Daughter of Satan by Jean Plaidy Page B

the dark secrets of Granny’s devils’ world.
    Not that Granny was easy to understand; sometimes she mumbled and, even standing so close and suffering the full force of her tainted breath, Tamar could discover very little. But she knew the great secret. People were afraid of her because she was Satan’s daughter.
    She ran through the grass delighting in its cool caress on her bare feet; she would whisper to the trees: ‘I am the Devil’s daughter. Nothing can hurt me because he looks after me.’
    She loved the green solitude of the country, and it was her pleasure to collect strange plants and bring them to the old woman to ask what magic properties they contained; but it was the town itself which offered her the greatest delight. She would spend hours lying stretched out on the Hoe, straining her eyes across the sea, trying to picture what lay beyond that line where the sea met the sky. She would stand in the streets, watching the people, listening to their talk; the market delighted her and sometimes there was food to be picked up. There were times when, attracted by her grace and beauty, strangers would throw her a coin. She would watch the men load and unload ships.
    There was an ancient seaman who sat on the Hoe with her and told her about his adventures on the Spanish Main. She asked question after question, delighting to listen as he did to talk. They met many times and it seemed to her that he held a new world in his mind to which his voice was the key. But one day when she saw him, he looked away and pretended he did not see her; then she ran to him and tugged his arm. He did not shout at her or curse as he knew so well how to curse; hejust turned and would not look at her, gently disengaging himself and hobbling away with his crutch as well as one leg would let him. She knew what had happened; he had discovered who her father was, and he was afraid.
    She threw herself down on the grass and sobbed angrily and passionately; but when she saw the old sailor again she stood before him and lifting her flashing eyes to his face, she cursed him. He turned pale and hobbled off. Now she felt triumphant, for she knew he was more afraid of a dark-eyed little girl than the Spanish Inquisition.
    One exciting day news came that the Spaniards had landed in Cornwall, that Mousehole was in flames and Penzance under attack.
    Tamar watched the ships set out from the Sound to go to the aid of the Cornishmen. They were stimulating days to a child who knew herself to be feared as much as the Spaniards.
    August was hot and all through the month Drake and Hawkins were preparing to sail away, and Tamar was there to watch them when they went.
    She would never forget the day when the town learned of the death of Drake and Hawkins. Then she saw a city in mourning and longed to be loved as these men had been. It was better to be loved than feared, she felt, for being feared gave you a lonely life.
    She listened to people’s talk of Drake, for no one talked to her. Her loneliness was becoming more and more marked as she grew older.
    Once in the cottage when only her mother and the old woman were there with Tamar, Luce talked of Drake.
    â€˜I saw him many times,’ said Luce, in an unusually talkative mood, no doubt due to the death of the hero. ‘I remember once . . . it was in the time of our greatest danger. The whole place was waiting . . . waiting for the Spaniards. That was in the days when Spaniards
was
Spaniards.’
    â€˜Yes?’ said Tamar eagerly.
    â€˜It was like a sort of fever in the place. The Spaniards had big ships, they said, and ours was little ’uns. That didn’t matter, though. We had
him
, you see.’
    â€˜And he was better than anyone else!’ cried Tamar.
    â€˜They did go to church . . . him and a great lord. I went to see them . . . with Betsy. I was different then . . .’ Her eyes filled with tears as she smoothed her rough hands over her rags. ‘Yes, I