began to talk of the Spaniards.

  ‘They come to the towns and burn down the houses and ravish the maidens. Well, we couldn’t be blamed for that, could we? But some says they ain’t human. ‘Tain’t whores they do want to make of us girls, but Catholics. They give you the scourge and put on the thumbscrews and hang you up by your wrists; and if you was to turn Catholic before they burn you, they strangle you first. If you don’t, they just roast you alive. Listen. Can you hear those voices? That’s them with Granny Lackwell.’ She leaped up and went to the window. ‘We couldn’t climb out of this window, could we? But if that door was unlocked, I’d be out. I’d be down them stairs. Wouldn’t you, Luce? Wouldn’t it be worth a bit of trouble to see what they’re doing to old Granny Lackwell?’

  Luce nodded and Betsy began to giggle. She danced to the door.

  ‘Why,’ she said, ‘if that door was unlocked, I’d open it and walk out . . . right down them stairs . . .’

  She broke off. She had turned the handle and the door opened, for Mistress Alton had forgotten to lock it.

  Half a mile or so from the big house and the cottages of Pennicomquick some fifteen men and ten women were gathered around an old woman. The light from a flare or two showed the clearing among the trees, and in this clearing was a pond of stagnant water. The faces of these people looked fantastic in the glow; lust of the hunt burned in their eyes, and mingling with it was a gleam of righteousness which made them enjoy their cruelty the more. The Church of England no less than the Church of Rome denounced all witches and sentenced them to ignoble death.

  Women were whispering together: ‘I did see the smoke coming out of her chimney today. It did rise in shapes like serpents. ’Twas no ordinary smoke. ’Twas evil she was brewing in her cauldron, I’m sure.’

  ‘That cat of hers, ’tis no ordinary cat. ’Tis her familiar and she suckles it. We’ll see her float, mark my words.’

  ‘And if her floats, what then?’

  ‘What the law won’t do for us we must do for ourselves. To the gibbet with her.’

  They were tying up the old woman now in the traditional manner – her wrists to her ankles; they were attaching a rope about her waist so that they could pull her out of the water and if possible prevent her drowning. They were eager to prove her a witch and hang her on the gibbet.

  The poor old creature was moaning softly; a trickle of saliva ran from her lips; she was bemused with fear. She crouched on the grass, stark naked, her withered body seeming inhuman in the light from the flares. They had found a big wart on her back and had declared this to be the Devil’s mark, so that there was ample justification for putting to the test one so branded.

  The old woman’s cat was mewing piteously. They had intended that he should follow his mistress into the water, and a stone was being tied about his neck; he scratched and clawed at his tormentors with what they were certain was more venom than could be displayed by an ordinary cat.

  ‘Send the cat off first,’ cried a man. ‘Who knows? It might have powers to help the witch.’

  This the crowd agreed to do, and the cat was flung into the pond. It went to the bottom immediately.

  ‘Now,’ cried Mistress Alton, who was well to the fore. ‘No more delay. Now for the witch. Tom Hurly, you’d better say a word or two before we does it, to show the real reason why we feel we’ve got to act.’

  Tom Hurly, a talkative man, was quite prepared to speak.

  ‘We’ll ask the blessing of God,’ he said, ‘for we know, every one of us, that ’tis His will we should down the Devil and all his friends. Oh Lord, let not this witch escape Thy Vengeance. Let her be shown for what she is by the test of water. Let not the work of Thine enemy Satan come to her aid. If she floats, then Lord, we’ll hang her – with Thy help – on the witches gibbet. If she sinks we’ll know her for innocent. In Thy Name we seek Thy Help in purging this our land from the Evil One.’

  Mistress Alton cried: ‘Come on, friends. In the Name of the Lord.’

  With a howl of triumph, her persecutors crowded in on the old woman, trying to hustle her to her feet. She could not stand, trussed as she was, and could only crouch on all fours, like an animal in pain.

  And then, suddenly, into their midst came Richard Merriman. His presence was so unexpected that the men stopped what they were doing to take off their caps or pull their forelocks, while the women curtsied.

  Richard looked with distaste at the naked woman and from her to her persecutors.

  ‘You were making such a devil of a row,’ he said. ‘So it’s a witch hunt.’

  ‘Well, sir,’ said Tom Hurly the spokesman, ‘this Granny Lackwell, she be
a witch, sir . . .’

  ‘Oh come, Hurly – just a wretched old woman, I am sure.’

  ‘No, sir. Not she . . .’

  They all began to talk at once.

  ‘My little Jane was took sick with fits, sir, when the old woman looked at her.’

  ‘Every pig in a litter lost . . .’

  Richard stood there; very elegant he looked in his elaborate breeches slashed and puffed and decorated with gold lace; his doublet was cut in the Italian fashion – dazzling in its richness.

  ‘You disturbed me,’ he said, ‘with your howling and shouts. As for the woman, she is no witch. I tell you she is a helpless old woman. Does anyone of you dare to contradict me? Let me tell you that it is not for such as you to take the law into your hands. Untie the ropes, Tom, and one of you take off your gown and wrap it about her. Mistress Alton, I would have thought you might have been looking to your duties rather than mingling with such fools. The two girls should not be allowed to creep out at this hour to witness such things. I am sorry that you do not take better care of them. The rest of you . . . have done with this folly. Take the woman back to her home. If you look for occupation, some of you might keep watch on the sea. What if the Spaniards should land while you waste your time tormenting an old woman?’

  They obeyed him, since it would not have occurred to them to do otherwise. They had always obeyed Mr Merriman as their forebears had obeyed his.

  Richard had no doubt that his orders would be carried out. He walked away.

  Poor old woman! he thought. A witch? Well, he had saved her life tonight, but he doubted not that they would murder her one day. She was marked as a witch and it was a sad fate that awaited such a woman. He had been watching them tonight for longer than they realized. They interested him with their superstitions and their cruelty; it seemed to him that the two went often hand in hand.

  He smiled, thinking of the two girls. They would be severely punished for this, and so they should be. But he suspected Betsy was the ringleader in this little adventure. Luce had not enjoyed it as her companion had. There was a different quality about Luce.