by Jean Plaidy
She was shaken, for she saw no fear in his face.
‘Now do you know who I am?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Then you know I use no idle words. I’ll have you whipped for your insolence.’
‘You wouldn’t dare. No one would dare. I . . . I’d . . .’ She glared at him. ‘It would be the worse for you if you hurt me.’
He let her go and she ran, and, turning round, saw that he had not moved, but was standing still watching her.
She walked on with slow dignity, but as soon as she felt he could see her no more she broke into a run. She was trembling with fear and hatred, because she was not sure whether or not he had been afraid of her.
Soon after that she heard that Bartle Cavill had run away to sea, and she was relieved. Afterwards life went on as usual. She was growing up; she was now ten years old.
There seemed less excitement in the town nowadays. King Philip had been dead for a year, and there no longer seemed any great danger of raids on the coast. Just before his death it had been brought home to the King that he would never realize his ambitions. Plymouth had not even seen the ships of his Adelantado, which had come to invade, for a kindly storm had wrecked them in the Bay of Biscay. Such a disaster to ships – as grand and formidable as those of his great Armada – meant the end of his attempt to subdue England. But on the high seas rivalry continued.
Somewhere out there, Tamar sometimes thought, was Bartle Cavill. Perhaps he had left his ship by now and was storming some city; perhaps he was cutting his way through the jungle; perhaps he was being tortured in a dungeon. All of these things might have happened to him. She thought of him with great hatred, not so much for the words he had used to her but for the contempt he had shown her in his brilliant blue eyes.
Her lonely life continued. No children played with her, but she did not wish to play their games. She was learning a good deal from Granny Lackwell, and when people came to the cottage for herbs, Granny would say: ‘The child will pick them for you. The child knows.’
Then Tamar would enjoy afresh that strange power which was hers.
But one day she learned that people hated her because they feared her. The most terrifying experience of her life so far was awaiting her.
It was dusk of an evening in summer and she was walking to a favourite haunt of hers – a shady spot with many trees which overhung a large pond. She often came here; she liked to sit by the pond and watch the birds and insects; she had learned to imitate the calls of the birds so that they answered her; and she liked to watch the ants in the long grass and the spiders in their web. Sometimes she would dabble her feet in the water. It was a pleasant spot for a hot day such as this had been.
But as she came under the trees she heard a sudden whoop above her, and several small figures – some smaller than herself – dropped from the trees. The children of the neighbourhood were upon her.
She was felled to the ground at once, and although she kicked fiercely and tried to free herself, they were too many for her – and some were quite big boys. While they had her on the ground they blindfolded her by tying a piece of rag about her eyes, and she knew then that they were afraid that she would recognize them. She exulted in that because it showed that they were afraid of her.
‘Let me go!’ she cried. ‘I’ll curse you. You’ll be sorry. I know who you are. I don’t have to see you.’
They said nothing. One of them kicked her; another punched her back. She felt sick and faint, for although she had often witnessed physical violence she had never before experienced it.
She kicked and screamed, calling: ‘You’ll be sorry. I know you. I know you all.’
Still her tormentors did not speak. They forced her to sit on the grass, and when they seized her hands and tied them to her ankles she knew what they planned to do to her.
Many hands touched her, scratching her, tearing her skin. She expected some power to come to her aid, but she had nothing . . . nothing but the strength of a ten-year-old girl to use against them.
A great shout went up from their throats and she felt herself thrown; the waters of the muddy pond splashed about her and she was sitting on its weedy bottom. They had not been able to throw her very far in, and she was only waist-high in the water.
The children on the edge of the pond forgot that she must not hear their voices and they began to shriek:
‘She’s sinking.’
‘She’s not!’
‘She’ll float all right. She’s the Devil’s own daughter. He do look after his own.’
One of the boys jabbed at her with a long branch of a tree; the skin of her leg was torn as he tried to push her farther out. She was past feeling pain, for she believed she was going to die, since, trussed as she was, she could no nothing to help herself, and the rag about her eyes – now wet and most foul smelling – prevented her from seeing about her.
The shouts went on.
‘She’s a witch all right.’
Someone threw a stone at her. It missed and splashed into the water. More stones came and some of them hit her. She felt herself sinking into the mud. She was half fainting, yet her anger and her belief in herself kept her from doing so. To faint would be to drown, unless the children became frightened and pulled her out. But they would not be frightened, for there was no one to care if she was drowned. Old Granny might care; but the old woman was near death and hardly counted. Her mother ? Perhaps she would be a little sorry, but mostly relieved; she would not have to watch her as she did now, waiting for some outward sign of the devil in her daughter. Everyone else would be glad. So there was no one at all who would be really sorry.
And as she gasped and spluttered, she was suddenly aware of silence. The children had stopped shouting.
Then a voice said: ‘You . . . you . . . and you there, go in and bring the girl out.’
She was seized and pulled to the bank. She lay there gasping.
‘Take that rag from her eyes and untie her wrists.’
Black spots were dancing before her eyes now. The darkening sky seemed to sway above her.
A cultured voice said: ‘It’s the Lackwell girl.’
Then Tamar turned over and was violently sick. She groaned and tried to stand up. She saw that the children had scattered but that the man remained. She knew him for Richard Merriman, who lived in the big house.
‘You’re all right,’ he said. ‘Those young devils might have drowned you. Keep out of their way in future.’
She heard herself stammer: ‘They were afraid of me. They had to bind my eyes.’
She tottered towards him and he caught her as she almost fell. She was quick enough to see the disgust he felt at her nearness, and she was aware immediately of her verminous rags in contrast with his exquisite garments. With dignity she drew herself away from him.
‘Thank you for making them pull me out,’ she said, and began to totter away.
‘Here, child!’ he called after her.
But she would not look back.
‘What the devil!’ he shouted.
The tears were running down her cheeks. She had been deeply insulted, first by the children and then by him; she was not going to let anyone see her tears.
She limped back to the cottage and Granny did her best to comfort her. Granny hobbled from her chair to make some special brew.
‘There,’ muttered the old woman. ‘You’m doing well. ’Twas your first ducking and you stood up well to it.’
When Tamar retired behind her ring of stones, she did not feel the pain of her limbs and the soreness of her wounds. She could only think of the man in the elegant clothes who had been disgusted to have her near him.
She thought of Richard Merriman a good deal after that. But for him she might have died, for they would have stoned her to death or left her to drown, as they often did stray cats and dogs; she was no more to them than an unwanted animal. Yet they were afraid of her, and that was why they hated her. Perhaps it was not such a good thing t
o be feared? How much better to be loved!
She must not be angry with Richard Merriman, though, for he had saved her. He could not help it if she disgusted him. She remembered how she had disgusted Bartle Cavill and her eyes blazed with hatred at the thought of him. I hope the Spaniards get him! she thought. I hope they brand him with hot irons and burn him for his faith.
She looked about her, waiting for the earth to open and the Devil to appear, waiting for some animal to come to her and speak with a human voice, and demand her eternal soul in exchange for what she asked. Nothing happened.
‘No!’ she whispered. ‘I don’t want the Spaniards to get him, for he would never deny his faith and they would burn him alive and I would never see him again.’ And she wanted to see him again, so that she could show him in some way how she hated him.
As for the other man, Richard Merriman, she must show her gratitude to him, since he had saved her life. The daughter of Satan must acknowledge her debts.
There was a spot on the cliffs where it was said that it was possible to find seagulls’ eggs, although it was rarely anyone went in search of them as the climb was dangerous and the slate and shale cliffs offered scarcely any footing; but the eggs would be all the more appreciated if they were hard to get.
She grew excited at the project. When she took the eggs to him, she would say very haughtily: ‘You do not like the smell of me, sir, but perhaps you will like the taste of these. They are for you because you saved my life.’
The sun was high in the sky when she set out. As she walked to the lonely spot, she kept clear of all trees, for she would never again walk unwarily under trees; she kept turning to make sure she was not being followed. The climb was long and steep, and several times she nearly lost her footing; the birds whirled about her head – gulls and cormorants – shrieking, screaming at her as though indignant at her intrusion. But she was not afraid of the birds.
She pulled her way up, hanging on to the tufts of coarse ling, cutting her feet on jagged rock, scratching her legs on the gorse; once or twice she almost fell, but she went on triumphantly.
Looking down at the rocks below, it occurred to her that if she fell it would be to death; but that was how she would have it, for he had saved her life, and she wished to risk it again in making her thank-offering.
The wind tugged at her thick hair. It was as verminous as her rags, and she hated it to be so: she longed for a gown with puffed sleeves and a skirt cut away to show a splendid under-gown. But one thing she had learned from her ducking was that although her clothes smelt of the mud of the pond, many of the lice attached to them had lost their lives in the water. If she dipped her clothes in a clear stream, and her hair too, she might leave some more of the irritating creatures behind; and a clear stream would not leave a smell upon her and her garments as the pond had.
She knew of such a stream; it was in the grounds surrounding none other than the house of Richard Merriman himself. Before she took the eggs to him she would wash her hair and her clothes in the stream.
Such thoughts made her laugh out loud. He would see the change in her. In her imagination the dip in the stream would do more than rid her rags of their pests; it would transform them into silks and velvets.
She went on with vigour, eager to be done with the difficult task and get to the easier and more pleasant one of cleaning herself and her garments in the stream. She clutched at a clump of ling which came away in her hand, but she was able to save herself just in time, though in doing so she scratched her arm badly and it started to bleed.
But she did not care, since she had found her first seagulls’ eggs.
Getting down took far longer than the ascent, as now she had the eggs to consider, and she could not have borne the disappointment if she had broken them. She had tied each one separately and skilfully into her rags, for she needed all the help her hands could give her. Gingerly she came, the soft curls at her forehead damp with the sweat of her exertion; and dirty and dishevelled, she eventually reached the grounds about Richard Merriman’s house.
The stream at this point was about six feet wide and someone – long ago – had put stepping-stones across it. It was sheltered by trees and shrubs; the grass grew long with weeds and wild flowers between, for Joseph Jubin, at his master’s orders, had left this part of the grounds uncultivated.
Delighted to find that only one of the eggs was cracked, very carefully she placed them on the grass while she took off her rags. When she dipped them into the stream the colour of the water changed to a dark brown, and she laughed in quiet pleasure to watch.
She spread them out in the sun, and, cautiously tiptoeing into the stream, she dipped her hair in the water. The cold water took her breath away. She sat down in the stream and rubbed the dirt off her body. Washing seemed a more daring operation than climbing steep cliffs in search of seagulls’ eggs.
Stretching herself in the sunshine, waiting for her rags to dry, she thought how pleasant it was to be naked, for thus she would look the same as everyone else. Mistress Alton would look no better, stripped of her good clothes; nor would the wife of Sir Humphrey Cavill, that fine lady who was Bartle’s mother!
Her damp hair fell to her waist and she spread it round her to make it dry more easily while she sat hugging her knees, thinking how pleased he would be with the eggs, which must surely be a delicacy even for him. And as she sat there her eyes caught the pale crimson of the betony flower and with a little cry of delight she leaned forward to pick it. He should have that flower, for it would keep evil away from his house.
Neither her rags nor her hair were quite dry, but no matter, she was all impatience now to take him his gift and could wait no longer. She went swiftly towards the house, looking up in admiration at its gabled and diamond-paned windows. It was the most beautiful house she had ever seen; it seemed more beautiful than Sir Humphrey’s over at Stoke, because she could never get near enough to Sir Humphrey’s to see it as clearly as she could see this. There were big dogs at Cavill House that snarled and snapped and pulled at their chains; and the servants would have no hesitation in turning them loose on anyone like herself who went too close.
She laid the eggs outside the door and put the crimson flower on top of them. Then she lifted the great knocker and let it fall. She heard the sound echoing through the hall and stood there waiting, in spite of her natural boldness, with a quaking heart.
The door opened, but it was not he who opened it; it was a young girl with short hair – cut like a boy’s; and she was wearing what seemed to Tamar a very fine gown.
The girl stared at her in dismay. She looked at the eggs on the doorstep and whitened as though Tamar were an emissary from the Devil, which she probably thought the child was.
‘What do you want?’ asked the girl nervously.
‘Your master,’ answered Tamar boldly.
‘You . . . you want to see . . . the master?’
Tamar drew herself up with dignity. ‘Tell him to come here,’ she said.
But now Mistress Alton had come to the door. ‘What’s this? What’s this?’
The cane and the keys at her waist swung out, and Tamar was aware of them while she kept her eyes on the woman’s face.
‘I want your master,’ said Tamar.
‘You want . . . what?’
‘The master. I got something for him.’
Mistress Alton’s lips tightened. ‘I never heard the like! The impertinence. It’s that black-eyed daughter of a black-eyed witch! You get out of here and take your filth with you.’ Her hands reached for her cane.
‘I’ve come to see your master. You’ll be sorry if you hurt me.’
‘You can strike me dead,’ said Mistress Alton, ‘but I’ll not have you set your evil feet in this house. What’s all this mess on my doorstep?’
‘’Tis no mess,’ said Tamar firmly. ’Tis what I’ve brought for your master.’
‘You’ve brought . . . what for the master?’
‘Seagulls’ eggs an
d a flower for luck. I got them myself. Look! I climbed high for them.’
‘Take those things away.’
‘I won’t. They’re for him.’
Mistress Alton’s face grew red with rage and before Tamar realized what she was about to do, she had stepped forward and stamped on the eggs.
Tamar stared down at the havoc and let out a little cry of anguish; then she rushed at the woman and, catching her skirts in both hands, kicked her.
‘Help! Help!’ cried Mistress Alton. ‘I’m set upon. You Moll . . . don’t stand there gaping. Get someone quick. My dear life, don’t you see the witch is trying to do me some harm?’
At this point Richard Merriman came into the hall, his eyebrows lifted, his eyes puzzled. Tamar released the woman and looked at him through her tangled locks.
‘What does this mean?’ he asked coldly.
‘This . . . witch . . . came here to harm you . . . to harm us all!’ cried the housekeeper.
‘What a small witch!’ he said.
‘She was putting eggs on the doorstep. It was a spell, that’s what it was. I know their wicked ways.’
He had approached to look at the eggs.
Tamar cried out shrilly: ‘They were seagulls’ eggs. I got them for you. It was because you saved me. I went high for them. And the flower was for good luck. It will keep evil away from your house.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘You’re Luce’s girl. What is your name?’
‘Tamar.’
‘A good name,’ he said; he was smiling. ‘It was good of you to bring the eggs. I thank you.’
‘But they are broken. She stamped on them.’
‘I thank you all the same.’
She picked up the flower.
‘This is for you too. It will keep evil away.’
He took it. ‘So you pay your debts, then?’ he said. And he continued to look at her. Then he seemed to rouse himself from his thoughts; he was haughty and dignified again. ‘Take her into the house and give her some food,’ he said. ‘Give her some clothes too.’
‘I can’t have those rags in the house, sir,’ declared Mistress Alton. ‘She should strip outside and put on what I can give her there.’
