by Jean Plaidy
‘Must have been. My dear soul! I reckon it must have been just about better than anything.’
Luce nodded.
‘But it brought you to this. I reckon you’d have had Ned Swann but for someone’s taking a fancy to ’ee.’
Luce said, ‘Don’t say such things. ’Tis like asking for a judgement.’
‘You’m right. But where’s the good pretending you’ve never had naught to do with such things? Where’s the sense? You could give me a charm and bring Jim Haines straight to me arms.’
‘No, Betsy. ’Twouldn’t be right.’
‘Wouldn’t it then? I can tell ’ee Charlie has his larks.’
‘Come out to the patch,’ said Luce. ‘I knows I shouldn’t. I know naught of such things. But I heard what the old woman told somebody t’other day.’
Betsy glanced towards the old woman, who had sat impassive during this discussion.
‘Her don’t hear,’ explained Luce. ‘Her’s very deaf. You have to go right up close and shout to make her hear.’
They went out to the patch. Tamar stared after them while Annis looked into the cottage. She again put out her tongue at Tamar, who regarded her with solemn eyes.
‘Come here,’ said Tamar.
‘No, I won’t.’
‘Then go away. I don’t care.’
‘I won’t.’
‘You’re afraid.’
Annis had fair hair and grey eyes; she was quite pretty, but beside Tamar she looked insignificant.
‘If you wasn’t afraid,’ said Tamar, ‘you’d come in.’
Annis stepped gingerly into the cottage and cautiously approached the stones.
‘What’s them?’
‘Stones.’
‘What for?’
‘Nobody mustn’t come farther than here.’
Annis knelt down and looked at the stones; then she looked at Tamar, who smiled suddenly and, picking up one of the stones, gave it to Annis.
When the two women came back into the cottage Betsy looked at her daughter and turned pale. ‘Annis!’ she cried. ‘What are you doing in here, then? I’ll take you home and tan the hide off ’ee.’
Annis got up from the floor and ran out of the cottage. Tamar watched her, then started up. ‘She’s got my stone. Give it back. Give it back.’
Betsy was out of the door; she had Annis by the shoulder; she shook her until the child’s face was red. ‘Drop it. Drop it quick.’
Annis dropped the stone and in triumph Tamar seized it.
‘Take that!’ said Betsy, and slapped her daughter’s face. ‘And now come home.’ She pulled at the child’s arm. ‘Good day to you, Luce.’
‘Goodbye, Betsy.’
Tamar looked at her mother, but Luce would not meet her eyes.
I’m different, thought Tamar. Nobody slaps my face. Nobody talks of tanning my hide. I’m different. I’m Tamar. They’re afraid of me.
Down at Sutton Pool people stood about on the cobbles watching the departure of Sir Walter Raleigh and his five ships which were going to explore the Orinoco in the hope of bringing back gold for the Queen.
There was less enthusiasm at such spectacles than there had been a few years ago. Plymouth could not forget the horrible sight of those brave seamen, the heroes of the defeat of the Spanish Armada, now starving in the streets, begging their bread – some cruelly wounded – their services ignored, and what was more important to them, unpaid for by an ungrateful Queen and Council.
These men would have long since died but for men like Drake, Hawkins and Frobisher, who had provided much out of their own pockets, starting a fund for mendicant seamen, building a hospital for mariners; and Sir Francis, when he had left his house in Looe Street to live in Buckland Abbey, had continued with his scheme for bringing water to the town. Now it was conveyed there from the west stream of the River Plym. No wonder they worshipped this man. It was already said – in spite of the digging operations which were to be seen – that Sir Francis had gone to the river and, bidding it follow him, had galloped into Plymouth. They preferred to think of their benefactor not only as a good brave man, but as a wizard.
And now, with the departure of Sir Walter, there was not the same enthusiasm as when Sir Francis sailed. Adventure was in the blood of these people who lived along the seaboard, but they hated injustice, and they could not forget – being constantly reminded by the sad sights about them, as they were – the callous behaviour of their Queen.
Tamar was there by the Pool. The noble ships rocking so proudly on the water delighted her and she wished that she were sailing with the expedition. It even occurred to her to hide herself in one of the ships. Then she remembered that old Granny Lackwell would be in the cottage alone today. Tamar was impulsive, and once an idea had hit her she was eager to put it into practice. She pushed her way through the crowd and ran all the way home.
The old woman was sitting in her accustomed place. Tamar went close to her and shouted in her ear.
‘Granny, it’s Tamar.’
Granny nodded.
‘Granny, I’ve come to ask you things.’
She nodded again.
‘Why are they afraid of you and me?’
Granny laughed, showing black stumps which fascinated while they horrified the child. ‘Why are your teeth black?’ she asked; but she realized at once that that was a question which could wait, for it had nothing to do with the mystery she was so eager to uncover. ‘How was I born?’ she said quickly.
Old Granny became excited. Her hands were shaking. Tamar looked anxiously about her, for she knew that whatever revelations might take place could only do so if the two of them were alone together.
‘Did a man lie with my mother, as Bill Lackwell does under the rags . . . or was it on the grass?’
That made Granny choke with laughter.
‘Speak, Granny, speak! I shall be angry if you laugh. I want to know.’
Granny sat very still; then she turned her head to look at the child.
‘On the grass,’ she said.
‘Why?’
Granny shook her head.
‘They like doing that, I think,’ said Tamar gravely, for she could see that she must continue to prompt the old woman if she were to get her to reveal anything. ‘It was because they liked it,’ she went on. ‘And then my mother grew big and I came out. But . . . why are they afraid of me?’
Granny shook her head, but Tamar lightly slapped the old woman’s arm. ‘Granny, I must know. You are afraid of me. My mother is afraid of me. Even Lackwell is afraid of me. He is big and strong; he has a belt and hard hands, and I am little – see how little I am, Granny! – and he is afraid of me. They are afraid of you too, Granny. It is something you have given me.’
Granny shook her head. ‘I didn’t give ’ee nothing. ’Tweren’t me.’
‘Then who was it, Granny? Speak . . . speak. I’ll hurt you if you don’t tell me.’
Granny’s eyes grew frightened. ‘There now . . . there, little beauty. Don’t speak so.’
‘Granny, it was the man on the grass. He gave me something. What is it?’
‘He did give you fair looks.’
‘’Tain’t hair and eyes, Granny. Lackwell wouldn’t care about they. Besides, they’re afraid of you, Granny, and you’m ugly. You’m terrible ugly.’
Granny nodded. She signed, and the black cat at her feet jumped on to her lap. She stroked the cat’s back. ‘Stroke it with me, child,’ she said; and she took Tamar’s little hand and together they stroked the cat.
‘You’re a witch, Granny,’ said Tamar.
Granny nodded.
‘Granny, have you seen the Devil?’
Granny shook her head.
‘Tell me about being a witch. What is being a witch?’
‘It’s having powers as others ain’t got. It’s powers that be give to the likes of we. We’m Satan’s, and he’s our master.’
‘Go on, Granny. Go on. Don’t stop.’
‘We’m devil’s chil
dren. That be it. We can heal . . . and we can kill. We can turn milk sour before it leaves the cows and goats, and we can do great things. We have Sabbats, child, Sabbats when we do meet, and there we do worship the horned goat who be a messenger from Satan. There’s some as say he be one of us . . . dressed up like . . . That may be so, but when he do put on the shape of a goat he be a goat . . . and we do dance about him. Ah! I be too old for dancing now. My days be done. I’m good for naught but to tell others what to brew. ’Twas the night I was took for the test. They’d have done for me then . . . but for a gentleman that stopped ’em. I’ve been sick and ailing since. But I be a witch, child, and there’s none can deny me that.’
‘Granny . . . am I a witch?’
‘Not yet you ain’t.’
‘Shall I be a witch?’
‘Like as not you will . . . seeing as you come into the world the way you did.’
‘How did I come into the world? On the grass, was it? Was my father a witch?’
Granny was solemn. ‘They do say, child, that he was the greatest of them all . . . under God.’
‘An angel?’
‘Nay. Put thy hand on Toby’s back. Come close to me, child . . . closer . . .’
Tamar stood breathless, waiting. ‘Tell me, Granny. Tell me.’
‘Your father, child, was none other than the Devil himself.’
The hot sultry July was with them and Tamar was scarcely ever in the cottage, coming in only to snatch a piece of rye bread or salted fish. But if the old woman was alone she would sit with her and they would talk together, for Tamar wished to know all the dark secrets of Granny’s devils’ world.
Not that Granny was easy to understand; sometimes she mumbled and, even standing so close and suffering the full force of her tainted breath, Tamar could discover very little. But she knew the great secret. People were afraid of her because she was Satan’s daughter.
She ran through the grass delighting in its cool caress on her bare feet; she would whisper to the trees: ‘I am the Devil’s daughter. Nothing can hurt me because he looks after me.’
She loved the green solitude of the country, and it was her pleasure to collect strange plants and bring them to the old woman to ask what magic properties they contained; but it was the town itself which offered her the greatest delight. She would spend hours lying stretched out on the Hoe, straining her eyes across the sea, trying to picture what lay beyond that line where the sea met the sky. She would stand in the streets, watching the people, listening to their talk; the market delighted her and sometimes there was food to be picked up. There were times when, attracted by her grace and beauty, strangers would throw her a coin. She would watch the men load and unload ships.
There was an ancient seaman who sat on the Hoe with her and told her about his adventures on the Spanish Main. She asked question after question, delighting to listen as he did to talk. They met many times and it seemed to her that he held a new world in his mind to which his voice was the key. But one day when she saw him, he looked away and pretended he did not see her; then she ran to him and tugged his arm. He did not shout at her or curse as he knew so well how to curse; he just turned and would not look at her, gently disengaging himself and hobbling away with his crutch as well as one leg would let him. She knew what had happened; he had discovered who her father was, and he was afraid.
She threw herself down on the grass and sobbed angrily and passionately; but when she saw the old sailor again she stood before him and lifting her flashing eyes to his face, she cursed him. He turned pale and hobbled off. Now she felt triumphant, for she knew he was more afraid of a dark-eyed little girl than the Spanish Inquisition.
One exciting day news came that the Spaniards had landed in Cornwall, that Mousehole was in flames and Penzance under attack.
Tamar watched the ships set out from the Sound to go to the aid of the Cornishmen. They were stimulating days to a child who knew herself to be feared as much as the Spaniards.
August was hot and all through the month Drake and Hawkins were preparing to sail away, and Tamar was there to watch them when they went.
She would never forget the day when the town learned of the death of Drake and Hawkins. Then she saw a city in mourning and longed to be loved as these men had been. It was better to be loved than feared, she felt, for being feared gave you a lonely life.
She listened to people’s talk of Drake, for no one talked to her. Her loneliness was becoming more and more marked as she grew older.
Once in the cottage when only her mother and the old woman were there with Tamar, Luce talked of Drake.
‘I saw him many times,’ said Luce, in an unusually talkative mood, no doubt due to the death of the hero. ‘I remember once . . . it was in the time of our greatest danger. The whole place was waiting . . . waiting for the Spaniards. That was in the days when Spaniards was Spaniards.’
‘Yes?’ said Tamar eagerly.
‘It was like a sort of fever in the place. The Spaniards had big ships, they said, and ours was little ’uns. That didn’t matter, though. We had him, you see.’
‘And he was better than anyone else!’ cried Tamar.
‘They did go to church . . . him and a great lord. I went to see them . . . with Betsy. I was different then . . .’ Her eyes filled with tears as she smoothed her rough hands over her rags. ‘Yes, I were different. I had me hair cut short like a boy’s. Hair like mine was a gift from Satan – so Mistress Alton did say.’
‘A gift from Satan!’ cried Tamar, touching her own abundant curls.
‘And she cut it off . . . like a boy’s. Betsy’s too . . . though Betsy’s weren’t what mine was.’
‘Go on!’ begged Tamar.
‘We went to the church and he were there. I saw him. He came out with the noble lord, and women wept to see him and men threw their caps in the air. “God speed to you, Sir Francis!” they did shout. And now he is dead. The bonny beauty of him rotting on the sea bed. I never did think he would die and I be here.’
‘Tell me more,’ said Tamar. ‘Tell me . . . tell me . . . Tell me about those days and Mistress Alton.’
Tears began to run down Luce’s cheeks.
‘I thought about him too much. ’Tain’t right to have the thoughts I had. ’Tis tempting the Devil. That’s what it was. I didn’t ask much . . . I only asked a little.’
‘That’s silly,’ said Tamar. ‘You must ask for a lot. I shall.’
Luce turned to her daughter. ‘You must not go out at night. You must stay in. I wouldn’t like what happened to me to happen to you. Be careful. I wouldn’t like you to be caught too young.’
Tamar’s eyes flashed. ‘I’d have none of that.’
‘You don’t know what you do say, child. ’Tis something that none of us know about until too late.’
‘I should know.’
‘Be careful. It can happen sudden like, and then there’s the rest of your life’ – she looked down at her garments – ‘the rest of your life in tatters and rags. You’m caught, and it can happen sudden-like.’
‘Not to me!’ declared Tamar. ‘There is nobody clever enough to catch me!’
Once more big ships were in the harbour. Drake was no more; Hawkins had gone; but there were other West Country men waiting to step into the shoes of these men. One of these was Sir Walter Raleigh and people were talking of him now as Drake’s Heir. All through the spring, while Plymouth mourned Drake, the fleet was assembling in the Sound. Lord Howard was there and this was yet another great occasion. But the change in the times was obvious to all. Men were no longer flocking to serve in the ships, and Raleigh brought strangers to Plymouth – men who did not speak with the soft Devon burr – sullen strangers who had been pressed into service.
The people murmured. It had not been thus in the days of Drake, who had had to refuse men the honour of sailing with him. What a tragic change this was – when men deserting from their ships were hanged on the Hoe as an example to others of like mind.
It
was a day in June. The fleet was ready to sail and Tamar was on the Hoe to watch its departure when close to her she noticed a boy who was so much older than she that he seemed a man. She knew him for Bartle Cavill, the son of Sir Humphrey. He was thirteen years old, tall, with eyes as blue as the sea, and a shock of yellow hair. She noticed how he gazed at the ships with yearning in his eyes; and understanding that feeling – which was hers also – she moved nearer to him.
She saw that his breeches were puffed and ornamented with mulberry-coloured silk, and she loved its colour and softness. She had to touch the silk to feel if it were as soft as it looked, so she stretched out a hand and felt it. Yes, it was even softer than it looked. There were bars of different colours. Was the green as soft as the mulberry? She had to test it.
But he had become aware of her hands upon him; swift as lightning he caught her by the arm.
‘Thief!’ he cried. ‘So I’ve caught you, thief!’
She lifted her great dark eyes to his face, and said shyly: ‘I was only feeling the silk.’
The blue eyes seemed more brilliant than the sea itself.
‘You’re hurting me,’ she said.
‘That is my intention!’ he retorted. ‘You’ll know what it means to be hurt when they hang you for stealing.’
‘I stole nothing.’
‘I’ll have you searched. Stand away. Don’t dare come close to me, you dirty beggar! What insolence!’
‘I’m not a beggar, and I’m not a thief. It is you who should be afraid of me.’
‘I’ll have those rags stripped off you and searched. I’ll see you’re whipped before they hang you. I’ll ask it as a special favour to myself.’
She had twisted her arm suddenly and freed herself, but he caught her by her hair.
‘See that man hanging there?’ he demanded. ‘He deserted his ship. That’s what happens to dirty beggars who steal from their betters.’
‘I have no betters,’ she said with dignity while she screwed up her face in pain, for he seemed to be pulling her hair out by the roots.
His eyes blazed with rage. ‘Insolence! You’ll be sorry for this.’
‘You’re the one who’ll be sorry. You don’t know who I am.’
He looked into her face and laughed. ‘So it’s you . . . the Devil’s own, eh!’
