Daughter of Satan

by Jean Plaidy

  She lay down by the stream, cupping the water in her hands and splashing it over her heated face. She listened for the slightest sound, but all was quiet, and when it began to grow dark she hid herself among the bushes and slept.

  She awoke at dawn and her longing for food was almost more than she could bear. Wild plans for returning to the cottage came to her, but with them came also the memory of those men who had done shameful things to her mother; she saw the lustful faces of the watchers.

  She could not go back to the cottage. Then a wild idea came to her.

  There were occasions on summer days when Richard Merriman walked in his garden. This was usually in the late afternoon. Once she had climbed the big oak tree against which she now leaned and she had seen him; after that she had often looked for him and seen him – always at the same hour.

  If he came today, could she go and ask him to help her? He had saved her life when the children had thrown her into the pond, so perhaps now he would help her to escape from the pricker. Of course it might be that he would hand her to those men, but she did not think so; he hated unpleasantness, and those men, and what they did to women, were unpleasant. She was desperate, for she could not stay here without food much longer, and she could think of no one else whose help she could ask.

  How much happier she felt now that she had a plan! First she would wash herself and her garments, for if she were going to ask such a favour of him it would not do to offend him by her smell.

  She looked at the sky and guessed that by the time her clothes were dry it would also be the time for him to take his walk. She took off her gown – she wore nothing beneath it – and tried to rub it clean in the stream. It was not very satisfactory, but was the best she could do. She spread it out on the grass and washed herself.

  She lay in the sun, her wet hair spread around her, and thought of what she would say to him. Perhaps she would hide behind the bushes in his garden and call to him and, when he was close, whisper: ‘I am in danger. The witch-pricker is after me. You saved me once. Will you save me again?’

  She was sure he could hide her if he wished to, because he was more powerful than anyone she knew; and she believed that he would help her because of the way his lips curled when he glanced at her.

  And sitting there, ruminating, she did not hear footsteps approaching until it was too late; then turning she saw, with a horror that numbed her, that between her and her gown spread out on the grass stood Bartle Cavill.

  She felt her heart stop and go racing on. There was something in his look which horrified her even as she had been horrified when those men had laid their hands on her mother. Lust had shown in the faces of those men who had looked on her mother’s nakedness; the same lust was looking out of those dazzling blue eyes now.

  ‘Well met!’ said Bartle with a mocking bow.

  She did not move; she tried to cower behind the covering of her hair.

  He took a step towards her, the lust deepening in his eyes.

  ‘I have just visited my neighbour – rather a prosy bore. I did not know that such a charming encounter awaited me.’

  ‘Keep away!’ she said.

  ‘That I declare I won’t. It’s Tamar, is it not? The witch’s girl! By God, you are a beauty without your rags, Tamar.’

  ‘Stay where you are . . . or I will put a spell on you.’

  ‘If you have such powers, why are you so scared, Tamar?’

  He caught her arm and she tried to spring up; but he pulled her down and they rolled over and over on the grass. He was panting and laughing.

  ‘You were waiting for me!’ he said. ‘Yes, you slut, you were. I declare! What immodesty! You trespassed on Merriman’s land. Do you know you could be hanged for that?’ He tried to kiss her, but she was wriggling madly. ‘Damn me, if I won’t have you hanged for trespass. But no! You waited for me. That was a pretty thing to do. And you took your clothes off. Really, Tamar, it was no use trying to hide yourself with all this beautiful hair . . . You have been a most immodest creature . . .’ He yelled suddenly, for she had dug her teeth into his hand. ‘So you would bite me, eh? It will be the worse for you if you try those tricks . . .’

  She spat out his blood.

  ‘I hate you . . . I hate . . .’

  ‘Keep still, you little Devil’s imp. Keep still.’

  With all her strength she kicked him wildly, but the kick went home; she scratched his face and, seizing his nose, she twisted it as though she would wrench it off.

  He cursed her, but momentarily she had the advantage, for her violence had had the effect of making him loosen his hold of her. She was up. He caught her ankle, but she swung herself free. Her chance had come. She picked up her gown and sped across the grass in the direction of the cultivated gardens. She had had a good start and she reached them first. Relief filled her heart then, for there, examining his shrubs, was Richard Merriman.

  Panting, she threw herself against him.

  ‘Save me!’ she cried. ‘Save me!’

  Bartle had pulled up and stood still, breathing heavily and looking like an angry and frustrated bull, while Tamar buried her face in Richard’s coat.

  ‘What the devil’s this?’ began Richard. But there was no need of explanations. One look at Bartle was sufficient to see what he was after, and the child was none other than Luce Lackwell’s girl, for whom the witch-pricker was making a search.

  ‘Don’t let him . . . get me . . .’ panted Tamar. ‘Don’t let him . . . please . . . Hide me.’

  ‘Why have you come back, Bartle?’ said Richard, trying to gain time, wondering what he was going to do with the child.

  ‘I found her on your ground . . . trespassing, the young devil! She was lying naked on the grass. She saw me come here and she knew I’d go back that way. She was waiting for me.’

  ‘I wonder why she took such pains to wait for you and then run away?’ said Richard lightly.

  ‘He lies!’ cried Tamar.

  ‘Put your gown on, girl,’ said Richard; and he put her from him.

  She blushed and stood behind him while she put on the damp gown.

  ‘Pray, sir,’ said Bartle with an attempt at a swagger, ‘there is no need for you to look so shocked. I doubt if I’d have been the first.’

  ‘You lie!’ flashed Tamar.

  ‘The girl repulsed you – that much is evident,’ said Richard. ‘I wish you would not bring your buccaneering manners into my gardens.’

  ‘It was just a bit of sport,’ said Battle sullenly.

  ‘And after you had had your sport, I suppose you would have handed her over to the witch-pricker.’

  ‘Good God, no! I should naturally have hidden her.’

  ‘Providing she had been your willing slave! That was your noble plan, I doubt not.’

  ‘Oh, she would have been well enough. If she is a virgin, as she protests she is, that state would not have lasted long. And why should not I have been the first?’

  Richard looked down at Tamar. ‘Do not tremble so,’ he said.

  ‘Give her to me, sir,’ said Bartle. ‘I swear I’ll hide her. I’ll put her somewhere where she can’t be found till Simon Carter has gone.’

  ‘No!’ cried Tamar.

  ‘She seems to be as much afraid of you as of Simon Carter. You have been guilty of most discourteous and ungentlemanly behaviour.’

  ‘Damme, sir, the girl would have been all right. A little reluctance at first is natural. Many’s the time I’ve found it so, and then it’s all hell let loose to turn them off.’

  ‘I repeat that you have been unmannerly. Would you like a chance to mend your ways? You know how distasteful to me is the violence of low-born creatures such as this man Carter. Moreover, this one is only a child. I do not think she should be handed over to the pricker.’

  ‘I have no wish to hand her over.’ His mouth curled as he gazed on Tamar’s flushed face. ‘I can think of more pleasant ways for dealing with such a little beauty.’

  ‘Don’t be afraid,�
�� said Richard, looking down at Tamar. ‘He is a strutting coxcomb who has recently discovered that he is a man and yearns to prove it on every conceivable occasion. Let’s, forgive him, for now we need his help. Go to the front door, Bartle, engage Alton in conversation and see that you keep her so engaged while I slip up the back staircase with the girl.’

  ‘With all my heart, sir.’

  ‘And in five minutes come to my study.’

  Bartle swaggered off, but not before he had thrown a sly glance at Tamar which seemed to say, ‘You have not seen the last of me!’

  ‘Now,’ said Richard, looking down at her, ‘do not speak. Walk behind me, try to make sure you are hidden. Let us hope none from the house has seen this pretty scene from a window.’

  She followed him to a door at the back. He looked inside, turned and nodded; then swiftly and silently he led the way through a dark passage to the back stairs; they mounted these and were soon in his study.

  There was kindness in his eyes as he looked at her.

  ‘You are exhausted, child,’ he said. ‘When did you last eat?’

  ‘It was before the pricker came to the cottage.’

  ‘Don’t be afraid. I will ring for my personal servant. Josiah Hough is a good and obedient man. You need fear nothing from him.’

  She watched him with wondering eyes as he pulled the bell rope. He seemed godlike to her, all-powerful, kind but in an aloof way, completely incomprehensible.

  Josiah appeared; he made no show of surprise at the sight of Tamar in his master’s study.

  ‘Bring food and wine at once, Josiah,’ said Richard. ‘If any should ask whom it is for, say it is for me. But be quick.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The door .shut on him and Richard turned to Tamar. ‘You are in grave danger, child. I will not attempt to minimize it, because you know full well what it means if this witch-pricker gets you. I am going to hide you.’

  ‘You are a good man,’ she said.

  He laughed. ‘Nay,’ he said; ‘that is not so. It is not kindness in me. No matter. You tremble still. It is because you think of that young oaf. Think of him merely as a lusty young man – that is all. He can be trusted not to betray you. I shall not leave you alone with him. I trust his honour in all things but those in which his manly lusts are concerned. If he gives a promise, he will keep it.’

  Josiah came in with the tray, and when he had gone Richard made her sit at the table. She had never sat at such a table before, and she rubbed her finger wonderingly along its smooth surface. She stared about the room and dropped her eyes to the carpet. She had never imagined a carpet, though she had once heard her mother talk of carpets. Everything was strange, like a daydream, but she was not afraid; as long as he was near her she would not be afraid.

  There was a knock on the door and Richard let in Bartle.

  Bartle looked at her, but she kept her eyes downcast and began ravenously to eat the food; she found that once she had started she could not care for anything else – not even if the witch-prickers were at the door or Bartle in pursuit.

  ‘Pretty manners!’ sneered Bartle, indicating Tamar.

  ‘Almost as pretty as your own,’ retorted Richard. ‘She knows no better. You should.’

  ‘Oh, hang me, sir, draw me and quarter me! A witch’s girl! A stay-out-late! A girl who sleeps in hedges! If she’s not asking for it, who is? She ought to think herself honoured that I waste my time on her.’

  ‘She seems oblivious of the honour,’ said Richard. ‘And even when it was almost forced upon her she did not appreciate it. But, Bartle, let us be serious. You know that all this talk of witchcraft wearies me. Of course you are not with me. You are as superstitious as any. Well, let us hope you will grow out of it. In any case, you will help me with this girl for your own reasons. Well, we both have our reasons. Now, promise me you will say nothing to anyone – not even your father – of the girl’s being here. Give me your word as a gentleman.’

  ‘I give my word. Now have I your leave to retire?’

  Richard nodded.

  Bartle went on: ‘Good day to you, sir. Good day, Tamar.’ He threw her a kiss. ‘To our next merry meeting. May it be as merry as this one.’ He held up a hand. ‘See! it bears the mark of your teeth to remind me of you. Your gown is ugly. I hate your gown. I like you so much better without it.’

  The door shut on him and they heard him singing as he went downstairs.

  Richard looked at Tamar. What can I do with her? he asked himself. How can I hide her? He shrugged his shoulders. In spite of his outward calm, he was excited. Life had been monotonous since the sudden death of that dear friend of his, the widow who had lived at Pennie Cross.

  Tamar was eating noisily. Her eyes met his and she smiled.

  Her trust in him was complete; and sensing it, he felt a pleasure which surprised him.

  Tamar remained in Richard’s study for two days before her presence was discovered; and she had herself to blame for that.

  She was not yet accustomed to the grandeur of the room, and she would walk about it, touching the furnishings and the table, the bookshelves and the oak chest. She sat on the stools and the chair; she gazed in wonder at the tapestry. There was, moreover, a glass mirror with a most elaborate frame and this gave Tamar the first clear sight of her face; it was so fascinating to see herself as she appeared to others. Indeed, she was so completely occupied with the novelty of being in such a room that she forgot her fears. Her curiosity was to betray her.

  Beyond the study was Richard’s bedroom, and she was eager to see this for she was sure it would be wonderful She had never seen a bedroom used solely for sleeping in; beds to her were pallets of straw on the floors of cottages.

  And so, the desire to see a real bedroom became too much for her. She went to the study door and peeped out into the corridor. There was no one about, but from the bottom of the stairs she heard the sound of voices. That came, she guessed, from the servants working in the kitchen.

  She tiptoed along the passage until she reached the door next to that from which she had come. She lifted the latch and went in. This WAS his bedroom.

  She had only meant to peep, but she could not resist further exploration. There was the bed, its tester and headpiece covered with such intricate carving that she must go near to examine it. The posts were carved with equal beauty. She felt the curtains gleefully and thought how wonderful it would be to sleep in such a bed, to pull the curtains so that she would be shut in a little room of her own. On the floor was a beautiful carpet of Oriental design; not that Tamar knew anything of its origin; she only knew that it was beautiful. There were what she thought of as carpets on the walls, all cleverly worked in petit-point. There was a mirror of burnished metal in a frame which she thought of as gold. She ran to the chest and knelt to examine the figures carved upon it. She would have enjoyed opening the chest and peeping inside.

  And then, suddenly, she felt a chill of horror run down her spine, for she knew, by instinct, that someone was at the door watching her.

  She swung round, but she was too late to see who had been there. She only heard the rustle of garments and the sound of quick, light footsteps. Terrified, Tamar dashed to the door, but no one was in sight.

  Tamar heard the shouts in the distance. They came nearer and nearer. Now they were right outside the house.

  Richard ran into the study; she had never before seen him in a hurry.

  He said: ‘My child, they have come for you They are almost here.’

  In terror she flung herself at him and clung to his doublet. He disengaged her and put her from him, frowning.

  ‘You must stay here,’ he said. ‘Don’t move. You understand? If they see you, you are lost.’

  She nodded.

  He left her and she leaned against the door, an awful sickness coming over her. She saw herself seized and stripped; she felt the horrible pins jabbing into her. She saw them dragging her to the Hoe, and her body swinging on a gibbet. Tamar . . . dead .
. . and the crows pecking at her.

  Then she heard Richard’s voice; strong, it seemed, and her spirits rose. He was not an ordinary man; he was a god. He was as different from other people as she herself was.

  He was leaning over the balustrade of the gallery and looking down on to the hall in which the crowd had assembled.

  ‘What are you doing in my house?’ he demanded. ‘How dare you come breaking in like this? I’ll have you whipped, every one of you.’

  Then Simon Carter spoke in his loud yet gentle voice.

  ‘Be calm, dear friend. We come on a peaceful mission. You know me. I am Simon Carter, and I am here to rid our land of those who do evil in it. We have, two days since, hanged a witch, but before she died she told us of her sins. She had lain with the Devil, and of this unholy union a child was born. This child – Satan’s own daughter – must be put to death at once. The town is unsafe while she lives. Nay, the country is unsafe. I have reason to believe she is here, and I must beg of you, good sir, I must entreat you, kind gentleman, to let nothing stand in the way of our taking her.’

  ‘Who gave you this news?’

  ‘Those who did would wish that their confidence was not betrayed. I am a respecter of wishes. I respect all those who work in the service of God. It is only those who consort with the Devil that I am here to denounce and punish with death. We know the girl to be in this house. I must, in the name of God and the law, ask you to give her up to me.’

  ‘And if I refuse? And if I say she is not here?’

  ‘Dear good sir, we should have no recourse but to search the house. It goes not well with those who obstruct the King’s justice.’

  ‘So you have come here to take a child and ill-treat her.’

  ‘This is no human child, sir. This is the very spawn of the Devil. We are all born in sin, sir, and it is for us to wash ourselves clean of it in our passage through life. But this creature was born in filth, with all the wisdom of hell in her head. Her mother hangs rotting in the sun. I have learned much of her evil ways. We persuaded her to confess her sins. Ah! I have much evidence to take with me when I leave your fair county. The old witch worked a spell under our very eyes. She assumed death, but we have strung her up all the same, and she now dangles beside the other. Now, the child, sir . . . I give you a second or two to produce her . . . then we search the house.’