Daughter of Satan (15 page)

‘Those ancient dances were calculated to warm the coldest heart. There are strange chants. There is magic in them – so the witches think. They arouse the dancers to a frenzy. There is fornication on such nights, and each man or woman who participates believes that, through her partner, she had communication with the Devil. In the days when the gods and heroes of Asgard were worshipped, the horned goat represented fertility; in these days the old beliefs are forgotten and only the ritual remains. The Christian interpretation is put on the goat, and that is that he represents the Devil, for men of one faith readily believe all others to be of the Devil. We have seen that even a variation of the same faith suffers the same condemnation. But I must explain to you.

‘I wore the black robes which those attending associate with the Devil. There were horns to my cap. I had joined in the dance which to them was witchcraft, but which to me was the fertility dance of my forefathers. It is calculated, as I said, to arouse desire in the coldest man or woman; and this it does. That much is preserved. I was caught up in the primitive urge of my forefathers; and there was Luce in the woods.

‘I did not foresee the terrible thing which would happen to her because of this. My conscience at that time worried me
little. You know that I found a husband for her. It did not seem to me that what had happened to Luce was worse than what happened to so many more. I meant to take her into my confidence, to talk to her in some way as I have just talked to you, to explain to her that it was I who had seduced her. I even thought of keeping her here as my mistress. She was a dainty creature. I found her stupid, and I had no patience with stupidity. I married her off, and that, I felt, was all that was needed. When I heard that she talked of what had happened that night, I dismissed her as a little fool. I had tried to warn her, but it was impossible to do so without disclosing the identity of her seducer. You are shocked, child. You look at me with horror.'

‘I saw them come to the cottage . . . I saw them take her.'

‘I know. I have thought of it often. It was a terrible end for a girl such as Luce had been. I have made excuses for myself, but I see now that what I did to her was far worse than anything Sir Humphrey could have done. I want you to see me as I am. Have no illusions. I sheltered you when they pursued you because of my guilty conscience, not because I had any feeling towards you as a daughter.'

‘Yet I do not forget that you acknowledged me as your daughter before all those people when I was in my greatest danger.'

‘That was when I knew they had hanged her; and but for me that would never have happened to her.'

‘It is all violence and death!' said Tamar. ‘Perhaps now I understand you more than I did before.'

‘And to understand me is to despise me?'

‘No. I think to love you as well as admire you. You did a great wrong to my mother . . . a very wicked thing. But you were sorry and you took me in and you told all those people that you were my father. How could I despise you?'

He said: ‘If you had not been beautiful, intelligent and amusing, I should doubtless have left you to work in the kitchens.'

She did not speak and he said: ‘Please say what is in your mind.'

‘It is that you think me beautiful, intelligent and amusing.'

She ran to him and flung her arms about him.

‘My beloved daughter!' he said.

And she lifted her face to his. ‘I never thought to see you weep,' she said.

He held her close to him and she felt his lips on her hair.

He put her from him suddenly, as though ashamed of his emotion.

He poured wine into two goblets and handed one to her.

‘To Tamar!' he said. ‘To my daughter. My daughter . . . who now believes that the Devil is exonerated from all responsibility in her birth.'

‘To you, dear Father,' she replied.

He understood the look in her eyes. He said as he put down his glass and took her by the shoulders: ‘Now you know the truth.'

But she continued to smile her secret smile.

‘They were afraid of me,' she said. ‘I was protected in my childhood.'

‘You were protected by the belief of those about you.'

‘I have seen charms work,' she said.

He sighed, and she continued:

‘They would say that the Devil was in you that night. And indeed, you will admit that you behaved in a way which was not usual with you.'

‘I see,' he said slowly, ‘that nothing I can tell you will shift your belief.'

She embraced him once more, holding her cheek against his.

‘I am glad though that he chose you. I am glad that it was your body he entered.'

‘Alas!' he answered, ‘I see your faith is unshakeable.' He turned her face up to his. ‘Tamar, can't you give it up?'

Slowly she shook her head.

Plague came to Plymouth.

In the streets men and women lay dying, calling for help which none dared give. On the doors were large red crosses, warning all to keep away. At night the pest cart went through the streets. ‘Bring forth your dead!' was the mournful cry.

The surrounding villages were more fortunate than the town. It was in the cobbled streets with filth running in the gutters that the dread disease flourished. But fear was in every mind; each watched himself or herself for the dreaded signs – the shivering, sickness, headache and delirium, which must shortly be followed by the fearful sign on the breast which was the grim herald of death.

Into the Sound one hot day came a ship; she rested at anchor while she sent a rowing boat ashore. No citizens were on the quay to greet those three men who came in that boat. The men came ashore, fear in their hearts. It did not take them long to discover why they had received no welcome. They quickly saw the red crosses on the doors, the inert figures of those who had laid down in the streets to die.

They went back to their boat with all possible speed and rowed out to their ship.

Annis knocked at the door of Tamar's room.

Tamar had her own bedroom now. It contained a four-poster bed, a carved chest, a wardrobe and a press; she had a chair with a tapestry back and there was the great luxury of a carpet on the floor. She delighted in these things to such an extent that Richard had said she must have them. Indeed, she had not yet grown accustomed to them, and would walk round her room examining them, rejoicing in the knowledge that they were hers. There was also a mirror of burnished metal, and in this she enjoyed studying her face; for her beauty delighted her more than her other possessions.

Annis was excited, Tamar saw at once.

‘Mistress Tamar, I must tell 'ee what I've found. 'Twere in the barn . . . our barn, you know . . . John's and mine. I did go home and, natural like, I did look for John. He weren't to be seen, so I just put me head in at the barn . . . for memory's sake, you might say . . . and there I did see men! There were three of them . . . all lying down, starving like, they seemed. Queer sort of men. One said: “Mistress, for the love of the Lord bring us food and drink.” And he said it twice before I could understand . . . he spoke that queer. I didn't know what I should do. I were scared out of my wits.'

‘Men?' said Tamar. ‘What sort of men?'

‘Strange sort of men . . . and such a way of speaking! I was hard put to it to understand what it was they were saying, and it was guess work that told me. I could see they were starving. I could see they was well-nigh done for.'

‘Why did you not go to your father or mother?'

‘I don't rightly know, 'cept they'd have drove 'em off the farm. Father, he wouldn't have strangers there. He says they steal his roots and corn and suchlike. They'd be stealing the pigs' food – that's what Father would say. I didn't know where to turn, so I come to you.'

Tamar smiled, well pleased. She revelled in admiration, and that of Annis was so wholehearted.

‘I'll go and see for myself,' she said. ‘I'll ride over. You can follow me. If these men are starving, they'll need help quickly. But we have to be careful, Annis. We don't know who they are.'

‘I thought mayhap
you
would know,' said Annis.

Tamar wrinkled her brows in concentration. ‘I feel they are good men,' she said. ‘Men we may have to help.'

‘I'm glad of that,' said Annis, ‘for I might have told me father.'

‘First of all, I will see them,' said Tamar.

The wind pulled at her long black hair as she rode over to the barn. She liked to wear it loose, so that she should be known and recognized at once. She enjoyed Mistress Alton's horrified glances at the offending glory.

Tamar had grown proud in the last few years, for she had risen too quickly in too short a time. In one stride she had left poverty for luxury, physical misery for comfort; she was Richard Merriman's acknowledged daughter, but she was not going to lose one whit of the special prestige among the ignorant which the belief in her satanic parentage had brought her.

She reached the barn, pushed open the door and stood looking at the three wretched men lying in the gloom. Their plight was pitiful, but her eyes had been accustomed to look at such sights.

‘Who are you?' she asked.

One of the men who seemed stronger than the others raised himself a little.

‘Lady, my name is Humility Brown, and I and my friends have not eaten for . . . we forget how long. For the love of the Lord, bring us food and drink, or we perish.'

The man's voice was cultured, which enabled her to understand what he said, but even so it was obvious that he came from another part of the country.

‘Tell me first what you do here.'

‘We rest and shelter against the weather.'

‘How did you get here?'

‘We came off the ship
Adventurer.
We were on our way to Virginia in the New World.'

‘But where are your shipmates?'

‘They would not take us back. We came ashore for stores . . . three of us . . . and when we reached the town we saw its plight. We returned to the ship, but they would not. take us back aboard. There was naught we could do . . .'

Tamar slipped outside the door and shut it. These men had been in the polluted town. It might be that already they carried the terrible infection, the token already on their breasts.

She ran to her horse and mounted. She knew that the villages were free of the plague because they had cut off all communication with the stricken town.

She met Annis on the way back.

Annis cried: ‘Mistress, you saw them? You are going to help?'

‘Annis!' cried Tamar. ‘You must not go near the barn. What shall we do? Those men have been in the town. They left their ship to buy stores and came to the town, so their shipmates would not have them back; but you and I, Annis, have been near them.'

Annis began to shiver, but almost immediately she lifted her big grey eyes to Tamar's face and answered cheerfully: ‘Mistress,
you
can make as clean. We shall be safe because you will see to it.'

Tamar's dark eyes were wide, her cheeks flushed. ‘Why, yes. We shall be safe. I shall see to that. Annis, if I told you to go into the barn and have no fear, would you go?'

‘If you would set a charm on me so that I'd come to no harm, I would.'

‘Then I will. This is what I will do. You can go to the barn now, but do not go inside. Stand outside and let no one enter. I will bring food for the men. I will save their lives, and then no one will doubt my power. But, Annis . . . we shall not tell the master of this until it is done.'

Annis nodded.

‘Now to the barn. Remember! Stand there and let no one enter. If any come, you must tell them that plague victims are inside. Wait there . . . till I come.'

Tamar galloped back to the house, where she went to the kitchen and collected food and wine. She found a piece of charcoal which she took with her when she rode back to the barn, where Annis was standing, placidly obedient to her mistress's command.

‘You can go now, Annis. Wait for me at the end of the field.'

Annis ran off and Tamar opened the door of the barn.

‘Humility Brown,' she said, ‘are you there?'

‘Yes, lady.'

‘Here is food and drink. I will put it by the door. Have you strength to reach it?'

‘Yes. And may the good Lord bless you for ever.'

‘I will bring more food and drink tomorrow. If there is anything else you want, you must ask me for it.'

Humility Brown said with much emotion: ‘My friends, here is an angel from Heaven. Food, friends. This is an answer to prayer.'

Tamar shut the door, and she wrote on it in charcoal: ‘The Lord have Mercy On Us.'

Anyone approaching would know what that meant.

Tamar was eighteen – wilful and proud. Richard often felt misgivings regarding her. The emotion she aroused in him astonished him. He was beginning to care more for this wild natural daughter of his than he had ever cared for anyone in the whole of his life.

Her beauty enchanted him; her tortuous nature alarmed
him. He had seen her tender and kind, cruel and haughty. She was half cultured, half savage. Her wits were sharp, her mind clear, but nothing he could do or say would rid her of this ridiculous belief in her own supernatural powers. She had, he supposed, found this belief too persistent in her lonely childhood to be able to relinquish it now that she had a comfortable home and an affectionate father to care for her. She was not one to wish to rely on the protection of others.

He had arranged that she should meet all the eligible men of the neighbourhood, but none of them pleased her. There were several who, despite the dark stories which still circulated about her, were so fascinated by all that charm and beauty that willingly would they have married her. But she gave herself the airs of a princess and laughed at the arrangements he would have made for her.