Old Saxon Blood

by Leonard Tourney

  There was a deep silence after this solemn admonition that seemed to Joan to stretch for minutes. Finally the accused answered in a barely audible voice, forced from his throat as though the hangman s noose were already about his neck and these were the last words he was to speak in mortality.

  “As God is my judge, I did not know it was my father who murdered Aileen Mogaill, or the Irishman. Much less Sir John.” Joan heard Cecil laugh skeptically. She could not see his eyes. “Inhabit the same cottage with a madman; eat, drink, and sleep with the same day in and day out and have no inkling of his depravity? How can a son be so ignorant of his father’s mind?” Edward said, his voice a little more audible now and, Joan thought, defensive. “He was my father, and for that very reason I was ignorant—perhaps as much by choice as by neglect. I admit that after Conroy was killed I suspected. Yet I had no proof. I could not accuse him to his face. I could not fathom a reason for the act. My father ever loved me, more than fathers are wont to love their sons, and to him I was equally devoted.”

  Cecil said, “Devoted were you? God save us from such devotion when it abets murder. You maintain you knew nothing about his violent urges?”

  “I believed him incapable, for so the infirmities of age and his condition argued. Long days he sat brooding, without a word. Some days he could not move about or stand. His vision was poor, or so it seemed. Other days he would be lost somewhere in his addled brain and become like a child—look at me as though I were a stranger or ask who Brigid was or who the child she nursed. We thought him harmless in such grave ineptitude, his old hatred of Sir John notwithstanding. And as for this most strange and unpredictable assault upon Mistress Frances, why, Sir Robert, I know not how to explain it other than a mindless vengeance for that she was her uncle’s niece and heir.”

  "What grievance did your father have against Sir John?” Cecil asked.

  "Why, no particular thing, sir, or if it was, he never said, other than Sir John dismissed him from his service upon some infraction.”

  "You say you did not know your father’s intent, and yet you did this very night rush to the castle in search of him and scramble across the rooftop most desperately, after Mistress Stock informed you of her fears. Do you mean to say you didn’t know it was your father you pursued?”

  Edward answered, "I sought to prevent the worst I could imagine, not what I was certain of. Father had been gone most of the day, Brigid had said, and she could not find him. 1 searched the fields myself, thinking he may have stumbled there and not been able to rise again. All day I searched. I came at last to a shed near the cottage where tools are kept. I noticed one removed—a sickle that it is my habit to keep razor-sharp, the better to mow with. Then I thought of the bodies—Aileen Mogaill’s and Conroy’s, whose body I had twice seen: when 1 found it first on the stable floor, and this morning when fate brought it forth from the lake. It came to me then what I had before dared not think, that no passing stranger had perpetrated these enormities but my own flesh and blood. When I went to the castle, Mistress Joan told me of her own fears. I acted at once, wishing no more harm to come, and least to Mistress Frances.”

  "And acted well,” Cecil said after a few minutes of reflection while Joan grew very nervous as to how the great knight would accept the hostler’s word. “But what of Conroy? Surely when you found him dead in the stable, you had cause to suspect that more than a passing stranger had murdered him.”

  "True, I did,” Edward said. "I found Conroy weltering in his blood, killed as Aileen Mogaill before him, and feared the blame of both murders would be laid at my door. I am skilled in tools of every sort and it is my custom to keep them serviceable, honing the blades until they can sever a horse’s hair with little effort. Conroy frequented the stable while he was alive, and it is no secret that he and 1 were not always of the same mind about things. I dragged the body to the lake and had no sooner pushed him in than I heard approaching steps. The old steward it was, Cuth Fludd, mumbling to himself. I left Conroys body on the bank and hid myself, watched while the old man started at the ghastly thing, then bellowed to wake the dead man. He ran off; I suppose to report his find to his wife.

  '‘I pulled the body farther into the lake, pushed it under and secured it to the bottom with rocks and sodden logs, thinking it would rot there. That it would surface soon was not within my reckoning. I swear, I never killed him, no; nor Aileen Mogaill, either. Nor had cause, just or otherwise.”

  "I can't believe in all this you would not have suspected your father,” Cecil said.

  'There may have crossed my mind the fear the way a cloud obscures the sun, then passes on. My worry, I confess, was all upon myself. For this reason, when Mistress Stock came to ask me where Conroy was, 1 told her he had packed his gear and left. In truth, I took his horse and gear and turned both loose in an orchard ten miles distant where, if found, it would be thought the horse a runaway.”

  Cecil sat for a long time considering Edward s version of events while Joan pondered her own feelings. Before them stood either a very clever confederate of a murderous father or a blameless son who deservedly could be called a hero. But which?

  Finally, Cecil said to Matthew, "What say you to what this young man has told us?”

  Joan waited for her husband s response, and while she waited a tightening in her chest prophesied that her own verdict might be required next.

  She considered how she might respond if asked. To her memory came Edwards earlier denial that anything amiss had happened in the stable, his ready assertion that the Irishman had packed and taken horse for parts unknown. All had been presented to her with the frank, open countenance of one to whom a lie is as alien to the tongue as is mercy to the devil. She remembered, too, what Matthew had reported upon return from the Bastian cottage— how Edward had assured him that no child was there, had denied all, knowing in his heart the contrary.

  Edward was a man, then, to whom deception, when deemed politic, came readily. And that realization Joan could not ignore in her deliberations.

  On the other hand, she had watched with fear and trembling as Edward had climbed the ivied walls and scrambled across the roof to circumvent the blockade of the stairs and snatch Mistress Frances from his mad fathers clutches. Had they waited for Cecil to come and exercise his authority over the rowdy guests, the bride might have died there—and perhaps Thomas Cooke, too. She had heard from Mistress Frances’ own lips how Edward’s sharp reproof had stayed the murderer’s hand, how he had given chase. All this she realized as well, and to this she added her own intuitive sense that although Edward had lied before, what he had now confessed before them was more truth than not.

  Finally, Matthew’s own answer came:

  “In faith, Sir Robert. I warrant Edward Bastian acted most bravely in defense of his mistress. He need not have come to the castle or risked his life upon the slippery shingles to save her—and surely would not have been so bold as to corner his father and subject himself to harm, for we both saw how Hugh Bastian slashed the air before him, and we examined the sickle to prove that one touch would have been his present death. As for Conroy, had Edward been his murderer, he would have found a better place to kill him than his own stable, where evidence of blood could not be easily removed. For these and other good reasons, I believe Edward speaks the truth.”

  “And what say you, Joan?” Cecil’s voice said out of the shadowy recesses of the chair.

  The verdict was hers, as she had feared. And before she was fully ready to render it in her own heart, much less speak it aloud as testimony to others.

  And yet speak she must, for so Cecil commanded.

  “What Edward says may well be true, Sir Robert,” Joan said. “Of his courage in saving Mistress Frances’ life 1 am a ready witness. Concerning these other matters—the murders of Aileen Mogaill and Sir John, 1 must confess some things remain unsettled in my mind.”

  “Are these matters of such a nature as you would condemn the man?”

  “They are no
t,” Joan said.

  “Nor shall I then/7 said Cecil, rising.

  “God bless you, Sir Robert,” said Edward, his voice breaking.

  “God bless us all,” said Cecil, “that we may be kept from such evil as your father intended and executed. Let us also pray that murderous impulses are not inherited.”

  Joan whispered a silent prayer to add to Cecils, and then Cecil reminded them that there was still a mystery to be solved. “If our Irish cook has done her work, even now she is conveying to Jack Wylkin the welcome news that the castle is asleep and, given last nights revelry, not likely to wake until noon.”

  “We should hear the explosion at any time now,” said Matthew.

  They all went out into the courtyard. The night was very still, and above their heads the stars shone clearly. Cecil told Edward what they all were waiting for, the distant thunder that should not be thunder at all but the beginning of the end for the lake. Cecil said, “We can use your courage, Edward Bastian, in apprehending Wylkin and Stafford when they come to seek what Sir John disposed of in the lake or hid upon the island.”

  “Gladly will I lend a hand,” replied Edward. “Eor I have little cause to love either man, and would cheerfully see they get what they deserve.”

  No sooner had Edward spoken these words but a dull boom was heard, and immediately thereafter another. Even in the darkness Joan could see a smile spread across Cecils face, and she thought, how much he loves the chase.

  “The arsonist has done his work, it would appear,” Cecil said. “Now lets to bed. Before dawn we must be up and on the lake. My brave companions of the road, Moppitt and Hargrove, will help us too, if we can rouse them from their slumber. And so shall we give these strange events at Castle Thorncombe their long-delayed period.”

  It had taken so long for Una to come that Wylkin began to think she had failed him, and he was heaping on the whole female race a hundred ingenious curses and was about to strike the fuse without her word when he heard footsteps and looked up to see her advancing from the trees.

  “Are they asleep?” he asked in place of greeting. “In good time, for I thought you’d never come.”

  “Asleep as the dead,” she answered.

  “Let them sleep until the Resurrection so they sleep until noon,” Wylkin said. He kissed her quickly on her cold cheek for her pains and without another word set off about his work, his mind totally fixed upon the task at hand.

  Beneath the dam he struck the match and held it to the fuse he had so carefully concealed from prying eyes. It hissed as it burned, to him a very pleasing sound. He watched it for a moment and then scrambled up the hillside out of harm s way. Breathless, he looked down at the long ridge of earth and rock, watching the little glow that recorded the steady consumption of the fuse, until there was nothing but a little pocket of darkness where the light had been before.

  Then the explosion came, explosions rather, for they came in such close succession, it seemed one but triggered the next.

  Wylkin was first half-blinded by the flash and the clouds of dust and debris raining down around him. When it had passed and he could see the stars again, he strained to hear the sound of rushing water that would signal his success.

  He cursed when he heard no sound.

  He climbed down the hillside until he could get close enough to the dam to inspect his work. He could see now that a small breach had been made at the top of the dam and from this a little stream of water ran down the rocky slope into the old dry streambed, like blood pouring from a wound. But it was not enough. He cursed aloud the dam and him who made it, the Challoner tribe, and his ill luck.

  He remembered the powder he had held in reserve for such an exigency and went to retrieve it from its hiding place. Within the next few minutes he worked quickly and skillfully to place it, groping around the earthen structure until he had detected every point of vulnerability. He had only a short fuse left of his store and that troubled him, but he knew he had to take the chance. He could not stop now. He reckoned there remained a good five hours before dawn, and that, if he was going to walk dry-shod to the island, he

  would need at least that time for the lake to drain. Like a pierced carbuncle, he thought, relishing the simile.

  He lighted the fuse and ran for cover.

  In the split second following the final explosion Wylkin knew he had seriously misjudged both the length of the fuse and the time it would take to return to his position of vantage above the dam. Debris from the previous explosions had created new obstacles in his path and he stumbled twice before he was halfway to where he was before when the first and second blasts detonated.

  He was hoisted in the air and flung against the hillside with such force that he heard his bones snap when he hit the ground. At the same instant a sharp, agonizing pain in his left leg and in his ribs confirmed the seriousness of his injuries and the hopelessness of his escaping harm s way.

  A hail of debris fell about his head, he heard a mighty roar like a cavalry charge, and then the black flood, more powerful than he could have dreamed, engulfed him.

  In the gray dawn Matthew could see that Wylkin’s demolition had done its intended work. The lake was gone, and in its place was a brackish swamp.

  With Cecil in the lead and Moppitt and Hargrove behind, Matthew trudged through the muck toward the island, thankful that he had worn his boots. A charged pistol in hand gave him an extra measure of confidence.

  At Matthew’s heels came Edward as a rear guard, armed with a stave and watching the shore for signs of Stafford and his crew. It had been Cecil’s plan, announced before their setting out and while the new day was a mere promise in the east, to occupy the island, search it and its environs, and hold it against Stafford and any other trespasser, with deadly force, if necessary.

  It was very clear to Matthew that Cecil was enjoying immensely his new role as general. Deprived by his diminutive stature from the ordinary joys of soldiery, he was at last getting a chance to indulge, if only on a limited scale.

  The lake bed was treacherous in the immediate vicinity of the island, proving that it was not merely its watery covering that had made it inhospitable to the casual visitor. Deep pools, like the one in which Matthew had nearly drowned, remained, and waterlogged relies of the woods that had once flourished there made rapid

  advance difficult and unsafe. The island, too, was much altered. Now a round-topped hill, it appeared higher than before, and it reminded Matthew of one of the barrows Edward had shown him, which indeed it might have been for all he knew.

  It was Edward’s sharp eye that first detected the cavity in the rocky side, like a low, broad mouth with upper lip fringed with a thick growth of vines. “Look, good sirs, a cave!"

  The men approached and Matthew could see that there was indeed a small opening in the hillside, the entrance to which was now apparent only because of the retreating water.

  Advancing with growing excitement, Matthew bent down to peer. Despite the lack of lamp or torch, he could see that the small opening led upward to an interior vault of generous proportions.

  But the cavity was neither natural nor the work of ancients. The opening had been hewn from the rock with modern tools, and Matthew agreed with Cecils surmise that it had been constructed as a grotto, perhaps by the same French engineer who built the dam.

  The larger chamber into which the men now entered was a natural cavern, perhaps discovered by accident by the grotto’s maker. In the gloom Matthew was able to discern arches, grotesque erections of stone, and drooping icicles—a hoary congregation of petrified forms, as though the old ones who may have worshiped there before the Romans and the Saxons had for their unspeakable blasphemies been metamorphosed into stone.

  But Matthew had not time to meditate on these antiquities. The question was not when Wylkin would come, but why he had not come already, and, as Cecil now pointed out, if there was searching to be done, it ought to be done quickly.

  The men worked their way up the incline
until they stood among the growths of rock. Matthew looked up to the cave’s ceiling and then in the backparts of the cave. The cave was not deep, as it turned out. They could see all there was.

  Cecil commented on the cave’s expanse; his voice echoed strangely. Then Matthew saw that against one of the walls was a natural dais, a shelf of rock. He pointed it out to Cecil and the two men went over to investigate, Cecil voicing his regret that they had not brought torches.

  Matthew realized with sudden amazement that the shelf was not an altar but a bier.

  The corpse upon the stone seemed to have been laid out in state, for the hands were crossed upon the chest, as they were in marble effigies of the dead he had seen in churches. Rotting garments, once of good quality, clothed the skeleton, and upon the bony ribs lay a medallion bearing the Challoner crest.

  Cecil noticed the gash in the skull. “Another murder. And a Challoner, unless the medallion he wears was stolen.”

  Edward said, “Thats Arthur Challoner, Sir Robert. It could be no other.”

  “Arthur Challoner?”

  “Sir Johns brother,” Edward said reverently. “He we all thought was lost in Ireland almost twenty years ago. My father often spoke of him as a most worthy gentleman, not like the others of his blood.”

  Cecil said, “Well, he did indeed die violently. The blow came from behind, cracking the skull, and since he is garbed for peace, not war, and he is buried obscurely here without the honors that were his due, it takes no great imagination to conceive him murdered. Doubtless by him who had most to benefit by his death, the second son, Sir John Challoner.”

  The five men now began to search for treasure, poking into every nook and cranny, feeling, when they needed for want of light, and assuring themselves at last that all within was as solid as it seemed, with no hidden passages or crypts. If there was booty at all, Cecil said at length, it was elsewhere on the island. “We came to find a treasure trove and instead have found a sepulcher. Marry, it’s not the first time pregnant rumor has birthed an airy nothing. The devil must be given his due, for indeed, because John Challoner was a murderer, as it now appears, does not mean he was an extortionist to boot, although a man may swing for one crime as well as t’other.”