Old Saxon Blood

by Leonard Tourney

  “As well she might," said Wylkin. “Now that she's mistress."

  Stafford glanced sideways toward the ravine and bridge, then looked back at Wylkin. “I don't mean into those matters that should naturally concern her, but rather those that concern me."

  “Do you think she's suspicious about her uncle's death?"

  “Why shouldn’t she be—if she knows the facts and her noggin is more than a prop for her golden locks/’ said Stafford. “Of course there’s a chance she doesn’t care one way or the other. A rich uncle dead is better than a poor one living. If you’re his heir, which she is. For all I know, she may have hired someone to drown him. Stranger things have happened, although few are spoken of in church. How much love could she have for a bachelor uncle she knew largely by his letters, which couldn’t have been very frequent? What worries me is that she may want more than the castle and the land.”

  “You mean—”

  Stafford nodded. “She might know, or at least suspect, and have sent Stock and his wife as spies to discover that her uncle fetched more treasure home from Ireland than an occasional wench for his lust’s sake.”

  “What shall be done then?” Wylkin asked eagerly, for the manservant had a colorful past as a soldier and highwayman and was ever ready for employment.

  “A very good question, Jack—and quickly answered. Hie you over to the castle and have words with that confederate of yours. Make her a party to our plans only in so far as to make her companion of your watch of the Stocks. If the new steward appears to be a spy as I suspect, we’ll rid ourselves of him straightway.”

  “So he won’t be any trouble to us,” said Wylkin, drawing his finger across his throat to suggest the method of Matthew Stock’s disposal.

  “Oh, you are passing eager, Jack.” Stafford grinned with approval. He reached over and placed a hand on the pommel of Wylkin’s knife. “If it comes to that, you’ll have your orders. An obvious murder would only confirm what doubt already exists about Sir John’s drowning. Be subtle, therefore. I know you have it in your heart to be so. Scare him off, if you can. We’ll kill him if we must.”

  “And what of the Irishman?”

  “Conroy’s a stone in my shoe. Continue to watch him. It is unthinkable that he wasn’t privy to his master’s secret. Why else would he remain at Thorncombc, Sir John dead? Quickly, now, about your work.”

  Stafford watched as Wylkin galloped off, feeling a surge of satisfaction. Wylkin pleased him at the moment, for the man was totally unscrupulous and fearless—qualities in which Stafford, for all his bravado, knew he was deficient. Not that he pursued his present intrigue with any reluctance. His long quarrel with the Challoners extended to his father’s time and was like a raw and open cancer. Any treachery seemed justified. And if the laws delay continued to deprive him of a free-flowing stream, he could at least enjoy the Irish booty he believed on good report and reasonable surmise was concealed somewhere at Thorncombe.

  When he had heard the news of his old enemy's death, Stafford had been much gratified. He had also been hopeful that it might be his opportunity to secure the estate for himself. For why should the young slip of a girl want to worry herself about the gloomy pile of the old castle and the troubles that went with tenants when she could continue to enjoy the social delights of the metropolis? He had envisioned himself as master of Thorncombe—at leisure to dig for treasure in perfect privacy.

  But the assignment of the new steward suggested that his vision was not to be fulfilled.

  With respect to his treasure-digging, his wife had suggested he turn informer and receive the thanks and reward of the Queen. The trouble with his wife's proposal—in addition to its having no stomach in it—was that it would have been too easy for the living Sir John to deny his wrongdoing. And not much more difficult for Frances Challoner to deny it on her deceased uncle's behalf. Was Sir John not an honorable soldier of well-allowed reputation? Without satisfactory proof—and what proof was satisfactory other than the hoard itself?—his accusation would appear the grossest slander and fall upon his own head. And thus his present intent to work by stealth and subversion until such an hour as the gold was found and in hand. But this purpose was made more difficult of fulfillment because of Stock—and also because of Conroy. For if Sir John had been murdered, as Stafford devoutly suspected, he believed the motive was the treasure. Which meant, to Stafford’s way of thinking, that someone else in the neighborhood was capable of deviousness and violence, knew of the Challoner hoard, and was as bound and determined as he to have it.

  But as much as Stafford worried about competition in his search, he found solace in the hope that he would be the first to the gold and receive, at long last, just compensation for the numerous injuries he and his family had suffered from the arrogance and pride of the Challoner.

  Sometimes at night he would wake in a cold, quicksilver sweat and fear that it was all a dream, this Irish hoard of Thorncombe. His wife, at such times, more sanguine than he, assured him that his fears were the work of too much meat the night before, or of the damned spirit of melancholy that afflicts the soul between midnight and dawn, or, of a sickly irresolution and close cousin to cowardice.

  To bolster his confidence and prick him on, husband and wife would pass the time speculating about the treasure—both as to quality and to quantity. Stafford would imagine a half-dozen chests or more, brimming with silver plate and cup, thousands of gold sovereigns, and twenty thousand coins of inferior denomination. His wife imagined jewels—emeralds, rubies, diamonds as big as the Popes nose, necklaces, crosses and other religious relics, each worth a prince s ransom, and God only knew what other fine stuff snatched from the barbarous hands of Irish Catholics and brought to the Protestant haven of Thorncombe to be ensconced there, dedicated to the private use of a soldier of good repute.

  And in such mutual recitals, the Staffords nourished their hopes, and Thomas Staffords mind to larceny became as razor sharp as his manservants knife.

  Una's ignorance of the Queen’s English did not prevent her from expressing her unease about being left to guard the locked door. As a concession, Joan promised to make haste in securing a key. She would find Moll, she thought. Surely the cranky old woman had kept an extra set.

  She rushed down the stairs at great risk to life and limb, tore through the kitchen, and covered the greensward like a dog chasing a rat, despite her tight bodice and flapping farthingale and other female garb made to shackle a fleet foot.

  As she approached the lodge, she heard from within the clamor of domestic discord. She knocked; the wrangling ceased, and Moll’s face appeared.

  “Mistress Stock? Its you, is it? Rumor had you sick unto death. You seem well enough now, though sweating like a horse.”

  Joan ignored the rudeness of this salutation. It was clear that her visit had interrupted a debate of some magnitude and that her appearance on the scene was offensive in being an interruption and in being a call where she was not wanted. Molls face was a veritable map of conflicting passions and discontents. Although it was late in the morning, she was still dressed in an ungirdled nightgown and her feet were bare. (Japless, her steel-gray hair was a fright. Behind the old woman, her husband’s mumbling could be heard. The last

  word for once, Joan supposed, in whatever issue had ignited such hot debate.

  Joan explained her need coolly. She was still out of breath from her race, but exerted herself to maintain control.

  “Why, that room hasn’t been used in years. It has no lock,” Moll said.

  “It has a lock. There’s someone inside!”

  “Someone inside? Well, demand that he come forth—that’s the way to do it. Don’t trouble me about keys. 1 gave you all I had.”

  “If he had come forth at my beckoning, I would not have risked my life to come to you for a key,” Joan responded crossly. “I can’t believe there are no keys to these rooms.”

  “Believe what you like, dispute the rest,” Moll said, thrusting her face forwar
d aggressively. “I gave what keys I had, and that’s that. Besides, why would you want admittance to the room anyway? It hasn’t been used for years. If there’s anything there, it’s old foul trash from before the Flood.”

  “Why I want to enter is no concern of yours,” Joan returned sharply. “It is sufficient that I have warrant to enter such rooms as I see fit.”

  “No one disputes your right,” Moll shot back with equal vehemence. “Such a right I enjoyed for forty years. Yet I cannot give over what I never had. I have not set eyes on the insides of the White Keep since our late master’s brother went off to Ireland and never came home again. If you want in, you must break down the door.”

  “And so I shall if I must,” Joan said.

  “Then for Jesus’ sake do what you must,” said Moll. “And let us be. The care of the castle is no longer my concern. Good day to you."

  Moll slammed the door shut in Joan’s face, leaving her quivering with rage. Joan said something found more often on the lips of London alewives than her own and stamped her foot in irritation. She had come to Thorncombe to discover a murderer; now she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t do murder herself before she departed. She had already selected her victim, and she prayed God would forgive the thought even as He understood the justness of her rage.

  She turned and marched toward the stable to find Edward and an ax, determined that the door to the locked room should fall, if not by key, then by main force. She was halfway to her destination, feeling the resurgent fever in her cheeks, when she remembered that Edward would be with Matthew.

  For a moment she saw the pair in her minds eye. Horseback. Riding down a quiet road. Coming to a tenants tidy cottage. Receiving a gracious welcome from humble folk.

  She stopped to catch her breath. No, Edward would not be there when she needed him, nor would Matthew. A very fine day it was turning out to be, she thought with disgust. She would be lucky if she didn’t fall ill again.

  Then she remembered Una, who would be maintaining her solitary and frightening vigil outside the locked door, and began to feel both fear and guilt. Who knew what horror or dastardly knave was her prisoner? She gathered her skirts and rushed back to the house, climbed the stairs, and found Una. The Irishwoman showed no sign of distress. By Unas gesture and very broken English, Joan determined that no one had escaped the room during her absence, but that neither had Una heard any more noises. Joan tried knocking again and commanding, but these efforts were no more successful than before and she began to feel very foolish. Was it possible there was no one within at all? Or could it have been a rat she heard?

  Concluding there was no more to be done—at least for now— she thanked Una for her company, and the two women went back to the kitchen. It was all nearly too much for Joan—the frustration of dealing with these folks of alien speech, the locked doors, the recalcitrant, impudent servants such as Moll Fludd. She decided to go out-of-doors again, but to walk, not run.

  The sun was high in the sky. The air was mild and clear. From the woods she could hear the twitter of birds. Restless with confinement in the castle and still fuming over her injured dignity, Joan set her course for the woods, where she hoped to find nothing more offensive than a thornbush or anthill. She needed to collect herself, to regain the control lost in these broils with Moll and Conroy. The woods were deep and serene and she longed to escape ';hc grim walls of Thorncombe.

  The trees of the wood grew in such closeness as to make almost a wall of greenery except where paths had been made, and even these were narrow and enclosed with bramble and fern. She followed one path that took her toward the lake and in no time she stood upon its shore, contemplating the broad expanse and the little humpbacked island at its center.

  She had smelled the fetid water almost before it came into view. She looked up at the sky. A cloud drew itself across the noontime sun. A flock of high-flying birds headed south. Beyond the lake were the hills she had seen from the window in the Black Keep. They were only hills now, nothing more.

  She looked at the island. It was like an enormous turtle with only its shell above water. And on its back, a risky purchase, was a stone replica of one of Thorncombes ancient towers. She wondered who had built the tower and why.

  She scanned the shoreline before her. Sedge grew to the water’s line and possibly went beyond it—except in one place, where a pebble-strewn stretch would have afforded a landing. Knowing it must be the place where Sir John had been found, she pulled up her skirts and made her way down the bank. A cloud of buzzing insects followed her, but she beat them away, determined not to retreat until she had seen all there was to see. The peace she had sought in the verdant wood could wait. For the moment she was driven by an intense curiosity to examine the place where murder had occurred, even though she thought it very unlikely she would find any trace of the murderer.

  She stood in the midst of the little beach and looked again over the water. The cloud had passed and the sun shone clearly as before. The lake now seemed neither sinister nor treacherous. She reviewed the facts of the baronets death, imagining how this same scene must have looked in a heavy rain and where the shallop must have been. She came to no conclusions and was somewhat depressed by the seemingly complete absence of any sign whatsoever that anything of note had occurred on the spot.

  It was not as though she expected the murderer to have returned to the scene, or that a monument should be raised to the event. But even the shallop was gone, and no footprints other than her own were evident where she trod. Never had she felt with such

  force the absolute indifference of the natural world to human tragedy.

  Deciding there was nothing more to see, she started back the way she had come and had gone a little way when her shoe became stuck in the mud. She bent over to release it and stumbled forward awkwardly. She cried out and fell upon her knees in the midst of a clump of grass. As she was struggling to regain solid footing she noticed an object at a little distance that by its sharp right angle and color did not belong there. Curious, she forgot about her muddy shoe and skirts and moved with difficulty toward it. Then she bent over and brought it up from where it was half-submerged.

  It was a brass-bound chest of middle size and very well made but filthy with mud. She dragged it from the sedge to firmer ground. Kneeling, she opened it and saw that the chest was empty except for a little brackish water at the bottom and a large black beetle swimming desperately therein. She tipped the chest onto its side, liberating the beetle, then contemplated her find in more careful detail.

  She reasoned the chest was too artfully wrought and sound of construction to have been discarded wantonly. Nor did it seem to have been deliberately concealed where she had found it, half-buried in water and mud. This conclusion, she believed, was all the more reasonable for the chests having been found empty. Which left the question: How did the chest come to be where it was? And how long had it lain there?

  As to the second question, Joan found it impossible to say. The wood showed signs of deterioration and the brass was badly tarnished. Given its exposure to water, rain, and sun, it might have been half-submerged for a month, or perhaps a year. She thought it unlikely that it had been exposed to the elements for a longer duration. She was thus able to associate her discovery in time at least with the death of Sir John Challoner.

  The question of how the chest came to be where it was required even more desperate conjecture. She speculated, however, that the chest might have been discarded in the lake and drifted ashore like an abandoned vessel. Empty of heavy contents, the chest would have been buoyant. Once it had undoubtedly contained something of value. But what?

  She felt around the smooth sides of its interior, feeling

  undulations where the thinner sheets of rosewood had begun to warp. As she did so, she was suddenly seized by a melancholy of such profundity that further examination of the chest was impossible.

  Her vision blurred, and she seemed to sink into a moist, hideous darkness. She felt there was wa
ter all around her, above and below; and all along her nether parts she felt the grip of ruthless hands pulling her deeper into the watery abyss. She would have screamed but she had no breath. She tried to struggle but she found herself paralyzed, her body a rebel to her brain. More agonizing to her than the thought of imminent suffocation was the horror she felt of the water itself. For somehow she knew all that element was alive with slimy, eyeless creatures with soft, gaping mouths—sucking and writhing.

  She knew she was about to die, and yet she could not utter a prayer.

  Then the vision passed as suddenly as it had come, and she found herself as before, on dry ground. She got up to her knees, her heart pounding. Looking out over the torpid water, she felt a seizure of dread. In her mouth was the foul taste of the lake water. Her head swam with nausea. Fearing she would lose consciousness again, she got herself into a sitting position, her legs folded beneath her. She covered her eyes with her hands and she kneaded the insides of her cheeks to make spittle. She spat over and over in an effort to get rid of the horrible taste. She was sweating terribly too; the front of her gown, filthy from her fall, clung to her. She took a handkerchief from her waist and wiped her face and neck.

  Joan realized what had happened but not why. She knew the darkness that had enveloped her had been one of her glimmerings, triggered by her contact with the chest. She had had such experiences all of her life—strange, often prophetic seizures wherein not only the vision but the sensation of peril was opened to her. Sometimes her glimmerings would come upon her with such force she would remain in bed a half-day to recover. Not in her power to evoke, nor to deny, they came when they would. Ignorant of any scriptural warrant for such experiences, Joan still trusted they were not of the devil. Her husband, tolerant and optimistic in such matters, assured her they were from heaven, although he professed

  not to be so great a theologian that he could square them with the teaching of Christians. Matthew had learned to respect her glimmerings, to accept their reality—and their authority.