Then I knew that I should really do as my mother said. I must change the room entirely so that when people entered it they would not think of poor dead Melanie.
But I didn’t. I found I had no heart for the task. I assured myself that to do so was to give way to superstition. But that was not quite true.
Somewhere deep down in my mind was the thought that Melanie had left something of herself behind and that one day I might need her help.
I will admit it was a thought which flashed in and out of my head and was dismissed immediately, but it came back. It was there in the Red Room; and on dark nights I thought I could hear it in the murmur of the wind on the sea.
What if he should tire of you as he tired of Melanie? Tire of me? The mother of his son … and the other children we should have. For we should have them. He was sure of that and so was I.
There was a great deal I had to discover about my husband. I knew so little of him. That was doubtless why I was so fascinated by him.
Ruthless I knew he was. How ruthless I had to discover. Brutal he could be. How brutal? I was safe while I pleased him. Had Melanie ever been? I could picture his bringing home his bride. I could see the wedding feast at Trystan Priory and the gentle girl who had been brought up in that kindly mansion and knew nothing of the harsh reality of life.
Had he been tender towards her once? I could picture his indifference to her suffering. I remembered him as he had been in the inn when there had been nothing but lust in his eyes for me.
He excited me; he fascinated me; but I knew I did not understand him; and I knew too that I could only rely on his goodness to me as long as I continued to please him.
I would keep the Red Room as it was and I would attempt to learn more of my husband. I must know where he went when he was not at the castle. I must share his life.
I would find out. Oddly enough—and how right this premonition was to prove—the notion filled me with a certain apprehension.
Spring had come and I was once more expecting a child. I was delighted but not more so than Colum.
“Did I not tell you that you would have a quiverful? Give me another boy. When we have half a dozen of them we’ll think about a girl or two.”
I retorted: “I do not propose to spend my life in a continual state of pregnancy.”
“Do you not?” he retorted. “I thought that was a wifely duty.”
“To provide a few children yes, but she needs a little respite.”
“Not my wife,” he said, and he lifted me in his arms and looked at me with love.
I was happy. Gloomy thoughts had gone. I visualized a future—Colum and I grown older, more sedate, and our children playing about us.
As soon as I knew I was to have another child my desire to discover receded. I was happy. I wanted to go on in my contentment. There were times when he went away for several days at a stretch. I used to wonder where. He was not very communicative about his affairs; and one thing I had discovered was that he hated to be questioned. When I had asked he had answered me vaguely but I had seen the danger signals in his eyes. I had seen his sudden anger flare up against some servant and I had always been afraid of arousing it. At one time I wondered whether he visited a mistress. I did not think this was so because when he went away he took a retinue of servants with him.
Again I learned a little through Jennet. She was supposed to sleep in the servants’ quarters in the Crows’ Tower but I knew she slipped out to Seaward to join her lover there. One night I discovered that she was not going to Seaward Tower.
Colum had told me that he would be leaving early the next morning. He was going on some business and would be gone before I was up.
I remembered then that Jennet had not gone to the Seaward Tower on another occasion when Colum had been going away. I decided to question as discreetly as I could, because I was growing more and more interested in Colum’s journeys.
When I awoke the next morning I sent for Jennet. I said: “I gathered you spent the night on your lonely pallet, Jennet.”
She blushed in that manner which had sometimes irritated my mother but which I could not help finding rather endearing.
“Orders,” she said. “I was not to go to Seaward last night.”
“There should be such orders every night, Jennet,” I said.
“Yes, Mistress,” she answered. “’Tis always so,” she volunteered, “the night before he do go on his journey. He be busy preparing, like, late into the night and sets off with the dawn.”
“Does he tell you where he is going?”
“He never will say, Mistress. Shuts up tight when I ask. He’s a mild man but he gets angry if I as much as mention it. ‘Keep thy mouth shut, woman,’ he says, ‘or that’ll be the end ’twixt you and me.’ Yet he be a mild man in all other matters.”
It certainly was strange. I wondered why there had to be this secrecy. Colum was not a man to make an effort to keep anything quiet. His implication was that if people did not like what he did, he cared not a jot. Yet he was quiet about this business of his.
When he returned from a journey he was invariably in good spirits and glad to be back with me. It was June and the warm sunshine filled the castle. It was three months since my child had been conceived and I had recovered from the first uncomfortable stages of pregnancy and had not yet reached the cumbersome one. I felt well and energetic and Colum and I rode out together. We should be away for the night, he told me, as he had some business to transact.
I was delighted because I thought at last he was taking me into his confidence. I was actually going with him on a business venture; I was making the most of my riding too, because I knew that very soon I should be forbidden to ride.
This is the loveliest of all months, or perhaps it seemed so to me because I was so happy. The sky was cobalt blue with only the faintest hint of wispy white cloud. The choughs and the seagulls swooped and rose above the water and as we rode away from the sea into the lanes I was enchanted by the countryside. The white chervil on the banks reminded me of lace and the grass was spattered with blue forget-me-nots and red ragged robin.
The sun was warm and I was happy. I felt well and strong, and glad as I was to be riding with Colum I knew I should be just as delighted to go back and see my son. He was in good hands. The care of children was one thing Jennet could really be trusted with.
Colum sang as we rode along—it was the old hunting song which was such a favourite with him.
I did not recognize the road until we were almost at the inn. And there it was before us: The Traveller’s Rest, and there was the host who had been in such a quandary on that other night. Now he was beaming with delight, hands crossed on his chest.
Colum leaped from his horse and lifted me down. Grooms ran to take our horses.
“The Oak Room, host,” cried Colum.
“At your service, my master,” replied the host.
And we were mounting the stairs and there was the room which I remembered so well—the big four-poster bed in which I had slept with my mother, the lattice window from which I had looked down and seen Colum standing before me.
The host was saying, “There is venison, my master, cooked as you like it. And natlin and taddage pies as will tempt your palate. And if my lord so wishes, metheglin to wash it down.”
“Lay it on,” cried Colum. “For we have ridden far and are hungry.”
The host bowed and shuffled out and left us standing there looking at each other.
Colum came to me and laid his hands on my shoulders. “I always promised myself that you and I should sleep in that bed.”
“You are a man who cannot endure to be baulked.”
“What man worth his salt is not?”
“But most men realize that there are some things in life which must be denied them.”
“Not this man,” he retorted.