‘No!’ There was terror in the woman’s face, and defiance and hatred. ‘You’ll have to kill me first.’ She backed away from him, spreading her arms over the door of the outhouse in a desperate effort to protect its inhabitant.
Lowering the shotgun, Durnley Reece looked long at the tiny beshawled woman who had been his wife these many long years. She was a good woman and had been both loyal and faithful, but now, since that accursed day which he’d rather forget and which he had often prayed to God he could strike from his miserable life, she was possessed, driven to hide their terrible secret, and to protect the devil who had found its way into their lives. He also had striven to protect it from harm, from itself and from hurting others, but it was an ordeal too great for him to bear any longer. Now, there were no more choices left. Either he destroyed it, here and now, or he must leave this place for good. Already the monster had killed all the tenderness and love he had once shared with his wife and, from that very first day when it all began, her love for him had shrivelled, been sucked away bit by bit, to satisfy the evil thing which preyed on them both, until now there was nothing left – nothing but for him to watch helpless while she doted on the devilish creature that tore them apart. Yet there was still a fondness in his heart for her, and it was this that made him try just once more. ‘Listen to me… please. Tonight, on the moors… it nearly killed someone… d’you hear me? It got the taste of blood… and it nearly killed!’
‘No! I don’t believe you. You’re lying. It’s you that wants to kill. Well, you’re not going to… not unless it’s over my dead body!’ She flattened her diminutive form against the outhouse door, her eyes staring up at him, and the hostility there crushing whatever hope he had.
‘Get rid of it, or I’ll be away. I’m warning you… I mean it. Let me put it out of its misery.’
‘Leave, if you’ve a mind to. We’ll be better off without you!’
‘You old fool!’ He dug into his jacket pocket, withdrew a bunch of keys and flung them to the ground. ‘It’ll kill you, you trusting blind fool… tear you limb from limb it will, given half a chance, don’t you understand that? It doesn’t love you… it doesn’t even know what love is… it can only hate.’
‘You’re wrong! It’s you who can only hate. You who’s bred the fear and loathing that exists between you.’ She was close to tears, her aged face withered by the burden she carried, and he knew she would not listen.
‘In God’s name… let me put it out of its misery. Look, I know it’s hard for you to see the truth after all these years… to admit that what we prayed might be a miracle was nothing more than the devil’s work.’
‘Go away! Leave us be.’
‘If you won’t think of your own safety, think of others.’
‘Nobody will be harmed. It’s only you, you, with your lies and jealousy!’
He could see that it was all ended and that there was nothing else he could do. God forgive him, and keep her safe.
The herb-gatherer watched as her husband went on slow weary footsteps into the house. She watched him emerge, carrying his worldly goods in the sack on his back, and she was not sorry.
Quietly, and softly murmuring to the dark bent shape in the corner of the outhouse, she came to it, and when it looked up at her with innocent eyes, she gathered it into her small arms with great tenderness. ‘Ssh, there… it’s alright, he can’t frighten or hurt you any more. He’s gone… and we won’t let him come back… ever.’ She rocked the clinging shape back and forth while it softly whimpered. The whimpering intensified when she said, ‘But, now, for a little while… I’ll have to keep you locked up. Just in case.’
8
Scarlet gazed from her bedroom window over the bridge and the thatched roof of John’s cottage and beyond, to where the moors lay on all sides, glistening in the remnants of a summer sun and displaying myriads of colours that took her breath away. It was September, a warm lazy day, when she would have preferred to wander off on her own; instead, she was duty-bound to go with John into Dunster, where they would set up at the market and ply their produce until late afternoon. There was no escape for her, not today or any other day, Scarlet thought bitterly.
‘Stop your day-dreaming, young ’un… we’ll be late for market, unless you get a move on!’ John Blackwood stared up at her from the yard below, shaking his head and tutting loudly. ‘I’m loading the last batch now,’ he warned her, grunting as he swung the crate of cackling chickens onto the flat-wagon. ‘Then I shall have to be away, with or without you.’ His voice and attitude told Scarlet that John was already in a sour temper, which would only worsen if she was to make him late and lose his regular market pitch.
‘I’ll not be a minute,’ she returned, at the same time scouring her dark eyes over every inch of the yard, hoping for a glimpse of Silas. When there was no sign of him, the eyes flashed angrily and she punched the windowsill with her clenched fist, muttering through tight lips, ‘I hate you, Silas, do you hear me?… I hate you!’ And she had never hated him more than in the dark hours just gone, when she had crept into the barn, and he had cruelly rejected her! She had hoped that they might recapture the magic of that night on the moors when, even now, she could still ‘taste’ the conquest in those precious moments before he was viciously snatched from her. But, ever since, he had deliberately shut away his emotions and put murder in her heart.
Scarlet was not altogether convinced that the attacker was not her father, in spite of Silas’s insistence that they had been struck by a prowling creature. Either way, Scarlet suspected they would never know, because to bring attention to the terrible incident would also focus interest on the fact that they themselves were prowling the moors at such an ungodly hour. They had decided to say nothing, judging the counter to be best forgotten, both of them thankful that Scarlet was unharmed and that Silas’s wounds would quickly heal. There had been questions, though, when John had insisted with a chuckle that, ‘You little sod, Silas… you’ve been fighting, ain’t you?… or did one of the horses take umbrage and send you flying across the smithy?’ He saw that the cut on Silas’s temple might be painful, but not fatal, and he took an impish delight in it, teasing all the more in the face of Silas’s brooding silence. Vincent Pengally, though, saw no such humour in the situation. For days he watched Silas with venomous eyes, making no comment and asking for no explanation. It was strange, though, how he kept an even closer watch on Scarlet, consequently heightening her suspicions that he was the culprit responsible. Time and time again in the days following the incident, Scarlet was tempted to confront him with the accusation, but, not being certain and having already been cautioned by Silas, she kept silent, cursing him all the same.
Now, Silas’s wounds were healed. But not the deep rift which he had purposely created between himself and Scarlet, and, if it was a source of unbearable anguish to her, she could not know how very painful it was to him. Nothing mattered other than the bitter knowledge that he had grown more aloof and unattainable. Even when they had the opportunity to steal a few moments together, he shunned her, never speaking, but the warning was there in his hostile violet eyes. ‘Keep away,’ they said, ‘I want nothing from you.’ He had hurt her badly, bruised her pride and shattered the intimacy between them, but he had not killed the passion in her, he had not destroyed her appetite for him. She would have him! Somehow. But first she craved to hurt him, first she would make him suffer and pine for her, until he was driven almost crazy! Her revenge would be merciless.
‘Scarlet… I think you know that John is waiting?’ When she swung round to face him, Vincent Pengally saw that his soft address had startled her, and the knowledge brought a wreath of pleasure to his ungainly features.
For a long agonising moment, Scarlet stared at him, her dark eyes scarred by his presence and her subconscious mind taking stock of the man who had the power to create such fear and loathing in her. Straddling the doorway, his legs apart and great muscular arms gripping the door-jambs on either side, he made
a fearsome, uniquely splendid sight. His smooth dark hair fell lank and untidily about his coarse features, where the dirt of his labours was already settled, and only the grey eyes remained bright and vivid. The black serviceable shirt was open at the neck to reveal a thick mane of dark hair, and the rolled-up sleeves strained hard against the bulge of grotesque muscles. Over his dark cord trousers and the long ankle-boots he wore a stout hide apron, besmirched by years of use and stained with the blood of unwilling horses who had to be beaten into submission with the butt of a hammer against their flanks. Now, as he came forward, the sweat of his labours coating his skin like early morning dew, Scarlet involuntarily backed away.
‘Don’t keep John waiting, will you, Scarlet?’ His voice was low and persuasive, his smile frightening to her. He came nearer, his disturbing grey eyes seeming to penetrate her mind. When he touched her, it took all of her will-power not to shiver visibly. It was like that whenever he came into her bedroom in the dark quiet hours. The same. And worse.
‘I only have to dress, Father… and I’m ready.’ Her voice was small, not belonging to her.
‘Then you must dress right away, child… something plain, I think.’ He laughed, but the laugh was without mirth. ‘You mustn’t draw attention to yourself. We don’t want people’s eyes on you, do we, eh?’ He ran his roughened hand over her milk-white shoulder. She moved away from him, willing him to go, but that was not his intention. Going to Scarlet’s small narrow bed, he reached out to pluck the cornflower-blue dress from the bedpost where Scarlet had draped it before washing. As the garment slithered into his long coarse fingers, she saw the twisted reflection of his face in the bulbous brass sphere at the bedhead and, not for the first time, she wished him dead.
‘Please… will you tell John not to go without me?’ She felt his eyes burning into her, and she was desperate for him to leave. She held out her arm so that he might lay her dress over it. Instead, he wrapped his hand around it, gripping so hard that his fingers seemed to cut like knives through her skin. When he began drawing her to him, she was horrified but not surprised. ‘Please go, Father.’ His grey eyes paralysed her. ‘Let me get ready… or John will leave me behind.’ An overpowering emotion rose up in her, a kind of hatred, or curiosity.
‘I’ll help you, Scarlet, then you’ll be ready all the quicker.’ He smiled again and fed the dress over her head, one hand still possessing her, the other looping her long black hair through the top of the dress. When, after some difficulty, the dress slid to her shoulders, Scarlet was nauseated to find his face so close to hers that she could taste his dry acrid breath. His mouth was open, reaching for her. ‘That’s a good girl,’ he murmured.
‘No!’ Scarlet twisted away, unable to break the hold he had on her, and fearing that at any minute she would be choked to death by the garment which had tightened around her neck like a hangman’s rope. In her blind panic, she could hear his reproachful tones, ‘Don’t be silly, you foolish girl!’
‘Scarlet!’ Hannah’s voice sliced through the air, startling them both. ‘John’s run out of patience. You’ve wasted enough time, I think.’ Though she addressed Scarlet, her timely intrusion had jolted her husband into reflecting on his own shameful part in Scarlet’s delay. Casting a scathing glance at Scarlet, as though to blame her, he strode towards the door. He did not look at his wife, nor she at him, although after he had rudely pushed his way past, she turned her head to follow his path down the stairs and out of the door, her pretty blue eyes stricken more with sadness than with anger.
‘I’m sorry, Mammy.’ Scarlet was quick to sense Hannah’s heaviness of heart. ‘I didn’t mean to keep John waiting… honest.’ Quickly she shrugged herself into the dress, arranged her hair over it, and ran to hug the waiting woman.
‘It’s alright, child.’ Hannah kissed the top of Scarlet’s dark head. ‘I know you didn’t. Go on… hurry up now.’ She fussed awhile with the neck of Scarlet’s blue dress and then tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Off you go, then.’ As Scarlet raced down the stairway she called out, ‘And don’t you go being mischievous, my girl. Do as you’re told… unless you want your father to stop you from going to the market altogether!’
‘Don’t worry,’ Scarlet reassured her. The last thing she wanted to do was to incur her father’s anger! As it was, he only suffered her going to Dunster market on account of John insisting that he needed help. Her father was always reluctant to pay wages to an outsider, especially when he could call on Scarlet’s labour for nothing. Besides, he knew that John valued his own place enough to be trusted not to let Scarlet out of his sight.
Thankful to be gone from the house and away from her father’s scrutiny, Scarlet ran across the yard to where John was seated up in front of the loaded wagon, tapping his feet and itching to be gone. ‘By! There’s nothing worse than waiting for a woman to get herself ready… unless it’s waiting for a girl called Scarlet!’ He tutted loudly in the manner he always did when he was lost for words. Shaking his head, he waited for her to scramble up beside him, becoming more irritated when, her attention drawn by the handsome striding figure of Silas leading the cob from the barn to the smithy, Scarlet allowed the hem of her dress to become tangled in the wagon wheel spokes. ‘Whatever next, young ’un?’ John moaned, a look of exasperation on his face. Yet he made no move to help her. The horse was fidgeting between the shafts, his own patience was exhausted and, while Scarlet’s head was bent to the problem, John saw that Silas was coming to her assistance. Scarlet also saw his approach, and her dark eyes smiled as she looked up, her intimate gaze persuading him on, and her own efforts to free the offending hem abandoned in favour of more loving hands. A great surge of joy flooded her young heart as Silas came nearer, his sultry gaze bathing her lovely, arrogant features.
When he was close enough to see the meaning of her smile and the triumph there, a breath of suspicion rippled over his face, causing his eyes to darken with anger. In a minute, he had stopped, turning the cob’s head in the direction of the smithy, and casting a cursory glance towards Scarlet’s knowing smile. She had nearly fooled him, he thought. Nearly, but he was on his guard now and she would never find him so easily drawn by her cunning wiles. He knew also that Vincent Pengally was watching from the smithy window; he could not see him, but Silas’s every instinct told him that his movements were being closely followed by those piercing grey eyes. Yet, for all that, he would have gone to Scarlet’s assistance, he would have derived great pleasure from touching the hem of her dress, when his hand might have surreptitiously stroked the smooth skin of her leg; the recent memory of it taunted his every waking moment. He might have done all that and murmured softly in her ear of his terrible longing for her. If only he had not seen the look in her eyes! A look that rankled him and raised the feeling of fury in him; a look he had seen in those beckoning devil’s eyes too often before; a look of triumph, of satisfaction and possession. He would not gratify it by bending to Scarlet’s will so easily! There was something else that also disturbed him. Foremost in his thoughts was Vincent Pengally; then a dark shape with the strength of ten men and the instinct to kill; but, to kill whom? And why had it come upon them with such violence? Were they just unfortunate enough to be in a particular place at a particular time, or had they been quietly observed and, most disturbing of all, was it he whom the attacker meant to kill, or was he merely a casualty, when the real quarry was Scarlet? All of these matters were a source of deep anxiety to Silas, and always paramount in all of his thinking was his desperate concern for Scarlet’s safety. For that he would sacrifice everything, his love for her and, if it was demanded, his very life. Time and time again he had thought to break the shackles that held him here, to flee this place and to desert the man who loathed him for what he was, a painful reminder of things long gone. But something tied them together… vengeance, guilt, shame? Silas was never sure of what went on in Vincent Pengally’s festering mind, nor did he want to know… unless it threatened Scarlet’s safety, as he had come to believe
it did.
For that reason alone, Silas knew he could not strike out on his own because, God help them both, he loved Scarlet with terrible passion, wanted her with every fibre of his being and, even though he knew Scarlet loved him in the same way, his deeper instincts warned him of two things; firstly, that Scarlet’s passions were dangerously conflicting and that the girl in her was not yet mature enough to realise the depth of her own raging emotions; she was not in control of them, but all too often they were in control of her. He knew that she could kiss him just as eagerly with venomous lips as with adoring ones. Scarlet was right for him, and she was wrong for him. He wanted her, and yet he did not want her. She was too devastating, too exquisite, too dangerous and captivating; she confused and infuriated him, yet above all else she was part of him. Their destinies were irrevocably entwined, and he must protect her. And so he would stay, for as long as she needed him. But, like now, he would not let her devour him purely for the pleasure it brought her!
He had the power to infuriate her with his unpredictable moods and, when he turned away, Scarlet’s hatred for Silas boiled inside her. She silently laid every curse on his soul. Enraged and trembling, she grasped at the hem of her dress and snatched it, tattered, from the wheel where it was trapped. ‘Get us away from here!’ she hissed at John, who was astonished by her vehemence.
As he urged the horse and wagon away, an uncomfortable silence fell between John and his brooding passenger. John was no fool, and he was not blind. He was aware of the magnetism that existed between Silas and Scarlet. He had seen Silas turn away just now, and he was not surprised because he had also seen Vincent Pengally skulking at the mouth of the smithy. Such a situation was potentially dangerous, and even the smallest thing could set it off, like the touch of a match against a powder keg!
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