Daughter of Satan (25 page)

How slowly the months passed! Springtime, and it would be December before her baby was born!

Annis said one summer's day as they sat in the garden with their sewing: ‘It does seem a miracle to me that you and Mr Brown should be joined together. We did always think 'twould be a
grand
marriage for thee. One of the gentlemen from hereabouts as was mad for 'ee. And then you marry the Puritan! Of course, a finer and more noble gentleman never did live, I do know; and I said to John, I said: “Happy should a woman be in such a union, but . . .”'

‘But?' demanded Tamar sharply; and Annis flushed and became intent upon her work. Tamar burst out: ‘A woman should be happy in such a union, but I am no ordinary woman, am I, Annis? No, I am not! Do not look alarmed. We know – you and I. Oh, Annis, sometimes I think I am bound to the darkness by silken threads which are so light that no one can see them, and only I am aware of them.'

‘Ain't you saved, then, mistress?'

‘No, Annis.'

‘Oh, 'tis a terrible hard job to save 'ee. The Devil holds fast to his own. But you ain't bad. That's what I say to John: “There's witchcraft in her, but all witchcraft ain't bad.” If it do help people, how can it be bad?'

‘You are a dear creature, Annis.'

‘I have no wish but to serve you all the days of my life, mistress.'

‘You are my friend too, Annis.'

Annis moved nearer to Tamar. ‘I did think at one time it would have been Master Bartle Cavill as you would have took. My dear soul! Think of it! If he'd lived and you'd have married him you'd have been Lady Cavill now. You'd have been the Lady of the Manor. I can picture 'ee, sitting there at the head of the table like . . . in your gowns of silk and velvet.'

‘Yes, Annis.'

Annis faltered, remembering that it was sinful to talk of worldly pleasure. ‘I fear I be a sinful woman,' she said. ‘I'll never learn to be a good Puritan. I be vain and overfond of this world's glories. It'll be a terrible hard struggle for me to climb the golden stairs.'

‘You'll climb the stairs, I promise you,' said Tamar. ‘As for your sins, no questions will be asked.'

Annis opened her eyes very wide. ‘You couldn't fix that, mistress, for the Devil wouldn't carry no weight up there.'

Tamar laughed. ‘All this talk of Heaven wearies me. I want to be happy here. Oh Annis, I wonder what my baby will be like. A boy or a girl? A girl, I hope, for if it is a boy he might be like Humility . . . and if a girl like me. How wonderful to see yourself in miniature . . . another Tamar . . . but with a Puritan instead of a Devil for her father!'

She laughed so loudly that Annis was frightened, for, as she said to John afterwards: ‘Women can be awful strange in the waiting months.'

The child was born on a snowy December day. Annis was with Tamar, for she had acquired in the last years some competence as a midwife. Richard had engaged the best physician in Plymouth; but it was Annis whom Tamar wanted with her.

The child was a boy, and Tamar, as she lay in what seemed like the best of all worlds, since there was no pain in it and her baby was in her arms, believed that this was the answer to her problem. She had found happiness at last.

He was dark-eyed, that boy; and already there was a good thick down on his head. She laughed with joy to look at him.

Annis said: ‘Why, mistress, you can't be disappointed in such a bonny boy, for all that you did want a girl.'

‘I . . . want a girl! Nonsense! I wanted nothing but this one!'

She was absorbed in the child. She had his basket beside her bed, and none but herself must attend to his wants. She would not swaddle him, for she remembered that she herself had not been swaddled, and she did not wish to shut his beautiful limbs away from her sight.

Annis shook her head. That was wrong. He would catch his death.

‘He will not catch his death. I will keep him warm. I want him to grow up beautiful like his mother.'

‘But, mistress . . .' cried Annis, distressed.

‘I know what is good for my child.' Her eyes flashed and it seemed to Annis, as she told John afterwards, as though the Devil looked out of them. John said: ‘Annis, I do know she be the wife of Mr Brown. I do know she have been good to 'ee. But she can work spells. Didn't she give you one to work on me? And spells ain't Christian, Annis. I would wish to see thee clear of her.' At which Annis' eyes flashed almost as fiercely as those of her mistress, and she answered: ‘I'd cut off me right hand rather than leave her, John Tyler.' And John was afraid to say more, for he knew that Annis did not mean she would only give up her right hand for her mistress. And when you have the true faith and you have been saved, you do not want to hear your wife utter blasphemy.

So Tamar brought up her child in her own way, and he thrived; but when the time came for naming him, there was conflict between his parents.

‘We will call him Humility,' said his father. ‘Such a name will be to him, as my thoughtful parents knew it would be to me, a constant reminder that he must live up to that quality.'

‘I will not have him called Humility!' declared Tamar.

‘Why not, wife?'

‘I have planned to call him Richard, after my father.'

‘Perhaps I may allow you to call our next boy by that name. Although I would, suggest something more appropriate to accompany it.'

‘What?' she cried. ‘Restraint? Charity? Virtue? I do not love your Puritan names.'

‘Do you not then love these qualities in a human being?'

‘I do not like them attached as a name is attached. There is something smug about the thing. As though to say, “I am humble” or “I am full of restraint”. “I am charitable and virtuous!” Actions, not words, should proclaim these qualities.'

She saw by the flush under his skin that he was trying hard to control himself.

‘We will call him Humility,' he said. ‘My dear, the first duty of a wife towards her husband is obedience.'

‘
I
am no ordinary wife and I would thank you not to speak of me in such terms. This child is mine and I alone will choose his name.'

‘I regret I must be firm in this,' he said. ‘Had you asked me in humility, I might have allowed him a second name, and, as you wished to name him after your father and that is a pleasant and agreeable thought, I might have given my consent. But in view of your rebellion, your careless words, I can only forbid the use of the name, and I must . . .'

‘Pray, do not preach to me!' she cried. ‘If you attempt to, you will stay in your attic altogether and there will be no more children. That would be a pity, as I wished for more.'

‘I do not understand you, Tamar.'

‘No, you do not understand
me
. But understand
this
: The child will be named Richard.'

‘I cannot countenance such unwifely behaviour,' he said; but he stopped short, looking at her.

She was very beautiful with her long black hair upon the pillows, her big luminous eyes flashing, her breast bare in the low-cut bedgown.

Little Dick was three years old and Rowan just born when the Indian princess came to Plymouth.

Tamar had left Rowan in the care of Annis and had taken Dick down to Barbican Causeway to see the ships come in.

The little boy, dark-eyed, and vivacious, was entirely Tamar's child. She rejoiced to watch him; so must she have been when she was his age. She was determined that none of those hardships which she had had to face should fall to his
lot. There seemed hardly anything of Humility in him; indeed, the boy avoided his father whenever possible. He was afraid of the pale, stern-faced man whose every sentence seemed to begin with ‘Thou shalt not . . .'

He loved the sea, and was never tired of watching it and listening to the tales his mother told him of the Spaniards.

She had taken him down on this occasion, little guessing that such a romantic figure would be on board. There she was – a lovely, dark-eyed girl, a princess from the promised land itself, with straight black hair and strange clothes. Nor was she the only visitor from that distant land, for she, as a princess, had brought her train with her – Indians in brightly coloured clothes that accentuated the darkness of their hair and eyes.

The princess was Pocahontas, now called Rebecca, since she had embraced the Christian faith and had married an Englishman. When the spectators had recovered from their surprise, they welcomed her warmly, for they knew something of her romantic story. Captain John Smith had been in Plymouth a year or so ago, talking to the people. He had, he explained, been travelling through the West Country; his plan was to get people to accompany him to the New World. He scorned those who went in search of gold, for did not many of them return disappointed? There were, he assured them, greater prizes to be taken: trade for England; the development of uncultivated land; an empire. He had been treated badly in Virginia and was anxious to explore new territory. He talked of the place he had chistened New England. There was fish in those seas as good – nay, better – than anywhere else in the world. There was one cape which had been called Cape Cod because never before had so many fish been seen as were swimming in the water surrounding it. Corn could be grown there; cattle raised. He explained that he was eager to take out a band of men, and was recruiting for his ships.

Richard had entertained him at Pennicomquick, where Captain Smith had told many a story of the New World; and although Humility had dreamed of going to Virginia, he did not see why New England should not be equally suitable.

Those had been exciting months while Smith made his preparations.

But Richard was against their going. He pointed out again and again that they would be leaving a life of comfort for one of hardship. There might be famine. Had Tamar considered that? Had she imagined her little Dick crying for food? Let those go who found life here intolerable – for they had little to lose. But for those who enjoyed the comfortable life, there should be much consideration before lightly giving it up.

Humility longed to go, for he saw the name of God in the coming of Captain Smith to Plymouth.

Tamar had then been aware of a growing perversity in herself, which at times made her want to oppose this man whom she had married. She said: ‘Don't you always see the hand of God when something turns up which you want? It was always Virginia . . . Virginia . . . Virginia . . . I thought that was the place. This New England is virgin soil. Shall we take our child to possible starvation? You may go, but you will go alone.'

And then the matter was decided for them. One of the Plymouth ships, which had set out for the New World in search of gold, came back empty and with tales of hardship. Interest in the expedition dropped. Tamar became pregnant again. And when Smith sailed with the two ships which were all he could muster, the family at Pennicomquick was not with him.

But Smith had made known in Plymouth the romantic story of Pocahontas, and when Tamar took the little boy on her horse and rode slowly homewards she told it to him.

‘Captain Smith had gone into a strange land, my son,' said Tamar, ‘and with him were many who wished to make the land their own. But there were people – already in the land – people like those you have seen today, and they did not wish the white men to take their land from them. And one day Captain Smith was caught by the Indians and they were going to kill him, when the Princess you have seen today stepped forward and, just as they were about to kill him, threw herself upon him, so that they had to hold back their blows. Then she begged the King, her father, to save his life; and this
he did. So she is remembered in this land as the little girl – for she was only twelve years old – who saved the life of an Englishman and was a friend to the English. Now, my little Dick, you will be able to tell your grandfather who it was you have seen this day. What is her name? Do you remember?'

‘Pocahontas,' said Dick; and his eyes were bright. He was filled with excitement by what he had seen. One day
he
would be one of the adventurers of the sea.

There was nothing of his father in him; and she was glad.

The coming of the Princess excited them.

Humility, his eyes blazing with fervour, declared that this was yet another sign from God. Relations between the Indians and the white settlers were such that an Indian Princess had married a white man and become a Christian and was not afraid to visit the country of the white men. That was a sign. There could be little danger from Indians where such conditions prevailed.

Humility was eager to set out. He declared this was due to his desire to break away from a country whose rulers forbade men to worship God as they wished. But, Tamar asked herself, was that the only reason? Humility did not like their present domestic arrangements, which, she was ready to admit, were unusual and would make a man of Humility's pride uneasy.

No wonder he was eager to get away.

‘I would never leave Richard,' declared Tamar. ‘Wait, and he will come with us. He needs a good deal of time to come to such a decision. Moreover, if he came with us, we could go in comfort. He is a rich man and he could use his wealth to give us a well-equipped ship. We cannot go to a strange land and start a settlement there without a good deal of wealth. Believe me, for I know that when the time is ripe Richard will come with us.'

Richard went on to talk of comfort
versus
hardship. Was it fair, he demanded, to take women and children to savage lands?

‘God would look after them,' said Humility.

‘The Spaniards, pirates or Indians might arrive on the scene
before God,' said Tamar, goaded into flippancy by her husband's piety, as she so often was.

Humility prayed silently, and, watching him, Tamar asked herself once more, as she had asked so many times: Why did I marry this man? How could I want to hurt him as I do if I loved him? And yet . . . ever since I saved his life I have been aware of him. I am as happy with him as I could be with any.