This Other Eden (6 page)

The
watchman nodded in pious agreement, then grinned again in relief. "Well,
then, on toward morning. Right?"

Ragland
nodded. "Watch well," he called in parting.

The
man assured him that he would, then hoisted the lantern aloft and continued his
sentry through the night. Ragland watched him until he disappeared down the way
near the Guardsmens Mess where, unless Ragland missed his guess, the man would
stop in for ale to quench his thirst before he started his rounds again.

Alone
in the night, Ragland looked back toward the Keep. He was not a praying man,
knew Jesus only vaguely, scant knowledge picked up at his mother's knee before
that poor woman had died of consumption when Ragland was a boy of four. He had
grown up on the Eden estates, working in the fields and with the sheep at
first, and then, because he had a way with animals, handling the hounds for the
present Lord Eden's father. He had enjoyed that bland man's company, had in
later years even hunted with him on occasion. To this day there was nothing
capable of stirring greater emotion in his breast than the sight and sound of
the hunt, the scarlet livery, the hounds yelping, the horses, white-eyed as
though sensing the excitement.

Too
old now. The curse of age was upon him. He was Master of Domestic Duties.
"Is the butter churned properly?" "Lord Eden will take veal, not
beef." "The beds require airing."

Standing
in the dark on the steps leading up to the Great Hall, his flesh ached like an
ailing woman. And why not? He had been assigned to women's chores. This
castration had led to boredom, and the boredom, several years ago, had led him
back to male enterprise, the art, the sport, the cunning pleasure of smuggling.

In
spite of this momentary comfort, there was something in him that wanted to
pray, some need for a heavenly promise that the girl in the Keep would be
looked after, supplied with fortitude and courage beyond her years. But he knew
no words, did not even know how to begin. In his frustration he turned against
her. Let her be!

At
the top of the steps, he looked back across the vast inner courtyard. The night
sky was filled with scudding clouds obscuring the moon. It had been so for
several weeks, promising a rain that had yet to come and break the back of the
present heat wave.

The
moon resembled an eye shedding light on the center of the courtyard, the place
of punishment, the whipping oak. Again he considered prayer. But he knew all
too well that God was what we made Him, and life didn't seem to be getting any
better. Since he was hot and restless and couldn't sleep, his distraction
dragged him back down the stairs, his eyes riveted on the whipping oak.

He
approached the center of the courtyard with a quickening of breath. As he drew
nearer, the oak grew larger, a monstrous trunk, dragged over a century ago by a
crew of forty men across the Severn river from the Forest of Dean to satisfy
the whims of mad Charles, the present Lord's grandfather, the man rumored to
have impregnated his own daughter.

Forty
men! Ragland shuddered. Once here, they had stripped the tree of small branches
and had plunged it into a deep hole, packing earth and clay around it until it
hardened, leaving the top exposed, a good twenty feet, in width the size of
four bushel baskets; no single man could reach around it. The victim was always
asked to embrace it, then the wrists and ankles were secured with a length of
hemp, the shirt stripped, revealing a bare taut back, forehead pressed against
the rough bark, the hapless soul awaiting the first sting of the whip.

The
moon was cruelly cooperative now. Its light caught the patina of black tar
which had been splashed on the oak over the years to resist the acid of human
sweat and tears and blood and urine. Ragland had seen men beaten to death here.
He had seen human flesh lacerated until the skin had turned a solid glistening
red. He had heard men cry out for a pistol to be placed to their heads. He'd
heard anguished cries for mother, for father, for lovers, for God. It was an
evil place, this black finger surrounded by open courtyard.

The
present Lord Eden's father, preferring the hunt, had considered taking it down.
But at the last minute he had always changed his mind. Eden was an isolated
outpost with little arms and ammunition. The nearest government troops were ffty
miles away. There had to be, or so he had concluded, an awesome threat of
authority. For over a hundred years the whipping oak had served that purpose.

The
relentless moon shone on. Ragland appeared to be in a trance. He had seen much
in this circle of pain. But he had never seen a woman here.

He
tried to imagine the morning, Marianne being led, white and shaken out of the
door, the eyes of the entire village upon her. Jack Spade's command for her to
embrace the oak, her arms reaching only a scant distance around—

Ragland
was no longer merely thinking of the scene. He stepped up to the oak as though
under orders to do so. He pressed his face into the shiny black surface, then
slowly raised his arms in embrace. He closed his eyes and discovered that in
such a rigid position it was impossible to turn one's head without scraping the
flesh. He thought he felt the hemp being twisted about his wrists, his ankles
bound in the same fashion. Then as though his senses were suffering from
indecent gluttony, as though he wanted to know all, he heard with perfect
clarity the shirt being torn from his back, the penitent laying himself open to
a peculiar kind of forgiveness, giving pardon to himself, mentally making the
sign of the cross, hearing the crowd grow still, feeling a coolness of air on
his bared back, hearing the heavy step of the man behind him, the practice
lashes of the whip, small circlets of dust rising where the whip struck the
ground. Then silence. Then the upward whir as the thongs were airborne, then-

Hanging
there on the oak in non-existent bondage, old Ragland let out one sharp cry and
wet himself. As the hot urine dripped down his legs, he pushed backward, slightly
demented-appearing, embarrassed and in need of immediate privacy . . .

On
Friday, August the third, 1790, after five weeks of the worst heat wave the
North Devon coast had ever suffered, exactly one hour before the scheduled
public whipping of Marianne Locke, it rained.

The
servants who staffed the castle were held prisoners in the quarters at the end
of the wall by the driving downpour. Nothing stirred at Eden Castle but an
angry nature and an almost half-dead girl who had strangely connived an angel
to see her through the night and who had endured the pestilential room which in
the past had killed strong men.

Not
that she had taken the easy way out in sleep. She hadn't. She had remained
awake and conscious throughout the whole night. She had heard old Ragland
calling to her, the man having the gall to seek comfort from her. But she had
held her tongue, and thus had left him to suffer a hell as bad, if not worse
than her own.

She
had charted every circle of the night watchmen, following the dot of their
lantern light as though they were beacons, and again had strengthened herself
against outcry, refusing to give them that satisfaction, then too fearful of
attracting their attention, of reminding them that a female was in the charnel
house this night.

She
had lain pressed for most of the night against the small slit beneath the door,
rising only when it was necessary to vomit, depositing her sickness in the pile
of putrid straw, then returning, weakened, to the door.

She
listened to the storm, giving in to the one thought which she'd held at bay all
night, the remembrance of her father. Even now, such a thought made her weak. Instead
she concentrated on Thomas Eden, deriving strength from hate. The thought of
the man had a strange effect on her. She remembered his anger at the sight of
her peering down into the excavation of the secret stairway. Of course she knew
what it was for. But what did it matter? She had tried to convey this to him,
but in his distracted state he had misinterpreted her manner for arrogance. It
wasn't until he had approached her, viewing her as though she were nothing more
than one of his London whores, that she had grown genuinely angry. She recalled
the look on his face, as though he were a sorcerer who knew the power of his
horn, approaching her as though she were merely a transaction, scarcely taking
the time to identify her save for her female qualities, where to thrust the
horn, the humbling position, the ancient stance of male superiority-

She
shuddered, remembering, and new, reviving anger surfaced. She had run from him,
a simple act, which apparently in his presence no female had ever done before. He
had caught up with her and she had pushed his hands away, had brought her knee
up in one sharp blow against his groin and had left him howling. Then she had
raced up the steps and into a semicircle of guards who had been alerted by
their master s cry.

Still
remembering, she managed a smile, seeing him grasping his now bent horn as
though mortally wounded. She sighed heavily and lay on her back. The sound of
the rain was faint through the thick walls. It was impossible to chart the hour
of the morning by the dim gray light slipping in through the high slit window.

No
need for impatience. They would come for her soon enough and lead her forward.
Firmly she gripped the folds of her dress and closed her eyes and for the first
time during the night of her imprisonment she slipped into an easeful sleep,
dreaming of her garden, of her father's kind face, and of her small
calico-stuffed elephant.

No
need for impatience. With furious breath they would come for her. They would
put out their hands, as Thomas Eden had done and make everything dirty and
tired and old.

In
sleep she turned her face back toward the slit beneath the door. In her dream
she saw a girl child pick up a doll and hurl it to the floor, put her foot on
it, crush her heel into it and, crying, she kicked its china head all in dust.

No
need for haste. Soon they would come. . . .

And
they did.

Shortly
after ten o'clock the rains stopped, the skies cleared, and the inner courtyard
was a steamy, blazing, water-soaked amphitheater already filled with over a
hundred citizens. They stood in clustered knots, eyeing the whipping oak, then
the heavens, then the locked door which led from the Keep.

Ragland
awakened shortly after eight. His nose took note of his urine-soaked garments,
the same ones he'd slept in. Then remembering all, he raced up to Lord Eden's
chambers, hoping for a last-minute reprieve. For one cruel moment he thought he
had it.

Upon
the instant of awakening and upon being reminded what day it was and what was
scheduled to take place, Lord Eden, obviously suffering a painful head, raised
up from his pillow and hoarsely whispered, "Cancel it."

Ragland,
in a burst of repressed joy, turned back to the door, only to be stopped by a
sharp "No!"

Again
he looked over his shoulder at Thomas Eden, now sitting upright in bed, naked,
only a light coverlet over his legs. Then he heard a strangely soft, almost
regrettable counter-command. "See it finished," was what he heard.
When Ragland waited a moment longer to see if there would be yet another command,
Lord Eden, still suffering from some unknown cause, raged at him, "I said
see it finished!"

Disheartened,
Ragland turned back to the door. But there was yet another command, a faint,
almost plaintive order coming from the grand bed, "No knots, no spikes,
Ragland. Tell Jack Spade to be easy."

Ragland
nodded and for the third time started out of the door. For the third time Eden
stopped him. "Any further news?" he asked, looking expectant now,
though slightly ridiculous, his long dark hair about his face in a state of
disarray, his fleshy, naked torso matted with black hair and glistening •with
perspiration. The rains had done nothing to ease the heat. The bedchamber was
like an inverted stone bowl.

"News?"
Ragland parroted, still struggling with the previous commands, dreading what
was yet ahead of him.

Thomas
Eden sat up straighter, his sleep-creased face darkening with impatience.
"The ship, man," he scolded. "My God, have you forgotten? The
ship!"

Sweet
Jesus, he
had
forgotten. The ship was to have been unloaded last evening
in Mortemouth Gove. He had intended to check on the progress after he had left
Hartlow's cottage. But what he had seen there had caused him such distress that
the activity at the cove had completely slipped his mind.