Death in the Castle

by Pearl S. Buck

  They obeyed again and alone he climbed slowly but skillfully the shallow steps. The square opening at the top was, he surmised, a trapdoor. He remembered such a door in the old stables of his childhood home in Connecticut. Then he had climbed through tunnels of hay. Now he climbed through rock, trying not to think, determined not to be afraid. The silence was unearthly, not a voice, not a sound. Where was Sir Richard?

  Endlessly he climbed, trying to make no noise. Once on the edge of a step his hand slipped and he was all but catapulted to the bottom of the shaft, but he caught himself on the step above. Hand over hand, one foot after the other, he felt his way to the opening and pulled himself through the trapdoor and into the room. It was ablaze with light from a lamp set on a carved oak table. He tried to shut the trapdoor, but it would not fold back on its ancient hinges.

  Someone was sitting at the table in a great oaken chair, a strange figure wrapped in an old robe of purple velvet, and wearing a gold crown—no, a crown of gold tinsel. Sir Richard! It could not be and yet he knew instantly that it was. He was mumbling over a book, an enormous book, and he was holding something in his right hand, resting one end on the floor. A scepter? It looked the real thing. Heavy with gold and glittering with encrusted jewels! There was this much treasure then. Sir Richard had found it. Why in heaven’s name was he hiding it here? What was the mystery?

  John stood alone by the trapdoor. Should he speak? He must speak—

  “Sir Richard,” he said gently.

  Sir Richard lifted his head as though to listen, and without answer let it fall again as though be had not heard. Then John saw what lay beside the door, the crumpled body of Wells! Beside it was a sword, a long, thin blade, and, he saw to his horror, it was still shining wet with blood.

  He stood in shock, staring at the sight. Sir Richard was mumbling again, his head sunken on his breast. What could be done? John wondered. Certainly he must not rouse him until the door was opened. He remained motionless, endeavoring to see whether the bolt of the door was still shot into the hasp. Bolt? There were three bolts! All bolts were shot, the door still barred. He must creep to it without a sound and draw the bolts back one after the other, and so throw the door open. But the sword—he must take that, for safety, and keep it near him.

  Holding his breath, his eyes upon Sir Richard, he reached the door and put out his hand across the dead body. Poor Wells! He looked away from the dead face set in a grimace of fear, the open eyes. … The first bolt drew easily without a sound. The second bolt made a slight screech. The mumbling stopped. He stood motionless for an instant and then turned to look behind him. Sir Richard had not moved. He still sat with his head bent above the book, seeing nothing and yet intent on the open page.

  But he was silent! Were his eyes closed? It might be that he had fallen into a doze. He waited, watching—perhaps Sir Richard was asleep, the light sleep of the aged. He must make haste. He tried to draw the third bolt back. It was stiff and would not yield easily. He had to use both hands and all his strength. The bolt was not half drawn when he felt something at his back, something sharp and pressing. He glanced backward toward his right. The sword was gone from the floor. He knew instantly whose hand held it.

  “Sir Richard,” he said distinctly. “I am here only to help you.”

  At this the sword pressed more deeply, forcing him to move toward the left, and yet he could not escape it. However he moved, Sir Richard held the sword into his back, cutting through his clothes, he could now feel, and pricking his skin.

  “I wanted this meeting,” Sir Richard muttered through his clenched teeth. “I sought it! This settles everything between us after all these years, now you are in my power. After all these years—pursuing me—”

  “Sir Richard, recall yourself,” John urged. He was being pushed step by step toward the trapdoor, the sword in his back.

  “Forcing me to hide my son to save his life—in vain—in vain! Your bombs killed him.”

  Son? What son? Sir Richard had no son. A dream of a son never born!

  He felt a stab of pain and a warm trickle down his back.

  “Sir Richard! I am your friend,” he cried desperately. “You can’t hate a friend—come now!”

  “I do not deign to hate you,” Sir Richard retorted. “And call me by my proper name! What I do is my duty as a king. I could have had you poisoned while you sat at my table. But that would have burdened others. This task I must perform alone. To your knees, to your knees—”

  For John had twisted himself suddenly up and now the two faced each other. … Good God, the absurdity of this, that he should be at the mercy of a mad old Englishman! Yet here he was, pinned between the point of a sword and a trapdoor. He had been a good fencer at Harvard. Once in his freshman year he had caught a sword in his hand, and he knew how fierce a weapon a sword was.

  “To your knees, I tell you!” Sir Richard was shouting. “I’ll teach you how to show yourself before a king!”

  “Now, please …” John began. He tried to laugh but laughter died in his throat. Those eyes, glaring at him with maniacal fury, impossible … to …

  “Down on your knees!” Six Richard ground the words between his teeth.

  He slipped to his knees to escape the sword. “Sir Richard—listen to me! All right—king, whatever you are—Lady Mary was right—there is a treasure—it’s on the table yonder—your royal scepter—a king’s ransom—you’ll keep your castle. Put down your sword. You don’t need it, I tell you. I’ll call Lady Mary and tell her you are waiting for her with the treasure—the treasure, man!”

  Sir Richard was staring at him, but the fury was fading. He looked puzzled. His right hand dropped, he went to the table uncertainly and putting down the sword, he took up the scepter.

  John stood upright again and edged his way toward the table and the sword, still talking.

  “Webster will know how to dispose of the scepter—it’s a fortune in itself.”

  He reached for the sword. Ah, thank God, he was in control now. He could open the door and get help; but he had no sooner grasped the sword than he saw Sir Richard lift the heavy scepter high in both hands and to his amazement prepare to bring it down on his head, as though it were a mace. He stepped back and thrust the sword in fencing position to fend him off, feinting this way and that, diverting each blow that Sir Richard dealt, but by so narrow a margin that he knew he could not relent for the fraction of a second. He saved himself once by leaping aside as the scepter glittered above his head. It fell then on a corner of the oaken table and split it off.

  And while the mad duel went on, he trying not to wound Sir Richard but only to save his own life, he was aware, though dimly, of a constant muttering in his ears, a gasping groaning stream of broken talk pouring from Sir Richard’s foaming mouth.

  “His body ashes—my son, my son! Wells knew. Where’s Wells? Wells—Wells—Wells—”

  Sir Richard’s voice rose to, a shriek and he lifted the scepter again, high over his head, and staggered forward.

  Out of the welter of words John heard the scream and dared not pause. The scepter was above his head. He feinted and darted right and left, escaping from corner to corner. Sir Richard pursued him erratically, managing somehow to pin him at one side or the other, using the scepter like a club. Once it skinned his cheek, once it struck his left arm, now it fell on his shoulder. Ah, but the sword was strong, a gem of a sword, as he could tell, and his hand had not lost its cunning. Sir Richard played for strength and he for skill, he in silence trying not to wound his opponent, and Sir Richard gasping and muttering beneath the scepter’s weight. Scepter and sword locked. They were face to face and Sir Richard hissed in his face.

  “You want my scepter. I know you. I know your sort. Smooth tongue … black heart … traitors, all of you. I’ll brain you. That sword’s mine… my father’s sword… put it down … I’ll deal with you as I did with Dunsten. I trusted him … these years … raised him from a commoner … the only one who had my confidence. I �
� I … gave him my son … my only son … told him my secret. How else could he have got a wife like her? He let her die in childbirth. Killed her, likely. And then let them kill my son. There’s only a girl left… no heir … a girl …”

  He heard these groans, these mutterings, his ears alert and his mind whirling with what they meant. This mystery, this hidden secret story. And the man gone mad with fear at the thought of losing all he had. Oh, who was Kate? Would he ever know, now that Wells was dead?

  “Fool,” Sir Richard was saying between clenched teeth, “I’ve been the fool—thinking myself safe because I had the castle … all these wild peoples rising everywhere in the world … British lion—the castle’s besieged … lost. They’re coming … I see them … I see them … I see them … I give my life …”

  He lifted the scepter high above his head again, his arms trembling under its weight, and charged at John, forcing him back, back toward the trapdoor.

  “Down—down!” he bellowed. “Down where traitors belong!”

  “Take care—for yourself!” John cried.

  His feet caught on the edge of the trapdoor. He thrust the sword upward to ward off the descending weapon. The scepter fell on the sword, the blade broke at the hilt. He was flung to one side by the impact. He rolled on the floor, ducking like a football player. Sir Richard, unable to save himself, was hurled head first into the trapdoor.

  John Blayne crawled to the door, dazed, his bead aching from the blow, the broken sword still in his right hand. The body of Wells lay there, unmoved by all the strife. With his left hand John put the limbs gently aside so that he could open the door. Still clutching the broken sword, scarcely knowing that he did so, he worked the last bolt from its hasp and opened the door.

  They were waiting outside and they stared at him.

  Kate cried out at sight of him. “You’re bleeding!”

  She snatched the little ruffled apron from about her waist and ran to him and began wiping his face, talking all the while. “We heard the most dreadful—oh, John—such a bruise! How did it happen? And you with the sword broken—”

  “Where is Sir Richard?”

  It was Lady Mary, standing in the doorway, her eyes searching the room. She pushed her way in and saw the body on the floor.

  “Oh Richard,” she whispered. “Oh no—How could you, how could you …”

  Now she saw the scepter. She went to it, took it up and dropped it as though it burned her hands. For there before her the hole gaped and he was nowhere … nowhere …

  She turned, her eyes searching, comprehending, until they rested on John. She stood looking at him, trying to speak. When her voice came it was a whisper, a gasp.

  “Take this castle away. Take it … it’s evil. I always knew it was. It’s full of … ghosts.” She swayed, and caught herself and stood leaning against the table, her face white and cold.

  “Kate, take care of her!” John cried.

  But Lady Mary pushed them all away when they came to her side.

  “I am quite all right,” she said. She tried to moisten her lips, her mouth dry. She turned to them with a wild sad smile, her haunted eyes unseeing.

  “They were no help at all—no help! So perhaps they simply don’t exist!”

  This she said in her high clear voice, and repulsing the hands stretched out to help her, she walked away from them all.

  … The day was cool, the air clear with the delicate sunshine of an English morning in summer. The castle had never been more beautiful, John thought. He had strolled up from the village, needing time to be alone before he met Kate. The landscape was still and calm, the village too had been silent. People stayed in their houses, talking quietly of the shadow that had fallen upon the countryside. The inquest had been held—accidental death. So Sir Richard was dead, the last of the Sedgeleys, and who was to have the castle now? John had ordered his breakfast sent to his room, but Thomas had waylaid him at the door.

  “What will we all be doing now, sir?” he asked. “We looked up to Sir Richard, you know, sir. Fussy he was at times, and a man of his own mind, but we was used to that from him and his father. High and mighty, but they’d a right to be. The likes of them made old England. So what’s to happen to us?”

  “I don’t know, Thomas,” he said. “I don’t think anybody knows just yet. But you’ll be told, doubtless.”

  “We’ll have to wait,” Thomas said dolefully.

  John had nodded and gone his way along the cobbled road to the edge of the village, and then the country road through the meadows and the wood. Kate would be waiting for him in the yew walk. Last night when he had seen to it that all was arranged for the funeral today, they had clasped hands at parting.

  “I’ll come in the morning,” he had promised. “I’ll meet you in the yew walk—about eleven?”

  She had nodded.

  Yes, he could see her figure now—a white dress, in the shadowy walk. How small she looked between the great shrubs towering darkly above her! The sunlight fell straight and she walked in a path of sunlight, narrow, but wide enough for her to escape the shadows, and her hair was bright in the sunshine.

  They met, he held both her hands in his and restrained himself from taking her in his arms. It was still too soon. She was grave from all that had happened.

  “The vicar’s here,” she said. “He came early. Lady Mary sent for him. She wants the crypt to be full of red roses. She won’t have a long sermon, she says. And the people are to be allowed to come in and stand as close as they like—and the broken sword is to be put back into its place.”

  “How is she?” John asked;

  “Brave,” Kate said. “She talked about him this morning quite calmly, though I’m sure she hadn’t slept—such deep shadows under her pretty eyes. She said she was glad he had gone first, because she could bear being alone better than he could; because women are stronger about some things, she said. Men want so much, she told me—but we women ask very little, really. Just someone to give us a little affection, someone to talk to—and a hand to hold—”

  Her voice broke. He took her in his arms. She leaned her head on his breast, and he laid his cheek against her hair.

  “Kate—” he said after a moment.

  “Yes, John?”

  “I’m not coming to the funeral. Will she mind too much? I can’t—after that last dreadful meeting in the throne room.”

  They paused, still holding hands, and he looked into her upturned face, flawless in the sunlight.

  “No,” Kate said. “She’ll understand—a wonderfully understanding woman. She said this morning she wished she hadn’t to go to the funeral, either. She stayed with him alone yesterday evening. She said she was glad he was peaceful at last with his ancestors, where he’d always belonged.”

  He wondered, watching her, if Lady Mary had told her anything of herself. Did Kate know that she was the daughter of Sir Richard’s son, and so his own granddaughter?

  “Kate, look at me!”

  She obeyed instantly, lifting her face to his, and meeting his smile she blushed sweetly.

  “Yes, John?”

  “Has Lady Mary ever said anything to you about a child?”

  “A child? No, John. What child?”

  Kate was thinking, remembering. “She did say she wished so much she could have given Sir Richard a child. She said it was her fault they hadn’t an heir. But I told her it wasn’t, because she wanted a child as much as he did—a son, of course, for the castle.”

  “What did she say then?”

  “She said there was no use in talking about it. And then, I don’t know why, she told me that Queen Elizabeth came here to this castle after Essex was beheaded. She loved him, you know, though he was half her age, but she said nothing after he was dead. Her motto had always been Video et taceo. And it was a good motto for a woman, Lady Mary said, especially for a woman who loves a man.”

  “I see and I am silent,” John repeated, “It’s a good motto for us all.”

 
; A silence fell between them.

  “You don’t want the castle now, I suppose,” Kate said. She pulled her hands away as she spoke and tucked them into the pockets of her dress.

  He answered slowly, pausing often to reflect. “It would be easy for me to run away from it, run away and forget. Yes, the castle fills my heart with horror, and with love. It’s an old, old castle. … Even castles must have evil in them when they live too long. But it isn’t the castle that’s evil, it’s the people who used it for evil. See how the sunlight falls there on the towers, Kate? See how beautiful it is?”

  He drew her with him and they looked between the yews. “It’s a work of art. I don’t want it destroyed, any more than I want a book or a painting ruined. I want generations of people—new generations—to enjoy it, and purify it through new life.”

  “And you’re taking it away?”

  “Yes, I think that’s been settled legally and voluntarily,” he said, “but I’ll leave something in its place—a fine modern farm, the best of machinery. My father will like that! And Lady Mary will live nearby and see the earth bloom—”

  “And I’ll be staying with her,” Kate said in a low voice.

  “You’re wrong,” he said firmly. “She won’t let you. If I know her, and I think I do—ah, but I’m sure I do—she won’t let you. And I won’t let you. You’ll live on the other side of the ocean, in a new country, my little Kate. With the man who loves you.”

  She drew a deep breath, then tried to laugh. “How you can be so sure of—of everything!” she cried. “How you can tell it all out like that!”

  He took her face between his hands. “You tell me,” he said. “Am I right?”

  A long look passed between them—no, much more than a look. He saw through those violet eyes straight and deep into her heart, and she looked up and saw what she wanted to see, a man she could adore and did, and did—

  “Yes!” she said.

  “And shall we go on living in the castle,” she inquired, “after it’s moved to Connecticut?”

  “No,” he said firmly. “We will not live in it. Nobody will live in it, ever again. We’ll live in a new house, you and I, and there’ll be a wing it it for Lady Mary, if she likes the idea of a new country, another life—without ghosts—”