Daughter of Satan (7 page)

Not that Granny was easy to understand; sometimes she mumbled and, even standing so close and suffering the full force of her tainted breath, Tamar could discover very little. But she knew the great secret. People were afraid of her because she was Satan's daughter.

She ran through the grass delighting in its cool caress on her bare feet; she would whisper to the trees: ‘I am the Devil's daughter. Nothing can hurt me because he looks after me.'

She loved the green solitude of the country, and it was her pleasure to collect strange plants and bring them to the old woman to ask what magic properties they contained; but it was the town itself which offered her the greatest delight. She would spend hours lying stretched out on the Hoe, straining her eyes across the sea, trying to picture what lay beyond that line where the sea met the sky. She would stand in the streets, watching the people, listening to their talk; the market delighted her and sometimes there was food to be picked up. There were times when, attracted by her grace and beauty, strangers would throw her a coin. She would watch the men load and unload ships.

There was an ancient seaman who sat on the Hoe with her and told her about his adventures on the Spanish Main. She asked question after question, delighting to listen as he did to talk. They met many times and it seemed to her that he held a new world in his mind to which his voice was the key. But one day when she saw him, he looked away and pretended he did not see her; then she ran to him and tugged his arm. He did not shout at her or curse as he knew so well how to curse; he
just turned and would not look at her, gently disengaging himself and hobbling away with his crutch as well as one leg would let him. She knew what had happened; he had discovered who her father was, and he was afraid.

She threw herself down on the grass and sobbed angrily and passionately; but when she saw the old sailor again she stood before him and lifting her flashing eyes to his face, she cursed him. He turned pale and hobbled off. Now she felt triumphant, for she knew he was more afraid of a dark-eyed little girl than the Spanish Inquisition.

One exciting day news came that the Spaniards had landed in Cornwall, that Mousehole was in flames and Penzance under attack.

Tamar watched the ships set out from the Sound to go to the aid of the Cornishmen. They were stimulating days to a child who knew herself to be feared as much as the Spaniards.

August was hot and all through the month Drake and Hawkins were preparing to sail away, and Tamar was there to watch them when they went.

She would never forget the day when the town learned of the death of Drake and Hawkins. Then she saw a city in mourning and longed to be loved as these men had been. It was better to be loved than feared, she felt, for being feared gave you a lonely life.

She listened to people's talk of Drake, for no one talked to her. Her loneliness was becoming more and more marked as she grew older.

Once in the cottage when only her mother and the old woman were there with Tamar, Luce talked of Drake.

‘I saw him many times,' said Luce, in an unusually talkative mood, no doubt due to the death of the hero. ‘I remember once . . . it was in the time of our greatest danger. The whole place was waiting . . . waiting for the Spaniards. That was in the days when Spaniards
was
Spaniards.'

‘Yes?' said Tamar eagerly.

‘It was like a sort of fever in the place. The Spaniards had big ships, they said, and ours was little 'uns. That didn't matter, though. We had
him
, you see.'

‘And he was better than anyone else!' cried Tamar.

‘They did go to church . . . him and a great lord. I went to see them . . . with Betsy. I was different then . . .' Her eyes filled with tears as she smoothed her rough hands over her rags. ‘Yes, I were different. I had me hair cut short like a boy's. Hair like mine was a gift from Satan – so Mistress Alton did say.'

‘A gift from Satan!' cried Tamar, touching her own abundant curls.

‘And she cut it off . . . like a boy's. Betsy's too . . . though Betsy's weren't what mine was.'

‘Go on!' begged Tamar.

‘We went to the church and
he
were there. I saw him. He came out with the noble lord, and women wept to see him and men threw their caps in the air. “God speed to you, Sir Francis!” they did shout. And now he is dead. The bonny beauty of him rotting on the sea bed. I never did think he would die and I be here.'

‘Tell me more,' said Tamar. ‘Tell me . . . tell me . . . Tell me about those days and Mistress Alton.'

Tears began to run down Luce's cheeks.

‘I thought about him too much. 'Tain't right to have the thoughts I had. 'Tis tempting the Devil. That's what it was. I didn't ask much . . . I only asked a little.'

‘That's silly,' said Tamar. ‘You must ask for a lot. I shall.'

Luce turned to her daughter. ‘You must not go out at night. You must stay in. I wouldn't like what happened to me to happen to you. Be careful. I wouldn't like you to be caught too young.'

Tamar's eyes flashed. ‘I'd have none of that.'

‘You don't know what you do say, child. 'Tis something that none of us know about until too late.'

‘I should know.'

‘Be careful. It can happen sudden like, and then there's the rest of your life' – she looked down at her garments – ‘the rest of your life in tatters and rags. You'm caught, and it can happen sudden-like.'

‘Not to me!' declared Tamar. ‘There is nobody clever enough to catch me!'

Once more big ships were in the harbour. Drake was no more; Hawkins had gone; but there were other West Country men waiting to step into the shoes of these men. One of these was Sir Walter Raleigh and people were talking of him now as Drake's Heir. All through the spring, while Plymouth mourned Drake, the fleet was assembling in the Sound. Lord Howard was there and this was yet another great occasion. But the change in the times was obvious to all. Men were no longer flocking to serve in the ships, and Raleigh brought strangers to Plymouth – men who did not speak with the soft Devon burr – sullen strangers who had been pressed into service.

The people murmured. It had not been thus in the days of Drake, who had had to refuse men the honour of sailing with him. What a tragic change this was – when men deserting from their ships were hanged on the Hoe as an example to others of like mind.

It was a day in June. The fleet was ready to sail and Tamar was on the Hoe to watch its departure when close to her she noticed a boy who was so much older than she that he seemed a man. She knew him for Bartle Cavill, the son of Sir Humphrey. He was thirteen years old, tall, with eyes as blue as the sea, and a shock of yellow hair. She noticed how he gazed at the ships with yearning in his eyes; and understanding that feeling – which was hers also – she moved nearer to him.

She saw that his breeches were puffed and ornamented with mulberry-coloured silk, and she loved its colour and softness. She had to touch the silk to feel if it were as soft as it looked, so she stretched out a hand and felt it. Yes, it was even softer than it looked. There were bars of different colours. Was the green as soft as the mulberry? She had to test it.

But he had become aware of her hands upon him; swift as lightning he caught her by the arm.

‘Thief!' he cried. ‘So I've caught you, thief!'

She lifted her great dark eyes to his face, and said shyly: ‘I was only feeling the silk.'

The blue eyes seemed more brilliant than the sea itself.

‘You're hurting me,' she said.

‘That is my intention!' he retorted. ‘You'll know what it means to be hurt when they hang you for stealing.'

‘I stole nothing.'

‘I'll have you searched. Stand away. Don't dare come close to me, you dirty beggar! What insolence!'

‘I'm not a beggar, and I'm not a thief. It is you who should be afraid of me.'

‘I'll have those rags stripped off you and searched. I'll see you're whipped before they hang you. I'll ask it as a special favour to myself.'

She had twisted her arm suddenly and freed herself, but he caught her by her hair.

‘See that man hanging there?' he demanded. ‘He deserted his ship. That's what happens to dirty beggars who steal from their betters.'

‘I have no betters,' she said with dignity while she screwed up her face in pain, for he seemed to be pulling her hair out by the roots.

His eyes blazed with rage. ‘Insolence! You'll be sorry for this.'

‘You're the one who'll be sorry. You don't know who I am.'

He looked into her face and laughed. ‘So it's you . . . the Devil's own, eh!'

She was shaken, for she saw no fear in his face.

‘Now do you know who
I
am?' he asked.

‘Yes, I do.'

‘Then you know I use no idle words. I'll have you whipped for your insolence.'

‘You wouldn't dare. No one would dare. I . . . I'd . . .' She glared at him. ‘It would be the worse for you if you hurt me.'

He let her go and she ran, and, turning round, saw that he had not moved, but was standing still watching her.

She walked on with slow dignity, but as soon as she felt he could see her no more she broke into a run. She was trembling with fear and hatred, because she was not sure whether or not he had been afraid of her.

Soon after that she heard that Bartle Cavill had run away to
sea, and she was relieved. Afterwards life went on as usual. She was growing up; she was now ten years old.

There seemed less excitement in the town nowadays. King Philip had been dead for a year, and there no longer seemed any great danger of raids on the coast. Just before his death it had been brought home to the King that he would never realize his ambitions. Plymouth had not even seen the ships of his Adelantado, which had come to invade, for a kindly storm had wrecked them in the Bay of Biscay. Such a disaster to ships – as grand and formidable as those of his great Armada – meant the end of his attempt to subdue England. But on the high seas rivalry continued.

Somewhere out there, Tamar sometimes thought, was Bartle Cavill. Perhaps he had left his ship by now and was storming some city; perhaps he was cutting his way through the jungle; perhaps he was being tortured in a dungeon. All of these things might have happened to him. She thought of him with great hatred, not so much for the words he had used to her but for the contempt he had shown her in his brilliant blue eyes.

Her lonely life continued. No children played with her, but she did not wish to play their games. She was learning a good deal from Granny Lackwell, and when people came to the cottage for herbs, Granny would say: ‘The child will pick them for you. The child knows.'

Then Tamar would enjoy afresh that strange power which was hers.

But one day she learned that people hated her because they feared her. The most terrifying experience of her life so far was awaiting her.

It was dusk of an evening in summer and she was walking to a favourite haunt of hers – a shady spot with many trees which overhung a large pond. She often came here; she liked to sit by the pond and watch the birds and insects; she had learned to imitate the calls of the birds so that they answered her; and she liked to watch the ants in the long grass and the spiders in their web. Sometimes she would dabble her feet in the water. It was a pleasant spot for a hot day such as this had been.

But as she came under the trees she heard a sudden whoop
above her, and several small figures – some smaller than herself – dropped from the trees. The children of the neighbourhood were upon her.

She was felled to the ground at once, and although she kicked fiercely and tried to free herself, they were too many for her – and some were quite big boys. While they had her on the ground they blindfolded her by tying a piece of rag about her eyes, and she knew then that they were afraid that she would recognize them. She exulted in that because it showed that they were afraid of her.

‘Let me go!' she cried. ‘I'll curse you. You'll be sorry. I know who you are. I don't have to see you.'

They said nothing. One of them kicked her; another punched her back. She felt sick and faint, for although she had often witnessed physical violence she had never before experienced it.

She kicked and screamed, calling: ‘You'll be sorry. I know you. I know you all.'

Still her tormentors did not speak. They forced her to sit on the grass, and when they seized her hands and tied them to her ankles she knew what they planned to do to her.

Many hands touched her, scratching her, tearing her skin. She expected some power to come to her aid, but she had nothing . . . nothing but the strength of a ten-year-old girl to use against them.

A great shout went up from their throats and she felt herself thrown; the waters of the muddy pond splashed about her and she was sitting on its weedy bottom. They had not been able to throw her very far in, and she was only waist-high in the water.

The children on the edge of the pond forgot that she must not hear their voices and they began to shriek:

‘She's sinking.'

‘She's
not
!'

‘She'll float all right. She's the Devil's own daughter. He do look after his own.'

One of the boys jabbed at her with a long branch of a tree; the skin of her leg was torn as he tried to push her farther out. She was past feeling pain, for she believed she was going to
die, since, trussed as she was, she could no nothing to help herself, and the rag about her eyes – now wet and most foul smelling – prevented her from seeing about her.

The shouts went on.

‘She's a witch all right.'

Someone threw a stone at her. It missed and splashed into the water. More stones came and some of them hit her. She felt herself sinking into the mud. She was half fainting, yet her anger and her belief in herself kept her from doing so. To faint would be to drown, unless the children became frightened and pulled her out. But they would not be frightened, for there was no one to care if she was drowned. Old Granny might care; but the old woman was near death and hardly counted. Her mother ? Perhaps she would be a little sorry, but mostly relieved; she would not have to watch her as she did now, waiting for some outward sign of the devil in her daughter. Everyone else would be glad. So there was no one at all who would be really sorry.