The Witch From The Sea Part 16

Christmas came. My little Connell was four months old, l.u.s.ty as ever, doing, as Jennet said, all the things a boy ought to do. Showing temper, showing interest, growing plump and healthy. I wouldn't allow him to be swaddled and Colum agreed with me. If he had not I should have prepared to fight against him on this point. I couldn't bear to think of my baby bound up in swaddling clothes for weeks. "I want his legs to grow long so that he will be as tall as his father," I said.

We loved to see him kick and his legs were straight as a pine tree.

Such celebrations we had that Christmas. My mother and father came to spend the time with us. With them came Damask, Penn and Romilly. Edwina would not travel because her son being only a few months older than mine was too young, she said. So she and Carlos stayed at Trewynd. Jacko was with the family of his betrothed at Plymouth but he did ride over with the party to see Jennet and stayed with us a night and then went back to Plymouth.

I enjoyed decorating the great hall with holly and ivy and giving orders in the kitchens. There were special pies made for my father's pleasure; there were the coins to put in the cakes and puddings, all with their significance, and of course the silver penny for the cake to be discovered by the King for the Day.

The joy in seeing my parents was great. My father insisted immediately on being taken to see his grandson and had brought a carved ship for him which was a replica of one of his own Lions-The Triumphant Lion. I laughed at him and told him Connell was too young for such toys, and he retorted that real boys were never too young for ships.

It moved me deeply to see him at Connell's cradle, putting out a great hand before the child's face. Connell reached up and his hand curled about my father's little finger. I had rarely seen my father so moved. I believe there were actually tears in his eyes.

He stood up abruptly and he said to me, "So my girl Linnet has a son of her own. Bless you, girl. You've made me a happy man."

Later when we rode together as we used to when I was at home and the understanding had started between us, he said to me: "I spent years railing against fate that denied me a legitimate son. When you came I cursed G.o.d for giving me a girl. Now I see I was wrong. I learned in time that you were as good as any boy-and so you've proved. Now you've given me my grandson."

I said I was happy too. Then I added: "I have to watch my son will not be spoiled. His father dotes on him even as you do. He must not grow up to think he has but to smile and the whole world will be at his feet."

"Have no fear. That boy will take after his grandfather. I see it. He'll be for the sea. He's got that look in his eyes."

I laughed at my father, but he was serious.

"I'm glad," he said, "you've got a man who is a man. Never quite took to Fennimore Landor. Too much of the popinjay about him."

"You are not fair to him. He is a brave good sailor."

"Squeamish," said my father. "Can you see him pacing a deck with blood dripping from his cutla.s.s?"

"I should not admire him for that."

"A handsome fellow, I grant you. But you've got a man and I'm proud of you."

Yes, there was no doubt that my father liked my husband. They rode together and talked a great deal.

My mother too seemed happy, and Damask's infatuation for Colum continued. He was amused by the child but he took little notice of her, which she did not seem to mind as long as she could sit near and watch him.

It was like the old Christmases I remembered at Lyon Court. I suppose I had made it so. All the servants and their families came into the great hall and were given wine and Christmas cake; they sang carols and the mummers came and performed.

I did talk to my mother when we were alone.

I mentioned the fact that I had discovered Colum had been married before. "His wife was Melanie Landor," I said. "Fennimore's sister. Did you know?"

"We did discover it after the wedding," said my mother. "What a time that was! First the secret ceremony and then the other. It was all rather hurried, as it had to be."

"When did you realize that Colum's first wife was Melanie Landor?"

"It was after your wedding when you had left for Castle Paling with Colum. The Landors were to visit us. Only Fennimore and his father came. Mistress Landor was taken ill. She admitted to me afterwards that she could not face us when she knew that our daughter had married her daughter's husband."

"It must have been a shock for her."

"It was. How did you discover? But Colum told you, I suppose."

"No, he did not. I found out through Jennet."

"Trust Jennet!" said my mother half indulgently, half in exasperation.

"Yes, Jennet told me who she was. I was surprised."

"And you mentioned it to Colum?"

Memories came back to me-the darkening room, the red bed with the shadows deepening and the ghost of Melanie lurking.

"I did. He was not very pleased."

"He had not wished you to know?"

"I am not sure of that. He had simply not mentioned it. It was over, she was dead and he was married to me now. Tell me what Mistress Landor said when she knew I had married Colum."

"Remember that she lost her beloved daughter. She must have been nearly demented when it happened. She did not wish her daughter to have any more children. She was certain that if she did she would kill herself. Of course she blames Colum. She becomes hysterical over her daughter's death. We must understand that, Linnet."

"She told me that her daughter had been murdered. It was a great shock when I discovered who she was ... for that reason."

"You must remember she is a mother. That is why she has to blame someone for her daughter's death. Her grief was a.s.suaged by her anger against her daughter's husband. Sometimes when grief like that sweeps over you anger is an outlet for it."

"I understand. And the Landors have never had any communication with Castle Paling since her death."

"Perhaps in time they will come to see reason. In any case, my dearest, you are happy. You have a beautiful son and a husband who loves you. And it has all happened so quickly. Just over a year ago that we ... No matter. I rejoice. May G.o.d bless you, my darling, and may you always be as happy as you are now."

She wanted to see the castle. I told her about Ysella and Nonna. "Ysella's Tower is locked up. It is used as a kind of storage place. Seaward is where certain of the servants live."

"A whole tower to themselves?" said my mother.

"There is so much s.p.a.ce in a castle, Mother."

"I remember the Abbey where I spent my childhood. It is very beautiful here, and so interesting. I like to think of my little girl as the chatelaine of a great castle."

When I was showing her the rooms in the castle we came to the Red Room.

It was the first time I had been in it since that night when Colum had found me there. I noticed that there was a layer of dust on the planked hutch and the bedposts.

My mother noticed it too and raised her eyebrows. As she grew older she had become a meticulous housewife.

"The servants don't like to come in here alone," I said.

"The haunted room, is it? Now I see it has that air. What legend is there attached to this place?"

I said: "It was the room in which Colum's first wife died."

"Ah," said my mother, "if I were you I would take down those red hangings and the bed curtains and put in another colour. Change it."

"I hadn't thought of that."

"The old legends that should be preserved are happy ones," said my mother.

"I will consider it," I said. And I thought at the time: She is right in a way but changing the curtains and putting in new furniture would not alter the fact that within these four walls Melanie had lived, suffered and died.

After the New Year my parents went back to Lyon Court. I missed them very much, but I was happy watching my child grow bigger every day. He flourished and our delight in him was greater than ever. But oddly enough I could not cast out that morbid fascination which the Red Room had for me, and I still went there. I did think of changing the curtains. I even went so far as taking my little seamstress along to discuss the matter with her.

I noticed how reluctant she was and I could see that she was afraid of the task.

At last she admitted that she thought it might bring bad luck.

"Nonsense," I said. "Why should it?"

"It might be, Madam, that this is how she wished it to stay."

Then I knew that I should really do as my mother said. I must change the room entirely so that when people entered it they would not think of poor dead Melanie.

But I didn't. I found I had no heart for the task. I a.s.sured myself that to do so was to give way to superst.i.tion. But that was not quite true.

Somewhere deep down in my mind was the thought that Melanie had left something of herself behind and that one day I might need her help.

I will admit it was a thought which flashed in and out of my head and was dismissed immediately, but it came back. It was there in the Red Room; and on dark nights I thought I could hear it in the murmur of the wind on the sea.

What if he should tire of you as he tired of Melanie? Tire of me? The mother of his son ... and the other children we should have. For we should have them. He was sure of that and so was I.

There was a great deal I had to discover about my husband. I knew so little of him. That was doubtless why I was so fascinated by him.

Ruthless I knew he was. How ruthless I had to discover. Brutal he could be. How brutal? I was safe while I pleased him. Had Melanie ever been? I could picture his bringing home his bride. I could see the wedding feast at Trystan Priory and the gentle girl who had been brought up in that kindly mansion and knew nothing of the harsh reality of life.

Had he been tender towards her once? I could picture his indifference to her suffering. I remembered him as he had been in the inn when there had been nothing but l.u.s.t in his eyes for me.

He excited me; he fascinated me; but I knew I did not understand him; and I knew too that I could only rely on his goodness to me as long as I continued to please him.

I would keep the Red Room as it was and I would attempt to learn more of my husband. I must know where he went when he was not at the castle. I must share his life.

I would find out. Oddly enough-and how right this premonition was to prove-the notion filled me with a certain apprehension.

Spring had come and I was once more expecting a child. I was delighted but not more so than Colum.

"Did I not tell you that you would have a quiverful? Give me another boy. When we have half a dozen of them we'll think about a girl or two."

I retorted: "I do not propose to spend my life in a continual state of pregnancy."

"Do you not?" he retorted. "I thought that was a wifely duty."

"To provide a few children yes, but she needs a little respite."

"Not my wife," he said, and he lifted me in his arms and looked at me with love.

I was happy. Gloomy thoughts had gone. I visualized a future-Colum and I grown older, more sedate, and our children playing about us.

As soon as I knew I was to have another child my desire to discover receded. I was happy. I wanted to go on in my contentment. There were times when he went away for several days at a stretch. I used to wonder where. He was not very communicative about his affairs; and one thing I had discovered was that he hated to be questioned. When I had asked he had answered me vaguely but I had seen the danger signals in his eyes. I had seen his sudden anger flare up against some servant and I had always been afraid of arousing it. At one time I wondered whether he visited a mistress. I did not think this was so because when he went away he took a retinue of servants with him.

Again I learned a little through Jennet. She was supposed to sleep in the servants' quarters in the Crows' Tower but I knew she slipped out to Seaward to join her lover there. One night I discovered that she was not going to Seaward Tower.

Colum had told me that he would be leaving early the next morning. He was going on some business and would be gone before I was up.

I remembered then that Jennet had not gone to the Seaward Tower on another occasion when Colum had been going away. I decided to question as discreetly as I could, because I was growing more and more interested in Colum's journeys.

When I awoke the next morning I sent for Jennet. I said: "I gathered you spent the night on your lonely pallet, Jennet."

She blushed in that manner which had sometimes irritated my mother but which I could not help finding rather endearing.

"Orders," she said. "I was not to go to Seaward last night."

"There should be such orders every night, Jennet," I said.

"Yes, Mistress," she answered. "'Tis always so," she volunteered, "the night before he do go on his journey. He be busy preparing, like, late into the night and sets off with the dawn."

"Does he tell you where he is going?"

"He never will say, Mistress. Shuts up tight when I ask. He's a mild man but he gets angry if I as much as mention it. 'Keep thy mouth shut, woman,' he says, 'or that'll be the end 'twixt you and me.' Yet he be a mild man in all other matters."

It certainly was strange. I wondered why there had to be this secrecy. Colum was not a man to make an effort to keep anything quiet. His implication was that if people did not like what he did, he cared not a jot. Yet he was quiet about this business of his.

When he returned from a journey he was invariably in good spirits and glad to be back with me. It was June and the warm sunshine filled the castle. It was three months since my child had been conceived and I had recovered from the first uncomfortable stages of pregnancy and had not yet reached the c.u.mbersome one. I felt well and energetic and Colum and I rode out together. We should be away for the night, he told me, as he had some business to transact.

I was delighted because I thought at last he was taking me into his confidence. I was actually going with him on a business venture; I was making the most of my riding too, because I knew that very soon I should be forbidden to ride.

This is the loveliest of all months, or perhaps it seemed so to me because I was so happy. The sky was cobalt blue with only the faintest hint of wispy white cloud. The choughs and the seagulls swooped and rose above the water and as we rode away from the sea into the lanes I was enchanted by the countryside. The white chervil on the banks reminded me of lace and the gra.s.s was spattered with blue forget-me-nots and red ragged robin.

The sun was warm and I was happy. I felt well and strong, and glad as I was to be riding with Colum I knew I should be just as delighted to go back and see my son. He was in good hands. The care of children was one thing Jennet could really be trusted with.

Colum sang as we rode along-it was the old hunting song which was such a favourite with him.

I did not recognize the road until we were almost at the inn. And there it was before us: The Traveller's Rest, and there was the host who had been in such a quandary on that other night. Now he was beaming with delight, hands crossed on his chest.

Colum leaped from his horse and lifted me down. Grooms ran to take our horses.

"The Oak Room, host," cried Colum.

"At your service, my master," replied the host.

And we were mounting the stairs and there was the room which I remembered so well-the big four-poster bed in which I had slept with my mother, the lattice window from which I had looked down and seen Colum standing before me.

The host was saying, "There is venison, my master, cooked as you like it. And natlin and taddage pies as will tempt your palate. And if my lord so wishes, metheglin to wash it down."

"Lay it on," cried Colum. "For we have ridden far and are hungry."