Looking down, Cat found her knuckles were white where she had been gripping her skirts. She did not dare ask the question she wanted to for fear of what the answer might be.
‘The soldiers came for rest of my family two days after taking my father. They rape my mother and kill my sisters. My mother die of shame and grief. I was ten years old. My sisters were two, four and seven. I should have stayed and defended them…
‘The blacksmith, he saw. He said he tried to stop them, but I knew he lie. My uncle gave me knife to kill him. He was first Nazarene I kill; at age of eleven. Now I have lost count.
‘I swore revenge so my cousins make me apprentice to a great corsair: Yussuf Raïs, once Englishman called John Ward. English treat him ill: call him hero when he take foreign prizes for Crown, and villain when he take them without letter of marque, so he renounce Christianity and come instead to Islam, make war on Nazarenes. He once said me, “If I meet my own father at sea I rob him, and sell him when I had done.” He was good teacher. I sail with him five years. When he went to Tunis, he give me this ship. He die three years ago; I bless his name. Now I operate under
usanza del mare
, code of corsair: I bring much money, many captives, back to my people, kill many Spanish, many Nazarenes,
damara’hum Allah
, may God destroy them. Is both my revenge and holy work. I cannot bring down Inquisition or Spanish throne, but I can wage war against its religion and wreak what havoc I may.’
His eyes flashed, and with a shock Cat remembered the same expression on the face of her grandfather as he recounted tales of the Bloody Queen, half-sister of the great Elizabeth, who had burned three hundred Protestants at the stake and threatened to bring the Spanish Inquisition to English shores to turn the whole country Catholic. The Spanish were roundly hated in Cornwall; he had himself lost a leg in an action against a Spanish privateer. And she remembered how only two years ago, when King James had sent a delegation led by his favourite, George Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham, to attempt to win the Spanish Infanta as the Prince of Wales’s bride, there had been much fury and riotous talk in Marazion; how Thom Samuels had spoken of taking up arms if England were to have a Spanish queen, and Jack Kellynch had punched him, since his own mother was Spanish. It was rather extraordinary to find that her own people had anything in common with this violently zealous pirate. It was also extremely disconcerting to discover how moved she was by the story he had told: for a moment, at least, he seemed less a monster and more a man who had a reason to do the terrible things he did.
She found she had been staring at him; when he looked up suddenly and met her eyes, she found the intensity of his gaze uncomfortable and had to look away.
‘But I still do not understand what you have against the English,’ she said at last. ‘Especially if you sailed with an Englishman and he gave you his ship. It wasn’t the English who killed your family, it was the Spanish, and England is at war with Spain again, just as we were under the old Queen, so they’re our enemies as much as yours.’ She paused. ‘And Cornwall’s really a separate country all its own, not really part of England at all.’
Al-Andalusi gave a short laugh. ‘I have raided the Spanish coast so hard there’s no village we haven’t struck. They well fortified now; too many guns. So I take Nazarenes where I find them. Your people not well prepared: no guns, no defences, very easy.’ Seeing her face fall, he said more kindly, ‘Here, Cat’rin – take bread and eat. If you tend me until I well you need be strong.’ He handed her the remains of the small, hard loaf. ‘Dip in oil to make soft or you break teeth. Broken teeth lose me money at market. And take some of these too, good for digestive organs.’
Heaped on a brightly coloured earthenware plate on the table beside him were a number of the salty black fruits she had so disliked and some round, squashed-looking objects that resembled nothing so much as miniature turds.
Cat wrinkled her nose. ‘No, thank you.’
‘Take,’ the raïs told her. ‘Is good.’ He picked one up and held it out, and, when she hesitated, thrust it at her with greater insistence. ‘With my people, hospitality important: to refuse is insult.’
She took a small bite. Sweetness flooded her mouth so that she gasped. It was not in the least what she had expected, for it tasted remarkably like the preserved medlars the cook bottled each autumn from Kenegie’s orchard. ‘Oh…’ She took the rest whole, saliva breaking from the corner of her mouth.
Al-Andalusi looked on, eyebrow cocked sardonically. ‘Is fig,’ he said. ‘In some traditions it was the fruit Eve gave to Adam from the Tree of Knowledge.’
‘In the bible that was an apple!’
‘In our tradition, according to Qur’an, it was apple also. And when Adam swallowed mouthful of fruit it stuck in throat and made lump all men have.’
‘The Adam’s apple!’ Cat cried, astonished. ‘We call it that as well.’
‘We are, perhaps, not such strangers to one another as you think.’
The raiz saies that in two daies our shippe wille come in to Sallee Port in Moroco. After whych tyme I knowe not what wille become of mee. The raiz ys nowe on hys feet & I have seene lyttle of hym. I have not beene sent back down belowe but am kept here in the cabine. I was in hopes that hee would allow my mother to joyne mee heere, but he just turned from mee and I dare not aske agayne. I feare my future, for on account of my foolish lye hee stille thinkes wee are of a riche familly who wille paie a grate ransom for oure return. But hee also threttens mee with being solde to a sultan, who I beleeve ys lyk unto a kyng in ther countrie, for hee saies I wille fetch a goode price at Sallee’s market wyth my redde haire & faire skyn. How I wishe I had took old Annie Badcock’s advyse & gone home with Rob to Kenegy
…
‘Why did you shoot off like that, Julia? It looked really odd, you know.’
I regarded her steadily. ‘I really can’t bear to be around him.’
Alison made a sympathetic face. ‘Sorry. I’ve just made it worse, haven’t I? Look, if you’d rather I walked away from the renovation of the cottage, I will. It’s only money.’
‘Did Andrew leave a lot of debts?’ I felt awkward asking. ‘I could help you out, you know.’
She smiled, and her eyes filled up. ‘It’s probably not as bad as I think it is. I haven’t dared look at the statements, haven’t felt up to it. But I could do with a bit of work, if only to have something else to think about.’
‘Of course you must take on the cottage, if you want to do it. Don’t mind me.’
‘It’s just that…’ She looked embarrassed. ‘Well, I may have got a bit carried away with telling Michael what could be done with the cottage: he seemed quite fired up by it. In fact, he called Anna, and she’s coming down tomorrow to discuss what we might do.’
‘Is she?’ I was horrified. Had Michael suggested Anna visit before or after he had called me? If before, he must have decided it would be his last chance to see me before she arrived. If after… I felt sick. Was it his way of punishing me for turning him down? I knew there was the purely practical matter of the cottage, but something told me there were other, darker reasons. ‘Does Anna know I’m here with you?’
‘Um, yes,’ she said. ‘Sorry. When Michael came off the phone he said she sent her regards and was looking forward to seeing you.’
Cold iron in the heart. ‘I can’t stay. Can’t do it.’
Alison rubbed her forehead. ‘God, what a mess. Isn’t it better to get it out of the way? Try to get things back to normal?’
I shook my head. ‘It’s too soon. I just can’t face her. Not feeling strong enough yet.’ My mouth twisted suddenly; I thought I might cry.
Abruptly tears started to spill out of the corners of my eyes, and a moment later Alison welled up too. She hugged me. ‘I’m so sorry. God, now we’ve both got the waterworks going.’
I gave her a wobbly smile and pulled myself together. ‘Sorry, I’m being pathetic. It’s only a stupid affair, one that should never have started. I brought this on myself, but you –’
She waved her hands at me. ‘Don’t.’ She gulped. ‘Look, don’t you think it might give you closure, put a proper end to it?’
‘No, I’m just not ready.’
‘To be honest, I don’t think Michael is either. He talks about you a lot when you’re not there.’
My traitor heart leaped up.
‘Oh, and he asked about the little needlework book too, whether you’d finished it yet. He seems to think it might be valuable.’
‘If it is, Al, you should have it back.’
She shook her head. ‘He gave it to you: it’s yours, Julia, honestly. And don’t you give it to him without getting a receipt, OK?’
I grinned. ‘Because we all know what an honest man Michael is, eh? You know, Al, I really should get back to London for a bit, just to make sure the shop’s OK, try to get myself straight.’
Alison shrugged. ‘You do what you have to do.’ She put her hand on my arm. ‘It’s been great having you here, you know, Julia: I’ve really appreciated it.’
‘I was glad to be able to do it,’ I said, and meant it.
‘It’ll all work out for the best in the end. I mean, there has to be a reason for it all, doesn’t there? There are days when I think there really is some huge great tapestry of a plan out there, and we’re all woven into it – this fabulous complex pattern of life and death, full of recurring motifs and waves of colour, and we’re each one tiny thread in the weave. And then there are the days when I know that we’re on our own, and it’s all a horrible mess and our own fault.’ She sighed. ‘But there are some amazing coincidences going on. I mean, how weird is it that Andrew should have sent those books up to Michael, and one be about embroidery, just your thing, and contain the journal, and that Michael should spot it and think of you? Let alone that Catherine should come not just from Cornwall, but right here at Kenegie? There was a load of old Kenegie stuff in the attic, you know, odds and ends, books and broken furniture. Probably been dumped there when they were renovating the manor, been mouldering away for centuries.’
‘Mmmm,’ I said, feeling uncomfortable. ‘Synchronicity, I guess.’
‘Have you read any more of it? Is she still working on the Countess of Salisbury’s altar cloth? Do you think she ever finished it?’
‘We’ll probably never know.’
‘Well, why don’t we walk down to the manor house and have a look at where she lived? Before you go back up to London.’
Reluctantly, I agreed.
By the end of the afternoon I very much wished I hadn’t. Visiting Kenegie Manor had been a grim experience. Alison had told me that it had been developed into a holiday complex, but I hadn’t really thought about what that might entail, so the sight of dozens of ugly little bungalows and chalets jammed together in what must have been Lady Harris’s prized orchard and gardens was dispiriting. This was compounded by the harsh primary colours of the children’s playground, the acre of car park, the modern annexe housing the swimming pool and racks of tourist-information leaflets inviting them to a host of lurid artificial attractions – stately homes with tropical butterfly collections and teddy bear exhibitions, petting zoos and miniature railways. It seemed the whole of Cornwall’s heritage was being prostituted in much the same tawdry way. Adjoining the annexe was the manor house itself. Tall Tudor chimneys were about the only feature that spoke honestly of its origins. The granite stonework had been refaced and repointed, the windows and doors had been replaced, and where the knot garden and herbs had once grown there was now a paved concrete courtyard. A large estate agent’s board on the way in had boasted that the Grade II listed manor house was being redeveloped into stunning modern apartments. It gave a number to call for viewings.
‘We could call the number and pretend to be prospective buyers,’ Alison suggested.
I shook my head wearily. ‘No, thanks.’ I was already feeling glum enough. Who could do this to such an historic old house? How could English Heritage allow such a commercial insult to one of the county’s treasures? I said as much to Alison.
‘It’s probably been messed around with so much down the centuries that there wasn’t anything original left to preserve,’ she said, shrugging. She stuck her head in through the open front door. Distant sounds of hammering wafted through the corridors. Then there came the sound of booted feet on bare boards, and a man in a yellow hard-hat and overalls appeared, a claw hammer in his hand.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Have you come for a viewing?’ He peered over our shoulders. ‘Is the agent with you?’
‘We’ve got an appointment for later,’ Alison lied cheerfully, ‘but we thought we’d get here early and have a bit of a nose around. You know what agents are like, always hurrying you past the things they don’t want you to ask awkward questions about.’
They both laughed, complicit.
‘Well, you might as well come in, then,’ the builder said. ‘Have a poke around. It’s not like there’s anything to nick. Not unless you’re partial to cordless drills!’ And with a hearty chuckle he waved us through and tromped off to destroy some other part of the house.
If I had been feeling downcast before, now I was properly disillusioned. What trace of Cat and her seventeenth-century life could survive amid all this new plasterboard and wiring, the litres of brilliant white emulsion and multiple phone lines? There was no trace of any of the previous inhabitants. Even my overactive imagination couldn’t picture the shades of Sir Arthur and Lady Harris among the seagrass matting and the double-glazing; or of Robert Bolitho and Jack Kellynch amid the sterile concrete pathways; or Matty and Nell Chigwine among the soulless melamine and stainless steel of the fifteen identical new kitchens. I bet no old gypsy women came to the scullery door now, seeking a groat and a mug of furmity, or whatever the modern equivalent might be.
As I followed Alison miserably from room to room, it became ever clearer that wherever the soul of Catherine Anne Tregenna rested, it was not here.
That night I dreamed. It was inevitable after the turmoil of my day. None of the images that stayed with me in the grey light of dawn illumined the problems I faced, but rather seemed to emphasize them. Anna in a hooded cloak, in her hand a great curving knife, dripping blood. People shouting at me in a language I did not understand. The smell of burning. Michael pleading with me for his life. I dozed, I re-entered dream situations, I surfaced; went under again and finally came back to full consciousness feeling a weight of dread pressing in on me.