"Yes, you would have thrown her back into the sea, for that is the kind of man you are. You care nothing for human life. You dispense with it if it is in your way. It sickens me to think of it."

"Then, Madam, you had best prepare yourself for this state of sickness. If I have married a lily-livered woman, G.o.d help her, for I will have her obey me and keep her mouth shut when I command it."

"I have suspected this."

He came towards me suddenly and caught my arm. "You have mentioned this to any?"

"To whom should I mention it?"

"To your mother perhaps."

"How could I? She would be disgusted. She would insist that I return to my home with her."

He released his grip on my arm. "This is your home," he said, "and by G.o.d, you shall stay in it as long as I wish to keep you. As for your mother's disgust, I do not believe your father is so nice in his ways. I wonder how many Spaniards he has killed."

"We were always at war with Spain."

"Was it for war that they met their deaths or because they had gold and treasure? Answer me that."

I could not. I knew what he said was true. And I knew that my mother, who was honourable and good, remained with my father and loved him in her way, in spite of his bloodstained hands.

I wanted to go away, to be by myself, to think. To ask myself what I wanted to do, for I could not be sure. I wanted to be with Colum. I had to admit it, he satisfied my senses. When we were together I could forget everything. The strength of him, the power he wielded over everything and everyone in the castle. At such times I felt I wanted to be subdued; I welcomed his rough love-making; it satisfied a part of my nature; but when he was not there, when I thought about him I felt repulsed and wanted very much to go back to Lyon Court. I wanted to talk to someone, to understand myself. I could not talk to my mother because what I had to tell I believed would cause her great concern. She would not want me to go on living with a man who lured people to their deaths for the sake of profit. Yet she had lived with my father.

It was a cruel world. Once my mother had said: "Was it so vicious in the past? Will it be so in the future? I find it hard to reconcile myself to the fury of the times. Perhaps I was born into the wrong world."

I remembered that now and asked myself: Was I?

Colum was watching me; his black eyes alight with a pa.s.sion that I had seen in the early days of our acquaintance.

He shouted: "Answer me. Answer me!"

"What other men did has no bearing on this," I said.

"Has it not? You have a fine opinion of your father. I shall insist that you have as fine a one of your husband."

"You cannot force people to have opinions."

"We shall see," he said. Then he came close to me and took me by the shoulders. "Now you know the nature of my business," he said, "what do you propose to do about it?" I was silent and he went on: "I will tell you. You will accept it. You will help me in all I do, as a good wife should."

"I would never help you to ... murder."

He shook me violently. "Have done," he said. "A ship founders. I have as much right to its cargo as any."

"A ship that has been helped to founder?"

"Should I be blamed because a captain does not know how to navigate?"

"If you lead him astray with false information, yes, you are to blame. You have caused the death of countless people ... so that you could grow rich on their possessions."

"Have done, you fool. Why did you have to save that woman from the sea?"

"Because I am not like you ... a murderer."

"You have brought her into this house with her brat. What good will that do us?"

"At least it has saved two lives to set against all those you have taken."

"You have the tongue of a shrew."

"As you have long discovered."

"And you are too virtuous, are you, to stay under this roof?"

"I ... think I would like to go to stay with my mother."

"And leave your husband ... and your children?"

"I could take the children with me."

He laughed. "Never," he said. "Do you think I would allow them to leave this roof? Or you either? They shall be brought up as I wish."

"You would make a murderer of my son."

"I would make a man of mine."

"I will take my daughter and go."

"You will leave your daughter and stay."

"I have to think about what I have discovered."

"There is one lesson you must learn and I had hoped you had learned it by now. I am the master here and of you and my children. You disobeyed me when you brought that woman here."

"You had given no order that she should not be brought ... Master," I added with sarcasm.

"Because I had not seen her. She will bring no good to you. Rest a.s.sured of that."

"I was not thinking of the good that might come my way. She was in distress, and as any normal human being would, I saved her."

"You are a fool, wife, and I doubt not will live to regret your folly."

"Why am I foolish?"

"Because she is as she is ..."

"I understand not."

"You must not think you are the fount of wisdom."

"I must be alone. I want to think."

"To plan your departure. You will stay here. I will not let you go. Take off your riding habit."

"I am not yet ready to."

"I am." He s.n.a.t.c.hed my riding hat from my head and threw it on to the floor. He caught my hair in his hands and pulled it in the rough manner with which I was familiar. I could sense the rising pa.s.sion in him and although I thought of this later, there was something different in it. He wanted to teach me a lesson. I had to learn that I was his ... to give way to him when and where he pleased; and these encounters often took place after I had shown some resistance to him. It was his way of subduing me; and it was effective, because he had aroused in me a desire which matched his own, revealing to him a sensuality in my nature which I had not known existed until he found it.

Now, I had talked of going away; and he would show me that I wanted him as he wanted me. I could not do without him just as he was pleased with me, in this respect.

It was as before-but there was this difference. Perhaps I should have known. But like so many significant things in life it only occurred to me later.

Maria stayed with us. Her status in the household had changed, and she behaved like a guest. She joined us at meals and her daughter was cared for in our nursery with our own children.

I was not sure how this had come about. Colum and I rarely ate alone but when we did it was in the room which I called the winter parlour-after the one at Lyon Court-the small intimate kind of room which people were beginning to use instead of the great halls where all the household sat together.

There were occasions when we dined in the hall. If there were visitors-which there were quite frequently-and on special occasions-then it was natural that Maria should be there. What was strange was that when we dined in the winter parlour she should join us. I could not understand why Colum accepted this.

I guessed that in a way either his conscience worried him-although that was difficult to believe-or that she was threatening him in some way. It was hard to imagine his allowing anyone to threaten him, but she had accused him of being a murderer. He had been responsible for the death of her husband-for I must believe she was travelling with her husband-and perhaps even he would feel he should make some amends.

Colum kept me with him a great deal after that encounter. He seemed determined to make me accept him for what he was. He told me, soon after that scene, that if I attempted to leave him, he would come to Lyon Court and get me, no matter if he had to kill my father in the attempt.

He said: "Don't provoke me, wife. Never provoke me. You would find my anger terrible. I would stop at nothing to gain satisfaction. Is that something you have learned yet?"

"I begin to," I said.

"Then be a good wife. Deny me nothing and you will be cared for. I want more children. Give them to me."

"That is hardly in my hands."

"You gave me Connell that first night. That was because you and I were made for one another. You responded."

"How could I, drugged as I was?"

"Nevertheless you did. That was when I knew that I'd make you my wife."

"I thought it had something to do with my dowry."

"That came after. But that first night I knew. And look how soon we got ourselves our daughter. But all this time you have been barren. Why?"

"That question must be answered by a higher power."

"Not so. You have slipped away from me. You have become critical of me. I will not have that. Take care, wife."

"Take care of what?"

"That you continue to please me."

What did he mean? I wondered about slipping away. Had I during that first year or so of marriage loved him not only with this physical pa.s.sion of which I was so acutely aware, or had my feelings for him gone deeper than that? Had I built up a false image? Had I seen him as the man I wanted him to be? I could do that no longer.

And he allowed Maria to join us. Those meals a trois were not easy. Colum and I talked in rather a forced fashion; she appeared to watch us thoughtfully and contributed very little to the conversation.

I had a feeling that this state of affairs could not continue. We could not go on day after day sitting thus at table together. Something was going to happen. Then suddenly I was aware.

I caught his gaze fixed on her and he looked just as he had looked at me on the memorable night when I had first seen him at The Traveller's Rest.

I felt a wild twinge of alarm.

I was deeply aware of them. They were playing a kind of game together. She was haughty, aloof, scornful of him; and he was maddened by her att.i.tude. It was something of a repet.i.tion of what had happened between him and me.

There was an occasion when she stayed in her room and sent one of the maids down to say she was indisposed, for all the world as though she was the mistress of the house. We ate alone on that night. Colum was moody, speaking scarcely a word.

She had taken one of the horses from the stables and made it her own. I had supplied her with riding clothes; I had set the seamstress to make garments for her. That was in the beginning when I was sorry for her and wanted to make up for the wrong which had been done to her by my husband.

She never hesitated to take these things. She herself designed her clothes and was with the seamstress while she was working. When they were completed they were beautiful in an exotic way. She walked gracefully and held herself so proudly that she looked like a queen. Her beauty seemed to intensify with the pa.s.sing of the months. She loved the sun and on hot days rode off and sometimes did not come back all day.

Colum continued to watch her broodingly; and he had ceased to mention her to me.

When we entertained she joined the company. She would seat herself at the table on the dais and even though Colum and I were in the centre she would have given the impression to a stranger that she was the mistress of the house, not I.

There was often something jaunty about her manner; it was as though she were secretly amused. One of the neighbouring squires had fallen in love with her and implored her to marry him. She would not give him a definite answer and consequently he made pretence after pretence to visit us.

"Young Madden is here again," Colum would say. "Poor lovesick fool! Does he think she will have him?"

Once I said: "Colum, how long will she stay here?"

He turned on me angrily. "I thought it was your pleasure that she stayed. Was it not you who were so eager to make up for my cruelty?"

"Yes, but she doesn't belong here, does she?"

"Who shall say who belongs where? Once you did not belong, now you do."

"Surely that is different. I am your wife."

"Remember it," he said rather sourly.

That was a strange long summer. The heat was intense. The sea was as calm as a lake and from the turret window looked like a sheet of silk shot with blue and grey light; its murmur was gentle as it washed the walls of the castle. I would often look out at the sharp teeth of the Devil protruding above the water, and the dark smudge of battered vessels there. I wondered what Maria thought when she looked out and saw the remains of the Santa Maria. Did she think of her husband who was lost to her forever? One could never tell; she glided about the castle with that aloof look in her eyes and no one could know what she was thinking.

Colum was different. He talked often about another child. What was wrong with me? Why did I not conceive? He had changed towards me. I was sensitive enough to realize that. There was a certain lack of spontaneity in his pa.s.sion. I thought I knew why.

I wished that my mother would visit us. In the months of June I wrote and asked her to come. I told her how I missed her and how long it seemed since we had been together.

There must have been a plea in my letter for she wrote immediately and said she was making plans to leave. I felt relieved then. I had decided that I must confide in her. I knew that was the last thing Colum wanted but I did not care. I felt I must talk to someone. But she did not come. Damask had a fever and she neither dared leave her nor bring her.

"When she is well, we will come, my dear Linnet," she wrote. She told me what was happening at home. My father had returned from his second voyage and this time he had been equally successful as far as trading was concerned and had achieved this without the loss of ships. The Landors had visited them and they had talked most of the time about the success of the venture.

"Fennimore's little boy is the pride of his life," she wrote. "He is called Fenn and must be a month or so older than our own little Tamsyn."

Her letter brought back so clearly to me the great hall in Lyon Court and my father at the head of the table talking of his adventures and my mother, watching him and now and then bickering with him.