Daughter of Satan (6 page)

She lived her own secret life. When it was warm she slept out of doors. She liked that, and was sad when the colder nights came to drive her under the Lackwell thatch.

Luce was no longer a slim young girl, but a tired woman, weary with constant child-bearing – her body thickened yet scraggy from the state of semi-starvation which was invariably her lot. The hair, which Mistress Alton had said was a gift from Satan, was now long, but it had lost its lustre and fell untidily to her waist. Out of the horror she had experienced during her first months as Bill Lackwell's wife had grown a dull acceptance of her fate.

She watched her eldest daughter with apprehension. Tamar was named after the river near which her conception had taken place; for such a child, Luce had felt, should not be named with a name that might belong to any child. She had anxiously awaited that moment when the perfectly formed feet might change to cloven hoofs. They remained perfect human feet. She felt the shapely head for those excrescences from which horns might be expected to grow. There was no sign of these. Tamar might have been anybody's child, except that from an early age that brightness of eye, that shapely oval face and the perfectly moulded limbs, as well as a quickness of perception, distinguished her from others. The beauty was an accentuation of that which had been Luce's in the days when she had served under Mistress Alton; but the other qualities did not come from Luce.

Luce wanted to love this daughter, but it was impossible to overcome her apprehension concerning the child, and Tamar could not help but be aware of this.

The little girl had been healthy from the day of her birth; she had remained unswaddled, for in Bill Lackwell's cottage there were no swaddling clothes. This meant that her young limbs were free to kick and feel the fresh air, and certainly to enjoy a modicum of cleanliness which was denied more well-cared-for children.

And so she grew – knowledgeable, longing to use her bright intelligence, missing little that went on around her. She saw
the cruel treatment of her half-brothers and sisters by the bully Lackwell: she saw her mother suffering also from his violence, she saw their reconciliations and she knew what frequently happened under the rags on their bed of straw. She saw her mother change gradually from a shrivelled, bony woman to a big one, and she knew what that meant.

She was six years old when the difference between herself and others became fully apparent to her.

Betsy Hurly sometimes came to the cottage. Betsy had done rather well for herself, for she had induced Charlie Hurly to marry her and was now mistress of the Hurly farm. The noisy, full-blooded farmer's wife still hankered after adventures which varied only in a few details from those which had excited her before her marriage.

One day she came to the cottage when only Luce and the old woman – with Tamar sitting in her corner surrounded by her stones – were there.

Betsy brought an air of well-being with her, and in her quick way Tamar was immediately aware of how poor the place was when Betsy sat in it with her coarse worsted garments, which, while not as becoming as those worn by the gentry, looked rich compared with the rags of the other three.

Tamar, polishing her stones, was aware of everything. Outside the cottage, Annis waited. Annis was Betsy's eldest daughter – a few months younger than Tamar. Tamar looked at the child through the open door of the cottage, and Annis put out her tongue. But Tamar was more interested in the grown-ups than in the child.

Betsy was saying: ‘Come on, Luce. You could if you wanted to. You know how to do it. Where's the good in pretending you don't? I know too much. Don't forget you told me about it. ‘Tain't much I'm asking. I'll pay thee well for it.'

Luce kept her eyes down. ‘What is it you want, Betsy?'

Betsy said in a solemn whisper: ‘Jim Haines. Have you seen him, Luce? Nigh on six feet. What a man! But, my dear life, he don't see none but that young dairy maid. I do want his affections turned to me.'

‘But, Betsy, you shouldn't want such things.'

‘Don't 'ee talk nonsense. Luce Lackwell. Should I be like you . . . let Bill Lackwell beat you sick and then give you child after child as you can't afford to feed?'

‘'Sh!' said Luce.

But Betsy would not be silent. ‘Well, you did have a bit of glory once, didn't 'ee? I bet
that
were a bit different from Bill Lackwell, weren't it?'

Betsy's eyes slewed round to Tamar, who seemed to be absorbed in her stones.

‘Wasn't it, Luce? A bit different, eh?'

‘Yes, it was then.'

‘Must have been. My dear soul! I reckon it must have been just about better than anything.'

Luce nodded.

‘But it brought you to this. I reckon you'd have had Ned Swann but for
someone's
taking a fancy to 'ee.'

Luce said, ‘Don't say such things. 'Tis like asking for a judgement.'

‘You'm right. But where's the good pretending you've never had naught to do with such things? Where's the sense? You could give me a charm and bring Jim Haines straight to me arms.'

‘No, Betsy. 'Twouldn't be right.'

‘Wouldn't it then? I can tell 'ee Charlie has his larks.'

‘Come out to the patch,' said Luce. ‘I knows I shouldn't. I know naught of such things. But I heard what the old woman told somebody t'other day.'

Betsy glanced towards the old woman, who had sat impassive during this discussion.

‘Her don't hear,' explained Luce. ‘Her's very deaf. You have to go right up close and shout to make her hear.'

They went out to the patch. Tamar stared after them while Annis looked into the cottage. She again put out her tongue at Tamar, who regarded her with solemn eyes.

‘Come here,' said Tamar.

‘No, I won't.'

‘Then go away. I don't care.'

‘I won't.'

‘You're afraid.'

Annis had fair hair and grey eyes; she was quite pretty, but beside Tamar she looked insignificant.

‘If you wasn't afraid,' said Tamar, ‘you'd come in.'

Annis stepped gingerly into the cottage and cautiously approached the stones.

‘What's them?'

‘Stones.'

‘What for?'

‘Nobody mustn't come farther than here.'

Annis knelt down and looked at the stones; then she looked at Tamar, who smiled suddenly and, picking up one of the stones, gave it to Annis.

When the two women came back into the cottage Betsy looked at her daughter and turned pale. ‘Annis!' she cried. ‘What are you doing in here, then? I'll take you home and tan the hide off 'ee.'

Annis got up from the floor and ran out of the cottage. Tamar watched her, then started up. ‘She's got my stone. Give it back. Give it back.'

Betsy was out of the door; she had Annis by the shoulder; she shook her until the child's face was red. ‘Drop it. Drop it quick.'

Annis dropped the stone and in triumph Tamar seized it.

‘Take that!' said Betsy, and slapped her daughter's face. ‘And now come home.' She pulled at the child's arm. ‘Good day to you, Luce.'

‘Goodbye, Betsy.'

Tamar looked at her mother, but Luce would not meet her eyes.

I'm different, thought Tamar. Nobody slaps my face. Nobody talks of tanning my hide. I'm different. I'm Tamar. They're afraid of me.

Down at Sutton Pool people stood about on the cobbles watching the departure of Sir Walter Raleigh and his five ships which were going to explore the Orinoco in the hope of bringing back gold for the Queen.

There was less enthusiasm at such spectacles than there had been a few years ago. Plymouth could not forget the horrible
sight of those brave seamen, the heroes of the defeat of the Spanish Armada, now starving in the streets, begging their bread – some cruelly wounded – their services ignored, and what was more important to them, unpaid for by an ungrateful Queen and Council.

These men would have long since died but for men like Drake, Hawkins and Frobisher, who had provided much out of their own pockets, starting a fund for mendicant seamen, building a hospital for mariners; and Sir Francis, when he had left his house in Looe Street to live in Buckland Abbey, had continued with his scheme for bringing water to the town. Now it was conveyed there from the west stream of the River Plym. No wonder they worshipped this man. It was already said – in spite of the digging operations which were to be seen – that Sir Francis had gone to the river and, bidding it follow him, had galloped into Plymouth. They preferred to think of their benefactor not only as a good brave man, but as a wizard.

And now, with the departure of Sir Walter, there was not the same enthusiasm as when Sir Francis sailed. Adventure was in the blood of these people who lived along the seaboard, but they hated injustice, and they could not forget – being constantly reminded by the sad sights about them, as they were – the callous behaviour of their Queen.

Tamar was there by the Pool. The noble ships rocking so proudly on the water delighted her and she wished that she were sailing with the expedition. It even occurred to her to hide herself in one of the ships. Then she remembered that old Granny Lackwell would be in the cottage alone today. Tamar was impulsive, and once an idea had hit her she was eager to put it into practice. She pushed her way through the crowd and ran all the way home.

The old woman was sitting in her accustomed place. Tamar went close to her and shouted in her ear.

‘Granny, it's Tamar.'

Granny nodded.

‘Granny, I've come to ask you things.'

She nodded again.

‘Why are they afraid of you and me?'

Granny laughed, showing black stumps which fascinated while they horrified the child. ‘Why are your teeth black?' she asked; but she realized at once that that was a question which could wait, for it had nothing to do with the mystery she was so eager to uncover. ‘How was I born?' she said quickly.

Old Granny became excited. Her hands were shaking. Tamar looked anxiously about her, for she knew that whatever revelations might take place could only do so if the two of them were alone together.

‘Did a man lie with my mother, as Bill Lackwell does under the rags . . . or was it on the grass?'

That made Granny choke with laughter.

‘Speak, Granny, speak! I shall be angry if you laugh. I want to know.'

Granny sat very still; then she turned her head to look at the child.

‘On the grass,' she said.

‘Why?'

Granny shook her head.

‘They like doing that, I think,' said Tamar gravely, for she could see that she must continue to prompt the old woman if she were to get her to reveal anything. ‘It was because they liked it,' she went on. ‘And then my mother grew big and I came out. But . . . why are they afraid of me?'

Granny shook her head, but Tamar lightly slapped the old woman's arm. ‘Granny, I must know. You are afraid of me. My mother is afraid of me. Even Lackwell is afraid of me. He is big and strong; he has a belt and hard hands, and I am little – see how little I am, Granny! – and he is afraid of me. They are afraid of you too, Granny. It is something you have given me.'

Granny shook her head. ‘I didn't give 'ee nothing. 'Tweren't me.'

‘Then who was it, Granny? Speak . . . speak. I'll hurt you if you don't tell me.'

Granny's eyes grew frightened. ‘There now . . . there, little beauty. Don't speak so.'

‘Granny, it was the man on the grass. He gave me something. What is it?'

‘He did give you fair looks.'

‘'Tain't hair and eyes, Granny. Lackwell wouldn't care about they. Besides, they're afraid of you, Granny, and you'm ugly. You'm terrible ugly.'

Granny nodded. She signed, and the black cat at her feet jumped on to her lap. She stroked the cat's back. ‘Stroke it with me, child,' she said; and she took Tamar's little hand and together they stroked the cat.

‘You're a witch, Granny,' said Tamar.

Granny nodded.

‘Granny, have you seen the Devil?'

Granny shook her head.

‘Tell me about being a witch. What
is
being a witch?'

‘It's having powers as others ain't got. It's powers that be give to the likes of we. We'm Satan's, and he's our master.'

‘Go on, Granny. Go on. Don't stop.'

‘We'm devil's children. That be it. We can heal . . . and we can kill. We can turn milk sour before it leaves the cows and goats, and we can do great things. We have Sabbats, child, Sabbats when we do meet, and there we do worship the horned goat who be a messenger from Satan. There's some as say he be one of us . . . dressed up like . . . That may be so, but when he do put on the shape of a goat he be a goat . . . and we do dance about him. Ah! I be too old for dancing now. My days be done. I'm good for naught but to tell others what to brew. 'Twas the night I was took for the test. They'd have done for me then . . . but for a gentleman that stopped 'em. I've been sick and ailing since. But I be a witch, child, and there's none can deny me that.'

‘Granny . . . am I a witch?'

‘Not yet you ain't.'

‘Shall I be a witch?'

‘Like as not you will . . . seeing as you come into the world the way you did.'

‘How did I come into the world? On the grass, was it? Was my father a witch?'

Granny was solemn. ‘They do say, child, that he was the greatest of them all . . . under God.'

‘An angel?'

‘Nay. Put thy hand on Toby's back. Come close to me, child . . . closer . . .'

Tamar stood breathless, waiting. ‘Tell me, Granny. Tell me.'

‘Your father, child, was none other than the Devil himself.'

The hot sultry July was with them and Tamar was scarcely ever in the cottage, coming in only to snatch a piece of rye bread or salted fish. But if the old woman was alone she would sit with her and they would talk together, for Tamar wished to know all the dark secrets of Granny's devils' world.