But Wylkin performed his labor cheerfully and would not have complained even if he had had a companion to complain to. For already in his minds eye he could envision the catastrophe his labors would produce—an explosion of fire and smoke and a deafening noise that would release the contents of Challoner s vile lake down their true and natural course, making accessible at the same time Challoners treasure isle. Wylkin contemplated this outcome with great pleasure. His motive was more than greed. He was an arsonist at heart.
With the care of one long experienced in such work, he placed the kegs at intervals at the base of the dam to maximize the effect of the blasts. The last two of the kegs he decided to hold in reserve, concealing them in a shallow cave just above the dam.
The dam had been well constructed but was in need of repair. Time had violated its integrity, and all along its foundations an ominous seepage could be detected. All of this was to the good, Wylkin thought. He took a length of fuse and linked the kegs, giving special attention to the fuses end, which he splayed into a downy tassel to improve its ignition capabilities. Then, as a precaution to premature discovery, he hid the kegs beneath loose rock and uprooted bushes.
The plot, to his mind, had the simplicity of a child’s game; for he was preparing for a special moment to come. He would set fire to the powder on the wedding night of the Challoner bride, when bride, bridegroom, and guests, besotted with wine and merriment, would be asleep, or, if by some miracle awake, think the blasts the roll of distant thunder.
Thereafter, if Wylkin did his work aright, Challoner’s lake would drain like a pierced carbuncle. Come daylight, Wylkin, his master, and other stout fellows secured for the service, would walk to the island and appropriate with impunity whatever treasure was concealed there, fair field and no favor.
That arson was a capital crime meant nothing to Wylkin; he would have received as severe a sentence for stealing a loaf of bread or a good round of cheese.
An important element in his plan was Una, whom he required as accomplice in his demolitions, for through her he might learn at what moment it was safe to proceed. And for that reason he regretted now that he had lost his temper with her at their last interview. Reconciliation would be difficult, given his harsh words. He would have to resume the guise of the jolly wooer, swallow his hateful language as a bitter pill to a desirable end. Could it be done? His growing excitement at the prospect of laying his hands on Challoner booty had given sexual conquest a lower priority than it normally enjoyed in his mind. That morning, before leaving Stafford Hall, he had found Alice Stafford’s subtle hints and flirting tiresome. Had she offered herself to him stark-naked in her husband’s bed, with the air perfumed like a rose garden and the lascivious plunkings of a lute to accompany their coupling, still he would have leapt over her body to deliver the powder to its destination.
He slept for a few hours on the hillside, with only his heavy cloak and cap for warmth, but he slept dreamlessly and without thought for the hard earth or the fearsome loneliness of the hills. When dawn came, he proceeded to the castle.
He knew at this time of the morning Una would be in the kitchen. He lurked around the wellhouse until she came out on the kitchen porch and stood there in the crisp morning air shielding her eyes. Did she know he was there somehow? He didn’t wonder long. He whistled a string of notes they had agreed on as a signal. At once she lifted her head. He knew she had heard. She began to walk toward his hiding place.
He showed himself briefly and then moved quickly back into the trees, trusting that she would follow. He walked for a dozen or more paces before looking behind him. When he turned he was not surprised to see her following, like a sheep following the bellwether.
At their usual trysting place he stopped and watched her come through the trees toward him. He could see that her face was slightly altered in its expression. She seemed neither angry nor expectant, and this puzzled him. Suddenly he realized how much he despised her for her docility, and in so doing he remembered what he had called her—fool, stupid bitch, old woman—words that would have instilled undying hatred and loathing in a soul of any pluck, hateful words deserving no forgiveness in this world or the next.
He greeted her uncertainly, watching her face. She returned the greeting and kept on coming until she threw her arms around his waist and kissed his cheek as though there had never been strong words between them.
He was amazed. Dumbfounded. And had he not been so convinced that her pliancy was a testimony to the defect in female nature, he would have been more suspicious than he was.
But he suspected nothing and immediately began to press on her his need for a trustworthy friend in a daring enterprise. He told her that their hour of opportunity had come, that soon the both of them would be rich and, yes, free to marry. She listened without
expression or comment, staring at him as she might have stared at a perfect stranger. Sensing her sudden unresponsiveness and more than ever aware of how greatly he was in need of an ally at the castle, Wylkin stooped to beg her pardon for his ill-considered words during their last meeting.
'Take it as Jack Wylkin’s anger, and not as Jack Wylkin himself. I was possessed of a terrible demon of choler. Forgive me for it/’
Her lips curled into a thin smile; she did not speak.
"Still angry, are you? I tell you, I need you in this,” he declared with unfeigned urgency. "Your master’s treasure stands within our reach. But we must act in concert.”
"What will you have me do?” she asked.
Taking her answer as a sign that greed was an adequate route to regaining her goodwill and cooperation, Wylkin now placed his plan before her in its fullness. "Of risk there is but little,” he said. “Only signal to me when the castle is asleep so that I may work my mischief in the greatest privacy and half my gain shall be yours. The best is that your part will never be known.”
"But is the plan not dangerous?” she said, still seeming reluctant. But the expression in her eyes had changed; he had noticed that, and in the change he felt she was yielding. Hopeful, he cast his repentent manner aside and played the wooer again. "Come,” he said. “Say you will do it and we will seal the bargain with our lips.”
"And then,” she said, looking up at him with mild eyes, "seal it with our bodies too?”
The smile came again. It was a smile he had not seen before. She seemed somehow a different woman and the novelty fired his lust. He reached out to grab the fullness of her body and was delighted when she yielded to him without further protest or reprimand. He kissed her neck and shoulders. She laughed a little as he took her, and this he interpreted as a sign of her pleasure in his lovemaking, for he could not imagine that she would have anything to mock.
Una did not find her lovemaking with Jack Wylkin unpleasant, even though she had resolved to betray him. In her mind, he had now already received the reward for his treachery, and somehow
they were even again, quite without his knowing it. Her love for the man had been displaced first by a desire for cruel revenge, and now by a kind of pity for one who stumbles forward in blind ignorance of a pit everyone can plainly see.
When their rendezvous had concluded and he had given her instruction, he kissed her good-bye and said, “When we meet again we will quarrel only as to which of us is the richer by this deed.”
He told her to take care. “You are an engineer now, a soldier of the wars. Go into battle with a high heart.”
She assured him that her heart had never been so high. She told him, too, savoring the irony of the double meaning, that she had him to thank for the joy she felt.
He grinned with self-satisfaction at her words, and by his expression and general manner she knew he suspected nothing. What fools men are, she thought. How easily deceivers are themselves deceived.
When he was out of her sight she went directly to the house and told the steward and housekeeper everything—about Stafford, about the treasure, and about Wylkin’s plan to discover and snatch the same while al
l were asleep. She asked forgiveness for her deception—her feigned ignorance of their language—and her complicity with the man who now had earned her hatred.
“A bold plot,” Joan exclaimed, astonished at the audacity of Staffords servant.
Matthew echoed his wife’s sentiment. “Many thanks to you for revealing this. But tell me, for what reason would you betray your lover?”
Unas eyes filled with tears. “He did not love me. He said he did, but he loved only the treasure I was to bring him.”
“I believe you,” Joan said, taking the Irishwomans hands. “And forgive you also.”
Una went her way, beginning for the first time to regret a little what she had done. Yet she knew recanting was too late now. She scorned herself for her lack of resolve, but then she remembered what Wylkin had called her in his choleric fit and she realized his eager embraces and honeyed words had no more substance than breath upon cold glass.
As soon as Una had departed, Matthew and Joan commenced an earnest discussion of this new information and what use they might make of it.
“So it is treasure then for which Conroy searched/’ “Robbed from churches and Catholic households—a dishonorable kind of soldiery, if you ask me,” Matthew said.
“So much for Sir Johns reputation—a thing of naught.” “The worst will be his failure to give the Queen her due,” Matthew added. “Which makes him traitor as well as brigand. Had this been known, he would have been tried and convicted for his crimes. He would have died upon the gibbet rather than drowned in the lake.”
“Our immediate purpose should be to prevent Wylkin’s stratagem,” Joan said with resolve.
“I’ve been giving that some thought,” Matthew said. “Especially in light of our discussion yesterday. Why prevent him at all?” “What! Allow the man to drain the lake and find the treasure?” Joan wondered if Matthew’s illness had not also affected his good judgment.
“Let Wylkin do his work,” he repeated.
“Husband, you confound me!”
Matthew laughed. “Think, Joan. Did we not lament that the lake could not be drained?”
“So we did.”
“Consider this, then. Wylkin shall have his signal as he supposes, fire his powder, unleash the flood, but it is we who shall have the element of surprise.”
“And Mistress Frances’ permission will not be sought.”
“Nor needed,” he answered.
It was a warm day for so late in the year and the windows ot the Privy Gallery at Whitehall stood open to let in the mild air. The Queen, dressed in a white taffeta gown lined with scarlet and ornamented with pearls and rubies, was seated in private conference with Master Secretary Cecil. In her lap was a little volume ot Seneca, whose Stoic doctrines gave her much satisfaction in her days of pain and suffering. Her attendants, her Maids of Honor, stood at a respectful distance, for few at court enjoyed the intimacy with the Queen that Cecil did.
During a long morning they had talked of weighty matters of state. She had talked, rather, for it was Cecils special wisdom to be ever the listener, to advance his own ideas with proper caution. This strategy the Queen well understood. And encouraged. For at her advanced age and in her weakened condition she was impatient with debate.
In due course, their conversation came around to the Challon-er drowning, as Cecil was sure it would sometime before his dismissal.
‘The girl is gone from the court, you know/’ the Queen said. “Off to be married to Thomas Cooke. Why, she must be in Derbyshire by now. And no word as yet from Constable Stock?”
“None, Majesty,” Cecil said regretfully. He took the liberty of
reminding his royal mistress of the terms of their wager. Stock had a month to discover the murderer and return. “We lack a good week or more of that,” he said.
In fact, he had hoped she had forgotten the wager. But that was a foolish hope. Although she was old, her ability to recall minute details of earlier conversations was uncanny. And he knew that she was much too fond of gambling to overlook the forty crowns hanging in the balance.
‘‘A few days,” she said dismissively. “Fie upon them What can be done in so little time that has not been done in a fortnight? You’ve lost, Robin. You and your constable of Chelmsford. Now pay up!”
She stretched out an open palm as though she expected him to have the money ready. And for a moment he really believed by the severity of her expression that he must surrender it.
“But, Your Majesty,” he protested good-humoredly, “surely you won’t violate the terms of the wager. We agreed to a month, and though nothing was put in writing, yet it was spoken by the Queen’s lips. I do trust Your Majesty will keep your royal word, for a Queen’s word is a sacred thing.”
She laughed at this adroit response and slowly withdrew her hand. By which gesture he knew his money was safe. At least until the end of the month’s time. But she continued to press him about the matter. Why had Stock not written? What was going on in Derbyshire?
“The Chelmsford constable’s long silence betokens failure—or worse,” she said. She waited for an answer.
It was not soon in coming. Cecil was loath to admit failure— on his own part or on the part of his servants or agents. It was not the forty crowns. That was a mere pittance to one as rich as he. He knew that the Queen had been skeptical of Matthew Stock’s abilities from the time she gazed upon his plain, simple countenance. Her skepticism had egged Cecil on, made him bold in wagering. His pride was at stake—and perhaps more. The Queen’s confidence was mixed up in it, too.
He looked at his royal mistress and noticed how frail she seemed. Her cheeks, heavily rouged to disguise the pallor of her recent indisposition, seemed as thin as parchment. Her eyes were tired, as though she had strained them by reading in poor light. Her
jeweled hand shook with a palsy. Surely old age was no jest. It came to fell both King and clown and would be at his side soon enough.
He had to agree that Matthew Stocks silence did not bode well. And yes, perhaps he had erred in judgment.
He deftly changed the subject, reminding her that she had promised an audience within the hour to the French ambassador.
“Ah yes,” she said without enthusiasm. “The Frenchman again.”
With a subtle motion of her hand she made him understand their interview was at an end. Yet she had one final word on the Challoner business.
“Don’t worry yourself, Robin, about the Chelmsford constable and his wife. Sir John may have not been murdered after all. I de believe that’s Mistress Frances’ opinion now. Or perhaps thoughts of wedded bliss have given a large draught of the river Lethe to her gloomier meditations.”
Cecil expressed no opinion himself of this interpretation. He did acknowledge, with an elegant, congratulatory bow of the head, that Frances Challoner had made a very good match for herself. He did not know Thomas Cooke, but he knew the father and he knew that no apple falls far from the trunk.
“I made the match,” the Queen said with a toss of her head. “Frances is full of pluck, bright and winsome. Indeed, in her I see my own youth, for I was very like her in countenance and, yes, an orphan too.”
“But not husbanded,” Cecil remarked teasingly.
She put the Seneca she had cradled in her lap aside and rose, taking Cecil’s hand for support. He gave her his arm and the Queen and her Principal Secretary walked to the end of the gallery. “Never husbanded.” she said, but whether with regret or satisfaction, Cecil could not tell. “To have been husbanded would have been to be mastered. I have allowed one master of my soul, fesus Christ my Redeemer. But I would have none for my body. Frances wdl have a master for her body and I wish her joy of him. He seems a stalwart, promising youth. Although he’s a second son, there’s grit in him. He’ll advance and be advanced.”
“With royal approval I am sure he will advance,” Cecil said.
“I nmy pray he’s gentle with her. For she’s a sweet child and I would fain see her tree from suffering.�
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“Are you not worried about her going to Thorncombe?" he asked.
They had come to the end of the gallery. Her attendants began to advance toward her but she warned them off with a stern regard. She was not yet finished with Cecil.
“I am worried a little." she admitted. “Not that I fear for her life from a murderer, but because I fear for her. You will think, Robin, that what I've just said makes no sense whatsoever. That I am an addled old woman."
He started to protest, but she put her hand to his lips to silence
him.
“I have an uneasy feeling about Frances. I blessed her marriage. I encouraged her to advance the date, thinking it would rid her of her morbid preoccupations. If anything happens to the child, I will not forgive myself."
“What would Your Majesty have me do?"
“Send someone after her. Someone you can trust. Let him be no mere servant but a person of authority and intellect. Someone with a strong arm."
“A soldier? One of the captains?"
“Not necessarily," she said. “Just so he is no ordinary constable."
“Very well, Your Majesty," Cecil said, bowing low but feeling the sting of her implied rebuke.
“And, Robin."
“Yes, Majesty?"
“I will gladly risk the loss of twenty crowns we wagered but not the loss of Frances Challoner. If he whom you send has the least inkling of murder having been committed at Thorncombe, I will have Frances fetched home straightway to London. As I said, if anything happens to that girl because of arrangements I have made on her behalf I will never forgive myself—nor you, either, for it was you who recommended Matthew Stock to this post, wherein he has so plainly failed."
“Yes, Majesty."
“Have him whom you send inform Stock he has not pleased me in this."
“I will so instruct him."
The Queen’s attendants now were summoned to her side and Cecil watched while they led her away. He could hear the Queens voice chiding the women for something, but the substance was lost in the midst of the other voices. It did not matter. He had been given his dismissal—and his instructions.
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