This Other Eden (48 page)

Thomas
watched him down the corridor until he was safely out of sight. He turned his
attention back to the crack in the door and the silent chapel beyond. He
remembered again the curious expression on Billy's face as he'd first viewed
the girl, a blend of anticipation and horror, his deep fear of his father's
loathsome infection waging a fierce battle with his newly awakened desire.

"Billy?"
Thomas called.

There
was no reply.

Thomas
eased through the crack in the massive door. The chapel was dark with the smell
of burned-down candles, the enclosed musty odor of ancient incense and
confession, generations of Eden piety and fear and remorse imbedded in the
handsomely carved walls.

He
considered returning for the lamp, but decided against it. There were times
when clear vision was a state greatly to be avoided. As old Ragland could
testify, he thought. He stood at the back of the room, his eyes gradually
adjusting to the darkness, seeing the rows of pews, a dozen richly carved, the
intricate allegories in the panels on the walls, stories he knew intimately
from his childhood; Joseph and his Brethren, David and Goliath, Moses and the
Oracles of God.

Without
warning, he experienced the intimidation of the room, as though he were still a
child, an earnest believer in divine threats, divine punishment.

"Billy?"
he called, trying to ignore his feelings. "It's Thomas."

Still
no response. As he started down the narrow aisle, he saw the altar, the white
marble screen depicting the Passion and Ascension, the raised altarpiece
itself, and there, sprawled, facedown, his arms spread, feet together, like a
fallen crucifix, he saw a form, neither wood nor marble, merely flesh.

He
wondered, what was the point? What was the meaning of earthly existence?
Lacking answers, he began moving forward until at last he stood directly over
the young man. He bent down and nudged the shoulder. "Billy?" Still
receiving no answer, he noticed that the young man was only partially clad, his
nightshirt undone and lying loose around his body. As Thomas turned him over,
face up, he heard a curious clanking and saw the boy's chest, covered with red
welts, rising grooves of self-inflicted punishment, the chain still in his
hand, taken, Thomas noticed, from the pulpit where previously it had secured
the sixteenth-century German Bible.

"Billy,"
he mourned, viewing the injured flesh, regretting, as he always did in
religious matters, the fact that a man could be robbed of his strength by
invisible powers.

As
he lifted the boy up and cradled him in his arms, he shouted over his shoulder
to what he was certain was a congregation of curious servants. "Brandy!"
he ordered.

He
turned his attention back to the boy in his arms. The sight stabbed Thomas'
conscience. He was not guiltless. All the death and injury was his fault, the
result of his manipulation. He grew frightened of the vast power in the room.

"Billy?"
he urged again, feeling the need for company. "Please, Billy."

Slowly
the boy's eyes opened. Thomas saw the hand holding the chain lift weakly as
though ready to resume its self-imposed assault on flesh.

"No,"
Thomas ordered. "Enough." He shook the chain loose and heard it
clatter to the floor.

Unarmed,
Billy stirred rapidly to consciousness, trying to wrench free from Thomas'
arms. "Leave me be," he muttered. "Must die."

"No,"
Thomas scolded. "You've done enough." He enclosed the boy in his
arms, holding him as he would a woman, a faint rocking motion in his body,
Billy responding to the closeness, one weak hand reaching up.

Feeling
that slight pressure against his chest, Thomas' emotions vaulted. His eyes
blurred. No! No interrogation. Whatever had happened in the Queen's Bedchamber
would go with Billy to his grave, as obviously the girl had taken it to her
grave. It was a tragic incident, but over, and Thomas would carry the lad to
his own bed and give himself over to the task of nursing him back to health.
They had a common bond now, both bearing visible scars.

Behind
him in the corridor he heard a shuffling of feet as the congregation of
servants milled about. He heard the respectful voice of Russell Locke.
"Brandy, sir," the man murmured and extended a full flask.

But
Thomas shook his head and commanded, "Bring it to my chambers." It
had occurred to him that a lifeless, scarred Billy would have a much greater
effect on the servants than a sputtering, protesting Billy. With some effort,
Thomas stood and took the boy with him and permitted the nightshirt to fall,
opened, revealing the self-flagellation, the boy's features lifeless in Thomas'
arms.

Thus
he carried him like a fallen warrior back through the chapel and out through
the narrow slit in the door, thinking the most unusual thoughts, that sometimes
it seemed that life was merely a permission to know death, that every event was
simply a trap, ingeniously contrived.

At
the sight of the body in Thomas' arms, the servants fell silent. Dolly Wisdom
gasped, "Good Lord, Jesus. What next?"

This
brief heartfelt expression seemed to set the tone for the others as, moving
quickly back with cow eyes and circumflex eyebrows, they cleared a path for
Thomas, their heads and necks craning forward for a better look.

A
young girl whispered, "He beat hisself."

And
a man, "He done his own punishment."

Then
a third, "God's hand, that's what done it."

Good,
Thomas thought. Obviously they had lost their appetites for interrogation. Hopefully
the incident was closed.

The
distance from the chapel to Thomas' quarters was about a hundred yards. Most of
the servants followed after him the entire distance, keeping a respectful pace
behind. As he approached his private door, he heard Dolly Wisdom offer
apologetically, "Didn't think he'd do this, milord," she murmured.
"Don't serve no purpose."

Thomas
looked back and disagreed. "Apparently he thought it did, Dolly."

"I
remember him as a boy," she added mournfully. "When he'd come
visiting with his father, always dreaming—"

Thomas
agreed. "He still is."

Aware
that he could no longer support Billy, Thomas motioned for Russell Locke to
open the door. From the threshold he looked back at the servants. "This
has been a grim episode for Eden Castle," he said, "and a regrettable
way in which to start the New Year. I beseech you to put it from your minds as
rapidly as possible, and let us turn our attention to our beloved Ragland. I
beg all of you to keep your eyes and ears open, and there will be coin for the
one who brings me word of his whereabouts."

Inside
the room, Thomas carried Billy to the bed. The boy gave a groan. "Bring me
a basin of water and a napkin," Thomas commanded Russell, who had lingered
behind. "And leave the brandy. Tell Dolly that some broth would be
nice."

Locke
nodded and left. Thomas drew a chair close to the bed and sat wearily, his eyes
focused on the reviving Billy.

Billy's
eyes opened. "Thomas," he groaned.

Quickly
Thomas reached out and took the young man's hand. "It's all right,
Billy," he soothed. "You must lie still."

In
spite of his obvious weakness and discomfort, Billy smiled. "It's my turn
now—"

Thomas
remembered how Billy had directed the same admonishment to him when he'd taken
the shot in his shoulder. "It comes to all men, Billy," he comforted,
"the time and need to lie still."

As
though memory had come with, the return of consciousness, Billy gave a sharp
cry. Thomas sat up, alarmed. What balm could he use against memory? "Yake
ease," he urged. "Rest."

But
Billy merely shook his head. "I did not kill her, Thomas. I swear
it." The room was silent except for a smothered sob, already grown hoarse.
Still Thomas watched, aware that there were scars deeper and more serious than
those on Billys chest, Thomas wondered sharply, what had occurred that night
three days ago? If asked, how could Billy possibly account for the mutilations
on the girl's body? No need to wonder, for Thomas intended never to ask.

He
looked back at the stricken face on the pillow. In Billy's clouded eyes
appeared something mighty. He lay motionless, his breath barely daring to
escape. He gazed upward at the ceiling.

He
did not speak.

During
the next few weeks, the tales of Ragland's whereabouts grew and spread like
rain clouds in a summer squall. The messenger of the moment always told his
tale on "good authority," and Thomas listened with dwindling patience
and increasing concern.

There
were those who held firm to the belief that on the fateful day after Elfie's
body had been discovered Ragland had simply walked out into the sea. Others
claimed to have heard him swear a lasting vendetta against Eden Castle, and
claimed that he was at this moment residing at Penzance, living with a parson
who'd taken the old man in.

Thomas
had had that rumor checked out, had dispatched half a dozen riders to Cornwall
on the explicit orders that they were to personally search every parsonage from
here to the coast. They had found nothing.

There
were other tales, equally bizarre and improbable. Late-night revelers coming
out of The Hanging Man swore they had seen Ragland wandering demented across
the moors. And Jack Spade, with the most improbable tale of all, claimed he
knew for a fact that Ragland had slipped back into Eden Castle and was at this
very moment in hiding, waiting to seek his revenge.

In
the cold gray late afternoon light of January thirty-first, Thomas stood at the
brink of Eden cliff, wrapped his coat around him, and studied the ever silent
face of Billy Beckford, standing dully beside him. He had healed. At least his
body had healed. His spirit was still foundering. He was malleable and pliant,
agreeable to anything. In fact, Thomas mused, he could order the young man over
the side of the cliff and he would surely obey, taking the less than three
steps forward, then plunging to a welcome death on the rocks below.

As
though alarmed by these thoughts, Thomas took the boy by the arm and guided him
backward a few steps, "Not too close, Billy," he warned. Predictably,
Billy obeyed.

As
Thomas faced directly into the cutting north wand, he wondered how much more he
could endure. He had gone to incredible lengths to bring Billy out of his gloom.
They had taken long invigorating rides across the moors. They had walked both
the beach and the headlands. Still, nothing that Thomas had shown him seemed to
make the slightest difference.

A
thought had occurred to him only that morning. There
was
something
at
Eden Castle that Thomas had not shown him, the remarkable stone passageway
leading from the cave on the beach to the stone staircase which led up into the
storeroom where the smuggled goods were stored. An incredible sight, in Thomas'
opinion. If any scene could jar Billy out of his lethargy, that was surely it.

But
Thomas knew he was taking a risk in displaying it. He could count on the
allegiance of his men to say nothing. Why should they? To the man, they were
enjoying an unprecedented prosperity.

Again
he glanced sideways at Billy. What of his reaction? Thomas knew that Billy had
countless London friends, many in high places. He looked again at the blankly
staring young man beside him and thought of the chambers beneath his castle.
Then he grabbed his arm. "Come along," he ordered. Without a word of
objection, Billy obliged.

Thomas
led the way back from the headlands through the castle gates, where the
watchmen bowed low and raised the grilles, fairly running now, Billy, still
wordless, trotting behind him.

Inside
the kitchen they encountered a few servants who froze momentarily at their
tasks. Everyone knew where his Lordship was going when he passed this way, and
since the Public Whipping of Marianne Locke, everyone knew better than to take notice.