The Voice Within

Chapter 4: Penhallam, April 12th 1643

The embers flickered reluctantly in the fire place which dominated the hall at Penhallam. They sat at the oak table which ran the length of the room – Arthur at one end and his family either side. Arthur shouted and waved angrily as he addressed his son Robert who sat to his left. At twenty-one, Robert still carried the puppy fat of his younger years. He lived in fear of his domineering father and quaked as his voice shook with anger.

"You should have been there at Braddock Down, fighting with the King's men, not skulking round this place. We Royalists gave Cromwell's men a kick in the arse. But they're regrouping and they'll likely be coming this way. How can I get it into that thick scull of yours that we're in danger? We could be driven off our land – lose all we own."

Margaret, his wife, and Kate, his daughter, sat together opposite Robert, their eyes lowered as tension in the hall rose.

"But Arthur, someone's got to take care of the farm," beseeched Margaret. We must have produce to sell or we'll have no income."

"Be quiet! What do you know of politics or war? Do you think people don't know we're bankrupt? Do you think word hasn't got round that we can't afford proper staff and that we don't run a decent household?"

He was interrupted as Beth, the kitchen maid, entered the hall, pausing briefly to wash her shoeless feet in the stream that was channelled between the hall and the servants' rooms. She was dressed in a brown shift with a stained shawl covering her head. She carried a bowl of cabbage which she placed on the table next to a platter of venison. As she turned to leave, the sleeve of her shift caught the edge of Arthur's pewter tankard, throwing it onto the stone floor and spreading red wine in all directions.

Arthur erupted from his seat like a volcano. He grabbed her shift and hit her hard across the head with his hand. She stumbled and fell. He howled with rage and kicked her fallen body as she tried to crawl away.

Suddenly Kate was there, holding her and deflecting the kicks from her father's foot.

"Leave her, you stupid bitch! She's not worth wasting your time on."

Kate tried to guide her away from the table but her father's boot caught her on the shoulder and sent her sprawling. She could hear her mother howling then suddenly the voice of her brother.

"Sir, I must ask you to stop this. It's not right to treat a woman in this way."

In the ensuing explosion of verbal abuse and blows which Arthur rained down his son, Kate was able to lead Beth away. But it wasn't long before she heard herself being summoned back to the table. Her place had been cleared. There was no food. She was made to stand close to her father's chair.

She could see her mother, shaking and wringing her hands. Kate remembered how her mother had once been – a strikingly good-looking, carefree woman who laughed and enjoyed the beauty of the softly undulating countryside around their home. In those days, her father had been benign and tolerant. But the worsening political situation and the declining family fortunes had turned him into a vile and vindictive man.

Unlike Robert, Kate had a defiance about her which her father couldn't break. She stood before him, her auburn hair hanging in dishevelled ringlets down her back. At seventeen, she had the slim waist and trim figure of an attractive young woman. She had many suitors but only one lover.

"Listen, young woman!" He spat the words out of a mouth contorted with rage. "I've had enough from you. You bring shame on this house. People laugh at me. They think I'm weak. They talk behind my back."

"Father, how can I be responsible for all that?" demanded Kate.

"Because I know you're seeing that Trebarfoot boy. You know they support Parliament. They're set on destroying the monarchy and us with it. By seeing him you humiliate me."

"But father, we've been friends since childhood. Your sister is married to a Trebarfoot. Surely we can find it in our hearts to forgive."

His hand lashed out and hit her face. She stumbled but regained her footing, staring back at him defiantly.

"You will never see him again. I forbid it. If you disobey me I will make you pay a terrible price. Robert, I charge you with ensuring that my wishes are followed. No Trebarfoot is to be allowed onto my land. I oblige you to kill any of them that trespass. As for you, girl – go to your room now and think on the misery you have caused your father."

She made her way quickly to the first floor landing and into her room which lay at the end of a corridor. The room was small – there was space only for a bed and a cupboard. The floor was bare board. A small window overlooked the courtyard with its cobbled pavement and ancient sundial.

A single picture hung on the wall. It was a picture of her father painted seven years ago by a visiting Dutch artist. She remembered that they had still been happy times. She would play outside in the fields and woods – carefree and unaware of what the future held.

The painting depicted a serious man in his mid-forties. He wore a simple dark costume and his black hair reached down to his shoulders. A small moustache adorned his upper lip.

Her father had insisted that the picture be hung in her room to remind her of his presence at all times. She had spent many hours imprisoned here, staring at his features as she contemplated their worsening relationship. She sometimes felt that it captured a time of change. In the eyes and across his brow, she recognised features of the father she had once known – gentle, caring and warm. But in his protruding jaw – hard, arrogant and threatening – she could see the emerging aggression that would come to dominate her life. She shivered at the private memories of his abuse and the threats he made in case she revealed the truth.

Sometimes, as she lay on her bed and stared into his eyes, she had a strange feeling that she was being drawn outside of her prison walls and into another dimension – free of the shackles that bound her to this place and time. She felt that she was floating and at peace – part of a bigger whole. Not alone. There were other voices, other people – or maybe herself at another time. She was content to drift and listen, not yet ready to take part.

A light knock at the door. Robert entered. He avoided her gaze.

"He's drinking. He's already hit mother. He'll be here soon."

"Then do something. Protect me," she begged, falling to the floor and seizing his legs. He turned away, his podgy face scarlet with confusion.

"I can't, you know that. I can't stop him. You must take what's coming. But, Kate, you have to stop seeing John. He's made me responsible now. He'll kill us both if you disobey. For my sake – please don't see him."

"For your sake!" she screamed. "For your sake! Don't you have a morsel of compassion?"

The door closed and he left. When her father arrived, he was drunk and incoherent. In his hand he carried a wooden cane. Kate's shrieks echoed throughout the house that night, with an intensity and energy that burnt into the physical fabric of Penhallam.