“Swear it,” she said. “Swear, my girl. I and Wrekin will be your witness.”
I was silent, looking from the rather malevolent face of her whom we called the witch to the strangely altered one of Keziah on the bed. I sensed that it was a solemn moment. I was swearing to make a child my concern, the child of a serving girl and a man whom I had seen murdered and whom I could never regard as anything but as low as the beasts of the forest. Worse, because at least they killed from fear or from the need for food. He had found joy in torturing others; and I had rarely been so disgusted in my life as when I had witnessed Keziah’s desire for this man. And I was promising to care for their child! But Keziah’s dry hand was pressing mine. I saw the anguish in her eyes.
I bent over her and kissed her. And it was not fear of Mother Salter but love and pity for Keziah that made me say: “I swear.”
It was a strange scene in that bedroom. Keziah dying and the old woman standing by yet showing no grief.
“You’ll come to bless this night,” she said to me. “If you keep your word. If you don’t you’ll come to curse it.”
Keziah moved uneasily on the bed. She whimpered. Mother Salter said to me: “Be gone now. When the time comes you will know.”
I came out of the cottage into the woods and ran all the way home.
I knew that I must tell my father of my promise. If I told my mother she would say: “Yes, the girl can come to us and she shall be brought up with the servants.” Then she would forget about it and the child would become part of our household. There were children now in the servants’ quarters for one or two of them had been got with child and my father would never turn away a deserted mother.
But this was different. I had promised that Keziah’s child should be brought up in the house, sit at the schoolroom table. I knew I must keep my word.
I told my father what had happened. I said: “Keziah has been almost as a mother to me.”
My father pressed my hand tenderly. He knew that my own mother while she had looked after my physical needs in an exemplary manner had perhaps sometimes been a little absentminded when absorbed by her garden.
“And,” I went on, “this is Keziah’s child. I know she is a servingwoman but this child who is about to be born will be the brother or sister of Bruno…if it is true that he is Keziah’s son.”
My father was silent and a look of pain crossed his face. We rarely mentioned what had happened at the Abbey. And the fact that Bruno had disappeared had deeply affected us all. My father was becoming convinced that the confession had been a false one and that Bruno was in fact a Messiah or at least a prophet.
I went on quickly: “I gave my word, Father. I must keep it.”
“You are right,” he said. “You must keep your word. But let Keziah bring her child here and tend it. Why should she not do that?”
“Because she will not be here. That was why they made me swear. Keziah…and Mother Salter…believe that Keziah will die.”
“If this comes to pass,” said my father, “then bring the child here.”
“And she may be brought up as a child of the household?”
“You have promised this and you must keep your promise.”
“Oh, Father, you are such a good man.”
“Don’t think too highly of me, Damask.”
“But I do think it and I shall always do so. For, Father, I know how good you are—so much better than those who are supposed to be holy.”
“No, no, you must not say these things. You cannot see into the hearts of people, Damask, and you should not judge unless you can. But let us walk down to the river where we can talk in peace. Do you not miss Kate?”
“I do, Father, and Keziah too. Everything seems to have changed. It has all become quiet.”
“There is sometimes a quiet before a storm. Have you noticed that? We must always be prepared for what may happen next. Who would have believed a few years ago that where our flourishing Abbey stood there should be almost a ruin? Yet the winds had been blowing that way for some time and we did not notice them.”
“But now there is no Abbey and the King has found a new wife. Kate has said that already he has his eyes on a girl named Katharine Howard.”
“Let us pray, Damask, that all goes well with this marriage because you have seen what disaster the King’s marriage can bring to his people.”
“It was the break with Rome. Surely that was one of the most important events which ever befell this country.”
“I believe so, my child, and it has had far-reaching effects—and will doubtless have more. But when you talk to me of bringing Keziah’s child into the household, I wonder when you will be bringing up your own.”
“Father, are you still hankering after my marriage?”
“It would please me greatly, Damask, if before I died I saw you betrothed, with a good husband—one whom I could trust—to care for you, to give you children. I longed for sons and daughters and I have but one. And you are more precious to me than all the world, as you well know. But why should I not see my house peopled by children—the children you will bring me in my old age, Damask?”
“You make me feel that I must marry without delay to please you.”
“As my desire to see you happy is even greater than that for grandchildren, it would be far from my wish. I long to see you married—but for my contentment you must be a happy wife and mother.”
I pressed his arm gently. I am sure that if Rupert had asked me to marry him at that moment I should have agreed to do so because I wished to please my dear good father more than anything else on earth.
One of the serving girls brought a message for me. Mother Salter wished me to go to her. When I arrived the old woman was seated as usual on the chimney seat, Wrekin at her feet, the sooty pot bubbling over the fire.
She rose and led the way up to the short spiral staircase. On the bed lay a body under a sheet and on the sheet was a sprig of rosemary. I gasped, and she nodded.
“It was as I said it would be,” she murmured.
“Oh, my poor Keziah!” My voice trembled and she laid a hand on my shoulder; her fingers were bony, her nails like claws.
I said: “And the child?”
She led the way downstairs. In a corner of the room was a crib which I had not noticed when I came in. In it lay a living child. I stared in wonder and Mother Salter gave me a little push toward the crib.
“Take her up,” she said. “She’s yours.”
“A little girl,” I whispered.
“Didn’t I tell you?”
I took up the child. It was unswaddled and wrapped in a shawl. Her face was pink and crumpled looking; its very helplessness filled me with pity that was close to love.
She took the child from me.
“Not yet,” she said. “Not yet. I’ll nurture her. When the time comes, she’ll be yours.” She laid the child back in the crib and turned to me. Her claws dug into my arm. “Don’t forget your promise.”
I shook my head. Then I found that I was weeping. I was not sure for what—for Keziah whose life was over, or for the baby whose life was just beginning.
“She was young to die,” I said.
“Her time had come.”
“But it was too soon.”
“She had a good life. She loved a frolic. She could never resist a man. It had to be. Men were the meaning of life to her. It was written that they would be the death of her too.”
“That man…the father of her child…I loathed him.”
“Yes, my fine lady,” she said. “But how can any of us be sure who fathers us?”
“I am sure,” I said.
“Ah, yes, you, but who else can be? Keziah never knew who her father was. Nor was her mother sure. My daughter was another such as Keziah. They couldn’t resist the men, you see, and they both died in childbirth. You’re a fine lady and you’ll make little Honeysuckle one too.” She squeezed my arm. “You’ve got to, haven’t you? Wouldn’t dare do aught else, would you? Remember, you gave your word. And if you don’t keep it, my fine young lady, you’ll have the curse of dead Keziah on you forever and what’s worse still, Mother Salter’s.”