Old Saxon Blood

by Leonard Tourney

  Now the lake’s surface was a mirror of dark, shifting hues. The island floated upon it like a demasted galleon. He tried to estimate how far off it was. About a hundred yards, he reckoned. About the space between his own shop in Chelmsford and that of his neighbor, Malachi Braden. An easy walk. But this was across water. The lake looked shallow, and so Edward had said it was. But perhaps the water was deeper than it looked. The hostler had also mentioned holes and old mines. Certainly, parts of it would be over his head.

  He eyed his raft. It was the first he had ever made. How buoyant would it prove to be once he had left the safety of the shore and waded out through the sedge? He decided optimistically that if the raft sank or rolled, it would probably do so upon launching. The water would certainly be shallow near the shore and he might get a dunking for his pains but nothing worse. If things fell out that way, he would take the disaster as a sign from heaven that the whole enterprise was as dangerous as Joan had warned.

  But still, while he thought these things, he could hear Joan saying, “Foolish, Matthew. Foolish, indeed.” And he felt guilty about the worry his adventure would cause her.

  The day had now been reduced to a sliver of light along the rim of the western hills. He reached down and removed his shoes, then stripped off all but hose and shirt. He hid his clothing under a bush, then waded into the sedge, pulling the raft in behind him.

  The water was colder than he had expected, and the sensation of his bare feet sinking into the unseen muck at the lake bottom unnerved him. It was not drowning he feared so much as his vulnerability to what he could not see, and in such water, even in the broad light of day nothing could be seen. He recalled again now with special pertinence Joans glimmering, and his imagination filled with the watery horrors depicted in books and broadsides—of slithering serpents, eels, poisonous toads. He took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind of these images. He said a prayer for safety of body and soul and, finding courage again, he moved beyond the sedge to open water.

  He was now up to his waist, his feet sinking into the ooze, bumping against submerged logs, stones. Like an old man with a bent back he pulled the raft after him, facing toward the island. When the water was lapping against his navel he brought the raft

  around before him and, taking it firmly in hand, he pulled himself up onto it.

  For an anxious moment he thought the raft would roll over, or sink. Water surged around him; he clung desperately to the logs, a spasm of terror in his throat. He quickly adjusted his weight. The raft lifted out of the water and his legs dangled in watery space.

  He maintained momentum now with a slow, methodical kick and steered toward the island, his face thrust forward. He tried to fix his mind exclusively on his goal, if only to avoid the terrors of his imagination. Above him the stars shone boldly, a multitude of witnesses. But cold and indifferent. Somewhere in their midst were Gods eyes, or so Matthew devoutly prayed.

  How far had he traveled? The island seemed no closer. Yet already he was weary of the exertion. For a while he stopped, floated, his legs dangling free in the water. How far to the bottom? He extended his legs into the depths as far as he could without jeopardizing his hold on the raft. Nothing. He looked up at the stars. And for a moment something of the awe he had felt the night before quickened his pulse. But his admiration for the beauty above him, cold and distant and mute, was mixed with apprehension. His legs loose and dangling, he felt more dependent than ever on the raft. What if the cordage should slacken or snap? What if the logs lost their buoyancy?

  These fears made him so nervous he decided to resume treading, even though he was not fully rested. He turned toward the island. Was it merely hope, or did the island appear closer than before? Yes, it was closer. The darkness of the island had enlarged, had begun to take a shape. He could make out the tower and the vegetation around it. He was making progress, and his heart was beating with a steady anxious rhythm to match his tread.

  Then his left foot struck something hard, then his right. Rocks. Beneath the water, he extended his legs and touched bottom, hard now, not soft and yielding as before.

  He was not sure how long the water had been shallow enough for him to stand, but when he got to his feet he was surprised to see the water came only to his thighs. A few additional steps, the raft pushed in front of him, lowered it to midcalf. He could see the finer features of the island now. He could see a narrow beach of rocks and

  pebbles where he might land. But he decided to circle the island as a precaution.

  He had waded only a few feet when suddenly he was head under, his feet extending into nothingness. Struggling for breath, he groped about in the oily darkness, realizing to his horror that he had stepped into some hole and the raft was floating beyond his grasp. He went down, down, and then touched a hard, invisible bottom. He pushed himself upward with the last of his strength. His head broke through into the night air and for a moment he saw the stars again, shining as before. It was his near-drowning in the Thames all over again. His body remembered what his mind could not; automatically he began to beat his arms, kick with his feet. A yard or so ahead he could see the raft. He extended his reach toward it, and his lower parts floated upward. He kept reaching and reaching, gulping down the water, catching what desperate breaths he could. Then he caught hold and with one final kick propelled himself far enough onto the raft that he could sustain himself without vigorous effort.

  He floated for a while, not twenty feet from the island shore, afraid to try wading again for fear the water was too deep. Was it possible the island was surrounded by a trench? Or had he simply and unluckily stepped into an old mine? He floated until the wave of panic passed him and his breathing returned to normal. Then he maneuvered the raft toward the island and kept kicking until the water was too shallow to kick and he knew it was safe to stand.

  The part of the island he had selected as a landing place was heavily overgrown with bushes. The bank was steeper and there was no natural harbor. But he did see a spot that seemed to afford cover for his raft. He secured the raft with the loose end of his rope and then, using the bushes as handholds, he scrambled up the bank.

  Matthew was muddy and shivering and nearly exhausted but relieved to be on dry ground again. He had completed the first half of the perilous journey from the mainland, despite Joan s worst fears and his own. And in good time. Already the glow of the moon could be seen. Then, slowly, the great disk itself. Matthew waited, shivering. There was no purpose in his stumbling about, breaking his neck in the tangle of weeds and bushes. He thought Conroy would wait too.

  Then the moon was up, coating the island in its pale, sickly light. He made his way through the dense growth and came to the crown of the island and the tower. From there he could look down on the narrow beach where he had been afraid to land and to the other side where he had hidden the raft. A path led up from the beach to the tower. The tower was a foot or so taller than he was. There were a wooden door and one window, higher than the door. Not more than a slit.

  If there was time, he would enter the tower and look around later. First he circled the tower to have a lock at the other end of the island. He found a scraggly bush about a dozen feet from the tower door that also gave a view of the beach below the tower, and he concealed himself in its foliage.

  During the next hour—and it must have been the most of that—Matthew had cause to wonder whether the most foolish decision he had made that night was not his voyage to the island but the assumption that Conroy would make another one himself. What if Conroy didn't come? Should Matthew stav there all night waiting, or should he proceed to examine the to wer while there was moonlight? But he was afraid that if he began to move about, Conroy would come.

  And so he waited.

  It was another half hour by his best reckoning when he heard the telltale sound of oars being dipped and lifted. It was so subtle at first that he thought it his imagination. But then the sound grew louder and the splashes more regular. He peered through the l
eaves to see down across the water, 'f he moon had turned the water into thousands of glittering spangles. He could see nothing, but his heart had begun to beat rapidly with anticipation. He had not waited in vain. It was Conroy. He was sure of it.

  Foolishly, Matthew now reflected, he had brought no weapon with him, not even a knife. And as he continued to search the waters for Conroy, he began to be afraid. Conroy was a brawny, younger man, inured to manslaughter and not likely to be happy to find a spy on his island.

  Matthew hardly had time to worry more about that danger when he saw the shallop nosing toward shore. He could see it wa: Conroy at the oars.

  Matthew held his breath and watched while Conroy pulled the shallop up on the rocks and then began to climb up the trail that led to the tower. The Irishman had dressed for vigorous work—he wore nothing but his shirt and his long hose, and the sleeves of the shirt were rolled to his elbows.

  Conroy opened the door to the tower and disappeared inside.

  For a while Matthew heard nothing. Then a glimmer of light appeared in the narrow slit that was the towers only window and Matthew could hear the sound of digging.

  Matthew waited.

  The moon rose to midpoint of its course and then began its descent; still Conroy dug on. Meanwhile Matthew was suffering from his cramped position, which was something between a kneel and a squat. He was colder than ever, and he almost envied the physical exertion and freedom of movement of the man digging inside the tower.

  Since Conroy had brought nothing along, Matthew now believed his earlier supposition was correct: that Conroys purpose was to find rather than conceal. But to find what?Something hidden, obviously, but by whom and why?

  He was pondering these questions still when the digging ceased and the light inside the tower was put out. Conroy emerged. Without chest, box, or sack. He went the way he had come, down the trail and then to the shallop. Matthew waited until he could hear the rise and fall of the oars again before he left his place of concealment and even after until he was confident Conroy was to shore again.

  Standing was both a relief and an agony. His joints ached; he flapped his arms and jogged where he stood to warm his blood. The exercise rejuvenated him and made him curious. He went over to the tower and looked inside.

  There was still enough of a moon to show the interior—an empty chamber of about a dozen feet squared with an earthen floor and the dank smell of a tomb. In the corner Matthew could see Conroy’s tools—a spade and pick. There was also an oil lamp. He could see, too, that Conroy’s excavations had been thorough. The entire floor had been plowed and smoothed again. Whatever Conroy had hoped to find buried here, he had not found. Yet

  Matthew felt strongly that Conroy had not finished his search. He would be back—perhaps not stopping until he had dug up the entire island.

  Matthew went down to where he had hidden his raft, uncovered it, boarded it, and pushed off, having accustomed himself on his outward voyage to its handling. His return was uneventful and, mercifully, it seemed quicker. He was nearly to shore when he remembered he had not covered his footprints in the tower. Surely when Conroy returned he would see the evidence that his nocturnal mischief had not gone unobserved.

  It was half-dark when Wylkin finally saw Una hurrying toward him through the trees. He was vexed by her delay and made no effort to conceal it. He was not in an amorous mood for once and felt therefore no compulsion to be courtly.

  “Gods bodkins, woman! In good time, you’ve come. Did we not agree to meet at six o’clock?”

  “Faith, Jack, I could not come sooner,” Una said breathlessly Her hands, swollen and red, lay upon her breast, as though to still her racing heart. She looked around nervously. “The housekeeper has had the lot of us at work since dinner. She would not take her eyes from us, I swear it. It’s only now that I was allowed to go- -to make supper. I can’t stay long.”

  “Damn her then,” Wylkin said.

  “But that isn’t the worst,” Una said, looking up at him sheepishly.

  “What is the worst?” he asked.

  “She saw us.”

  “Who?”

  “Mistress Stock, the housekeeper.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday. She saw where we met, where we lay. Where we talked afterward.”

  He seized her by the shoulders and shook her, as though she were responsible for their betrayal. And he believed her to be so. “What, did she accuse you? Where was she hidden? Tell me, woman, and be quick about it.”

  “She was hiding, hiding over yonder, amid the ferns,” Una

  said, trembling at her lovers outburst. She pointed to the place. “She didn’t think I saw her. But I did. I saw her gown.”

  “Then why in Christ’s name didn’t you say something, but let the two of us talk with her within earshot?”

  “I didn’t see her until after we had parted. I thought she would rise up and denounce the two of us, but she never did. Nor did she say anything later.”

  “She said nothing?” he said.

  “Nothing. She treated me the same as before, by nodding and pointing as though I had no wit.”

  Wylkin released her. He stood there thinking, thinking hard what it meant, the housekeeper’s spying and her even stranger failure to denounce the wantonness in a servant. What housekeeper tolerated such behavior under her own nose? It was most unnatural, the Stock woman’s silence.

  But then perhaps not so unnatural after all—if the woman was more than a housekeeper. If the women was a spy by commission rather than a mere eavesdropper by nature. Wylkin regarded Una with contempt.

  “You fool,” he said. “Of course Mistress Stock kept you working the long afternoon. Of course she treats you the same. Where was the husband all this time? Not by his wife’s side, I’ll warrant.”

  She shook her head, slow to follow his reasoning.

  “That’s because he was away, looking for the treasure. She kept you and the maids busy for that reason. Don’t you see what she was up to?”

  He was so angry he could have throttled her.

  “There’s other news,” Una said fearfully. “The new mistress is coming to Thorncombe. Coming any day, so says Mistress Stock. She’s to be married.”

  Wylkin cursed roundly. “Are we to be visited by a host!” he declared, slapping the side of his forehead. His brain began to work rapidly, assimilating this new information. First Conroy had been his major obstacle at the castle. Now it was the Stocks. Should the new mistress arrive with the inevitable train of servants and houseguests, Wylkin’s chance of locating and stealing the Challoner

  treasure would vaporize like mist. He realized that time was of the essence. Angrily, he asked Una when Mistress Frances Challoner was to arrive. Una said she didn’t know. No one knew for sure. But it would be soon.

  Her ignorance infuriated him. She stood before him dumb and quaking. She had never seen him in such a temper. A dread swept over her. She wanted to return to the castle but she was afraid. He had turned his back to her and she touched his shoulder in a conciliatory gesture but he turned on her abruptly and struck her across the face with the back of his hand.

  It hit her hard, but the stinging blow was not so painful as it was humiliating.

  “Stupid bitch, stupid old woman!” he shouted. Then he angrily turned and strode off into the darkness.

  Great scalding tears blinded her. She realized now how little he cared for her and she felt dirtied by his embraces and deeply regretful that she had ever told him about Sir Johns hidden treasure.

  She stood there a long time in the darkness. Finally, she roused herself and wiped the tears from her cheeks. Feeling abandoned and disconsolate, she walked back through the gloom, anger growing within her. It was as though she had been impregnated by Wylkin s slap and what was growing at a vastly accelerated pace was not a human child but a devil of vengeance to which she would presently give birth to the undoing of him who had betrayed her so remorselessly.

  Bone-weary and f
rustrated from a long night of futile effort, Conroy passed through the dark stable cursing to himself, thinking how he might have better spent the night in Buxton with his boon companions and the fair-haired wench with the long legs than in digging up half of Challoner s island seeking a treasure that might not exist at all. As he kicked open the door to his quarters his nostrils were immediately assailed by a foul odor he knew only too well from his experiences on the battlefield: putrefying flesh. It was unmistakable, for there was no other smell like it, on earth or in hell.

  Alert to danger and vulnerable without a weapon in his hand,

  he assumed a protective stance, his muscles tense, his eyes straining to pierce the darkness.

  Slowly his vision improved and he could see his pallet, his clothes there as he had left them, but not the sword, which at the moment was his chief concern. In its place was a burlap bag.

  A practical joke? After a few minutes, when he was sure there was no other person in the chamber, he walked over to the table where the nub of a candle was, struck a flint, and lighted the wick. A little flame appeared and he looked around.

  He decided that if it was a dead animal inside the bag, as he suspected it was—considering at the same time which of his companions at the Black Duck possessed such a mad humor as to plague him so—the prankster would be very sorry indeed when Michael Conroy laid his hands on him. And if the same prankster had also stolen Conroys sword, then the fellow would be sorrier still.

  He hefted the bag, judged its weight to be about that of a cat or small dog, and turned its contents upside down upon the floor.

  Even by candlelight it took Conroy a few moments to recognize what fell, went bump, and then rolled toward the pallet. He felt his gorge rise and heavy beads of sweat break out upon his face.

  He had seen the heads of hundreds of men fixed upon pikes as warnings to other traitors and malefactors—in Ireland and England both. But he had never seen a woman so treated—and especially a woman he had known, in senses both common and biblical—for he recognized, despite decomposition that made mock of the once winning countenance, the hair, face, and dull staring eyes of Aileen Mogaill.