Old Saxon Blood

by Leonard Tourney

  “My father speaks little now,” Edward said apologetically. “Please don't think him disrespectful or rude."

  Matthew assured Edward that he had taken no offense at his father's mute response. He complimented the hostler on the cottage’s condition. Edward made a motion to leave.

  But Matthew was not finished with his inspection. He walked a little farther into the room, taking as much in as he could, sensing that Edward was trying to hurry him out, and not sure why.

  He saw that the fire that warmed the old man had been banked high. The faggots had only begun to burn. Who had laid the fire? The decrepit old man? The strong hostler, who only a few moments earlier had raced for the cottage and leapt off his horse to run indoors so that his father would not be alarmed by a stranger's appearance? One of them would not have had the strength, the other lacked the time. Here was a mystery.

  Matthew said good-bye to the elder Bastian and was following Edward out the door when he noticed a cerecloth hanging on a wall, fie thought perhaps a recess was behind it and would have gone boldly over to see for himself had he not thought the action would offend the hostler. He decided to leave his curiosity unsatisfied, and continued on into the yard.

  His emerging from the cottage sparked another burst of canine fury. Matthew jumped backward in alarm, crying out to Edward for help. Edward ordered the dog to be silent. “I’m sorry," he said. “Since you're an honest man, the beast will have his fun."

  The dog kept barking despite Edward’s reprimands. The two men walked hurriedly across the yard. Matthew felt better when he was on the other side of the fence. He turned back and looked at the dog and the cottage. It was then that, for all the dog's uproar, Matthew heard the cry of an infant. The small plaintive note was almost lost in the noise of the animal, but Matthew was sure that it was a human cry he had heard and that it had come from inside the cottage.

  When the two men were mounted again, Matthew said, “Strange, but while your dog railed, I thought I heard a child within."

  Matthew noticed that at the remark Edward’s face tightened. But then the hostler grinned broadly and said, “A child? Why, there’s no child here, sir, unless you count the youngest of the servants, who may be no more than twelve or thirteen.”

  “None?”

  “Well, in the tenants’ cottages. The Stokes have children, as you saw, and the Robinsons.”

  Matthew remembered the grim and grimy little faces of the children of the two families. He supposed the women of the cottages had infants as well, somewhere within the dismal dwellings he had not inclined nor been invited to enter. But the sound Matthew had heard had issued from the Bastian cottage.

  Edward led the way to the road again without there being any other mention of the child. The hostler seemed nervous, however, and this strengthened Matthew’s conviction that Edward was hiding something—or someone. But who—the person who had laid the fire? The person whose child had cried?

  As he rode he wondered if he should not have looked behind the cloth. What would he have found there? He reasoned that an infant concealed in the cottage strongly implied the existence of a mother, and perhaps her presence. Was Edward wived then? Encumbered with child? And what if he was? Even in Derbyshire there was no law against marriage and parenthood. And even if the child was a bastard, still, where was the purpose? Edward was no gentleman or scholar with a reputation to protect; only a hostler whose personal morals were expected to be no higher than his calling.

  Matthew resolved not to dispute with Edward over the matter. What would a confrontation produce? Vigorous denials? Open hostility? And yet Matthew knew what he had heard, and he suspected Edward had heard the cry as well.

  When they came up to the junction of the roads, Edward broke his silence and said, “I’ll take you to Stafford’s now. It’s about five miles.”

  Matthew nodded his approval, and Edward turned his horse off the road and started out across a stretch of damp ground until they came to a horse trail. This they followed for about half an hour until they reached a road. They traveled it, not talking further.

  It was past noon now. Matthew was hungry, but since there was no prospect of satisfying his hunger, he suppressed the rumble in his stomach. Presently he noticed a great mound of earth that in the smoothness of contour did not seem the work of nature. The mound was off of the road some distance. He asked Edward about it.

  “That’s a barrow, as we call them hereabouts,” Edward explained, pausing to view the sight. “The ancients buried their dead in them.”

  “The ancients?”

  “The old ones. Those who lived here at first. Before the Saxons, before the Romans, even. We’re riding upon an old Roman road, you know. If you look sharp, you can still see the stones. But the Roman and the Saxon were newcomers to this ground. The barrow-builders were first, and that is one of their tombs.”

  Interested, Matthew asked if there were many barrows in the neighborhood.

  “A good many,” replied Edward, warming to his office as guide. “Some have been dug up. Bones, weapons, spears, arrowheads—sometimes rings and bracelets have been found. And pots of lead, which the Romans used to mine here. T hey say a cobbler of Buxton discovered in one barrow an immense treasure of gold, but died before he could recover it. When his wife went to where the treasure was supposed to be, she found naught but a pot of lead. They who are familiar with such matters say the treasure was cursed—as was he who disturbs the ancient bones, wherefore the man died.”

  “It’s a wicked thing to disturb the dead, even if they are long gone to dust,” Matthew reflected, although he was unsure as to how much credence to place in stories of curses and buried treasures.

  Beyond the barrow were hills and there sheep could be seen as well as the lone figure of a sheepherder.

  “Those are Stafford’s sheep,” Edward said, moving forward again. He talked over his shoulder as he rode. “The old barons of Thorncombe kept large herds, but Sir John had no interest in sheep. He called them filthy, stinking creatures God made in error, too dull-witted to live. He let the herd decline and sold off the rest. First and last he was a soldier. He cared for little more.”

  Matthew listened with interest. He looked up at the hills and thought it was a sad thing that the herd had been sold. He asked Edward to tell him more about Stafford.

  Edward pointed ahead of them. “Yonder you can see a little ravine and wooden bridge. When we cross, well be on Stafford’s land.”

  Matthew saw the ravine and the bridge—and at a greater distance he now could see a sprawling manor house.

  “There’s Stafford Hall,” Edward continued. “The ravine’s the cause of the trouble—or the stream that made it. When Sir John damned the stream to make the lake, Stafford was left only a trickle. It’s been a bone of contention between the families for years.”

  “Could the law not settle the dispute?” asked Matthew as the two men passed over the bridge and he looked down at the little trickle of water at the bottom of the ravine.

  “The law could if it would,” said Edward. “But the lawyers have been wrangling forever, with little hope of a resolution satisfying to either party.”

  “Then Sir John did have enemies—the Staffords—contrary to common report,” Matthew said.

  “Report?” exclaimed Edward, vehemently. “Report is a most vile slanderer of good men and resolute defender of hypocrites. So say I of report. In fact, Sir John was not well liked in the neighborhood. The gentry found him cold and contemptuous of them because his blood was old Saxon blood and theirs wasn’t. The common rout feared him with a superstitious dread. He was a hard-visaged man, you know. Some without tact would have called him ugly as sin.”

  Matthew was about to ask more about this fear of the baronet when his attention was drawn to two horsemen approaching them at a fast gallop. “That’s Stafford and his man now,” Edward said, raising his hand in salute.

  Stafford and his servant reined their horses in and came forward slowly. Sta
fford was a stout man of about thirty-five with a square face and shaggy brows and beard. His servant was a rawboned fellow in a buff jerkin and big boots. He had close-set eyes, a sharp nose, and long jaw.

  “Wide of your master’s property, are you not?” Stafford said

  after introductions had been made. “My line commences at the ravine.”

  “Well I know, sir,” said Edward. “Our new steward wanted to pay his respects.”

  “Oh, did he?” asked Stafford, regarding Matthew with a contemptuous expression. “I thought this person in your company was certainly a lawyer by his suit, come to serve some document or writ.”

  “I am the steward at Thorncombe,” Matthew reiterated.

  “A new steward? Well then, has Cuth Fludd gone to heaven?”

  “Cuth lives and in reasonably good health for his years,” Edward said.

  “I am appointed by the new mistress,” Matthew inserted.

  “Oh yes, Mistress Frances,” Stafford said, “a winsome child, if I remember her right. I do get to London now and again, although my present appearance may mark me a country squire and no more. How came you to have been appointed at such a distance? Could not your mistress have found some competent fellow in the neighborhood, or is that beneath the proud Challoners?”

  “Undoubtedly there were those in Derbyshire who were qualified—more qualified than I—but it was hardly my place to question my mistress’s choice, only to serve as directed. My wife accompanied me and is the new housekeeper.”

  Stafford nodded and scratched his beard. He looked at his servant and then back at Matthew. “You’re a married man, are you? You have the look.”

  “By which remark, I presume, sir, that you are not married,” Matthew said, impatient with the man’s sarcasm.

  “Oh, but there is a Mistress Stafford. Isn’t there, Wylkin?”

  Stafford hoisted himself in his saddle and addressed this question to his servant, whose hard eyes remained fixed on Matthew.

  “There is a Mistress Stafford, my master’s wife,” Wylkin said flatly.

  Matthew gathered from this exchange that there was something about Mistress Stafford that created tension between master and servant, but at the moment he was more concerned to hold his own with Stafford than speculate about the man’s domestic infelicities, if that was what they were.

  “I don't speak by way of criticism," Stafford said, “but commiseration. Undoubtedly, your companion will satisfy your curiosity on your way back to the castle, servants being what they are. Isn't that right, Bastian? You will fill this good man’s ears with gossip, won’t you—as soon as my back is turned?"

  Matthew looked at Edward to see how he was taking this obvious provocation and was gratified to see the hostler showed no signs of wilting before the quarrelsome gentleman, despite the great gulf in their stations in life.

  “You accuse me unjustly, Master Stafford," Edward replied calmly. “The affairs of Stafford Hall are none of my business, and therefore I make them no part of my conversation—with fellow servants or with my masters."

  “Why, you're a true pillar of virtue, aren't you, Bastian?" Stafford said with heavy irony. “Wylkin, give Edward Bastian a coin or two from your purse to reward him for his virtue. It's the least we can do to advance the cause of discretion in the world."

  Smirking, Wylkin reached into his belt and found his purse. He brought forth a penny and flung it into the dirt. Edward didn't look at the coin.

  “Pick it up, Bastian, like a good fellow. It’s your reward. Why wait for heaven?"

  Wylkin said, “Go ahead, Edward. Don’t be shy. We well know your need—not to mention your father's."

  It was a vicious gibe, and Matthew noticed the hostler's face go livid with suppressed rage. Stafford saw it too, and the response his servant’s words had provoked prodded him to even greater injury.

  “I said," Stafford repeated slowly and emphatically, “pick up the penny like a good faithful dog/’

  It was a calculated insult, designed to humiliate Edward before Matthew's eyes. Matthew felt embarrassed for the hostler and angry at Stafford for the insult, which was an insult to him as well.

  In all this time Edward refused to budge, nor did he even look at the ground. He stared at Stafford with open hostility. The silence lengthened and grew pregnant with impending violence. Of the four men, only Wylkin was armed. He wore a knife of a good eight inches at his belt. But if menacing looks could kill, the field would have been a slaughterhouse. Realizing the danger of the moment, Matthew dismounted and picked up the penny himself.

  “If my friend has no need of your alms, perhaps theres poor in the parish who will bless you for your charity,” he said, looking up at Stafford. Then he remounted and said, “Come, Edward. We've kept Master Stafford and his man too long in the sun. We still have something to see of Thorncombe before the day's done.”

  Matthew’s gesture apparently so surprised Stafford that the man could find no quick response, although it was evident from his glare that his hostility had shifted from the hostler to Matthew.

  Matthew turned his horse and headed back the way they had come. He did not look behind to see if Edward followed. He prayed he would; Matthew wanted no violent confrontation. The exchange of words had been sharp enough.

  Matthew was relieved when in a few moments he heard Edward hurrying to catch up. In the greater distance he heard Stafford's voice. “Don't cross me, Stock. No inhabitant of Thorncombe is friend to Thomas Stafford. Take care where and when you walk.”

  The threat echoed across the ravine and settled into Matthew's heart. He rode on as though he hadn’t heard, nor was he willing to give Stafford the satisfaction.

  Edward came up alongside. “Devils incarnate the both. Would to God I had been armed.”

  “Thanks to God you were not,” Matthew said. “Wylkin looks the sort who would kill his own mother.”

  “He doubtless did. And Stafford’s another.”

  They crossed the bridge and Matthew felt relieved to be on Challoner land again. They rode on in a strained silence for about two miles, passing the barrow and coming to the first of the tenants' cottages, where the tenants’ children came out to watch them pass. Matthew waved. The children waved back. Edward seemed to have settled into a black mood. To ease it, Matthew asked him about Stafford’s wife.

  A smile spread slowly on the hostler’s face at the question. He laughed bitterly and said, “Since I am damned and bribed for a gossip, I might as well earn my reputation. The truth is that Stafford and his wife are ever at each other's throats. And rumor has it that she’s cuckolded him with Wylkin.”

  “Ha!” said Matthew. “Wylkin has the look. It’s a rare villain

  that does not show it in his face. Its a wonder that Stafford doesn’t kill Wylkin, or at least send him packing.”

  “Well,” said Edward, “possibly the gossip is false. Or perhaps Stafford finds Wylkin too useful to discharge or murder.”

  “In either case, I do not like the man,” Matthew declared. “Nor his master.”

  “Stafford is hardly worth a curse,” said Edward with even greater bitterness, “though he be a gentleman born and bred and own a fine house and tell his servants where to go and when.”

  When she could no longer hear the voices, she stepped out from behind the cerecloth where she had concealed herself and her child during the new stewards visit. What a start Edward had given her with his madcap arrival, bursting into the cottage of su( h suddenness that she had nearly dropped her child, who had cried out in alarm. Edward had told her she must hide herself and tfm baby, too, and she had done as she was told. She had stood as mum as death behind the cloth, clutching the child to her breast protectively and praying that it would not betray them.

  Eventually, inevitably since it had capacity for fear but not prudence, the child, alarmed by the dogs furor, had betrayed their presence, but by then Edward and the steward were gone.

  Edward’s father was still seated on his stoo
l, watching the fire intently as though something of great pith and moment were being enacted in the conflagration of faggots and small branches. Then he swiveled toward her, his mouth agape and his eyes pale and lusterless as a dead mans.

  The movement frightened her a little by its suddenness, yet she knew the old man’s mind was gone now, sunk into a second infancy and awaiting ultimate dissolution in a half-life between dream and sleep. She felt an aching pity for him, and for herself, and for her child. Indeed, she pitied the whole human race at that moment, fated as it was to follow such a torturous course.

  The child began to cry, declaring its need for nourishment, and she quickly unfastened her bodice and pressed her nipple into the child’s mouth, feeling, as always when she gazed upon the little face, an intolerable burden of grief, in which despair, love, and resentment at fate were perniciously mixed. “It’s all right now,” she said, in her heart not sure that it was. “The strange mans gone.” As though in response to her words, a heavy sigh from the old man—like an amen from fellow worshipers—seemed to agree with her somber reflections. Then he grinned a toothless grin, as though her words had somehow been meant for him as well as for the suckling, and she felt afraid again—for herself and for her child— without quite knowing why.

  Stafford and Wylkin had ridden a half mile toward Stafford Hall when the stout gentleman pulled up on his horse and signaled to his servant he should do likewise. Both men were overtaken by a cloud of gagging dust.

  Stafford said, ‘This Matthew Stock may be only the steward, but he's no fool. His plain, simple mugs a guise for mischief, mark me." Stafford stroked his beard in the way of those whose thoughts are running well ahead of their words. He eyed his servant narrowly, waiting for a response.

  “A guise, sir?" asked Wylkin, not slow to follow but curious to hear Stafford's opinion of the steward.

  The horses had been made nervous by the sound of human voices raised in anger; they kept stomping and shifting as the men talked.

  Stafford said, “Its as certain as death that Stock's appointment means the young heiress intends to stick her long nose into matters at the castle."