The Lion Triumphant (61 page)

Fennimore suggested that often innocent women were accused of witchcraft simply because they were old, lived alone, had a cat, a squint or a few warts.

“If they be innocent they must prove it,” said my father vehemently.

“People are too ready to accuse others,” commented my mother. “Perhaps they should look to their own shortcomings before being so ready to condemn them in others.”

“By God, woman,” said my father, “we are talking of witchcraft!”

He was a very intolerant man. He had a code and there was no diverging from it. He had been guilty of rape, I knew. There was Carlos to prove it—the result of a raid on the Spanish coast. What Colum Casvellyn had done to me was exactly the sort of trick he would have played on a woman; and yet he would be outraged because this had happened to his daughter. As my mother had said so often, there was no reasoning with him.

Now he talked fiercely about what he called the cult of Satan. My mother said that witchcraft had stayed with us; it belonged to the days before Christianity came to our land. It was a part of the religion of the ancients. It was anti-Christianity; it was worship of the Horned God whom Christians called the Devil.

She, who had studied the subject, was knowledgeable about it. She said that the Sabbats were in fact a kind of religious ceremony in which the Horned God was worshipped; and because there was a need to people the earth, the dances performed at the feet of the horned God were in fact fertility rites.

My father watched her sardonically as she talked—a mixture of pride and derision in his glance. Fennimore said that this was so and the way in which to wipe out witchcraft was not to torture and kill defenceless old women but to lure them from their beliefs in this old pagan religion and make Christians of them.

“Oh, you are a reformer,” said my father with a laugh.

“Well, perhaps that is not such a bad thing to be,” replied Fennimore.

“It is a very good thing to be,” said my mother, smiling at him warmly. There was no doubt that she was very fond of Fennimore.

She managed to turn the subject back to the ever-interesting one of trade and the new project for it was clear that my father might become too dogmatic and introduce a discordant note.

And so the unfortunate incident of the witch’s hanging was forgotten and the rest of the day passed pleasantly.

In the morning the Landors left. Plans had been made; ships were being converted, the new enterprise was about to begin.

I was now certain, and as the fearful truth dawned on me that as a result of that extraordinary night I was going to have a child I felt as though the bars of a cage were forming round me.

I knew of course that I must tell my mother. My father had left on a short voyage and I chose the time while he was away. I asked her to come to my bedchamber as I had something very important to say to her.

I faced her there and blurted out: “Mother, I am with child.”

She stared at me in disbelief and I saw the colour leave her face.

“Linnet. No!”

“I fear it is true.”

“Fennimore …” she began. “I am surprised …”

“No, not Fennimore, Mother.”

I was trying hard to find the right words and they would not come.

“Not … Fennimore!” She was frankly bewildered.

Then the words started to tumble out. “It was that night. He … he took me to Castle Paling. It was there …”

“
That
man!” she cried.

I nodded. “You … he … You love him?” she demanded.

I shut my eyes and shook my head. I could hear his mocking laughter. Did I remember it from that night? Had it penetrated my drugged senses?

“He took me to his castle and there … I don’t know what happened. I was exhausted. He had a room made ready for me … a room with a four-poster bed. He took me to a room where food was laid out. He said he was sending his servants to find you. I ate and drank … and that is all. The next morning I awoke in the four-poster bed … I was naked and
different
… and he was there …”

“My God,” cried my mother. “Your father will kill him.”

“So I feared.”

“You told me nothing.”

“I was unsure …”

The horror had given way to love. She had taken me in her arms and was rocking me as though I were a baby. “My little Linnet,” she said. “Don’t fret. We will do something. I could kill him myself.”

The burden had dropped away from me as I knew it would when I told her. She would find some answer. She always had. All my problems had been taken to her and when she knew them they had ceased to be insuperable.

She sat down on my bed, her arm about me.

“Linnet,” she said, “what do you remember of that night?”

“I’m not sure. Sometimes I think I remember something … sometimes I believe I have imagined it. I was at the table and he filled my goblet. He said I was exhausted and needed refreshment.”

“The devil!” she cried. “Oh Linnet, sometimes I hate men.” I knew she was thinking of my father. I knew a little of her stormy life and I believe that she had been ill-used. I knew that I had a brother Roberto who was somewhere in Spain, the son of her first strange marriage; I knew that my father had his bastard sons. And I wished I had confided in her long ago. “And then?” she prompted.

“Then? I drank and the haziness came over me … Everything seemed to slip away. I was aware of him. I think I knew he lifted me up and carried me. Then I woke and it was morning and I knew what happened.”

She was silent, and her arms tightened about me.

“I have been so frightened,” I added.

“You should have told me before, Linnet. But never mind, I know now.”

“What can I do?” I asked.

She stroked my hair. “Never fear, we’ll find a way. When your father knows he will go to Castle Paling. It could be the end of one of them.”

“Yet he …” I began.

“Yes,” she said. “Yet he. But men are illogical. What he will think an ordinary occurrence for himself is a violent outrage when performed by others. You are his beloved daughter; it is the daughters of others who may be ill-used.” She laughed, a sad bitter little laugh; and she went on stroking my hair. “I wish you had told me before, dearest. I cannot bear to think of your keeping this to yourself. How was he … this … man in the morning?”

“He laughed at me. He said that I had not resisted him. He said I had joined him in a merry bed and it was as much my wishing as his.”

“He is indeed a scoundrel. You must hate him.”

“I do, and …”

“I think I understand,” she said. “Do you remember anything of what happened during that night?”

“I am not sure. Is it possible that I could not be sure?”

“I think it is. But that night is over. Nothing can alter what happened then. You are carrying his child. You are sure, Linnet?”

“I think so, Mother.”

“We must make sure. But I would not have anyone know of this yet … not even my physician. What we have to think of is what we can do. You are unmarried and pregnant, and the man who wishes to marry you is not the father. If only it had been Fennimore, but Fennimore would not have behaved so.”

“He is quite different from Fennimore.”

“That man,” cried my mother. “His arrogance in the inn and everyone afraid of him. A plague on these men who think everyone in the world is put there to serve them. But let us think what must be done. That is of the utmost importance to us now, Linnet. There are herbs, of course. Maggie Enfield could have given them, but alas is hanging on her gibbet, poor soul. There are others but I fear that sort of thing, Linnet. It is not for you. Fennimore is a good man. He is a tolerant man and that is rare. I had set my heart on your marrying him.”

“I cannot do that now.”

“It is not impossible. What if we told him the truth?”

“You mean you would ask him to father another man’s child?”

“If he loves you, he would.”

“I could not ask him to do that.”

“I could explain what had happened …”

I shook my head. “It is impossible, Mother. Colum Casvellyn would know the child was his. On that morning he hinted that I might already be with child.”

“The man is indeed a devil.”

“He would not let it be forgotten. He lives too near. He might want the child … if it were a son.”

“That could be so,” said my mother. “There seems to me but one thing. You must go to London. I will take you to my mother. She will care for you and the child can be born there. It can be said that you are a widow whose husband is recently dead. It’s so far away none will be able to prove otherwise. My mother will be delighted to care for you and the child. You will be happy there.”

“And leave you?”

“The time comes, Linnet, when mothers and daughters must part.”

“And you wanted me to marry Fennimore that we might always be quite near.”

“Not only that, Linnet. I wanted it because I felt that Fennimore is a good man who would be kind to you. I longed to hear you say that you were betrothed.”

“So might we have been but for that night.”

“Your father must not know. I fear that man. I feared him when he strode into the inn. I had an uneasy feeling that he was going to bring some evil to us. When we left the inn that morning I felt such an immense relief that it seemed out of all proportion to what had happened. Now I understand it. If we had only taken a different road.”

“You can always say that of life, Mother. It is always a matter of taking the wrong or the right road.”

“Now we must be sure to take the right one. I’m glad you have told me, Linnet. Together we will find the solution to this. But there must be little delay. No one here must know that you are pregnant. It is early yet.” She calculated swiftly. “It is not yet two months. If we go to my mother we must do so within the next month.”

“What will my father say?”

“We shall have to be very careful with him. He is expecting an announcement of your marriage to Fennimore. He will not understand this sudden desire to go to London and may well oppose it. That could delay us. You know his impatience. Now he has decided to throw in his lot with the Landors he wants you wedded and providing him with grandsons to continue with the business when they come of an age to do so. It is the best way, Linnet. In fact I think it is the only way. You might of course tell Fennimore. He would be discreet. No one can blame you. And who knows he might be ready to marry you.”

“I couldn’t, Mother, not with the child.”

“You would grow used to the idea. Perhaps it would be best.”

“Please do not tell him.”

“We will not act rashly although we must not delay too long. This has been a terrible shock and I need time to think. Dearest Linnet, I do not want you to go to my mother. To lose you would break my heart, for I should see so little of you and we have been together all your life. Yet it seems to me the best solution, unless of course Fennimore …”

“I am so relieved that you know,” I said. “It seems so much easier to bear now.”

“We will find a way out, darling,” she said. “Together we will find the way.”

The way was found for us. A few days after I had told my mother, Colum Casvellyn came to visit us. I was in my bedchamber sewing a button on one of my gowns when Jennet came in very excited.

“He’s here,” she said. “He’s come to call.”

“Who?” I asked.

“The one who rescued you and brought you back.”

I felt my knees tremble.

“This can’t be so.”

“Oh yes, ’tis so, Mistress. He rode into the courtyard like as though he were master here and he leaped down and shouted to one of the grooms who stood gaping at him. Then he saw me and he said: ‘Go tell your mistress, your young mistress, she has a visitor.’”

“You are sure it is this man?”

Jennet blushed in that foolish coy way as though she were a young girl instead of an experienced woman in her forties.

“Oh yes, Mistress, there be no mistaking him.”

I said: “Bring him into the winter parlour. I will join him there.”

She was off with all speed. I thought: I should find my mother. It would be better if we saw him together. But no, I wanted to see him alone first. I wanted to test my feelings for him.

I could scarcely wait to reach the winter parlour. He was already there, standing with his back to the window, legs apart in that arrogant manner which was characteristic of him and suggested that he was the owner of everything in sight.

“Good day to you,” he cried, smiling broadly. He strode towards me and taking both my hands drew me towards him and kissed me on the mouth.

I flushed hotly and drew back in dismay.

“Coy?” he said. “Reluctant? Oh no, not after all we have been to each other.”

My heart was beating so fast that I could not find my voice. I was filled with uncertainty. I had never felt this overpowering emotion before. It was a hatred, I supposed; but I was not entirely sure.

He looked at me intently. “I came to see how matters stood,” he said.

“I do not understand you, sir.”

“After such pleasure as we shared there could be results. I was anxious for your health.”

“How could you know …” I cried.

His eyebrows were raised; his eyes lighted suddenly with pleasure.

“’Tis so,” he cried. “’Tis so indeed.”

He tried to take me by the shoulders but I stepped back sharply. “By God,” he cried. “I knew it. You were meant to bear sons, I’ll swear. I sensed it that night at the inn. You and I together …” Then he threw back his head and laughed loudly. It was the laughter of triumph.

I stood back still farther. I wished that I had called my mother to come with me.

“You are sure?” he asked.

“I have told my mother.”

His eyebrows were raised again. They were thick, bushy and very arched.

“What says she?”

“You must be gone,” I said. “I never want to see you again.”

“Not see the father of your child?”

“It must be forgotten. I am going away. We have planned it.”

“Going away? Where will you go?”

“I am not prepared to tell you.”

“Going away … carrying my child!”

I cried out in despair. “Leave me alone, I beg of you. Have you not harmed me enough? Never let me see you again.”