This Other Eden (86 page)

Abruptly
she was aware of the women staring at her over the wall. Their faces seemed to
say, "There's Thomas Eden's whore and bastard son."

She
knelt, frightened for a moment. Then she took the boy in her arms and hurried
toward the safety of her cottage, ran quickly, stumbling over the grass
tussocks and heaps of earth, anger flaming within her, wondering if she would
have to scour the world for a simple place of peace.

It
was on a hot August morning and she was working in the garden when the back
door of the cottage burst open and she saw Russell standing before her. This
was something different. He had never come before. His face was pale and
sweat-streaked, his boots half-undone, his shirt opened, as though he'd been
roused out of a late sleep.

He'd
scarcely paused in the doorway when he started toward her, his breath catching
as though he'd run without respite. "Madame," he began with strange
formality, "I know you don't trust me and there's little love between us,
but Mr. Pitch sent me to inform you that Lord Eden's killing himself. He said
not to come back without you."

Hurriedly
she turned away. He grabbed her arm. "No, madame," he said sternly.
"You have no choice and little time. He'll be dead within the hour."

She
tried to pull free. "News of his death does not concern me, Russell."

He
held her rigidly. "No matter what sin you charge him with," he
begged, "you must come." He renewed his grip on her arm. "You
have the choice, lady," he threatened, "of coming with me civilly or
I swear I'll drag you up that cliff." She had no choice. In spite of her
fear, she tried to maintain a calm demeanor. "I'll come, sir, but expect
no grieving from me.

For
a moment she thought he was angry enough to strike her. But instead he seemed
to manage an effort of self-control, and used his hand to push her roughly
toward the door.

Inside,
she saw Jenny, curiously unprotesting of the treatment she was receiving. With
sinking spirits, she wondered if that strong alliance had finally broken.
Behind her, Russell continued to swear, now urging speed. Quickly she lifted
Edward from his crib.

"The
child stays," Russell ordered.

"He
goes with me," she said, confronting him.

Russell
wavered, obviously caught in indecision. "Then bring him." Again he
reached out for her arm and dragged her through the door. He set a fast pace.
Marianne stumbled to catch up, Edward crying softly, Jenny following behind.

Not
once all the way up the steep path did he release his hold on her arm. If she
faltered, he merely dragged her after him. She felt the hem of her skirt
catching on brambles, felt the increase of wind as they neared the headlands.

Before
them stretched the cobbles which led to the gate. She saw the grilles open, the
watchmen curiously absent. Suddenly she halted, tried to pull back.
"Russell, please, let me go!"

But
he was adamant and again dragged her forward, her arm numb where he grasped it.

Then
it came to her, a sound in the silence darkly etched on her memory for all
time, a singing sound almost, a sharp whistle rising and falling with a snap.

Through
the gate now and he released her, as though he knew she were close enough to
the horror to be magnetized by it. She stood alone, except for Edward clinging
to her. Before her stretched the inner courtyard, curiously empty, though not
emptied. She saw scattered knots of watchmen huddled together near the far
wall, saw a few familiar faces near the bottom of the steps leading to the
Great Hall, saw William, turned away, recognizable only by the absence of his
arm, saw Dolly, weeping, and two or three others.

At
times when the wind was behind her, she couldn't hear the sound at all. But now
the wind was not behind her and she heard it clearly. She clutched at her son
and stepped forward to the center of the courtyard, to the whipping oak, where
a man hung bound and bleeding.

She
approached from the rear, seeing first only his bared arms, the tendons pulled
taut by the hemp about his wrists. Next she saw his head, fallen backward in
his agony, eyes closed, mouth half-opened, a stream of blood spilling from his
lips.

The
whistling stopped. She was partially aware of another man standing to one side,
his breath roaring in her ears, a gruff, untutored voice, defying his manhood
with tears.

"Milady,"
this man sobbed. She turned to see Jack Spade standing beside her, whip in
hand, curiously gentle tears coursing down his face. "Milady," he
wept, trying to brush the tears away. "He—threatened my life, said he'd
banish me if I didn't do it." His voice grew strangely thin and clear.
"I have a wife and nine children." He stepped forward, sobbing
openly, pleading with her. "Where would I go? What would I do?"

Before
his bewildered grief, she retreated. Her eyes wandered back to the man on the
whipping oak. A choking stench met her, fragments of that other hot August
morning when she had counted the oceanic distance between one and ten.

"How
many did he command?" she heard herself ask and recognized neither the
voice nor the question.

"Forty,"
the weeping man said.

She
lifted her head as though she were drowning. Something was breaking within her,
yet almost clinically she assessed the torn back with scarcely an inch of flesh
left whole. She stepped still closer. His hair was grayer than she remembered
it, a heavy beard grew on his chin.

Somewhere
there was a child crying. Why didn't someone comfort it?

The
pain in her breast increased as she drew nearer the whipping oak. The corpse
smell was stronger here. At last someone had taken the crying child from her.
The man on the whipping oak stirred, his lips moved.

She
watched him a moment longer. Slowly she reached for the knife in the sheaf at
Jack Spade's waist. With one strong slash she cut the ropes that bound him.

She
looked up at those watching her. She spoke calmly. "Take him inside."

Jack
Spade lifted him in his arms and bore him away.

For
over a week, Thomas knew nothing. There was a world where he was, but it bore
no resemblance to anything he had seen or heard before. In a fragment of
conscious mind, he thought, "I am dead."

But
he wasn't dead, it was merely a dark filled with a darker phantom who now and
then forced a warm liquid between his lips, an insistent phantom who would not
relent until he'd swallowed. Continuously he had the sensation of smothering,
of linen clogging nostrils and mouth. But there was little else, and for the
most part he found himself tenanted in quiet surroundings, a peculiar sense of
completeness, as though the madness into which he'd quietly slipped over the
last few months had at last taken possession of him. He felt profoundly
grateful for the release from the custom of sanity.

Then
one morning he awakened. His body turned about in search of a position of
comfort and found none. With one eye opened, he saw that a good angel of
certainty made all the surrounding objects stand still. He was set down in this
world in his bedchamber, other objects fixed approximately in their right
places, his chest of drawers, his bureau, the windows overlooking the
courtyard.

On
this morning, he heard the good angel giving orders to someone else in the
room. "Open the window," she commanded. "The odor here is enough
to kill anyone."

"He
soils his linens continuously," an older woman complained.

"He
can't help it. Just give us air."

"Shall
I cleanse him?"

"No,
I'll do it. Leave us."

"But
you've not had rest for—"

"I
said, leave us."

He
opened both eyes. The voice sounded weary and angry. He heard footsteps leaving
the room, heard the door close, then heard nothing. He had to see for himself.
In a futile effort, he tried to raise his head, and for his efforts, it felt as
though he'd fallen backward into flames.

He
felt hands removing something from his fiery back and heard her voice again,
cold and angry. "You would do well to lie still, Thomas."

Again
he had the sensation of smothering, his face lying heavily against the linen.
The hands were about his head, turning it sideways so he could breathe.

Then
he saw her, not the memory of her which had so tortured him during the months
away from her, but saw her solid. He tried to speak and thought he had, but her
lack of response suggested otherwise. She seemed to be very busy. She appeared
at his side, then disappeared, placing strips of something cool across his
back. Twice more he thought he'd spoken her name and twice more there was no
response. He considered trying to lift himself again, feeling certain that it
would displease her and she would be forced to speak.

But
now he found he could not move at all, as though his ribs, knees, shoulder
blades, were merely a composite memory. In his increasing frustration and
discomfort, he groaned. He felt her hands lift from his back. For a moment he
was unable to tell if she was still standing over him or not. Then she was
there again, cleansing his wounds, dipping a blood-red cloth into a bowl of
blood-red water.

Weakly
he let the world fall topsy-turvy from its orbit and slipped back into the
permissible madness.

He
knew where he was now and knew that she was here and that her hands, like a
rope let down from heaven, would sooner or later draw him up out of his abyss
of not-being.

Thomas'
recuperation was prolonged and agonizing. The forty lashes plus his already
weakened condition brought on by Marianne's absence took a toll of his physical
resources. It was the middle of September before he was even capable of sitting
up alone, a wobbly, wasted, hollow-eyed specimen.

During
his recuperation, although Marianne had attended him almost singlehandedly,
they had exchanged few words. Words seemed out of place in the smelly, close
chambers. All of the energy was being used up by the pain, the network of open
lacerations crisscrossing his back.

To
all intent and purposes, she had moved back into the castle. At least she had
given Jenny orders to temporarily close the cottage in Mortemouth. Her son
Edward had been given over to the corporate and loving care of Sarah, Jenny,
and Dolly.

Near
the middle of September, she raised Thomas to a sitting position for the first
time, hovered over him while his bruised body found its center of balance, then
wearily stepped back, assessing him. In spite of the fact that over the
difficult weeks she'd tried to discipline her heart against all feeling, she
felt a peculiar weakness, as though she were the one recovering. As she watched
him feebly arrange his nightshirt over his legs, she sank into the chair behind
her that on more than one occasion had served as her bed.

He
looked diminished, as though his ordeal had shrunken him, although her back and
shoulders ached from weeks of lifting him, with Russell's help, out of the
filth of his body waste.

As
he tried a sudden movement forward, she saw a grimace of pain on his face and
warned, "Sit still, Thomas."

He
groaned, yet held his head peculiarly erect, an angle she recognized from her
own recovery when the neck muscles seemed to control all the nerve endings
across the back. She watched him as he experimented with movement and finally
settled into a safe position, back straight, head erect, his legs hanging off
the side of the bed. "Marianne?" he murmured, as though to confirm
her presence, though he was looking straight at her.

"I'm
here, Thomas," she reassured him.

"How
long will it take before—"

"Before
you're well? Several months, I would imagine."