Origins

Agatha sat on the edge of the cot, nursing her dying daughter.

It was six months after that fateful day when Hugh had broken Constance’s heart. When he’d rushed in, flushed and out of breath, and told her about the conversation he’d had with his father. He’d professed his enduring love for her, and how he was torn between that and his sense of duty to his family, which forbade them being together. How he’d wanted to refuse and told her he’d look after her. That he’d be married in name only. That she was his love, and he would never think of another, even his wife, in the same way as her.

He’d reminded her of what they’d said to each other early on, when they’d agreed to be friends. He pointed out that in the heat of their affair they’d both forgotten what they’d said on that second day, back in the cottage with Alice, the pig’s head, her dead sightless eyes bearing witness to their promise. They had forgotten who he was, and who she was. She would always be his and his alone, but they would have to make something work out. After all, despite everything that had happened, she’d known then, and had to realise still, that he wasn’t free to do what he wanted. He had to consider his place and his duty.

He’d also reminded her she was the one who’d broken that promise on the day in the sand dunes when she’d pulled him to her.

But she wouldn’t listen. She didn’t want to hear. He said it broke his heart, insisted again he would look after her, always. And he’d promised her everything. Well, almost everything.

He said that she could live with them in their home, so that they could be together. But Constance knew that wouldn’t work. He was being naïve. But then, so was she to think that anything had changed and that they would be together. She knew in her heart that they couldn’t be, but she’d blotted it out and ignored the truth; their feelings had silenced and side-lined it.

She’d been wrong. She saw that on that day. And afterwards there was no room left in her emotions for him. He was no longer hers alone, and she didn’t want him.

As her love had withered, so something else between them had taken hold. It developed inside her as a reminder of what they’d had together. And as the baby grew, she shrank and withdrew.

At first, she’d thought their child could bring him back to her and her alone. Then she’d thought it would give her something of him to remind her of their love. But as she gradually lost these original motivations for insisting to her mother she was going to keep it, she finally talked to Agatha about potential solutions. But by that time, it was too dangerous to follow most of the remedies that Agatha knew, and she didn’t dare risk it. And now it was too late, and she was losing her place in the world at the expense of the baby. Like her love for Hugh, Constance shrivelled and diminished as Agatha’s heart blackened and her bitterness and loathing for Hugh hardened.

Throughout the late stages of her pregnancy, Agatha tried to get her to eat normal food, but everything she tried made her sick, so her mother prepared broths and soups to give her strength. They were all that Constance could manage, but she didn’t eat enough for herself, let alone for her and the baby. She disappeared into herself, becoming gaunt, just skin and bones, and a womb in which grew a baby like a parasite, sucking the life-force from her as it demanded to live. It became almost too much for her frail body.

Agatha tried to persuade Constance to give the baby up. To save herself.

“But I have nothing to live for!” she wailed. “I can’t go on. But the baby might have a chance. He can’t deny it. He will care for it. But who would care for me?”

Towards the end Agatha tried tricking her, but Constance knew what she was up to and pushed away everything that she offered her, untouched. Agatha begged her to eat. Promised that it was only food for sustenance. But Constance didn’t trust her and, despite Agatha’s begging, she refused to eat.

Constance wasted away before Agatha’s eyes, and there was nothing she could do about it.

She stayed in bed for the last few weeks of her confinement and weakened further. And as her due date approached, Agatha prepared herself for the worst. She knew Constance wouldn’t have the strength to deliver the baby naturally, and she would die trying.

She had experience of the way Caesar had decreed babies be saved when the mother was dead or dying. But no mother survived the knife, and it broke Agatha’s heart that there was nothing she could do to change the outcome for her blessed, beloved daughter.

As the realisation dawned on her that it was hopeless, and she would lose her beautiful, clever, wonderful baby girl, her anguish turned against the perpetrator of this crime - Hugh Malet. She despised him and his family for everything that they had done to her daughter. She cursed the lot of them and the one thing that kept her going during those terrible final few days was the knowledge that she would make that bastard pay for his actions. Agatha would make him suffer, and she planned for what she would do to him when it was all over, and her precious Constance was no more.

Hugh was desperate to see Constance. In the early days after they announced his betrothal, he’d continually tried to see her. He’d haunted the places where he knew she went, but she seemed to have a sixth sense and could avoid him.

Then he’d heard that she was pregnant and knew it was his baby. He also learnt that she was ill and dying. But despite his pleas and many attempts to see her, Agatha forbade it. She locked the cottage and barricaded the door whenever he came near. One night, he camped on the doorstep, listening to the sounds from within and begging to be let in. He knew he’d broken her heart, but he was wounded, too. Hugh would always love Constance, and he missed her with every inch of his body and every piece of his heart and soul. He felt as if a part of him was dying with her.

Eventually, as she was confined to her bed, he’d given up trying to see her, and his heart had hardened towards Agatha, who he blamed for keeping him away. He detested the woman and challenged her whenever he saw her. But she was unmoved and ignored him, treating him as if he was invisible.

Eustace didn’t help. As his 21st birthday, nuptials, and dubbing to become a knight came ever closer, Hugh spent hours either in marriage preparation or dedicated to his ecclesiastical studies. And Eustace took great pleasure in reminding him he had sinned in the eyes of the Lord, and that what was happening to Constance was divine retribution for her as a pagan and a sinner. It took all of Hugh’s training and restraint not to run the priest through with his sword.

He also spent time with the De Vitot family and, in particular, Isabelle. At first, she seemed in awe of him, and it took a lot of cajoling and effort on his part to get her to engage with him. But as she’d relaxed, he’d seen that she was clever, with a pleasant sense of humour, and a highly trained sense of honour and duty, taught to her by her parents. Despite his initial misgivings, he grew fond of her. And while it was nothing like the passionate love he felt for Constance, it was a gentle, solid affection.

But whenever he was with her, or alone in the Keep, or out running errands, it was still Constance that occupied his thoughts, and he could think of little else. It was as if he had lost a limb, a twin, or his soulmate. He saw things he wanted to share with her and felt momentarily elated at the thought of how she would react. But a crashing wave of sorrow swiftly followed this joy as he realised he wouldn’t be able to, and he was bereft.

But that was nothing to how he felt on the day that he learnt Constance had died.

Guy had come running into the hall, grabbed him by the arm and led him into a corridor where they were alone.

“What’s the matter? Why are you being so secretive…” Hugh protested, then saw the look Guy gave him. “Oh,” he whispered, and when Guy nodded, Hugh crumpled.

She was gone, and it was as if someone had snuffed all the light out and had extinguished all sensations. Tears of grief ran down his face and he couldn’t breathe. It was like the end of all things, and he fell into a dark well of despair.

It was only many hours later, when he and Guy were truly in their cups, that he thought to ask about the baby.

“It’s a healthy boy,” Guy told him.

Hugh sighed. “And what is to become of him? What will that witch do with my son?”

“I don’t know… But… where are you going…?!” Guy cried.

But Hugh wasn’t listening. He’d already made up his mind to go and see his son.

He banged his fist on the door. “Wake up! Agatha! Wake up!”

He heard wailing from inside the cottage. A baby - his baby.

“Let me in. I demand to see my son!” he cried, and rested his head against the wooden door. Tears dripped from his nose to the dirt floor.

“Please,” he begged softly.

He heard a bolt being drawn across and stepped back just in time to avoid falling inside.

Agatha stood on the doorstep, her face reflecting his grief. She looked at him with disdain and loathing. She said nothing.

“I’m sorry. I am so sorry. For everything that I’ve done. I truly, truly am.”

“Don’t bother!” she spat. “Save your apologies for your family and your descendants,” she whispered.

“What?” he mumbled.

“Hugh Malet, son of Stephen Malet, brother of William Malet, by the power and will of Nehebkau, I curse you and all your family.”

Hugh saw a light burning in the witch’s eyes and he wanted to step back, but something rooted him to the spot.

“You will listen to me!” Agatha said, and it was as if she spoke with more than one voice, as a chorus. The sound was deep, and it shook the door and the frame. The world was quiet. All he could hear were the voices as they spoke.

“You will not know happiness in this life. Death and destruction will follow you,” the voices intoned. “You will only live to provide for my grandson. You will have no other children. He will be the first and last. And the sins that you have committed will cause your child’s children and their children’s children and theirs, until the end of time, to wander the earth for eternity. They will not die but will be between life and death, and they will never rest. You will have wealth and success, but only to provide for this boy. You will not have enjoyment of it, and your soul in this life will be troubled and unhappy.

“Now take the child and look after him, for he is yours and of no use to me. He serves to remind me of the daughter you both have taken from me. And I will not look upon him. I will have nothing to do with you, and you will shortly depart for another land, away from here. We will not meet again. Goodbye and good riddance.”

With that, Agatha thrust the child into Hugh’s arms and shut the door on them both.

Hugh woke, slumped back against the door of the cottage. His neck was stiff, and he stretched to relieve the tension. His head hurt and he wondered how much he and Guy had drunk last night?

Something squirmed on the ground between his legs. He looked down and frowned. Then reached out, parted the bundle of cloth, and met the baby’s gaze. It was looking directly up at him with eyes the same shade of blue as his own. He picked the infant up and struggled to his feet, pressing his back against the door of the cottage for support.

He clenched his eyes shut as he moved. It was as if someone had buried an axe in his skull. It hurt so much.

He looked around. There was no sign of any other living thing, just him and the baby.

He stretched his back against the set of his bones and felt them click. Then he turned to the door but froze. It was the only part of the cottage still standing. Nothing else of it remained, just the burned-out shell of the building.

“But how?” Hugh wondered what had happened and how he could have survived it burning down behind him while he slept?

“Agatha?” he said. “Agatha! Constance!” he shouted. He winced in agony, but shouted again.

He waited, but there was no reply.

What happened? Where’s Agatha, and what’s happened to Constance’s body?

“Agatha, what have you done with her!?” he cried.

But there was no response.

He stepped away from the door. Everything had been destroyed and there was nobody around. There was no point staying. He took one last look at the devastation and could see there was nothing left. So he set off down the path and, without a backward glance, began the long walk back to town.