Old Saxon Blood

by Leonard Tourney

  “And what of the new steward and his wife?” Alice asked.

  “Una says they’re a nosy pair.”

  “How so?” asked Stafford, looking up suddenly.

  “In act more than word; she distrusts them both, and more particularly the woman. The two of them spent the greater part of the day surveying the castle.”

  “But have they said anything about Irish treasure?” Stafford asked.

  “Not according to Una. But then, if they did know about the treasure, they would not likely spread it about Thorncombe.”

  “What is the wife like?” Alice wanted to know.

  “I’ve not yet seen her,” said Wylkin. “But were she notable for brains and beauty, Una would have remarked upon it. The husband is a dull-brained fellow. Looks like a shopkeeper or corn factor. But I don’t trust him more for that.”

  “It seems your Una isn’t the only one then who works by instincts,” Alice said coyly, cocking her head at her husband’s servant.

  Wylkin turned again to his mistress, and with a graceful inclination of the head an experienced courtier might have emulated, said, “I admit to my instincts, madam. They have kept me whole against more than one varlet bent upon cutting my throat for some real or imagined offense to his honor. I say the man Stock cannot be trusted. And since man and wife are one flesh according to Holy Writ, I conclude that Mistress Stock cannot be trusted either. To be what they seem, that is.”

  “I’m in thorough agreement,” Stafford said abruptly, displeased by the flirtatious exchange and thinking it was high time he interrupted it. “Stock seems to be a good deal more than he appears. Wylkin is right to be careful. Will Una continue to watch Conroy?”

  “She will, sir.”

  “Very good. When do you meet again?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Good. Take care, Wylkin. Be wary of the Irishman. He goes armed.”

  <>

  ies, sir.

  “And watch the Irishwoman as well,” Alice teased. “For the same reason.”

  “I thought you couldn’t abide Wylkin,” Stafford remarked to his wife after his servant had gone.

  “I can’t,” she said. “He’s so full of himself. A little Machiavel in his sable suit. I wonder he can afford it. What is it you pay him?”

  He told her outright, while she regarded him with that skeptical expression she had—the right eye lifted in mock surprise, the round soft chin jutting forward.

  “A princely sum for so princely a knave, but his doublet cost at least that. So whence comes the residue?”

  He said, “I don’t know where he gets the ‘residue,’ as you call it, but you did seem overly familiar with him. Do you take me for a fool? Can I not read the look of lechery in your face?”

  She eyed him coldly and turned her little body toward his. “Overly familiar with Wylkin? Do you jest, husband? With Wylkin? My God, man, Wylkin is as ugly as a crow—as thin as a rail. He could wrap his body around a woman thrice before she knew who had her.”

  “Do you speak from experience, dearest?” Stafford replied with reckless sarcasm.

  The exchange had violated the little Eden their mutual greed had recently created. P"ach regarded the other across an abyss of silence. The German clock ticked; the faggots afire cracked and popped. Meanwhile Stafford withered under his wife’s icy glare. He pulled at his beard and looked at her bleakly. Neither husband nor wife could believe what sudden anger had forced him to speak. But both understood the words could not be easily withdrawn. Like arrows shot skyward, they were now beyond the control of the archer.

  “What did you say?” Alice said, as though there had been no stretch of silence and the accusation had just been minted.

  He repeated the accusation—not because he meant it now but because she had asked him to and he wanted to withdraw it. But before he could find the words to make amends, Alice was upon him. She sprang from her chair and began beating his head and shoulders with her little fists, great tears of rage in her eyes and terrible curses and countercharges on her lips.

  The conflict brought at least three of their servants from other regions of the house scrambling to see who was murdering whom.

  “Get out, get out, you wretches! All of you, be gone!” Stafford bellowed, glaring at the intruders at the same time he was trying to fend off his wife’s assault.

  The startled servants shut the door again, suppressing their laughter. They had witnessed such scenes between their master and his wife many times and always found them more diverting than a bearbaiting or public execution.

  Later that same evening, Thomas Stafford and his little wife declared a truce. Stafford apologized humbly for his slanderous accusation, and they both laughed at how silly it was for him to suppose that there could ever be anything between Alice and her husband’s manservant. Alice in turn apologized for the bruises she had inflicted in defense of her honor. “The honor you assailed, who should have defended it to the death,” she pointed out, thereby firing the last salvo in their war of words.

  Stafford sighed heavily and leaned toward his wife. They sealed their truce with a good deal of wine and more talk of Challoner’s treasure. The candles burned low and were replaced with fresh ones. A servant brought more wine, and departed the master’s chamber marveling that such a tumultuous evening should have brought the master and his wife to this haven of marital concord.

  “Will you come to bed, then, Alice my chuck?” Stafford said in a wheedling voice he used when they were on good terms.

  Alice Stafford considered her husband’s proposition. She had kept up with her husband in his drinking and, like him, felt herself to be a quite different person—a cleverer, more attractive one. Ordinarily they slept in different rooms. He beseeched her a second time. She looked at her husband. His bedraggled, bleary-eyed, hirsute appearance did not arouse her passion, but she supposed, even as light-headed as she was, that a simulated surrender would not be impolitic.

  Stafford had the pleasure of watching his wife undress, which she did very slowly and with an undulating motion of her plump hips, as though she were dancing to the accompaniment of a lute. Pink and sensuous in the candlelight, she seemed a different woman. Th^ candlelight flattered her bare, round shoulders and heavy breasts and thighs and quickened a response in his groin that had long slept. Naked as a babe but with a grin of triumph on her face, her golden hair unleashed from its restraints and her arms open as though to welcome his own, Alice Stafford moved with artful deliberation toward her husbands bed.

  But she was not thinking of her husband in all these preparations. Rather, she thought of the princely villain Jack Wylkin and of what it must be like to feel that lanky, knotty body wound around her own. And even at the moment of her husband’s most passionate fumblings, she had uppermost in her mind a stinging envy of the Irishwoman with whom Jack Wylkin rutted in his master’s service.

  Matthew went down to breakfast by himself next morning, leaving Joan to lie abed awhile and the Irish maids to commence their labors without a housekeepers supervision, which they managed to do much more successfully than Moll had predicted. As he descended the stairs, he could hear voices and laughter coming from the kitchen. Among the voices, speaking in Irish, was Conroys booming tenor.

  Matthew entered and saw Conroy holding forth to Una and two grocers’ boys who had brought provisions from the village and had lingered in the kitchen for a free breakfast of cheese and eggs. The boys, who spoke no Irish, were evidently by their expression enjoying Conroy’s story as much as Una, but when they saw Matthew enter, the pleasantries ceased, the boys hurried on their way, and Una began automatically to prepare a breakfast for Matthew.

  Conroy, dressed as was his custom with his sword at his side and in his canvas jerkin with the buttons, bid Matthew good day and asked about Joan’s welfare as though he and she had never wrangled about his place in the castle.

  “Oh, my wife does very well,” Matthew replied, regarding Conroy carefully. The man did n
ot seem the worse for wear from his previous night’s activities. He asked Conroy how he liked his new accommodations.

  "Oh, the stable, you mean." Conroy replied with a casual gesture of dismissal. "Well now, its hardly a palace, but then it will do. I hold no grudges, Master Stock. And would be glad to have you and your good wife as friends.’’

  Conroy offered to shake Matthew’s hand, an amiable gesture Matthew did not decline. Warning himself not to be seduced by the Irishman’s charm, Matthew said, "Consider us friends.”

  "Not that I spend much time there,” Conroy said, picking up the thread of the conversation as it regarded his new quarters.

  "You’re gone much of nights, then?” Matthew asked, commencing to eat and trying to frame the question so that it did not sound accusatory.

  But Conroy showed no reluctance to answer. He seemed instead delighted to reply in the affirmative. "A quick drink and an easy woman are a soldier’s solace. I readily confess few nights will see me in bed before cockcrow.”

  "You must have a hardy constitution to maintain such a rigorous life,” Matthew said.

  "Oh, for a fact, sir,” said Conroy. "Why, just last night I spent the better part of six hours drinking in the Black Duck. And a fine swollen noggin I have this morning for my effort.”

  "Is that so,” replied Matthew, trying to sound sympathetic in the face of this obvious falsehood. Conroy looked anything but under the weather. "Well,” he said. "That explains why you made no answer to my call when I was in the stable last night.”

  Conroy’s expression changed at this. His eyes became serious and his lips formed a tight little smile. "You were in the stable last night? And what hour would that have been?”

  "Oh, quite late. After the moon was up. Eleven or twelve of the clock at the very least.”

  "A very dangerous hour to be abroad,” said Conroy nervously. "What did you want of me?”

  "Oh, nothing but a good stout rope.”

  Conroy made a face to suggest he hadn’t heard Matthew’s answer.

  "A rope,” Matthew repeated, slipping into the falsehood with the ease of a practiced liar. "My good wife made me promise to fetch it for her earlier in the day and I forgot. She wanted it to hang

  clothes upon. But she remembered my promise, as women will. When I begged her love, she recalled it, asked me if I had complied. No, said I. Sc she sent me to do her bidding, maugre the hour and the darkness, telling me I should have no satisfaction from her body until she should have joy of my obedience. Down came I to the stable half-naked, with only the moon as a lamp, to do what I should have done earlier. But I found no rope. I called you out, thinking you might know where one was.”

  Conroy grinned broadly. The story seemed to put him at ease. “I was in town when you came to find me,” he said. “With a good half-dozen stoups of the innkeepers ale to my credit and an Irish song in my heart. A local wench, too, on my lap—the fairest skin and most amiable disposition this side of heaven. But if its rope you want, well, there are ropes aplenty. In the saddlery.”

  Conroy explained where the saddlery was, while Matthew pretended that he didn’t know. He had not liked lying about the rope—worse yet, the implication that he was ruled by his wife. But the Irishman seemed to accept the story and perhaps, too, think less of Matthew for having told it. Which was all to Matthews purpose. As long as the Irishman believed Matthew to be a fool, Matthew might fool the Irishman at will.

  Conroy said he had to go off about some errand. Matthew said good-bye and finished his breakfast. Afterward he went to the stable, arriving just in time to see Conroy riding off in the direction of town. He greeted Edward, who was busy filling the horse trough with water and explained what he sought.

  “There’s rope in the saddlery,” Edward said, without asking its use.

  Matthew went into the saddlery and found a length of rope that seemed about right. The story of the rope had been pure invention—a device for drawing Conroy out and learning how the Irishman would explain his absence the night before. Conroy’s lie confirmed all of Matthew’s suspicions about the young soldier’s nocturnal voyage and its ulterior purpose.

  Matthew had come to the stable to acquire the rope largely to make his story good. But while he had walked across the greensward he’d glanced down the sloping lawn to the lakeside and beyond to the island and a new idea came to his mind. It was a more practical

  use for the rope. And it had nothing whatsoever to do with hanging out clothes.

  "At least we know he wasn’t trying to drown himself,” Joan said when later in the morning Matthew told her about his conversation with Conroy and the lie the Irishman had told. They were sitting in the parlor of the new house, whispering even though Matthew had taken the precaution of seeing that none of the maids or Una were listening at the door.

  "No, his story about going into town last night proves I am right. It was he. Looking for something that he wants to keep to himself when he finds it.”

  Then Joan announced she had some news of her own. A letter had arrived from London while Matthew was in the stable. It was from Frances Challoner and announced her imminent arrival at Thorncombe. The wedding day had been advanced. There was no explanation why.

  "What’s on her mind?” Matthew asked.

  "She’s to be married in a week,” Joan replied. "Here, read for yourself.”

  Joan held out the letter to Matthew, who took it and began to read. The small, cramped penmanship of the Challoner heiress was not easy to decipher, and Joan, who had had greater opportunity to peruse the letter, gave Matthew some help with the more difficult words.

  "It says the husband’s name is Master Thomas Cooke.”

  "A gentleman, doubtless,” Joan said.

  "I am sure of it.”

  "She says they plan to live at Thorncombe.”

  "Yes, strange, isn’t it?” Joan said. "I can’t think of a less savory place for a honeymoon. Especially in light of her uncle’s murder. But perhaps her suspicions have waned since we left. Love may be all she thinks of these days.”

  Matthew thought of Frances Challoner—the willowy court beauty that someone had said resembled the Queen when young. Yes, Dan Cupid might have changed her desire for vengeance to desire of a more pleasant sort. Joan was right. Love was known for such miracles. The question was: Where did that leave their

  investigation of the murder? “Did she say anything about her uncles death?”

  “Read on. Its all there,” Joan said.

  Matthew read on. “She prays our inquiries have good success and says she hopes to hear Rom us soon.”

  “By the way,” Joan said. “Have you written again tc Sir RoberT”

  Matthew shook his head. “I’ve decided to wait. I have nothing to report as of now—nothing of which we’re sure. And yet I feel we may be or to something. This business of Conroy and the island.”

  Joan remmded him of the chest she’d found. That, too, seemed a part of the conundrum.

  “I have a plan,” he said.

  She leaned forward, her eyes full of curiosity.

  “It’s n^t without its risks.”

  Her curiosity ( hanged to concern. “Well, speak, I pray you. Don’t keep me hanging. What is this risky thing vou plan?’

  “I reason thus,” Matthew said. “If Conroy had fou"d what he wanted on the island, he would be gene, for I can hardly imagine why else he would remain. I think therefore he’ll be rowing back to it. Probably tonight. The full moon will be his guide.”

  “And so what is it you intend, husband?”

  He turned his eyes from her. He knew she would not be pleased with what wis in his mind, tut the truth was he was getting desperate. Their month at Thornccmbe was half spent. Now, Trances Challoner was on her wav to Thorncombe. Their task would not become easier, and perhaps it would become impossible. It was not merely failure he feared, but disgrace: humiliation for him; grave embarrassment for Sir Robert, who had sung his praises before the Queen.

  She re
peated: “What is it you intend, Matthew? Tell me!”

  Matthew strolled down toward the lake across the smooth grass with the ease of a man without a worry in the world. It was past dinner and he had fed himself well. But he had chosen this moment carefully. He knew Conroy was still in Buxton. Getting his drinking cut m the way early to leave his night free for more athletic endeavors, or so Matthew hoped. Edward had gone home it noon to care for his father and would not be back to Thorncombe until three or four o’clock. Joan had the supervision of the entire female staff in cleaning and moving furniture into the previously unused sleeping chambers. And so Matthew could trust that his movements would be unobserved.

  He slipped into the woods, and when he was safely enveloped there, he drew the length of rope from his pocket.

  At dusk, Matthew looked out over the broad sheet of Challoner s lake. As a boy he had waded in his own Chelmer, a languorous winding stream, and the cool running water had given him pleasure. But deeper, more turbulent water made him uneasy. He had never learned to swim, and even his efforts to float only proved his capacity to sink like a stone. An involuntary plunge into the Thames a year or so earlier during an adventure in London had nearly been fatal. The experience still haunted him.

  He had given thought to Joans vision, too. But duty was a demanding mistress, and curiosity even more tyrannical. There had only been one way to find out what Conroy was doing on the island, and that was to see for himself. Since Sir John’s shallop was unavailable, a raft seemed Matthew’s only means of transport.

  Earlier he had found several good round limbs shorn from their trunks, and with the rope he had brought from the saddlery he bound them together. He dragged the raft over to the water’s edge and then sat down and waited for night. He knew Joan would keep the women of the castle well occupied, despite her vociferous reservations regarding his purpose, once she had got it out of him. Between the time he completed the raft and dusk he had slept, for he was very weary from the night before and was uncertain as to the rigors before him.