"There is no doubt that she is Spanish," said my mother. "I could speak with her a little in her native tongue if I remember it. My first husband was a Spaniard as you know and during my life with him I learned a little."

"She would be glad if you did," I replied warmly. "It must be difficult for her with no one to talk to."

"I will see what I can discover," replied my mother.

Later she talked to Maria, but although Maria was clearly glad to converse with someone who could speak her native tongue a little she could not or would not tell her anything about herself. She seemed to remember, she told my mother, that she was on a ship though she couldn't recall for what reason. She vaguely remembered the storm and the ship's trying to come into port. Why she was on the ship was still as much a mystery to her as it had been on her arrival here.

My mother shared the opinion that after the child was born her memory might return.

In the afternoon of Christmas Eve, Maria's pains started. Jennet brought me the news of this and I immediately summoned the midwife. The child was born without her though. She went into the room and found a beautifully formed little girl.

She was astounded.

"All is well?" I asked urgently.

"I was never in attendance on such an easy birth."

Maria lay calm and beautiful, the red curtains drawn back from her bed and I thought: On that bed poor Melanie must have suffered her many miscarriages and finally she died there trying to give Colum the son he wanted. Now a child has been born there-a strong healthy child.

It was a strange Christmas day. We had the usual rejoicing but it was not the same as usual. I could not forget-nor could my mother and Edwina-that a child had been born under our roof.

There was feasting and singing and the games we played at Christmas time but my thoughts were in the Red Room where Maria lay in the bed with her child beside her. I had had brought in the cot which I had used for my children when they were babies. Now that lovely little girl lay in it.

It was the day after Christmas that Edwina pa.s.sed me on the stairs.

She looked strained, I thought. I said: "Edwina, is anything wrong? You look ... worried."

"Oh it's nothing, Linnet. My fancy, nothing more."

"But there is something, Edwina."

"It's just that I feel that something has changed here ... that there is something ..."

I stared at her. My mother had once said: "Edwina has fancies. It is because one of her ancestors was a witch. Sometimes she has a special power."

I was suddenly nervous, although before I had been inclined to shrug aside Edwina's fancies.

She gripped my arm suddenly. "Take care, Linnet," she said. "There is something evil in this house."

"What on earth do you mean?" I demanded.

"Oh, nothing. I shouldn't have said that. Forget it. It was just a thought that came into my mind."

"Ah," I said, "one of the fancies. I know what it is. It's the cry of the gulls. They do sound as though they are warning us."

But she lived by the sea. She was accustomed to the cry of the gulls. She was used to the weird sound the sea sometimes made when it thundered into the caves or over the rocks.

No, she had sensed something evil. Oh yes, there was evil in this house. I had long suspected it ... long before the coming of Maria and that night when I had seen the men returning to Seaward Tower with their donkeys.

But I hid my fear from Edwina. She had this gift and, like many people who possessed it and did not understand it, she was a little afraid of it. She was always ready to believe it was merely a fancy because she found it comforting to do so.

So we laughed together and pretended to forget, but what she had said lingered in my mind.

Maria was up almost immediately. She surprised me not only by her quick recovery but by her lack of interest in her child.

Jennet s.n.a.t.c.hed up the baby and cared for her, taking her to her mother only when she was to be fed, and Jennet saw that this happened as regularly as it should.

"Completely unnatural," grumbled Jennet. "Foreigners, that's what."

The child was well formed and clearly healthy. I felt sorry for her and I took her to my nursery and showed her to my children. Connell was not very interested, but my little Tamsyn, who was just two years old, was enchanted by her. She followed Jennet about when she held the baby and liked to look at her. She was far more interested in the baby than any plaything.

I talked to Maria. "What plans have you?" I asked.

She looked vague and either did not or pretended not to understand.

"You must recover from your confinement first," I said. "We can decide when you are completely recovered."

She did not seem in the least anxious about her future.

"The child must be named," I said. "What would you choose for her?"

"Name?" she said and shrugged her shoulders.

I waited for her to decide but she did not and I asked if she would like to give the baby one of our Cornish names.

She smiled gravely. When she smiled one could not help but gaze at her in amazement. It was like a beautiful statue coming to life; and indeed with the pa.s.sing of each day she became more beautiful.

But as she said nothing about the baby's name I asked if I might choose one for her. She nodded and so I began to cast about for something suitable. Thus I hit on the name Senara, the patron saint of Zennor. This seemed very suitable as Senara is one of the saints about whom nothing is known.

And so the child became Senara.

The household had altered subtly. Colum had changed. He hated Maria, I believed, and some of that hatred was directed at me, implying that I should never have saved her and brought her into the house.

All through the month of January when it was cold-exceptionally for us, for there was snow-she scarcely moved from the Red Room. She ordered that a great fire should burn there throughout the day and most of the night and I did not countermand this order. When I felt inclined to, I remembered her lying there in the water so near to death and the men coming in with their donkeys, and I could do nothing.

My mother stayed until mid-February because the weather was too bad for travelling and while she was there I did not notice the change so much. It was after she had gone that it seemed more apparent.

I gathered from Jennet's conversation that the servants were aware of it.

"They don't like going to the Red Room," she told me. "They'm in and out quick as can be. They say they'll look up, like, and see her eyes on them. 'Tis like she be fixing a spell on them."

"A spell, Jennet!" I said sharply. "What nonsense!"

"Well, she did come on Hallowe'en, Mistress."

That alarmed me faintly. They were going to fasten the name "witch" on Maria.

I knew that she would be able to look after herself, but it was dangerous. Witches were taken and hanged or even burned to death on the flimsiest suspicion. I did not want the shadow of witchcraft to touch our household.

"It just happened that she was on the wrecked ship," I said sharply.

"That's what 'twould seem, Mistress."

"That's what it was, Jennet."

"Well, they be saying that if she be a witch she'd make her coming seem natural. She could stir up a storm at sea if need be."

"This is dangerous talk," I said.

"And she pretends not to speak so's we can understand."

"She is a foreigner so of course her language is different from ours."

"You can't be sure, Mistress, with foreigners."

I could see that Jennet, too, was tainted with this belief.

I said: "If they accused her of being a witch, what of Senara?"

Jennet then did look alarmed.

"They would soon be accusing the daughter of a witch," I went on.

"She be but a babe."

"Would they care for that? If they took one they'd take the other too."

Jennet's face was as resolute as it could only be when there was a child to be protected.

"'Tis all a parcel of nonsense," she said hotly. "There were a wreck and she were from that broken ship. And just because it happen to be Hallowe'en."

I could see that I had said the right thing.

I was sure Jennet would have some effect on the others but she could not eradicate suspicion altogether. Maria had come at the time of Hallowe'en, and to a community which was beginning to be more and more obsessed by witchcraft that was significant.

March was unusually mild and the spring feeling came early that year. There appeared to be a bigger crop of daisies and dandelions making the meadows a ma.s.s of white and gold. I had inherited a love of flowers from my grandmother and I always took special delight in their coming. At this time of the year I would ride out and search for the wild daffodils and wood anemones and the purplish-blue flowers of the ground ivy which I called gill-go-by-the-ground, a name I must have heard from my mother who got it from hers. This year was different. When I rode out I would be thinking about Maria and wondering what was going to happen to her and Senara, for they could not stay indefinitely at Castle Paling.

Where could they go? I wondered. I guessed Maria was Spanish but how could she leave for Spain? Perhaps I thought one of my father's ships could take her, but in view of the animosity between our countries that could not very easily be arranged.

In time, I suppose, Maria would tell us. She had been in the house five months. Of course if there had not been the child she could not have remained so long.

I wondered why Colum ignored her presence. She was living as our guest and I had to admit that at times she behaved almost like the mistress of the house. Colum was not of a temper to tolerate such an invasion into his household, yet he had raised no objection after the first outburst. I could not get Edwina's warning out of my mind, for Edwina's prognostications had so many times proved to have some substance.

Returning from one of my rides on a lovely day in March, I left my horse in the stables and as I was coming into the courtyard through the narrow arch I heard voices.

I paused, for I recognized those of Colum and Maria, and it so surprised me that without realizing I stopped short. From where I stood they could not see me, nor I them, but Colum's voice with its deep timbre was one which carried easily on the air.

They were quarrelling and I sensed the suppressed fury in him.

"Get out," he said. "I will not have you under my roof. Get out and take your brat with you."

I heard her laugh. It was a deep laugh, full of malice and hatred.

She spoke haltingly but there was no doubt of the gist of her remarks. "This you owe me. As long as I wish. You destroy our ship ... You ... you. Murderer. You take our goods ... you take our lives ... I live ... my child live ... and because this is so you owe us all we take."

"I owe you nothing."

"Think, lord of the castle. I go from here. I tell ..."

"You tell ... tell what?"

"How you become rich ..."

I drew back into the shadows. I felt sick with fear. I thought of those stormy nights and the men coming back to the Seaward Tower with their donkeys.

"Some things I remember," she said. "The ship ... the lights ... The big rocks are there ... in the sea. There were lights to warn us ... But the lights were not where the rocks were ... I know what you do. You lure the ship to the rocks and you plunder us."

"Who will believe this nonsense?" he cried.

She laughed again.

I could not stand there. At any moment Colum could come striding from the courtyard and find me there, listening.

I turned and fled. I went up to my bedchamber. I could not say that I had had a shock. For some time the thought had been in my mind ... ever since I had seen the men on the donkeys ... and perhaps before.

So this was what he did. He sent his men out on the donkeys with their lanterns and they would stand some miles away with their lights to indicate that that spot was Castle Paling and the Devil's Teeth were just before it, and thinking to avoid the treacherous rocks the ships would come straight on to them.

It was diabolical.

And this he did that he might salvage the cargoes and sell them. How many ships had suffered in this way? I could remember five storms and the nightly activities of the men. They might not have succeeded in every instance, but that he could do this horrified me and changed my feelings towards him.

I did not know what to do. He was my husband, the father of my beloved children; and his profession-if such it could be called-horrified me.

It was a mistake to have come to the bedchamber for within a short time the door was open and there he stood, flushed with rage after his encounter with Maria.

I faced him. I could not keep silent.

I said: "I have just come up. I was in the courtyard. I overheard what Maria was saying to you."

He looked at me in astonishment, his eyes narrowed suddenly. "Well?" he said.

"I know it's true. Oh Colum, it's horrible."

"You too," he said. "Have done. I am in a mood to do you a mischief ... both of you."

"She was right. You lured the ship in which she was sailing on to the rocks, for the sake of its cargo. By chance she managed to survive. I ..."

"And you, by G.o.d, brought her here. Had I known what you were doing ..."