I said: ‘Do you think we shall feel it here, Mother?’
‘My dear child, we could not escape. This ship money is really worrying the people at Plymouth, and this certainty that he rules by divine right and is therefore justified in everything he does, is making the King enormously unpopular.’
‘What does Father think will happen?’ I asked.
‘That there will have to be an understanding sooner or later. The King will have to change his ways. He is being harsh to the Puritans and it is said that he is influenced by his Catholic wife. I don’t like the way things are going, but let us hope they will be put right in time. By the way, I want to talk to you, Bersaba. There was something that was said at supper … about witches.’
‘Oh yes, Mother.’
‘I don’t want the subject encouraged. I believe it was you who brought it up.’
‘Was it?’ I asked, my voice mildly interested.
‘I’m sure of it, dear. I’ve never liked to talk of it. I can’t ever forget the day they came for my stepmother.’
‘What happened, Mother? Was it very terrible?’
‘Yes, it was. I hate to recall it. I dreamed about it for a long time afterwards … until I was married to your father, in fact. I would see that procession in my dreams—lighted torches, chanting voices and the callous, cruel, gloating, lewd faces of the people marching on the Castle. I never want to see the like again.’
‘Do you think interest in witches has come back?’
‘Never say such things. Has Senara been talking to you?’
‘No, Mother.’
‘I remember when she was young she was constantly talking of witches and reminding people that her mother was suspected of being one. She didn’t realize how dangerous it was then. It could still be.’
‘We haven’t heard much talk of it, Mother.’
‘It’s there, though … sleeping … ready to be awakened. People still believe in it, but we have never encouraged it. I don’t want people talking about witches just because Senara has come back. So Bersaba, please … if anyone speaks of it brush it aside. I don’t want a return of what happened before.’
‘Of course, Mother,’ I said.
‘You see, my dear, hysteria can so easily be whipped up. Then ignorant people get together and fan the flames … you see what I mean.’
‘Yes, I do. They could march to Trystan Priory just as they marched that night to Castle Paling. They still hang and burn witches; they still tie their arms and legs together and throw them into the sea or the river or any pools deep enough to drown them.’
‘We’ll not think of it. We’ll not mention it. If you hear any of the servants talking, stop them. They may well talk, because they remember Carlotta’s grandmother. I don’t want them to, Bersaba.’
‘I will remember that, Mother,’ I said ambiguously, and I wondered whether she would notice my excitement.
As I went up to my room I saw one of the maids on the stairway. She was holding a kerchief in her hand.
‘This was dropped by the lady Carlotta,’ she told me.
‘Oh, why do you not take it to her then?’ I asked.
The maid looked furtive. ‘I be feared to, Mistress Bersaba.’
‘Why?’
The girl cast down her eyes.
‘Why? Why?’ I demanded.
She couldn’t say. I took the kerchief from her. ‘Are you afraid she’s a witch and might ill-wish you?’ I asked.
‘Oh I dursen’t say that, Mistress Bersaba.’
The suspicions were spreading fast, I thought exultantly, and said: ‘Give it to me. I’ll take it to her room. I’ll say a prayer as I cross the threshold. That’s what you have to do isn’t it?’
‘I do believe so, mistress, but it would be hard to bring myself to …’
‘All right, don’t worry. I’ll take it.’
I seized the kerchief and went to the room which I knew to be Carlotta’s. I knocked, and as there was no response I opened the door cautiously and went in. On the bed lay her nightgown, silk with a thousand frills. How beautiful she would look in it with her dark hair hanging about her shoulders. A soft perfume hung about the room. The fact that it was temporarily Carlotta’s had changed it subtly.
I went quietly to the bed and picked up the nightgown. I held it against me and imagined that Bastian was coming in and
I was his bride. Then the picture changed from me to Carlotta and the wild misery seized me.
I was suddenly aware of being watched. I turned sharply. The door of the ante-room was open and Ana was standing there.
‘Is there anything you want—’ she asked in her halting English.
‘I brought your mistress’s kerchief which she had dropped. There it is on the table.’
Ana bowed her head. I felt foolish standing there holding the nightdress about me, so I said: ‘It’s beautiful, this nightdress.’
‘I make it,’ said Ana.
‘Congratulations. You must be a magician with your needle.’
The dark eyes seemed to be probing my mind. I felt mentally exposed, as though this woman read what was in my mind: all my hatred of Carlotta; all my desire for revenge.
She came forward silently and, taking the nightdress from me, laid it on the bed.
She’s uncanny, I thought. It’s almost as though she knows what’s in my mind. And she will be a watchdog.
The next day I disobeyed orders and again rode out alone. I didn’t want anyone with me because I wanted to think. Revenge! It filled my mind, and I thought how clever I was to have formulated a plan which would exonerate me while it utterly defeated my enemy. All my love and longing for Bastian was lost in this new emotion.
I had not gone very far when I noticed that my mare seemed to be going lame, so I dismounted and discovered that she had cast a shoe. By good fortune I was less than a mile from the smithy, so I decided to take her along without delay.
I talked soothingly to her as we went along and in a short time we arrived. Neither Angelet nor I enjoyed our visits there, for the smith was not the most pleasant of men. He was a man of considerable height and girth, and we always said that the Devil must look something like him when he stood over his furnace, looking as though he would like to cast into it all the sinners of the neighbourhood to their eternal torment.
Thomas Gast was a fierce man; he preached every Sunday in one of the barns not far from the smithy, and a number of the villagers went to hear him—not so much to agree with his doctrines as to shiver at his fierce language. For Thomas Gast was a Puritan. He believed that pleasure was sinful. I used to misquote to Angelet: ‘There is more joy in Thomas Gast over one sinner who earns eternal damnation than a thousand who repent in time.’
My parents were uneasy because of his fiery preaching which they feared might bring trouble to the neighbourhood. They believed that every man had a right to his opinions on the manner in which God should be worshipped, but it seemed to them the wise way was to keep one’s thoughts to oneself. Thomas Gast was not like that. He was a man who believed firmly that Thomas Gast was right and everyone who disagreed with him in the slightest detail was wrong. Moreover, he was not content to leave them in their ignorance. He would chastise them with words and—if he got the opportunity, as he did with his own family—with a leather strap.
He had ten children—and they and their poor little mother lived in fear lest they incur his wrath by an ill-chosen word or some action which could be construed as sinful.
He was a most uncomfortable man, but, as my father said, the best smith he had ever known.
When I took in my mare he looked at me with disapproval, I presumed because I was wearing my riding-hat at too jaunty an angle, or perhaps my contemplation of revenge had made me appear to cherish a zest for life. However, my appearance displeased him.