Old Saxon Blood

by Leonard Tourney

  Now it was clear to Joan that she had just had a vision of death. Was it a premonition of a death to come, or a confirmation of murder done?

  For the next hour or more, Joan sat motionless. She could not bring herself to look at the chest she had found, much less touch it again.

  It was dusk before Joan’s strength returned and she began to consider the urgency of returning to the castle. She would have no difficulty explaining the condition of her gown, if explanations were required, for the simple truth would serve—that she had gone abroad to take the air, stumbled, fallen, injured herself and sullied the gown. Of her discovery of the chest and the attendant vision she resolved to say nothing, except to Matthew.

  She managed to stand. Her legs were numb from the awkward position in which she had been sitting at such length. She moved along the path carefully and entered the wood, picking up her stride now that the lake was behind her, her thoughts full of Matthew and what he might say of her experiences.

  A sudden awareness that she was not alone amid the gloomy trees brought her to a halt. Ahead she saw a figure moving across her path. The familiar white cap and apron told her it was one of the castles female servants.

  Joan could not imagine what would bring a servant into the woods at such an hour and became at once suspicious. She decided to follow.

  She stayed far enough behind to keep her own pursuit a secret. The maid moved swiftly, purposefully, along the path and Joan’s curiosity grew stronger; she had forgotten about her vision now, caught up in a more soluble mystery.

  Then ahead, she saw another figure come out from behind a tree and she quickly concealed herself.

  She realized now it was a lovers’ tryst she witnessed, for there was a man and a woman meeting secretly, a quick embrace, an exchange of words she could not hear. More curious than ever, Joan

  crept closer, and when she was within twenty feet and dared not venture nearer, she stopped and listened.

  The man spoke English and so did the woman, although the womans English was imprinted with a strong Irish accent. As yet, Joan could not see the womans face, but she could see the man. He was tall, in his late thirties or older perhaps, with a sinewy body, hawklike face, and cruel, sensual mouth. Then the woman turned and Joan saw that it was Una.

  It was not what a man and maid might do in solitude that caused this reaction in Joan, but Una’s deception. Una had spoken English—and been understood! But all along she had made Joan think otherwise. Joan felt an anger within her, felt betrayed— betrayed as she had felt when, coming into the gallery earlier that day, she had found Conroy and Una conversing conspiratorily in their native language. Joan listened. Yes, it was English for a fact, for from time to time a familiar word or phrase would carry across the middle distance between them and her.

  She watched, fascinated but puzzled by the deception she had uncovered. The man swept the cap from Una’s head and the long, dark hair of the Irishwoman tumbled down her back. With spreading smile along the cruel mouth, he slipped her bodice from her upper body with a deftness of one removing a glove and began to caress her, moving his hands swiftly and lightly over her breasts. Then they both lay down and Joan could only hear the womans laughter and then the man’s, more whispers, and all was quiet for about a quarter of an hour.

  Joan was deeply embarrassed and ashamed of her role as witness to these amorous proceedings. She did not feel comfortable as a spy, despite her royal license, and never so uncomfortable as now, hidden and gaping at another woman’s pleasure like a dogfaced wench who never hopes to enjoy the same herself. She would have slunk off and left the lovers to their pleasures had she not been so outraged by Una’s pretense—and as a consequence so convinced that what she was observing was not merely a backstairs alliance but a conspiracy that it was her duty to fathom.

  Was it not reasonable to assume that this same conspiracy involved, in some sinister way, the deaths of Sir John and Aileen Mogaill?

  Listening, Joan heard the voices come again, muted and intimate in the dusk. The two stood; Una dressed, the man barechested. Joan heard their farewells, saw them embrace again and kiss. Then Joan realized Una's departure would bring her close to where Joan was concealed and she buried herself even deeper in the bush that had been her hiding place.

  She heard the steps come very near and a crackle of dried leaves underfoot and a twig broken in passage. Una seemed to stop for a moment before continuing. Joan held her breath and waited, fearful of discovery. After a few moments, to her relief, she heard Una singing at a greater distance.

  It was an Irish song Una sung, low and plaintive and very beautiful in the gathering gloom. Joan waited until she could no longer hear the strains, then she looked up and saw that Unas lover had disappeared too.

  Jack Wylkin thought Una was a little long in the tooth for one of his inches. She must have been very near his own age by his reckoning, and he had been baptized a Christian soul thirty-six years ago that very month. He knew this for a fact because he had seen the register wherein the event was recorded, and the clerk had pointed out the name; thus Wylkin knew his own age and surmised Una’s and found her wanting in that respect. Also, she was an unmarried female, whereas he much preferred the conquest of married women, so as to experience the gratification of cuckolding the husbands.

  On the other hand, he reflected generously, Unas broad beam and bountiful bosoms pleased him, not being the sort of man averse to a little extra flesh about the bone. Her skin was satin-smooth and white, her eye wanton as he might wish. She was diffident, peevish, and her Irish brogue irritated him, but the truth was he enjoyed her body, her unrestrained passion, her moans of pleasure, and certain tricks of lovemaking that a Parisian courtesan might have envied. In sum, he might have been sneaking over to Thorncombe to enjoy her even if she had not provided him with information by which he aimed to make himself very rich.

  In return for this information and subsequent reports of the goings-on at the castle, Wylkin had promised to marry Una. It had

  been an easy promise to make. The wedded state had no more meaning for him than a dogs bark or a clap of thunder. That she believed in his promises he approved; and he approved as well that they slipped so easily and readily from his lips. Wylkin was born without a conscience, as some men are born without arms and legs. Moreover, he was a confirmed disciple of Machiavelli, whose doctrine he knew by common report, Wylkin himself being unable to read or write.

  Una did not know where Sir Johns treasure was concealed, only that it was concealed, and that it was Catholic wealth appropriated in the Queens name, but neither delivered to its royal owner nor reported to her.

  “Is it in the house, do you think?" Wylkin had asked Una for the hundredth time.

  But as often as he asked, she shook her head doubtfully. Had she not looked, at every opportunity, in those rooms of Thorn-combe to which she had access? Had she not even pried behind the wainscoting in the masters chamber? Had she not made a friend of Conroy—to make sure he knew no more than she? She had told him nothing of treasure; he had mentioned nothing to her. But she believed he knew, and had told Wylkin what she suspected.

  “Its buried, then?" he prompted her.

  “Perhapr, buried."

  “A barrowful of rich treasure." The thought pleasing him, he squeezed her affectionately and promised her a rich jewel when the treasure was his.

  “Then you will marry me," she said.

  “Then I will marry you," he replied.

  More than once he thought of forcing an answer out of her, for he was skillful in that art, but he liked her too much for that. And he was prettv convinced that her ignorance of the booty’s whereabouts was unfeigned.

  What Una did know and had conveyed to Wylkin consisted of gossip, conjecture, and just enough personal observation to make the story credible to one whose greed disposed him to believe. Ironically, her story had slipped out by a chance remark of his. During one of their early meetings he had commented idly that it was a poor
house that must subsist on a soldiers pay, referring to

  what he supposed was Sir John s modest income as a commander. Whereupon Una had said, “But surely, Sir John is a very rich gentleman indeed/’

  She thought, in her simplicity, that everyone knew. How Sir John Challoner had burned churches and houses of the Catholic gentry, sparing only those willing to ransom their lives and property with hard cash, jewelry, or plate. How he had accumulated a small fortune by these methods and brought it home to Thorncombe, where it supposedly had been stuffed in some secret place. In Ireland, Una had been a servant in a house spared only by a bribe of several hundred pounds and thus had firsthand knowledge.

  But everyone had not known, and as Wylkin had explored her story he realized she knew what Sir John Challoner had been at great pains to keep concealed. And for good reason. The Queen had little patience with officers who misused their authority for private gain.

  It had been fifteen years since Sir John had brought Una from Ireland to serve in his house. Her people in Ireland all dead, she had been alone and desperate, and although she had been warned by a priest to beware the charity of the English, and accused by the same priest of betraying her own people and, yes, the Holy Faith as well, she’d gone with Sir John. She felt no loyalty to her native ground, nor to the Church. She believed a religion that would let her suffer could hardly demand her allegiance.

  And so she’d come to Thorncombe, had progressed in time from scullion to cook, and had lasted out a dozen of her countrywomen of less adaptability also brought to the castle by Sir John. She wanted now the dignity of marriage, having indulged in any number of random couplings since the age of twelve. And, of course, she wanted a share of the treasure.

  All of this was Una’s story, as Wylkin understood it.

  Dutifully, he had passed the same along to his employer, for although he would have liked to discover the treasure himself and keep it all, he realized that a treasure of that magnitude would have to be judiciously spent. For nothing was more likely to get a poor man hanged than a sudden and unaccountable display of wealth. And thus his absolute need for Stafford. Stafford already had wealth

  and power, and Wylkin could not imagine advancement, no matter how bountifully financed, save on the skirts of some great man.

  Wylkin was content therefore to be a hireling. To work for a generous percentage of the gross, even though he knew that without the intelligence he had provided Stafford, the gentleman would have remained as ignorant as a babe of his neighbors booty, which, if it was all Una claimed, would keep Wylkin in good wine and fine linen forever.

  Now Wylkin’s hard, calculating grin remained frozen as he watched the Irishwoman disappear among the trees. He put on his shirt and his jerkin and his hat and started walking to the place where he had left his horse. He was still grinning, despite the dark, for he had an overpowering feeling of being very close to what he sought.

  Una made haste to return to the castle but was not so preoccupied with the fresh memory of her lovers embrace that she did not catch the movement at the corner of her eye, and, pausing briefly, saw the patch of cloth she recognized as the new housekeeper’s. Reasoning that where the cloth was the gown was, and where the gown, the wearer thereof, she knew she was being spied upon. Her heart raced; she expected the Stock woman to rise from her place of concealment and denounce both her and Wylkin. For surely Joan Stock had seen. And heard?

  That was another question. One with even more dangerous implications. To be caught playing the harlot under the castle walls was one thing; to be discovered as a betrayer of the house with the servant of Thorncombe’s greatest enemy was quite another. But when Una heard no shrill denunciation of either sin, saw no motion, she quickly concluded that for some reason the new housekeeper did not wish herself to be seen.

  Puzzled, Una resumed her way, trying to act as though she were as unaware of having been observed. She began to sing to give color to her deception, and she kept singing until she was clear of the woods and halfway to the kitchen porch.

  She had agreed to meet Wylkin again. She resolved to ask him then what he supposed the Englishwoman’s spying meant.

  It was fully dark by the time Joan returned to the castle. With fear for her safety mitigated only by her eagerness to tell Matthew of her discoveries, she dashed across the cobbled courtyard and burst into the kitchen, where she found Matthew and Edward at table and Una nowhere to be seen. Matthew thanked God that she had returned and was in the middle of questioning her as to where she had been and why, when Joan, eager not to be too direct before Edward, asked the hostler if he had a sturdy ax he might put to good use if she bade him.

  "A door to be breached?” Edward asked good-humoredly when Joan had made her needs more explicit. "Does not Moll have the key?”

  Joan explained that it was Moll herself who had suggested this method of entry.

  Edward scratched his head and said he would do anything within his power to please and, as soon as his back was turned, Joan by sign and whisper made Matthew understand that she had much more to tell if he would be patient until they were alone, for in the meantime Una had returned and was busying herself as though nothing had happened that concerned her.

  Then, when Edward returned with his ax, the three set out for the White Keep.

  ‘There’s a thing—someone—behind the door, but no mouse stirring nor another cat,” she explained as they climbed the stairs.

  When they reached the chamber, they found the door ajar. All stood there looking at it, wondering what that meant. Matthew stepped forward and nudged the door with his knee. He took Edward’s lantern and held it forward to illuminate the interior.

  Confused and mortified, Joan said behind him, “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

  “There’s no one here now,” Matthew said. A few furnishings—a small bed with canopy, very dusty even in the candlelight. A delight of spiders. A chest, which proved empty upon inspection, several battered chairs with curved backs, cold stone floors. Walls bare of adornment.

  “There was someone here,” Joan insisted. “I heard a stirring within. So did Una.”

  The thought of the Irishwoman brought back the recent discovery of her treachery and she twinged at the image, felt a flush of embarrassment. How the woman had made a fool of them both! She was eager to tell Matthew but could say nothing with Edward standing there, looking very useless and foolish himself, holding the great ax.

  “And you’re sure the room was locked before?” Matthew asked, turning to her.

  “Upon the Holy Scriptures, I swear it,” she said.

  “I believe you without the oath,” Matthew said reassuringly. “Yet there’s no sign of occupancy—not in twenty years.”

  Nor would there be, Joan thought in dismay. At least Matthew believed her. That was something.

  In their new quarters, deemed as suitable by Matthew as by Joan, she shut the door firmly behind her and said, “I have much to say, husband, but could not speak before.”

  “I have much to tell you, too, but forebore speaking for the same reason.”

  Joan quickly recounted her tour of the castle, her confrontation with Conroy, and her suspicion that he was up to no good. Not content to give over her opinion that someone had been concealed

  in the White Keep earlier that day, she ventured to say that it was Conroy. “A very sneaky sort,” she said.

  “But why should he have been lurking within?” Matthew asked.

  “God knows,” she said. “Pranks, perhaps. That would hardly be above him. He’s full of resentment because I ordered him from the house to the stables. Perhaps he wanted to give two silly women a fright, although he seems to be friends with Una and she was as unnerved as I, if not more so.”

  “He may be trying to scare us off,” Matthew suggested. “Making capital of the old stories about the Black Keep. Perhaps hes heard about Aileen Mogaill—perhaps he killed her himself. Perhaps she found him prowling and he took her head for the cause.”
/>   “Oh, a goodly cause for homicide,” Joan said.

  But Joan left behind the Irishman’s behavior to proceed to greater news, not in the order in which the event occurred but in order of its importance in her mind. She told him what she had seen in the woods.

  Matthew had no trouble identifying Una’s hawk-faced lover as Stafford’s manservant, Wylkin. “There can be no two faces so alike.” But when he asked her what was said she could give him no satisfaction beyond the assurance it was English spoken rather than some other tongue. Of that she was sure.

  “So Una understands English after all,” Matthew said, shaking his head in wonderment. “That’s a new fact to be reckoned with.”

  “She made fools of us,” Joan said bitterly. “Moll, too, for surely the horrid woman knew all along. It was she who told us Una could not speak.”

  “What must we have uttered in her presence, then!” Matthew said, shaking his head, pinching his chin with thumb and forefinger.

  But she had already considered that. She was positive they had not spoken of their secret mission except in privacy, as now. Perhaps the cook’s deception had failed of its intent then. “At least we’ve been warned. Henceforth forearmed.”

  “Against Una and Moll,” said Matthew. “But did Wylkin see you in the woods? There’s the danger.”

  “I was very careful." Joan said, hurt a little at the suggestion she should be so maladroit a spy. “A naked savage stealing on his prey could not have been more circumspect. I crouched down low in the ferns and thorns. On my haunches. Wylkin saw nothing, and Una passed by unawares and singing upon her return to the house. I waited then until I was sure both were gone completely."

  'Thank God," Matthew said. "Had Wylkin seen you crouched there, who knows what he would have done. Edward speaks very ill of him."

  Then she told him about her visit to the lake. She had saved this for last, for she regarded both her glimmering and the chest that had provoked it the first of their clues to Sir Johns drowning.