Old Saxon Blood

by Leonard Tourney

  Also by Leonard Tourney

  Published by Ballantine Books:

  THE BARTHOLOMEW FAIR MURDERS

  THE PLAYERS’ BOY IS DEAD

  LOW TREASON

  THE BARTHOLOMEW FAIR MURDERS

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States of America by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published, in hardcover, by St. martin's Press, Inc., in 1988.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper or broadcast.

  ISBN 0-345-35765-5

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Ballantine Books Edition: May 1989

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  Thy virgin’s girdle now untie And in thy nuptial bed (love’s altar) lie A pleasing sacrifice . . .

  John Donne, Epithalamion Made at Lincolns Inn

  Buxton, Derbyshire. The smoky taproom of the Black Duck Inn. Year of Grace, 1601. Outside, weather fallen out so monstrous wet that the like had not been seen for the month.

  Cuthbert Fludd, the aging steward of Thorncombe—and better known as plain “Cuth” to his wife and well-wishers—had thrice told his tale during the long, dreary afternoon and was about to launch another rendition, but none of the men objected. It was a good story the old man told, full of pathos and tragic irony. Just the right sort of story for such an afternoon. And Cuth told it well, told it slowly and with restraint, in a croaking, tearful voice that had a mesmerizing effect on all at the bar sober enough to give an ear. Outside the wind scolded mercilessly, and the panes of glass in the windows rattled like dead mens bones.

  The old mans audience was alert to every syllable—like devout Papists at mass. Flattered by the attention, Cuth Fludd wove his tale the longer. From time to time he would pause to let the howling wind and the rattling windows play a frantic chorus before moving on again. The mobile features of his wrinkled countenance showed every emotion; his eyes constantly moved around at the faces of the men, gauging their response. He was saying:

  “We knew the master was coming home. He had sent word by post. I'm coming,' said he. ‘Make ready the castle.' Those were his words, I swear to God. So the women set to work as women will, cleaning the house that was as filthy and foul as a closestool for all the dogs whelping and pissing. The women lighted fires to dry it out. And that was before this pestilent rain began.”

  There were murmurs of agreement all along the crowded bar, and someone made a wheezing cough. The steward cleared his eyes of smoke, for the wind was blowing the wrong way and the chimney had no proper draft. The tapster, a burly man in wine-stained apron, came round to fill each half-empty cup and join the listeners. The men all huddled more closely together, like fellows in a conspiracy.

  “About noon Edward the hostler comes up from the paddock in his muddy boots to say the master’s come. He’s seen him riding along the road, says Edward. ‘Why, then he’s come betimes,’ says I. Straightway I went to tell my good wife.”

  “Who was with him, Cuth?” asked a voice at the end of the bar.

  “Only the Irishman. His manservant.”

  “No Irishwomen this time, heh, Cuth?” inquired another.

  The question had an insolent ring the steward did not like. He turned sharply toward the questioner and saw that it was the town blacksmith. In his cups or sober as a judge, no man to fool with. The old man let the remark pass, plodding on like a half-blind nag that has learned the way home by heart.

  “Only the Irishman. The master was on Prince, who was limping badly. He had ridden him hard, you see, covering six or seven leagues since dawn. So claimed the master. Filthy with mud, the both of them. Sir John was in a great hurry to get home from that godforsaken land.”

  “No wonder,” said someone. There was general agreement that Ireland was a sinkhole, a terrible place for Englishmen. Of course none of the men had been there; but they knew what they had heard, and that was very bad indeed.

  “I went down toward the road to welcome him,” Cuth continued, “the sky low and glowering. Some of the women came too. Oh, he was glad to be home again, very glad. You could see it in his face when he greeted us all and asked how we did. When he dismounted he shook my hand, threw his arms around me, and

  planted a kiss on my cheek. He said that a view of my gnarled scabrous snout was as good to his soul as the thought of supper and enough good English ale to drown in. He had been gone nearly eight months, you see.

  “We had heard he had lost a leg. He was fitted with a wooden one. Fixed right below the knee. He hobbled when he walked and the mud gave him trouble but he wouldn’t use a crutch, for his manhood’s sake.”

  Cuth paused to wet his throat. He licked his lips and sniffled, wiping away a pendant tear. Then he continued:

  “Well, Edward took care of Prince and the Irishman’s horse and I helped the Irishman with the master’s gear and we followed him up to the house. The hounds were raised to such a pitch of excitement that such a clamor of yelping and howling you’ve never heard. Why, the pack nearly knocked him over when he came through the door. Believe me, the master was overjoyed to see them too. Called them all by their names, he did. Jack, Digger, Ballfoot, Wolfsleach—he knew the whole pack and they him, though some were sucking at the bitch’s dugs when he left.

  “I got the dogs out of the way so he could go upstairs. He said he was half dead from the ride and wanted to shift from his clothes and then sleep the afternoon. He ordered supper at five o’clock and was most particular as to what should be served. Said he hadn’t had a decent meal since he left England. Then I left the Irishman to see to his needs and went downstairs and began cleaning up after the dogs. There was a fine mess, let me tell you.”

  “And did he have a good sleep, Cuth?” asked someone.

  “Aye, he slept. Or must have. Yet you could not prove it by me. I was downstairs, he was up. I saw him no more. Until after he was . . . dead.”

  There was an audible gasp from several of the listeners as the dreadful word was uttered. Cuth paused significantly and made the sign of the cross, which several others, confirmed Protestants too, imitated. Outside the wind still raged, the windows shook. The mere mention ofdeath had struck the men to the quick, and each reflected darkly on his own demise, come when God willed.

  One in the little group cursed his empty cup, called for more and was promptly hushed by the others, who would brook no

  interruptions. They knew the tragic conclusion, that a strange death would be the burden of the old man’s tale. They leaned forward intently, as though the stiff wind out-of-doors were at their back. The steward turned his long, craggy face upward. He struggled to contain his emotions. His eyes were moist dog eyes.


  “Cook had prepared a hearty supper. A feast. A leg of mutton there was, several sorts of fowl, and a hot steaming pie to tickle his palate beyond endurance. Five o’clock came and went, and the master did not come. The table was laid, the supper cooling, the cook in great distress, and my goodwife beside herself for wonder, saying 'If a man is starved, will he not eat?’ ”

  “And where was the Irishman all the while?” asked the blacksmith suspiciously.

  “In the hall of the new house waiting his supper. He said the master had commanded that he be not disturbed and said that we should be content to wait his appearance as was he, the Irishman, that is. Yet the master did not come.

  “It was I who went up to fetch him then. I climbed the stairs to his chamber. I knocked. No answer came. I knocked and called out his name, reminding him that he had ordered supper at five of the clock and now it was half past. Then I entered and to my wonder he wasn’t there. So I went back downstairs. Edward was idling about the kitchen, sniffing at the master’s supper and poking his finger in the pie when cook wasn’t looking. I told him to help me find the master, for he had not come down and wasn’t in his rooms. I was afraid, afraid already. It all seemed passing strange. I knew something was wrong, and my goodwife agreed.”

  “Tell us how you found him, Cuth. Tell us everything,” asked a rawboned, slack-necked cobbler who was standing nearest to the steward and had heard the story four times now from the old man’s lips, twice earlier in the day from his wife, and the first time from a scrivener of the town whose shoe he had mended.

  The old man took a deep breath and continued,

  “It was Edward’s idea to let the dogs out of the kennel. It was pouring rain, you see, not like now with all this wind but a steady, blinding rain. Already it was half dark. The dogs got the master’s scent right away. They ran across the greensward toward the lake, Edward and I running after. Then we heard them howling, the

  cunning creatures. When Edward and I got there, we could see the dogs leaping about like they do when their quarry’s cornered. They had found him. He was sitting in his boat, drawn up on the shore. He had no hat for his head and was just sitting in that little shallop of his, not caring about the rain. Edward tried to call off the dogs. The creatures were beside themselves, not knowing whether to howl or whine. They were licking the masters face and slobbering all over him. They knocked him over, they did, and so I knew the master wasn’t just sitting there because he didn’t get himself up again.

  “I bent down for a close look. I saw his face. I told him that supper was ready and asked him if he did not wish to come and eat it. He had been very clear on when he wanted supper and what he wanted and it was a great feast the cook had prepared and now it would be cold and ruined.

  “His doublet and hose were soaked. His hair was lank on his skull and in his eyes. I told Edward, who was still struggling with the dogs, to let them go hang, for the master needed help. But now the Irishman had come down too. Some of the women had followed and, sensing death, had started that heathen keening of theirs. The Irishman said he had heard the uproar the dogs were making and he wanted to know if anything was wrong. ‘Wrong?’ said I. The master’s drowned dead, that’s what’s wrong.’ Then the Irishman shoved me aside and began to shake the master, rub his hands, try to bring him round again. Black filthy water gushed from his mouth. Dark like blood.”

  “How did you know he was dead, Cuth?” asked the cobbler in a husky whisper.

  “Have I not seen death before?” replied the old steward with a touch of pride. “Death was in every line of his face. I knew it as soon as I touched him, although he was too newly dead to be stiff. He was drowned, drowned dead. Drowned in that lake, the one he had made. And him not even set forth from the shore.

  “Then the rain came down stronger and fiercer, and I feared for my own drowning. The Irishman and Edward carried the master back into the house and tried to revive him there. The Irishman said that even if there was no breath, yet the master might be recovered. He said he had seen it done more than once in Ireland. For a full

  half hour the man stroked the masters limbs, pumped his chest while the black filthy water trickled down the master’s beard and ran upon the floor. All the time the Irishman wept and sobbed and cried out Christ’s name. Oh, it was a dreadful sight, I tell you, a dreadful sight! And the women would not be silenced for all my goodwife could do. They set up such a moaning and howling after the Irish fashion that you would not believe.”

  “And him such a brave soldier,” said the cobbler. The sentiments were echoed by others in the taproom.

  “A very brave soldier,” agreed Cuth, who had been the dead man’s father’s steward as well as his grandfather’s and could not have had fewer years than seventy if he had a day.

  Chelmsford, Essex. Autumn of the year following House of Matthew Stock, clothier, in High Street.

  Matthew Stock was locked in an amorous embrace with his wife of twenty years when the messenger came pounding on the oak door of his shop below their living quarters with the violence of a madman. Matthew cursed softly, climbed out of bed, put on his slippers, nightgown, and cap, and trudged downstairs, candle in hand, mumbling as he descended that ten o’clock on a Sabbath eve was no decent hour to raise a house and swearing to himself that by all that was holy the cause of this disturbance better be murder or mayhem at least and no tippling townsman or pranking prentice disturbing his rest and domestic pleasures.

  “Peace! Enough! Spare my door, for God’s sake! I’ll open, I’ll open,” Matthew called out irritably as the pounding grew even more peremptory.

  Matthew unbolted the door and peered into the darkness. He held the candle aloft, which illuminated a good part of the narrow street and a tall figure wrapped in a heavy cloak. The stranger had a long, serious face, but there was no malevolence in his eye, and Matthew asked him what he wanted at such an hour.

  “Are you Matthew Stock, clothier of Chelmsford and con stable ol the same?” asked the stranger.

  Matthew said that he was. “And who might you be, sir?”

  The tall man did not identify himself. Seemingly content at having been assured that Matthew was the one he sought, he reached inside the cloak and withdrew what appeared to be a letter and handed it to Matthew. “I am on the Queen’s business,” he said. “This is for you, Master Stock.”

  Much impressed, Matthew took the letter and forgot at once about its deliverer, who presently disappeared into the darkness and could be heard a half minute later riding away. By candlelight Matthew could read his own name written in a bold, resolute hand. On the backside of the letter a round seal bearing the royal signet added credence to the messenger’s words. Matthew’s heart throbbed with excitement.

  “What is it, Matthew?”

  His wife Joan, a shrewd, practical woman of her husband’s years with a pretty oval face and a warm voice, had come upon him unawares, not content to wait upstairs for his return. She saw the signet and at once recognized the letter’s origin.

  “The royal seal! What can it mean? Might it have something to do with last month’s murders in Smithfield?”

  She was referring to the Bartholomew Fair murders, the solution to which her husband’s quick wit and diligence had provided—and perhaps also to her own not inconsiderable role in saving the Queen’s life from the menace of a lunatic Puritan.

  “I can’t conceive,” he said.

  “Perhaps Her Majesty thinks to reward you,” she said.

  “As God wills.”

  “Well, open it, goose,” she said impatiently, thinking it ridiculous that they should speculate in the doorway when this mystery could be quickly solved by reading the letter itself.

  Matthew shut the door and shot the bolt. They went into the kitchen, set the candle in its holder on the board, and sat down. Matthew broke the seal and read the letter aloud.

  It was very brief, and probably the labor of one of Her Majesty’s secretaries rather than of the Queen herself. In less tha
n a score of words it commanded Matthew—and Joan—to come to the court at Whitehall on the twenty-fourth day of the present month. It said arrangements had been made for their conveyance, and it concluded with expressions of the Queen’s good wishes to them both.

  It was signed, with elegant simplicity, Elizabeth R.

  Matthew reread the letter in silence, then handed it to Joan, who examined it herself several times and pinched herself to make sure she was awake.

  “Signed by Her Majesty herself!” Joan marveled.

  “None other,” said Matthew.

  “Oh, it must be a reward,” Joan said hopefully. “Will she make you a knight, Matthew—and me, thereby, a lady?”

  “I would think that some miles beyond our deserts,” Matthew said. “We did nothing but what any faithful subject would have done in the same circumstances. I suspect there’s something else afoot. I wish I had Sir Robert’s counsel now.”

  “Undoubtedly Sir Robert knows Her Majesty’s mind,” Joan agreed, perusing the letter for the third time and already contemplating how the document would become a family heirloom, handed down from generation to generation as long as the great Queen’s name should be remembered and revered. “Today is the fifteenth. She commands our appearance at court on the twenty-fourth. That hardly gives us much time to make ready.”

  Matthew looked at his wife. Her face was alive with excitement. She seemed transformed before his eyes. Such was the awesome power of a royal summons, a summons that could command to honor or destruction.

  He knew there would be no sleep for them now, not this night. They talked until dawn, never leaving the table, convincing themselves that the Queen’s letter and the experience before them was no dream.

  Within the next few days a second letter arrived, this causing no less excitement, for it confirmed the substance of the first. It was from Sir Robert Cecil, the Queen’s Principal Secretary and Matthew’s good friend by reason of honest service to the illustrious knight. It was longer than the Queen’s and detailed their means of travel to London—a coach to be provided by Cecil, along with an escort of mounted men for protection against highwaymen and other nuisances of the road. Like the first letter, this made no reference to the cause of the summons, and although both Matthew and loan were beside themselves with curiosity, they were not surprised to find the letters silent on this important point. It was the royal prerogative to give commands. Of lesser beings explana-