Old Saxon Blood

by Leonard Tourney

  He thought she had run off, like so many before her. He was too stunned by his discovery, too disgusted and perplexed at how Aileen’s head had come to be where it was to hear what under less stressful circumstances would have at once sent every nerve and sinew of his powerful body to their stations. When he did become aware of the soft tread behind him, it was already too late. Alarmed, he swiveled to face the unseen threat and saw nothing before his eyes but a headlong rush of something cloaked and muffled,

  wielding a thing with a crescent blade like a sickle, now sweeping through the air in a wide arc.

  The blow nearly knocked him off his feet. Blinded by pain as intense as he had ever experienced, he lifted one hand to staunch the warm river running down his chest and instinctively raised the other to ward off a second assault.

  But it was an ineffectual defense, and Conroys life was draining from him faster than he could feel it go.

  In the next moment he was as dead as Aileen Mogaill.

  Mistress Prances Challoner’s excitement at the thought of her impending marriage to Master Thomas Cooke of the Middle Temple had done much to alleviate her melancholy preoccupation with her uncles death—especially since the date of the wedding had been advanced upon the Queens urging. Mistress Frances wondered now, in absence of proof to the contrary, if her uncle had not simply drowned by accident after all. A clever girl, she suspected that the Queen’s suggestion that she marry sooner rather than later was intended by the Queen to be a distraction—a way of diverting the young woman’s attention from the inadequacy of her champion, Matthew Stock, and perhaps, too, the hopelessness of her cause. “Vengeance is a most tiresome passion,” the Queen had observed.

  Her Majesty had also quoted Saint Paul on the legitimacy of marriage: that it was better to marry than burn.

  Frances thought these wise words indeed, and as for the little Chelmsford clothier-constable and his wife, she supposed, there having been no report from Thorneombe, that Stock and his wife had failed in their mission.

  The Challoner heiress was hardly surprised, for although she had a heart as kind as her countenance was gentle, she never doubted the implicit merit of being of old Saxon blood, or the moral deficiencies of being of ordinary stock. Thus, while she granted the unprepossessing country constable might be honest and earnest, these qualities, admirable though they were, hardly compensated for a lack of heroic mettle.

  Young Thomas Cooke was another matter. He was nineteen, a year her senior, the younger son of a Sussex knight of good reputation and modest income. Thomas’ older brother and their fathers heir was a soldier who had distinguished himself in Flanders, while Thomas’ younger brother was a student at Cambridge—preparing for the Church. Thomas had spent two years at Cambridge and then gone to the Middle Temple, where he hoped for a career in the law. Tall and lean, he had become a great frequenter of plays and a young man of fashion. He had a little blond mustache and a spade-shaped beard that was a bit thin now but gave promise of growing fuller with time. His manner was very polished, very courtly—he was witty and eloquent and he could recite verses of all the fashionable poets from memory. These accomplishments impressed Mistress Frances greatly, even though the Cookes were relative newcomers to the gentry, their grandfather having been a London scrivener.

  And so, if she had had someone like her intended husband to make the proper inquiries at Thorncombe, her confidence would have been much stronger.

  Her first view of this paragon had been in the form of his portrait, which showed Thomas Cooke to be very handsome indeed. But when he manifested himself in person several days thereafter, she found him even more wonderful in reality than in art.

  Although Thomas’ ardor was somewhat restrained, he seemed fully in accord with the match. They had met at court, fallen in love without the sponsorship of parents (she had none to sponsor; his did not object to the engagement), and had come to agreement as to terms. That their marriage was to be solemnized in the ancient seat of the Challoners had been established early in their engagement and was for Mistress Frances as set in stone as the marriage itself.

  But while all these arrangements were as she wished, one great concern remained. It was a concern not unusual in young virgins

  anticipating the termination of that state. She was reluctant to throw herself so completely on the mercy of her new husband, to lose her identity in his, to trade noble Challoner for gentrified Cooke. And this concern, as preoccupying to her now as her uncle’s unexplained death before, caused her to doubt the motives of her intended husband. She was not so inexperienced in the world’s ways as to be ignorant of the plight of younger sons whose patrimony was of necessity curtailed by the rights of the firstborn. That Thomas Cooke was a young man of promise was true. The question was: How substantial was his income? About such practical matters Thomas, his knighted father, and the Queen herself had been vague. And that made Mistress Frances suspicious too, for she knew the Queen to be much too clever in money matters as to ignore the question of the bridegroom’s financial resources. Her silence on the point suggested that Thomas had more promise than present means, but, of course, he would be much better off after his marriage to her.

  "He’s a young man who’s expressed a most gratifying interest in becoming your husband, child. The family is well-enough off, and you shall not want for a new gown once a quarter,” the Queen had said, by way of laying the matter of Thomas’ money to rest.

  And so now she was sitting in her bedchamber in the palace waiting to depart London for Derbyshire. The couple had decided after the wedding to reside at Thorncombe. Frances was weary of the court but would have been content to live in London. It was Thomas who wanted to be a country squire. His head was full of plans for restoring the productivity of the land, for raising the tenants’ rent. Frances was not sure how he could stand to be deprived of his beloved theater, his elegant, witty friends, and his career in law. What prospects for advancement were there in dull Derbyshire?

  But without a husband—and the right husband, too—Frances had no future in London.

  About her uncle’s death she had been discreet in her conversation with T homas. The drowning was, after all, a thing of the past. A year gone might as well be a lifetime, especially to one like her who had seen only eighteen winters. The Queen had encouraged her reticence. "No use filling the young man’s head full

  of horrors, especially when his thoughts should be on his bride.” This the Queen had said in an unwonted fit of enthusiasm for matrimony. "Let Matthew Stock resolve things in Derbyshire—if i:here’s anything to resolve.” She, too, had become more accepting of the coroner’s verdict.

  "And if he cannot?” Frances had asked, worrying not so much now about the defeat of justice as how a murderer at large might put a damper on her honeymoon.

  "Should it fall out so,” said the Queen, "it would be well to leave it all in God’s hands.” Her Majesty had mumbled something in addition to this pious thought. Something about a wager. And she seemed very pleased about something.

  But Frances supposed none of that pertained to her. She thanked the Queen for her goodness and sought permission to leave the royal presence and service.

  The Queen granted permission for both and kissed Frances on the forehead with cool, dry lips. "Pray come see me once more before you depart for the north.”

  Frances promised she would. She curtsied with as much genuine affection as requisite obsequiousness, backed away from the royal presence, and then stood and turned, threading her way through the ranks of hangers-on and courtiers, servingmen and ladies. She went to her bedchamber. Earlier, she had directed Susan Harwood, her own maid, to pac k her belongings for the journey. Susan, a round-hipped, raven-haired girl of Frances’ own age, had at least begun the task. The chests were open in the center of the chamber. One seemed fully loaded; from the other, various items of clothing dangled, as though tossed there from a distance. Susan, at the moment of Frances’ entrance, was primping before the looking glass, s
triking seductive poses and pinching her cheeks to make them ruddier. All this, Frances suspected, designed for the brood of lecherous cooks and scullions with whom Susan kept riotous company.

  Frances continued to watch these antics with amusement, then adopted a more rerious mien and cleared her throat to herald her return. Susan quickly gave over her posturing and twisted around tc face her mistress. She assumed an abashed expression 01 one caught in the act. Frances decided to let the scolding Susan

  deserved pass and settled for a cold, censorious regard and sarcastic query: "Not yet finished. When you are, perhaps you will be at leisure to pack my clothing. And properly.”

  "I was only resting, ma’am.”

  "Well, you have rested enough,” Frances said curtly. "Just thank God you are not maid to Mary Throgbottom, whose wardrobe is fivefold mine and her patience less.”

  Mary Throgbottom was another Maid of Honor. She shared the chamber with Frances and had a reputation among the lower servants of being a tyrant.

  Susan resumed packing while Frances watched. Frances envied her servants buxomness, her smooth skin, short stature, and untrammeled lust. When Susan was finished, Frances inspected all that her servant had done and then told her to go find Jasper Prince and tell him she was ready to have her chests taken below.

  When Susan had gone, Frances began to think more seriously about the practical matter of her journey. She would not be traveling alone. She would be attended by Susan, by Jasper Prince (Thomas Cookes personal servant), and William Wallace, whose services had been procured by Thomas Cooke as footman and bodyguard. Then, since no young woman of good breeding and fortune could travel unaccompanied by a social equal or relative, that charge had been given to Priscilla Holmes.

  Priscilla was Frances’ best friend. A pleasant woman of about twenty-five, Priscilla was of middle height, had a round, cheerful face, and winsome gray eyes. She had been widowed two years before and had recently remarried a man twenty-five years her senior. Her status as a married woman with a reputable husband thus qualified her as a suitable chaperone. The party was to leave early the next morning, hence Frances’ concern that the packing be done expeditiously.

  Priscilla, a newlywed herself, was delighted by the opportunity to give advice to Frances about her impending marriage. The two women found a quiet corner of the royal garden where Frances received the benefit of Priscilla Holmes’ experience. Indeed, Priscilla spoke so explicitly of the pains and pleasures of the marriage bed that Frances felt herself flush along the throat and up to the very roots of her flaxen hair, while her heart burned in

  anticipation of the handsome young man with whom she would share these delights.

  “Young men are very eager,” Priscilla observed candidly. “They do not always allow for a virgin's bashfulness by mitigating their first thrusts.”

  Frances had reflected a moment on her friends comment. Then she had said, “1 am sure Thomas will be gentle with me—as gentle as a dove.”

  In making her comment she was also thinking of Priscillas present husband, whom Frances had met. An old man—fifty if he was a day. Was he gentle with his young wife? Worse, was he fully capable of being otherwise? She had heard it was often so with men of later years. Especially those who had taken young wives, whose demands intimidated their husbands into impotence. What did it mean to be old? Surely, at best, it meant wrinkled skin and flatulence, a drooling mouth, missing teeth, waning virility. Frances could not understand how her friend could be happy with a graybeard for a mate and accept her lot with such equanimity.

  Priscilla seemed to read Frances' thoughts. “Henry is a very gentle, patient man. My first husband was hot-blooded and amorous. He pleased me well—I won't be hypocritical and deny it. But he swore violently and drank overmuch and—”

  Priscilla paused. Frances leaned forward with intensified interest in this catalog of vices.

  “And,” Priscilla continued, “he was unfaithful to me.”

  It was the worst of Frances' own fears. Her heart sank. If her winsome companion and friend could not hold her husband to fidelity, what chance did Frances have—especially with a husband so attractive to women as Thomas Cooke?

  “Henry gives me what my first husband did not—constancy,” Priscilla said.

  The two women fell silent, too good friends for such silence to be a breach of good manners. This talk of marital fidelity had further undermined Frances’ confidence. The fear of betrayal enforced her low opinion of her own attractiveness. Was Thomas only marrying her for her money?

  She could hardly imagine in her present state of mind another motive, and to her shame she began to weep.

  Frances’ tears alarmed her friend. “Beshrew me for all this talk of pain and faithlessness,” Priscilla said. “What a fool I am to speak to you thusly, especially when you have so much to fret of—our long journey as well.”

  Frances assured Priscilla that she would be all right soon. It was only a passing mood, these tears. Such tear-storms brides-to-be sometimes fell afoul of as they contemplated the demands of their wedding day.

  To cheer her, Priscilla told a joke about a certain bishop, whose scandalous behavior was at the time the theme of every court gossip. Frances dissolved into laughter so completely that for a while she forgot about her fears of Thomas’ motives, just as she had put behind her her preoccupation with her uncle’s death.

  But the night she was to travel to Derbyshire to take possession of her inheritance, she had a disturbing dream. She had never been to Thorncombe, but her mother had told her of it, and she had enough of an image in her mind to furnish forth a dream of the place. She was walking near her uncle’s lake, which was in her dream hardly more than a pond with pale, clear water and surrounded with shrubs and flowers like the work of Her Majesty’s careful gardeners at Whitehall. Above her, great billowy clouds floated like housewives’ sheets blowing in a March wind and white birds skimmed across the water, laving their wingtips by sudden dips. Watching these things, she felt very free and happy, unburdened from worries and fears and proud that she was the mistress of such a place. She turned to include the castle in her view. The castle occupied a whole hilltop. It was very ancient and very grand in appearance—a domicile an earl might have boasted of. As she continued to marvel at the noble edifice, it seemed to grow larger, its wings, towers, and stories multiplying until she thought that Sir Robert Cecil’s magnificent mansion at Theobalds was a mere gatekeeper’s lodge by comparison.

  But then a sudden frisson of fear passed over her. The birds that had been singing a moment before suddenly disappeared. The sky darkened and the billowy clouds that had seemed like housewives’ sheets turned into great black thunderheads. The clear water of the lake now appeared to be dismal and thick. Looking around her for

  the cause of this transformation, she suddenly felt something grip her ankle.

  Startled, she looked down and saw that she was standing near the edge of the water and what had shot up therefrom with such suddenness to fasten an iron grip upon her was the mottled and maggoty arm and hand of a rotting corpse.

  She woke herself with her own scream ringing in her ears. The vision of horror was replaced by the face of a very angry Mary Throgbottom, bent over her like a snarling gargoyle and saying, "You stupid girl. Quiet! You were having a dream, nothing more. Go back asleep. Another outburst and we shall have the guard streaming in to gawk at us in our nightclothes. You’ll wake the entire palace.”

  Mary Throgbottom returned to her own side of the bed, her back to Frances. Frances lay with her hand tight over her mouth to stifle her sobbing. Ashamed of her tears and her scream, Frances knew she deserved Marys censure. But what else could she have done? Never had she had such a dream! And the worst was what the dream might portend, for she held it sound doctrine that a nocturnal vision of such vividness and strangeness could not be without meaning.

  She lay quaking until dawn, listening to Marys soft breathing and thinking terrible thoughts about putrefying cor
pses. When dawn broke at last, she was much too grateful for the light to be sorry that she had slept so little and now would be tired during the long first day of her journey to Thorncombe.

  She was dressing when she noticed the pale flesh of her delicate ankle bore an ugly bruise. As though what she had dreamed had been no dream at all.

  After breakfast, Moll sent her husband down to the lakeside to look for a variety of edible mushrooms that grew in the moist earth along the shore. When he did not return right away, she was neither vexed nor surprised. The truth was that she did not care a fig for mushrooms. She only wanted to get Cuth out of the way for a while. Accustomed as she had been to the run of the castle, her present confines in the run-down lodge made a difficult problem of adjustment. She also missed the command she had enjoyed as chief servant in the castle. Now she had to content herself with ruling her husband, and he hardly began to gratify her passion for control and manipulation. Slow and deliberate, he seemed always in her way. He irritated her with his mumbling and complaining, his doddering and long heavy sighs and tedious reminiscences of life at Thorn-combe in the days when the master spent ten of the twelve months in Ireland. Moll often made up errands for Cuth to attend to, just to get him out from underfoot.

  The mushroom expedition was such a one. And yet, when Cuth was gone, Moll found the cottage lonely. Especially since the death of the worthy Nebuchadnezzar, whom she continued to mourn as she might have mourned the loss of a beloved child.

  She had not given up her desire for revenge on Joan Stock, who she was sure was to blame for the death. Yet she had yet to

  determine a punishment worthy of the crime. She would not have been satisfied with direct action. What was needed was something devious, something spectacularly clever and monumental. She wanted, in short, not only the punishment of the wrongdoer but a personal triumph of which she might boast to her husband and others for the rest ot her life.