by Jean Plaidy
Tamar lay shivering. The door was locked and she had drawn the curtains about her bed; they stirred lightly in the breeze from the open window.
The decision had been made for her. He had threatened Richard, and for Richard’s sake she must do this thing which was horrible and loathsome to her. It was worse than rape, because it would be done with a semblance of willingness.
‘He is a fiend!’ she muttered.
She had ill-wished him, but that was of no avail. She had tried to work a spell; but she believed he must have some protection against such things, some secret knowledge which he had picked up from foreign magicians on his travels.
She was dizzy with fear – or excitement.
Any moment now she would hear him, climbing into her bedroom. He would pull aside the curtains and stand there, mocking her in his triumph.
Only for Richard, would she do this. He had saved her life and now she would save his by giving more than her life, for had she not been willing to lose it rather than give in to Bartle for her own sake?
Outside the window she could hear the sounds of the night – the hoot of an owl, the sudden barking of a dog. It sounded as though witches were riding through the air on broomsticks, but it was only the wind in the chimney.
He had not yet come.
She thought and, to her surprise, the thought angered her: Perhaps he did not mean it. Perhaps he will not come. He was merely teasing. Did he not say once that he would carry tales of me to the pricker?
In the midst of her fearful apprehension she was conscious of a twinge of disappointment.
It is because I wished to make a sacrifice for Richard, she told herself quickly. Even in this most evil thing there is some goodness, for I should have done it for Richard’s sake. Had Richard known what wicked bargain Bartle had made with me, he would try to prevent my carrying out my share in it. Richard would let himself be taken by the pricker for my sake. So shall I find satisfaction in giving myself to Bartle . . . for Richard’s sake.
And now she could hear a new sound outside her window.
She lay very still. She could hear the thud as he landed on his feet; she could hear his breathing, heavy with the exertion of the climb.
Very slowly, it seemed to her, the curtains were parted. She could not see his face; there was not enough light for that; she was only aware of a broad figure bending over her.
‘Tamar!’ he said; and his voice was higher than usual, yet thicker, unlike its usual timbre, but she knew it for Bartle’s.
She shrank as his hands touched her.
‘So,’ he whispered, ‘you were waiting for me? I knew you would be.’
FOUR
THE MEMORY OF that night would not leave her.
He had refused to go before dawn was in the sky, and she had no means of making him. There was nothing she could do but lie, quiet and submissive.
She had wept in her anger and he had kissed her tears. But his tenderness quickly changed to mockery.
‘You deceive yourself, Tamar! You are as eager for me as I am for you. I certainly shall not go until it pleases me to do so. I meant to stay all through the night. That was our bargain. What a demanding witch you are! Most women ask for a jewel; but you submit for a man’s life!’
‘You have humiliated me,’ she answered. ‘Is that not enough? Go now, I beg of you.’
‘Come! You know that when you beg me to go, you are really begging me to stay.’
‘You lie! And stop talking. What if your voice should be heard?’
He put his mouth close to her ear. ‘They would say “Tamar has a man in her bed! Well, what do we expect from such as Tamar? Perhaps it is the Devil she has in here? No, not her own father . . . merely some imp from Hell!”’
‘If they came and found you here . . .?’
‘Well then, I should tell them how I came to be where I am. I should say, “I came through the window. Tamar opened it for me.” That is the truth, you know. When I parted the curtains of your bed, you were waiting for me. Can you deny that?’
‘You are a devil, I believe.’
‘Then we are well mated. Of course we are. We know that now. Oh, Tamar, how I love you. This is the beginning. Leave your window open tomorrow and I will come again.’
‘That was not in the bargain,’ she said quickly.
‘Bargain? Who talks of bargains? You know why I am here.’
‘Yes! Because you are a traitor . . . a false friend.’
‘What! To Richard? I’d never have betrayed Richard, sweetheart, and you knew that all the time. I was merely giving you the excuse you wanted for surrender.’
‘I loathe you. I hate you. You are worse even than I believed you to be. Go at once . . . At once, I say!’
But he had crushed her against him, laughing softly, biting her ear. ‘You knew I would never have betrayed Richard. He is an old bore, but I’m fond of him. It is not for filthy prickers of the lower orders to use their pins on men of our station. I said what I did to give you an excuse. You knew it. You cannot deceive me. And you were delighted.’
She had felt that the humiliation was more than she could tolerate.
When at last he had gone she leaped out of bed and bolted her window. He stood below and bowed mockingly.
Annis was astonished when, pulling back the curtains later that morning, she found Tamar fast asleep, pale-faced and exhausted.
Tamar opened her eyes and looked at her maid.
‘Why, mistress, what ails you?’ cried Annis. ‘You look . . . different . . .’
‘Don’t be a fool. How could I be different?’ She rose, her mind full of what had so recently happened to her. ‘Don’t stand there staring at me!’ she shouted to Annis. ‘Help me to dress.’
She slapped Annis when the girl fumbled with the fastening of her gown, and, seeing the tears well up in Annis’ eyes, she herself began to weep while she embraced her maid.
‘Annis, I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m not myself.’
Annis was all smiles immediately. ‘I was clumsy. It was just that I couldn’t bear you to be cross with me. What ails thee, dear mistress? What has happened to ’ee this night?’
‘This night!’ cried Tamar. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Nothing,’ said Annis quickly. ‘’Twere just that you did seem strange like when I left you for the night, and now you be stranger still.’
Tamar kissed Annis’ cheek. ‘Do not speak to me of it,’ she said. ‘I am well. I did not sleep well; that is all.’
Annis nodded, and it was clear to Tamar that the girl thought she had been up to some Devil’s work during the night. And that, Tamar told herself fiercely, would have been a deal more to my liking than what has befallen me.
Bartle dared to ride over to Pennicomquick that morning. ‘To drink a goblet of wine with the mistress of the house,’ he told Tamar when Annis brought him into the room.
Tamar regarded him icily. He looked as debonair as ever. There was no novelty for him, she supposed, in such nights.
‘How dare you show yourself here!’ she demanded.
‘I would dare much to see you. I thought you would receive me warmly after last night.’
‘We were not friends before. We are greater enemies now.’
‘You cannot be my enemy, and I would never be yours. Oh, Tamar, you are so beautiful and I adore you. I have come to make honourable amends. I have come to ask you to marry me. Custom demands that I go to Richard and tell him what I wish and how I hope he will decide I am a good enough match for his daughter. But that, I know, will not do for Tamar. She must be wooed, then won, Ha! Not so. She must be won, then wooed. So I come to you, Tamar, before I go to your father.’
‘I would choose my husband and, if I lived until I were fifty and there was no one else in the world, I would never take you.’
‘Let us have done with quarrels. Let us be reasonable. We are both expected to marry, so why not each other?’
‘Because a woman should not marry a man
she hates.’
‘You mean you really hate me?’
‘I mean it from the bottom of my heart.’
He had become haughty now; he walked to the window and looked out. She remained by the table; and they were thus when Richard came into the room.
Bartle left Plymouth a few days later. Tamar did not know why she felt she must go and see him leave; but she did.
There was the usual bustle such departures always brought with them down there on the causeway. Ships being loaded, sailors shouting to one another, anchors being lifted, sails set.
She had hoped Bartle would not see her, but his sharp eyes found her. He came to her and stood before her, smiling down at her.
‘So you have come to see me off on my voyage?’
‘To assure myself that you had really gone,’ she answered caustically. ‘It gives me great pleasure to know that I shall not see you for a long time.’
‘I shall soon be back, sweetheart,’ he said: ‘and then . . .’
‘I beg of you, make no more vows. I assure you there shall be no repetition of that shameful night.’
‘My lovely Tamar! I shall carry your image in my heart. I expect a dull voyage, for there can be little pleasure for me outside your bed.’
He caught her up and kissed her full on the mouth. Then he put her down, bowed low and left her.
She walked up to the Hoe that she might watch the ships until they were specks on the white-flecked sea, while anger, humiliation and something like regret filled her heart.
When she arrived back at the house she saw Humility Brown at work in the garden. She went over to him; by taunting him she thought to regain her self-respect.
‘Good day to you, Humility Brown.’
‘Good day,’ he answered. But he did not look at her.
She said sharply: ‘When I speak to you, pray do not go on with your work. Look at me. Smile! Say “Good day” as though you meant it.’
He looked at her gravely, and she felt herself blushing hotly, for she thought he saw the change in her, and visions of Bartle and herself would not be shut out of her mind.
‘Do not stare!’ she said.
Then he did smile. ‘I am admonished for not looking, and when I look that does not please you. You are in an ill mood today.’
‘What is that to you?’
‘Nothing; but that I am sorry to see you put out.’
‘You . . . sorry for me!’
‘Ah yes. I am deeply sofry for you.’
‘And why, pray?’
‘Because guilt lies heavy on your soul.’
‘Who says so? Can you see guilt in my face?’
‘You have forsaken true goodness for the evil power which comes to you through the Devil. You have asked for beauty to tempt the senses of men, and it has been given to you.’
‘It was given without my asking,’ she retorted. ‘And does it tempt your senses, Humility Brown?’
His lips moved in silent prayer.
‘Stop that!’ she cried. ‘Stop it, I say!’
‘My poor erring daughter,’ he said, ‘give up your sins. Wash your soul pure in the blood of the Holy Lamb.’
She laughed. ‘Is that what you have done? But you have no sins, I suppose . . . and never have had!’
‘We are all sinners.’
‘It surprises me that you should put yourself into that class. Oh, Humility Brown, sometimes I wish I had left you to starve in the barn.’
‘Aye! And so do I! Then I should be past my pains . . . safe in the arms of Jesus.’
‘It might be the fires of Hell for you, Humility Brown.’
He bowed his head and once more sought refuge in prayer.
‘Oh, I meant not that!’ she cried in repentance. ‘You are a good man and the gates of Heaven will be flung wide for you, I doubt not.’
‘Daughter,’ he cried, ‘repent. Repent while there is yet time.’
‘Repent of what?’
‘Of your sins.’
‘It might be that I have sinned through no fault of my own.’
‘It is only the Devil’s own who are forced into sin. The Good Shepherd protects His sheep.’
‘Are you sure of that?’
‘As sure as I stand here.’
She was silent. It was Humility who spoke first. He leaned on his spade and looked at her earnestly.
‘You are a sinner,’ he said; ‘that I know. You defy the Holy Gospel. There are many who think you have dealings with witches. You are in peril. Your soul is in danger.’
‘What can I do about that?’
‘Wicked as you are, I know I can trust you with a secret. I will show you how much I am prepared to trust you if you care to let me do so.’
She was interested; for the first time since that memorable night, she had forgotten Bartle.
‘You would never betray friends,’ he said, ‘even though you thought what they did was folly.’
‘I believe that to be so,’ she said.
‘You are generous and there is kindness in you . . . kindness towards the weak; such kindness was the kindness taught us by our Lord Jesus Christ. Because you possess it, I believe there is hope for you. But you are vain and proud and, I believe, wicked in some strange way. But because of your kindness I wish to save your soul as once you saved my body.’
‘You must tell me what you mean by that.’
‘Some of us are meeting together. We meet in secret.’
‘I see.’
He went on: ‘You know what I mean. William Spears and I, and others here who wish to worship God in the right way, have fixed a meeting place where we forgather.’
‘That is a dangerous thing to do, Humility. If you were discovered, it would mean prison – perhaps torture and execution.’
He smiled and his smile illumined his face so that it seemed almost beautiful.
‘You are a fool!’ she said angrily, in sudden fear for him.
‘I am the Lord’s,’ he answered.
She was emotional that morning and her eyes filled with tears.
‘You are a brave man. I beg of you, take care. I would not care to see you come to harm after I took such pains to save your life.’
‘We meet in a hut . . . Stoke way. It is on Sir Humphrey Cavill’s estate.’
‘Have a care! Sir Humphrey would have no scruples about denouncing you if he discovered. He is a bigot . . . and so is his son. They are without pity . . . without . . .’
‘I know it,’ he said. ‘And this we all know: We meet in the name of Truth, in the name of the Lord. We know the risks we run and we are prepared to run them. If the Lord should see fit to make our presence known to those who would persecute us, then we are all ready to accept persecution for His sake.’
‘Why do you tell me this?’
‘That you might join our meeting and perhaps find peace there.’
‘I . . . meet with Puritans!’ She smoothed the rich stuff of her dress and looked down at it lovingly.
‘You would learn that it is folly to lay up for yourself treasures upon earth. You would learn that you should repent of your sins.’
She turned from him and hurried into the house. She knew that she would go and see their secret meeting place. She needed the excitement of new experiences now that Bartle, whose loathsome presence had provided them, had gone away.
Tamar went once to the meeting place. Such affairs were not for her. She was like a bird of paradise among sparrows. She sensed the hostility of the Puritans towards her. What, they were asking themselves, was Humility Brown about, to ask a witch to their meetings?
When Humility preached that night he said: ‘There is none among us who could not reach salvation, an that one wished it.’
That she knew was for her.
But she stood apart from them – apart from them as she had been from the people among whom she had lived during her childhood. Only Humility wished to befriend her. She listened to his preaching; she watched the earnestness of his expression. H
e was a bolder man here than in the gardens; There he seemed aptly named; here he was a leader.
She felt a new pride in the fact that she had saved his life. She could look scornfully round her now at the faces of his followers and remind herself that not one of them would have dared to do for him what she had done.
She did not go again to the meeting place.
Simon Carter had now left Plymouth, and the crow-pecked bodies of several men and women hung rotting from the gibbets.
But for me, thought Tamar, Richard might have been one of them!
Then she must think again of that night which she knew would be the most memorable of her life because it was the most shameful. When she looked out to sea she thought of Bartle. Where was he now? Somewhere on the Spanish Main? Perhaps he had reached land; perhaps he was tricking some other woman to shame as he had tricked her. She might turn angrily away from the sea to the land, but the green grass and the trees reminded her of the day when he had found her naked on the grass and had pursued her. There was no escape from thoughts of Bartle.
Annis came to her room one day; it was easy to see that something was on Annis’ mind.
‘What is it, Annis?’ asked Tamar.
Annis cast down her eyes. ‘Trouble, mistress. That’s what ’tis.’
‘I know,’ said Tamar. ‘You are going to tell me that you are with child.’
Annis lifted her wondering eyes to Tamar’s face. ‘You knew afore I did myself, I reckon, mistress.’
Tamar could not resist the pleasure of allowing her to think so.
‘That this should happen to me!’ sighed Annis.
‘Well, Annis, there was many a meeting in the old barn, I believe.’
‘You took the spell off, then, did ’ee, mistress?’
‘You cannot do what you have been doing so often, with no result. You must tell John and he will have to marry you.’
Annis began to cry.
‘’Tis like this, mistress. John, he be sharing a cottage with Will Spears and Dan Layman. John couldn’t marry a wife and take her to share with they two.’
