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  Three quarters of an hour brought Edward to his father’s cottage. He opened the door and went inside. In the corner a fire had been laid and before it sat a stooped form. Alerted by the familiar steps and greeting, the old man looked up at his son with vacant eyes and smiled crookedly. Then a woman’s voice was heard. It was a soft voice, loving and accented in the Irish way. The woman was seated on a low pallet in one of the corners. In her arms she held a suckling child. Edward could hear the sounds the child made at its mother’s breast and they filled him with a tenderness that dispelled his anger.

  He went over to the woman and bent down to kiss her. The lips were full and warm, the breath sweet. The child pulled its mouth from the mother’s swollen nipple and looked up at Edward with bright eyes. Incomprehensible babbling came from the child’s mouth, puckered in the dim light like a little red flower. “He’s welcoming his father, don’t you see,” the woman said softly.

  "Already he knows you.”

  Matthew and Joan traveled by coach the best part of the way north, with a liveried footman provided by Cecil and another square-faced, sober fellow whose duty it seemed to be to guard their bodies from rude assault, although no assaults were threatened. But long before Buxton they said good-bye to the footman and his friend and traded the coach for a countryman’s cart. For many hard miles they traveled, passing through country so unlike her native Essex that Joan would have thought she was in a foreign land. The inhabitants, too, seemed passing strange. They appeared to be suspicious of outsiders and spoke with a thick speech, as though they had stones in their mouths. When in one rude hamlet a child begged a penny for her goodness, Joan was only able to decipher what he meant from his supplicating gestures and the obvious fact of his undernourished condition.

  Before dark each of their days on the road, they stopped at inns, none of which she found as inviting as the least of those that hosted Essex wayfarers. Matthew grumbled about the hardness of the beds, the damp chill in the air—like winter. And the coarse food, which ill suited his stomach. The driver of the cart was a thickset farmer who wore a wollen cap he’d pulled over most of his head and a heavy outergarment that made him look like a bear. All his discourse was grunts and mumbles, sighs and snorts, from which Joan could detect on rare occasions some affirmation or denial of

  the simple questions directed to him. She felt she might have had better conversation with a sleeping dog.

  And thus, after four days of travail, they came to the village nearest to Thorncombe. It was a mean, lowly place, cursed with an air of unremediable misfortune. There were only a dozen or so dwellings that could be called houses. The rest were mere hovels, without windows or chimneys and half buried in the ground. There was one narrow twisting street, uncobbled and rutted. A stone church without tower to dignify it stood at the town center in a state of scandalous neglect. It was the only public building. Next to the church a churchyard of ancient monuments and memorials was overwhelmed in rank growth of weeds and briers, providing a testament of lifes transience to warm the heart of the sternest moralist. It would have been as futile to inquire who occupied the pulpit of the church on Sundays as to speculate as to the number of worshipers. The village church would not see the meanest ol curates in twelvemonth, and there would not be a dozen of the village s dour, impoverished inhabitants who would complain of the loss.

  There was an inn in the village, aptly named the Sheepcote, for it was as filthy as one. Of need, the Stocks lodged there, it being too late in the day to continue. They were served a middling supper by a dour innkeeper who was also cook and scullion and then were shown to a small, windowless room—hardly more than a closet— and to a bed that might have served as an instrument of torture to the most obdurate of malefactors. It was short and hard, a scattering of straw upon roughhewn boards, and the sheets were smelly and crawling with vermin. Joans consolation was that these quarters were cheap and the house was silent during the night, for they were the inn s only guests, their driver having had the wisdom to bed down with his horse in the stable.

  The next morning, they dressed themselves shivering from the cold and damp, then went into the kitchen to warm themselves by the fire. But they took no breakfast there. Instead, they bought boiled eggs and milk from a street vendor, Joan having sworn not to taste another morsel in so unsavory a place. “Even the direst poverty cannot excuse such squalor," she pronounced as they rode out of town.

  A heavy morning mist shrouded the valley, and Joan experienced the eerie sensation of passing from one world into the next, of leaving behind the familiar shape of things and moving into a realm of shadows and illusions. They made a slow ascent up an escarpment of rocks and deep ravines until they came to a range of long hills with gentle slopes covered by low, scraggly bushes and totally devoid of occupants except for an occasional prowling fox or darting hare, circling hawks, and—at greater distance—flocks of sheep browsing on the hillsides like patches of old snow.

  Toward midmorning the driver brought the cart to a halt. They were now at the crest of a hill, overlooking a broad valley. Joan, aroused from the torpor of travel, first thought the pause was another concession to the driver’s horse, of which there had been a great many already that morning, for it seemed they had been traveling for hours, yet could not have made more than six or seven miles. But the driver lifted his hand and pointed into the distance. “There ’tis,” he said. “The castle.”

  Joan looked. She could see a crescent-shaped lake, a little wood on its shore, and, in the midst of the wood, a stone edifice, two square towers thrusting up through the foliage. The morning mist had passed away. Castle Thorncombe was no dream after all. “Thanks be to God,” she said to the driver. “At last we’re here.”

  She begged him to proceed, for both she and Matthew were so weary from travel they had been reduced to a miserable silence the entire morning. The driver grunted and brought his switch down hard on his horse’s rump. The cart gave a jolt and moved forward.

  There was a road through the trees which they now took, past a dense wilderness of tree, shrub, and fern, making in its furious verdure little more than a pair of wheel ruts of the road. Overhead the long, drooping branches met and intertwined, obscuring the sun and creating an obdurate gloom, like that of an old garden run riot. But although the woods were thick, they were not deep. Within minutes the cart emerged from the tunnel of overhanging branches to a rising lawn or greensward. For the first time Joan saw Thorncombe in its fullness.

  Now she could see that the ancient seat of the Challoners was not one house but two very unlike structures yoked by an architect with more mischief in his heart than sense of harmony. One structure was the hoary Norman keeps of gray stone with their

  threatening battlements and air of decay and ancient violence. Attached at a right angle was a newer building of modern design, resembling in its form, although not in its condition, some of the finer houses of the Essex gentry. The new house had a great many windows, downstairs and up, a low-pitched roof bristling with chimneys, and a handsome clock tower. Joan was cheered by the sight of the chimneys. They promised warmth, at least.

  But she did not like the look of the stone remnant of baronial pomp, or the way it was attached to the new house, as though it were a grim, unspeakable past that could not be denied, or a corpse bound hideously to a living soul for some punishments sake. She knew those austere battlements had not been made for vain show but for resolute defense, and she wondered how many dead men’s bones lay unmarked beneath the greensward that swelled so gracefully to meet the castles walls.

  The road took them around the castle to a cobbled courtyard. In passage, Joan had a good view of the lake and the hills on its farther side. She saw that there was an island, and some sort of tower thereon, and then her attention was drawn to the castle’s outbuildings—a rambling wooden structure she assumed was the stable, an adjacent horse paddock, a small barn of stone and timber with a high-pitched roof, and a scattering of other sheds and privies.
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  A strapping young man in his twenties, clad in coarse frieze jerkin, patched hose, and galoshes that came nearly to his knees, advanced from the stable. Square-jawed and clear-eyed, the young man identified himself as the castle hostler and said his name was Edward Bastian. Meanwhile out of the castle itself had ccme a train of servants, led by an elderly couple whom Joan guessed to be the steward and his wife the housekeeper.

  "The old couple must be the Fludds,” Matthew whispered, giving voice to Joan’s own supposition.

  Matthew gave the driver of the cart a little money, and, with a doleful glance at the castle and mumbled thanks, the driver used his switch again and the horse moved obediently forward, turned, and then headed in the direction they had come.

  Whether the drivers quicker pace was to be attributed to a lighter load, or to the driver’s enthusiasm to get clear of the castle ar soon as possible, Joan could not tell. But she could see now that the

  carts departure had apparently been a signal to the Fludds that they should come forward, however unpleasant a duty such an overture should be. Arm in arm they descended the several stone steps of the porch and began to move toward Joan and Matthew. Behind them came a clutch of female servants.

  “We are the Fludds, Cuth and Moll." announced the female member with a kind of defiance when they were still a good twenty feet from Joan. “Cuth,” remarked the man of the family redundantly. The old man made a jerky little motion with his head, something between a bow and a muscle spasm, that Joan took as a gesture of greeting. But the movement—and perhaps its significance—was detected by Moll, who gave her husband an interdictory poke in the ribs for his indiscretion.

  Joan took in this little drama and formed an instant dislike for the old housekeeper. She did not approve of prideful servants, nor did she care for domineering wives. Moll Fludd was clearly both.

  “We are Joan and Matthew Stock,” Matthew announced with a tone of voice he used when he was determined to be pleasant under conditions to the contrary. “Come from London at the command of Mistress Frances Challoner to serve as—”

  “All that we know,” Moll interrupted. “As our replacements. In our dotage. Very well, Matthew Stock and wife. We have ever done as we were told and we will do it still. We are not twain who must be driven to pasture like dumb beasts.”

  With great ceremony, the old woman drew a collection of keys she wore at her waist and surrendered them to Joan. Her husband, equipped with a like badge of authority, proffered his to Matthew. Cuth said, “There are also ledgers, kept with great care by me.” The old man’s voice broke with emotion, tears glistened in his eyes. “These you shall find in very good order in the steward’s office, giving the particulars of all the servants and providing other such matters that—”

  “I warrant the new steward knows what he shall find and what not, Cuth,” said Moll, cutting her husband off in midsentence and looking sternly at Matthew as though he were to blame for any rudeness she had offered.

  “I trust all will be in good order,” Matthew said.

  Moll now turned her attention to the four female servants in

  her charge. She counted their number twice over and then said, "‘What, wheres the pretty one—Aileen what’s-her-name?”

  Her companions professed not to know and Moll was highly displeased. “Foolish girl—I’ll whip her smartly for this insolence. Here now, don’t stand there gawking. The rest of you take these folks’ baggage to their quarters at once. You know where it is.” Then she turned to Joan again and said, “It’s nigh unto one o’clock. You will probably want dinner. The cook is a woman—Irish, like all of the female servants saving myself, who am true English born. She speaks very little English, and the rest are hardly richer in learning. Her name is Una, and as for her skill in cookery, well, what can be said of one born in so savage a land?”

  These disparaging comments were evidently ignored by the other servants, who obediently distributed the burden of the various chests and bags in proportion to their respective strengths and went filing into the house.

  “We aren’t used to fine food,” remarked Joan, largely because the departure of the other servants had created an awkward silence and also out of sympathy for the defamed Una, who Joan was sure was not so bad a cook as Moll Fludd claimed.

  “Not used to fine food?” asked Moll with a sudden and clearly pretended expression of amazement. “Why, I would have thought your long sojourn in the great houses of the high and mighty of London would have made standard servants’ fare as great an abomination to your tongues as swine’s flesh to a Jew.”

  “As my wife has said, we are not used to dainty cates, nor do we require them,” Matthew answered severely. “Where we have served, we have always conducted ourselves as servants, not as masters. We have shared with our fellows and gladly.”

  “Oh, was it so,” returned Moll with contempt. “Well, I suppose that is to your credit. Follow me, then, if you will. First, you shall both feed to your content, then see your chamber, which I pray you find to your liking. Tomorrow, or the next day, is soon enough, I trust, for a tour of the house and grounds.” “Tomorrow will be soon enough,” Matthew said.

  Moll faced about and started off toward the porch, leaving her husband and Joan and Matthew to follow. The door led directly to the kitchen, a large, airy room with smoke-blackened ceiling and

  aromatic with herbs, a recent stew, and burning wood. Against one wall was the hearth, a dark cavity of generous dimensions in which sat three sturdy-looking kettles and a huge caldron. On both sides of the hearth hung pans and other implements—knives, ladles, tongs, pincers, spoons, and spatulas. In the middle of the room was a long trencher table and benches.

  “A very ample kitchen, is it not?” Moll asked Joan when they had all come indoors. “In the old days the Challoners feasted monks and others of their ilk here. Grand meals, they were, if local legend can be believed. They gluttonized very well, those folks—gluttonized while our local sheepherders and farmers starved for want of a tithe of the same.”

  Moll looked at Joan suspiciously and asked, “You aren’t Papists, are you?”

  Joan answered negatively, and this seemed to please Moll. During this conversation a buxom, dark-haired woman of about Joan’s age came into the kitchen carrying a bowlful of apples. She saw Joan and Matthew and stopped. Then she looked at Moll.

  “This is Una, our cook,” Moll remarked by way of her earlier assessment of the woman’s cooking. She said to Una, “These are the new steward and housekeeper. You are to follow7Mistress Stock’s orders as diligently as you followed mine.”

  Una nodded at Joan and then at Matthew'. She continued w7ith her work. Moll looked after her and shook her head. “These Irish,” she said under her breath. “Well then, there’s bread and some cheese and a little mutton from yesternight’s supper,” Moll continued casually, glancing around the kitchen. “You may eat w7here and when you like. I wouldn’t trouble Una but with the simplest of instructions, however. It was her master’s whim to have her cook. I suppose the wishes of the dead must be honored. God knows, there’s no one else.”

  “Some cheese will do very well,” Matthew7 said.

  “And perhaps something to drink?” Joan added.

  “The larder and pantry are through there,” said Moll, indicating with a nod the narrow passage through which Una had recently come. “While you feed, I’ll see that those idiot servants have found the right chamber and that it has been properly prepared. I’ll return shortly. Wait here until I do. The castle has many rooms. It w7ould be a shame were you to become lost on your first day.”

  When Moll left, Joan and Matthew sat down at the table. Una came presently with cups and plates and a half-loaf of brown bread and a slab of cold beef smeared with rich mustard. The woman smiled pleasantly but said nothing, and to Joan it seemed she was relieved to have Moll out of the kitchen.

  Although neither Matthew nor Joan was very hungry, they both ate what was before them. While they ate, J
oan studied the cook, who was busy at a little worktable by the window chopping up the apples with a meat cleaver she wielded with considerable skill. Indeed, she chopped the apples so neatly and quickly, Joan was half afraid she would slice a finger or two in the process. As she worked, the Irishwoman hummed to herself. Although her hair was dark and graying a little around the forehead, her eyes were a deep blue and her complexion freckled like that of many of her countrywomen. Lines around her eyes and across her brow betrayed her age, as did the thickening at her waist and buttocks. Joan guessed the woman was about forty. But Una had a strong, determined chin and a shapely nose. The bones of her cheek were pronounced and her lips had a sensuous fullness that Joan was sure must have made her attractive to men in her younger years.

  “A cold welcome indeed,” Matthew said.

  Joan turned away from Una and looked at her husband. “Very cold,” she said.

  “Hardly surprising,” he said, keeping his voice low. “We are intruders. We knew there’d be no cheering upon our arrival.”

  “Yet I thought not to find the former housekeeper so resolute an enemy.”

  “The cook, Una, seems friendly,” said Matthew.

  “She has no love for Moll, that’s for sure,” Joan observed.

  “Nor Moll for her. A very friendly house this. It’s a wonder they don’t all kill each other in their sleep. I could never abide such a wrangling of serpent tongues under my roof,” said Matthew.

  “Nor I,” she answered.

  They finished their meal and then sat talking for a while in low voices about their journey and their first impressions of Thorn-combe. They agreed that if it had not been for their promise to the Queen, they would have cheerfully set out for Chelmsford on foot, rather than spend a night in the forbidding castle.