This Other Eden (13 page)

He
smiled, and it was the wide smile of a victor. "The goods will be picked
up five miles off the coast by your fishing vessels, then deposited in the
tunnel, later to be brought up the newly constructed staircase for safe storage
beneath the castle." The grin broadened. "Your fishermen will not
bother to mend their nets now. What they are catching does not require
nets."

He
drew a deep breath and for the first time dared to place the crushed hat on the
edge of the table.

Thomas
listened, impressed, as the man described in complete detail the entire
operation.

"You
have, milord, approximately fifty men working for you, far too many in my
opinion. Twenty could do the job as well, eliminating the hazard of too many
loose tongues, and also increasing the profit to yourself. Further, if it were
my operation, I'd eliminate Ragland. His eyes are asleep half the time, and the
excise men have a talent for moving swiftly and silently."

Thomas
sat down, then stood up again. He paced before the fire, realizing for the
first time that the bumpkin had a brain inside that small head, a brain that
perhaps Thomas could use. "Go on," he urged. "Speak until you're
finished."

With
admirable daring, Locke reached for the bottle of port and served himself. This
time he sipped as he had seen Thomas do. "I've finished, milord," he
added, baring his teeth as he savored the drink. "I believe it's your
turn."

Thomas
stared at the man. He was everything he couldn't bear in a human being,
cunning, scheming, basically weak, but parading in a mantle of false strength,
yet informed, stupid enough to push too far, and smart enough to know he could
get away with it. A man could resent and avoid evil on his own plane. But this
man was from another plane, a thin, blown edge of misery.

Thomas
brought his hands together. "At what occupation are you presently engaged,
Mr. Locke?" he asked politely.

"None,
milord. I'm free until my grave."

Thomas
almost smiled. My God, the man was incredible. "And the condition of your
family? Are you a free agent, or do you have dependents?"

"Free,
milord, as always, free to follow the most promising wind."

Thomas
pushed further. "Your father will not require—"

"My
father is dead," Locke replied without blinking. "To all intent and
purposes, that is." He sipped again and moved down the table in a gesture
of alliance with Thomas, who stood before the fire. "He's as good as dead
is what I'm saying, milord. He needs his linens changed every four hours, like
a babe, would take a nipple if it were offered to him. His manhood is over. He
now has a nanny."

There
was something cold and objective in this dismissal. Then Thomas drew himself up
in preparation for deliverance of that other encumbrance. "And your
sister?" he asked.

Their
eyes met, man to man. "I have only one sister, milord. Her name is Jane
and she's made a life for herself in London. With her husband."

So!
If the father was dead, the younger sister who had survived the whipping oak
was worse than dead. The dead leave a memory. The girl had left nothing.

Thomas'
pleasure and displeasure met head-on in a painful collision. Simultaneously
Locke had damaged and enhanced his value to Thomas. Obviously there would be no
reminder of guilt coming from that eager face.

Slowly
he walked back to the table. There was one other matter. "Let's speak of
loyalty," he demanded. "What proof have I of your loyalty?"

With
his back turned on Russell, he could not at first see the man's reaction to
this direct and important question. He heard footsteps moving toward him, again
the measured, solid tread of one who knows precisely what he is about.

Locke
stood even with him now, his body giving off a musty, rain-soaked odor.
"You take greater risk, milord, in not trusting my loyalty. Within the
last three months I have had ample opportunity to bring you down. But for what
purpose? To what end?" With satisfying subservience he added, "You
are my Lord. I want only to serve you."

And
yourself, Thomas thought bitterly, walking quickly away from the man's unappetizing
odor. His eyes became fixed as he considered his options. He could dismiss the
man and upon the instant send his guardsmen in deadly pursuit. It would be
several days before Locke's body, then unrecognizable, washed ashore.

Or-

Slowly
he turned back to the eagerly waiting man. "You'll find lodgings in the
Servants' Hall," he announced. "There will be a purse for you in the
morning. Buy clothes, clean ones, and bathe. If asked, you were hired to assist
Ragland, and that you will do for several weeks. Later we will talk—of other
matters."

He
paused for breath, to see what reactions his words were having on the man. None
that he could see, except for the furiously blinking eyes in the blank face.
The man was without expression.

Thomas
went on. "Further, you are not to seek me out again unless I summon you.
You are to have no further traffic with your family, and you are to stay out of
public houses. Is that clear?"

Still
the man gave no indication that he had either heard or perceived what was being
said to him. He stared back, his fingers twitching curiously.

In
a final warning Thomas concluded, "You are on trial, Locke. Your every
move will be recorded and reported. If you use your head, it could ultimately
be profitable. If not, I beg you to remember the whipping oak."

Something
stirred in the face staring back at him, a tightness around the jaw as though
memory were nudging him. It lasted only a moment, then was gone. The
ever-present grin spread across his face again. "Not to worry, milord,"
he soothed. "I know when and whom to obey. Now I belong to you."

He
lowered his head again and stepped backward. Still holding his hat in his hand,
he bowed from the waist. Then, quickly, he left the Banqueting Hall.

Thomas
had not expected so quick and final an exit. He stared at the empty archway. A
viper had threatened him, and instead of chopping off his head, he'd taken him
into his household.

He
reached for his glass, refilled it, and drained it. He spied Locke's used
glass, still sitting at the edge of the table, recalled the audacity of the
man. Suddenly he scooped up the piece of crystal and hurled it into the fire.

He
felt trapped, felt as though his castle walls had been breached. He began
walking about, considerably agitated. Perhaps it wasn't too late. Perhaps he
should summon the guardsmen.

No,
he'd give him a chance. He would not, could not, bring further destruction down
on that family. The father had not survived, the girl would not survive—

He
should have married. . . .Ragland had sleeping eyes. . . . Off to London in the
hack of a sheep cart. . . . The excise men moved swiftly and silently. . . . If
Locke were . . .

He
found no connection in his thoughts. Filling the glass again, he drained it and
noticed the bottle empty, as empty as himself, and as cold.

He
sat down heavily at the table, clasped his hands together, and sighed. He would
have to be vigilant.

The
sound of light footsteps at the door roused him and, hiding his face from the
intruder, he pretended to be drinking.

The
serving girl asked timidly, "Is that all, milord?"

"All?
Yes," said Thomas.

"Can
I go to bed, milord?"

He
turned slowly, apologetically, "I fear I shall sleep badly," he
mourned.

A
look of servile pity crossed her face. "Then shall I stay, milord?"

"Only
if you wash—"

Without
further communication, the girl closed and bolted the door behind her.

Thomas
watched, fascinated, as she stood before the fireplace and slowly removed her
outer garments. Half-closing his eyes, as he always did at the threat of
passion, he asked quietly, "Did you know the man who was just here?"

"No,
milord."

"Are
you a virgin?"

A
moment's pause. "No, milord."

"Would
you like a drop of port from my glass? I'm afraid the bottle's gone."

"No,
milord."

What
an agreeable creature she was, he thought. Agreeable and dull. She was naked
now save for a thin white shift, and moving toward him. The impulsive
abruptness of her movements was such that at every step the lines of her knees
and the upper part of her legs were distinctly visible under the shift, and the
question involuntarily arose in his mind as to where the center of the
undulating body started.

She
stood before him, a subtle benign smile on her face. "May I help you to
sleep, milord?"

It
was so simple. Why could not all encounters, all life be as simple? Thomas
pondered the question, remembering that gesture, terrible even in memory of
another face, pushing him away.

Five
minutes later, the act completed without memory or sensation, Thomas heard the
girl say goodnight and watched, without objection, as she left the room . . .

In
summer, along the edge of North Devon's coast, grew sea purslane and gladdon,
rosy honey-scented thrift, and dog violets with the bluest of blossoms, which
her father said were the exact color of her eyes.

It
was there that Marianne sent her thoughts, away from the rocking, miserable
wetness of the coach carrying her through a black afternoon to an unknown
destination. She sent her mind back to the sea cliffs of her birth, the salt
spray, the pebble ridges and shingle, the only world that brought her true
nourishment, and from which she had been banished.

What
she had said to Ragland in the final moments before her departure was 'Take
care of my father." But she knew he had not heard, had in fact refused to
hear.

Without
warning the coach bounced sharply to the left. A pain erupted and spread over
her back, culminating in her right shoulder. Lowering her head to wait out the
discomfort, she drew the rain-soaked shawl more closely about her, as though
fearful that eyes could penetrate through to the scars on her back.

The
old man on her right, sitting beneath his gray cape like a poisonous mushroom,
grumbled and cursed the day, the rain, his age, everything. The fleshy farmer
on her left was better enduring the ordeal with the help of a flask which
seemed bottomless. In a way she was grateful to both men, for she was so tightly
wedged between them that she did not have to waste her energy struggling for
balance. The coach could swerve and veer as much as it pleased. As long as they
remained steady, she remained steady.

Behind
her, facing the opposite direction, sat two women and a child who were not
faring so well. Their cries for mercy penetrated the gloom, and the child, a
young boy of about six, set up a continuous howl of objection to the rough cold
wet ride.

But
Marianne, a master at screening out the intolerable, sent all her energy and
imagination back to the warm sandy ground of her coastal home, to other days
when she had been free to run with the wind along the beaches, gathering
bouquets of wild flowers for her father's dinner table. Without warning she suffered
a pain in her throat as she recalled the last glimpse she had had of her
father, sitting helpless, childlike, soiled, in their garden, his eyes focused
on a loosened button on his shirt. Dolly Wisdom had hurried her along,
scolding, "Pay him no mind. He'll be as good as new ever you know it."

No
more thoughts. There were so few places that she could, with prudence, send her
mind, that she had learned, since that hot August morning, simply to let the
mind sleep. She knew that the impression she made was one of dull-wittedness.
But it was safer in the long run.