Frobisher's Savage

by Leonard Tourney

  For Joan the fire was a disturbing spectacle, for she was uncertain whether this was the disaster her glimmering had foretold or she should look elsewhere, perhaps at Crookback Farm itself. Word spread almost as quickly as the flames that Master Barber had been the fire’s first victim, and there were many expressions of sympathy for his granddaughter, who had been able to flee the house before the flames reached her and who proclaimed in gasping, half-finished sentences to any who would listen that she had done all a body could for the old man and would have died before she allowed a hair of his blessed head to be singed. But Mistress Gordon was in worse condition, even though she and her family had got out in time. The worthy woman, who had been burned out twice before in her life, wept and wailed and raised a great tumult, crying that now they should be homeless paupers, but Joan, who knew the woman well, consoled her with the assurance that her neighbors would help her rebuild. The important thing now was that the fire be put out before it could destroy more houses.

  Water was fetched in pan and pail from every comer of the town and thrown on the fire. Within the hour the flames had died to embers, and those who had braved the night to save the houses of their neighbors stood around shivering and exhausted but congratulating themselves on a job well done. Then the women went home, taking their men with them, except for about two dozen men who returned to the taverns and brothels to celebrate their victory and gratify thirst or lust, or both.

  Joan watched all this and yet kept looking into the dark end of the street for Matthew to return. She knew he would not have slipped home, not with the town on fire. He was still at the farm or somewhere along the road, she suspected. And her memory of her vision would not leave her.

  Joan and Elizabeth walked slowly home, praying as Joan opened the door that he would be inside. But he was not.

  Peter was there, however. The apprentice was extending his hands toward the hearth and looking very weary. She saw he was covered with cinders and realized he had been one of the dark figures fighting the fire. She asked him how he did.

  “Oh, I do very well, mistress, ” the young man said, “but am weary from carrying water all the night.”

  “You should wash your face,” Joan said. “You look like a Moor with all that soot upon your cheeks.”

  But then she told him the dirt could wait, and begged a favor.

  Peter looked up and said, “You may command me in anything, Mistress Stock. You know you can, for all that you and your good husband have done for me.”

  Mildred Carew hadn’t seen her sister at the fire and was curious as to how Agnes could have missed so notable an event. Thus it was that as soon as it became plain there would be no more excitement that night, she made her way down to her sister’s house, both to see how Agnes and her poor brother-in-law fared and to complain about her own husband’s brutish manners, how he had simply marched out of the house to drink wine until midnight, and she as big as a bam with child, and the whole town in danger of burning down around her.

  When she came to the door she saw no lamp or candlelight within the windows, but only the soft glow of the fire in the hearth, which seemed more than strange to her, for she knew Hugh Profytt at least was home, bedridden as he was with his broken limb and, she had heard, a raging fever. Despite the seeming evidence of Agnes’s absence, Mildred knocked, and having no answer she assumed a sister’s privilege and tried the door. It was not bolted. What should a sister do but enter?

  A pallet had been set up in the parlor for Hugh Profytt and by the light of the poorly tended fire she could see his sleeping form upon it. She could also hear his labored breathing, assuring her that the poor wretch, whom she had never liked very much, was still among the living. She was about to leave when she heard strange sounds from the adjoining chamber, where the Profytts normally slept. Here was more breathing of a labored sort, but not sleeping. Approaching she made the noises out to be sighs and groans of pleasure.

  Her curiosity now hotter than the fire had been, Mildred pushed open the door to the bedchamber, where she saw round white buttocks and bare brawny shoulders rocking in her sister’s bed, which trembled with these exertions, and slender white arms embracing this muscular, clearly masculine figure.

  “Agnes?” she said even before she thought the better of it.

  The rocking stopped, and the man raised himself suddenly from his work and twisted around in the bed, so that Mildred could not fail to understand just what labors she had interrupted, and that the workman was the stonemason, William Dees.

  “What are you doing here?” Mildred gasped.

  Then Mildred saw Agnes clearly enough, her hair all wild as though a rough wind had blown it and her face contorted in a mixture of amazement and anger. She was still panting from her amorous play and her jaw was slack.

  “Mildred,” Agnes cried, “what is the matter that you do not knock but come boldly in?”

  These questions raised between the sisters, Mildred could hardly think of another thing to say. She backed slowly from the room, unable to remove her eyes from the generous display of human flesh before her and feeling somehow that her sister had triumphed again, for how could her story of her own husband’s vile conduct ever compete with the story Agnes would tell to explain this bold adultery, and with her poor husband asleep in the next room.

  For all his suffering, Matthew was vaguely aware that it was doubtless warmer within the well than aboveground, but that gave him little comfort. His chief cause of agony was the apparent hopelessness of his situation. Satisfied for some time now that his assailant had departed, Matthew had yelled for help at the top of his lungs until no sound came forth but a hoarse croak. His only consolation was the sight of the stars, which seemed in his extremity somehow more brilliant and numerous. These reminded him of the heavenly realm where he should shortly go, and having screamed until his throat was raw and wept, too, he resigned himself to death and prayed for his soul and the comfort of the wife and daughter he should leave behind him, widow and orphan.

  It was, he reflected, an earlier death than he’d had any reason to expect. And yet what was he?—thirty-three, Christ’s age when Our Lord was crucified, so why should he complain? Matthew had had a good life. There was no denying that. He had enjoyed the love of the best of women. He had fathered a child, who, while no son, was a daughter of superlative qualities. He had enjoyed success and good repute among his fellow townsmen, at least until Agnes Profytt and her party had defamed him. Perhaps it was a good time to die.

  But for all these morbid reflections, Matthew felt a disappointment. It would have been good to know whom he had to thank for his fate. If his assailant had only given Matthew a glimpse of himself or spoken a word, so that his voice might be recognized, had only left some clue in his violence. But Matthew searched his memory and could find nothing. Yet he had been lifted up, which argued arms and main strength; had been placed where the other bodies had been deposed, which argued reason. Perhaps, he considered, it might argue sheer insanity.

  The moon now rose above the brim of the shaft and a shard of light fell down the well onto his face. Light glistened on the moist stones all around him, and their blackness took on a strange, unearthly sheen. Black stones the well was made of, stones fitted together with great skill, with cement in between to hold them in place. . . .

  Black stones.

  His memory quickened. Black stones containing gold, the Italian assayer had said in Ralph Hawking’s letter, the one which John Crookback had held in enough esteem to retain with his most precious papers all those years. Were these, then, the stones Agnello wrote of? He did not remember having seen the like in Essex fields. Yet if these were the very stones the Italian had assayed, how were they so humbly used in a mere well, rather than stored up in some secret place with other treasures?

  But of course, he considered, that was it. What better place to hide the precious ore but in the ground where no one would think for a moment to look for it? Then he remembered what Master Fuller h
ad said: the stones were not gold. The whole thing was a fraud. The investors had lost their shirts, had been up in arms against Frobisher, whom they blamed for the fiasco. Yet Ralph Hawking had been given an assurance otherwise. He had thought them of worth, valued them enough to conceal them.

  His thoughts drifted. He was beyond weariness, beyond the exhaustion of labor. Lodged like a bone in the throat of the well, he could not climb, yet neither could he fall. He would have fain slept but his pain was too great. He thought again of death and its advantages, and it almost seemed to him that he could hear Joan’s voice calling.

  Then he realized he did hear Joan’s voice. He shouted as much as he could and was gratified to find his own voice had returned somewhat. When there was no response but silence from above, he shouted again, bending his head back to view the stars, imagining that they could reach down to offer him succor. He shouted again, “God help me, Joan. I’m here. Down in the well.”

  The stars were obscured by a human face, but not Joan’s.

  “Peter Bench! Is that you, lad? For God’s sake, throw down a rope that I might rise.”

  Peter’s face disappeared and was quickly replaced by Joan’s.

  “Matthew, Matthew, Matthew! Is it you or some other in the well? We thought your calls a spirit’s cry and hardly dared to look for fear of what we might see.”

  “Have no fear,” Matthew called. “I’m no spirit come back to haunt my rescuers. Throw me a rope. Pray be quick. I suffer from this position.”

  It took them what seemed to Matthew a very long time to find a rope to throw down, and before it dangled before his face he overheard the discussion between wife and apprentice as to how it might be secured, for Joan said she had no intention to offer help that should be none at all but allow her husband to drop into a watery grave.

  Then the rope came, slowly. Matthew seized it with one hand, and feeling insufficient strength in doing so he took the rope’s end, called for slack, and tied it round his waist.

  “You will have to pull me up. I have not enough strength to climb.”

  Joan helped Peter pull Matthew up. The ascent was slow. When Matthew came to the rim there was a great struggle to get him over, and he lay on the edge of the well taking great gulps of air, every muscle in his body aching. When between the three of them they’d managed to get him completely free and he’d had the chance to catch his breath, he told Joan what she had already surmised for herself.

  “So you never saw his face?”

  “Nor did I hear a voice.”

  Her disappointment was palpable. She told Matthew her side of the story, told him about her vision, about the fire, and about the nagging doubt that would not be satisfied unless she came to Crookback Farm herself.

  “We’ll have you home and in bed in no time,” she said.

  “Not home, Joan.”

  “Not home?”

  “To the manor house. I must see Sir Thomas.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Tonight.”

  Chapter 17

  Matthew and Joan had been to Mildmay Hall before, on certain high holidays, when the lord of the manor extended his bounty to the common folk of the town, but they had never seen it so turbulent with activity. After the deserted farm and the black well, the hall seemed a little city of light.

  Despite the hour, the house was in great commotion, with horses saddled and ready in the courtyard and candles and torches ablaze. Servants rushed upstairs and down. Others merely stood in the high-raftered hall, armed and buzzing. Matthew and Joan found Hubert Selby giving instructions to two other servants. Hubert told them the news: That Nicholas Crookback had hanged himself with his own hose; that Adam Nemo had made a daring escape, and from a warder twice his size and reputed to be a great wrestler; that Sir Thomas was preparing another search party and swearing this time there would be no gentle treatment for the fugitive, who had proved his guilt beyond question by his second flight from lawful authority.

  “My master is beyond his wits with choler. He rants and raves at every servant, save for me, who am ever loved by him.’’ Hubert said this with curled lips, as though he were savoring the decline from grace of his fellows. “The hanging of the dummy didn’t bother my master so much.”

  The excited servant did not seem to notice Matthew’s disheveled appearance, his badly bruised face, and the wretched condition of his cloak after his ordeal in the well, and it was all Matthew could do to get a word in edgewise. “I must see your master, and this minute,” Matthew said. “I have news of my own that will bear on these matters that so concern him.”

  “Unless it’s to tell him where the savage went, I doubt he’ll give you his ear,” said Hubert. Despite this profession of doubt, he beckoned Matthew and Joan to follow and ushered the two through a quieter region of the house, which was a very handsome one, well furnished and imposing. “At the moment he can think of one thing and one thing only, for he regards the escape as a disgrace to him—for which he punished Faulkbome most severely.”

  “Faulkbome?”

  “The warder he placed in charge of the prisoners. A great dull-witted fellow whose only virtue is the breadth of his shoulders and his sheer altitude. But the little savage outwitted him. Though I love no murderers, yet it did my heart good to hear of it.”

  They arrived at a heavy oak door at the end of a long passage, where Hubert told Matthew and Joan to wait. He knocked, Matthew heard Mildmay say, “Come,” and then Hubert disappeared inside.

  Hubert was not gone but for a minute when he appeared again. “It’s as I supposed. My master says he’s much too busy to talk now. He entreats you to come another time or put your request in writing for his secretary to consider.”

  “This cannot wait,” Matthew said. “Tell him I have discovered the true murderer of John Crookback and his family.” Hubert’s eyes grew round with surprise. “The true murderer, you say? Well, then, this is news indeed—if it is to be credited.”

  “Why should it not be?” Joan said.

  “Why, no particular reason, Mistress Stock, other than this is a stale debate betwixt my master and your husband. No, I think Sir Thomas will not tolerate another effort to dissuade him from his present conviction. Even now, Master Fuller is within, and you know what he believes. Neither gentleman will be converted from his previous opinions. Take my word for it.”

  “Nonetheless, I must try, Hubert. And you must help.’

  Matthew’s plain appeal had its effect. Hubert nodded, but he seemed hesitant to reenter his master’s chamber.

  “Why do you not go in?” Matthew asked, seeing that Hubert made no move to comply.

  “Don’t you see, Matthew?” Joan said, turning to her husband and pressing his arm. “Hubert speaks wisely. Such a reason will hardly alter his master’s will. It’s the same old dispute, which you twain struggled with before. Mildmay is hardly going to lend a sympathetic ear at this point, no matter what evidence you supply.”

  Matthew looked at Joan helplessly. He realized that she was right. Then he turned back to Hubert.

  “Then tell Mildmay that I know where the savage has gone.”

  Hubert looked at Matthew doubtfully. “You must swear to me that it is so. I will be made no tool to wrench my master’s solid opinions.”

  “I swear it,” Matthew said, feeling only a little guilty at the deception necessity had brought him to.

  “Hubert says you know the whereabouts of Adam Nemo,” Sir Thomas said before Matthew could open his mouth. “How would you know such a thing, given that he escaped within the hour?”

  “Perhaps Master Stock is gifted with second sight, Sir

  Thomas,” Fuller said, his scowl changing to a grim smile. “In which case I wonder that he refused Your Honor of the benefit when we spent so much effort bringing the fugitive to ground.”

  “I have found out the truth from experience,” Matthew said, and then began to speak as fast as he could, fearful that if he stopped the magistrate would order him to be silen
t or Fuller would make another demeaning comment.

  As it happened, Matthew’s appearance was sufficient to catch the attention of the magistrate, who had asked him what had befallen him as soon as Joan and Matthew had entered the room, but even when it became clear that Matthew’s savage was not the savage Sir Thomas sought, the deception did not arouse the ire that Hubert and Matthew himself had feared. Sir Thomas heard Matthew out, heard him out long enough to cross the threshold of incredulity and consider that they might all have been mistaken. But where the magistrate listened with surprising patience, Fuller mocked.

  “This is an idle tale,” he said heatedly. “The man has fallen off his horse to receive such bruises. He has invented a story to save himself from ridicule and his friend from the just demands of the law.”

  “Every word my husband has said is true,” Joan said, content until that moment to let her husband voice their shared opinions.

  “I would expect a faithful wife to affirm nothing less,” Fuller answered, with a nod toward Joan that offended her more than stony silence would have done.

  Sir Thomas turned to Fuller and said, “Look, Simeon. We will accomplish little with a hue and cry this time of night. The warders tell me our savage hadn’t eaten since he was taken, probably not since his first flight. How far can he go? Who will give him succor? Our good Matthew Stock here gives us a plausible tale, and his appearance gives more evidence that what he says is true. Those bruises upon his face and tears in his clothes do not seem the consequence of a fall from a horse. I believe it is even as he has said. ”

  Fuller looked annoyed at being contradicted but said nothing. He turned and stared into the fire.

  Sir Thomas stood thinking for a few minutes more. Then he said, “Well, come. We have little time to wait. Let us experiment upon your theory, good Master Stock, and see if it will hold water or leak.”

  Matthew had hoped Sir Thomas would provide at least a dozen of his servants to support Matthew’s cause and he was not disappointed. In fact, Sir Thomas came himself, and Fuller came too, although Matthew supposed more to see his failure than support his new effort.