by Wilf Jones
One young woman, hardly older than Helen, explained, as though she was talking to an impetuous child, that soon she would have her own answer to that last question. Her fighting spirit would no doubt be an addition to the excitements in the hall and in the bedroom. What would she do then? What could any here do to refuse these men their pleasures?
The young woman seemed to take grim delight in her warning, but if she expected her prognostication to humble Helen Travers she was mistaken. Helen took up her cause over and again, railing at them all for being defeatist, for being cowards and for being stupid. If they would act together, they could achieve something. She bullied, she cajoled, she argued, loudly and continually until the men came for her. Silence fell upon the room as they entered but Helen Travers broke it: ‘Can’t you see?’ she cried, ‘There are just five of them. Why won’t you fight?’
But the only resistance was from Helen herself and she was dragged away kicking and shouting, twisting and biting, willing to try anything to fight back and get free.
The key turned easily in the lock and the door opened. A black hole faced them where they had expected some small light at least, and so taking a torch from a bracket in the corridor, lit from a constant lantern fixed to the wall, Terrance led the way cautiously down the cellar steps. All that could be seen was an aisle lined by vast barrels.
As he set his foot upon the last step chaos was let loose. Terrance was set upon by a dozen screaming women brandishing staves of wood with murder in their hearts. Helen Travers’ words had set a fire that was now blazing.
Seama moved quickly. A sudden gust of wind tumbled the victim and his attackers into a jumble of limbs and skirts on the stone floor and doused the torch.
‘STOP!’ he commanded. ‘Ladies, we are come to rescue you. I am Seama,’ and as he spoke, white light flared up to brighten the farthest recesses of the chamber. The light blazed from his upraised sword. He picked up the torch De Vere had dropped and relit it with the tip of the blade.
Guy was not the only one to gasp. If the sword was hot enough to light the torch then surely it was too hot to hold. The white light went out.
‘Please relight any lanterns or candles you have, ladies, then you can see us properly.’
From all around came sighs and exclamations and the sound of weeping. One woman who had been attacking De Vere dropped her stave, flung arms around his neck and clung to him sobbing all the while. Though patently embarrassed at this, he held her tenderly, muttering reassurances.
Other women hugged each other or sat or stood confused, not knowing what to do, but there were a few stronger than the rest who had their wits about them. They gathered together away from the infiltrators and after a hasty conference they came to face their rescuer.
‘It is him,’ said one.
‘Are you sure, Estella?’
‘Yes, I saw him in Garassa,’
‘Lord Seama, I am Catarina Beltez, granddaughter of The Master.’ Her bearing was regal; she seemed an able leader. ‘We are no doubt in your debt if you have indeed come to rescue us but how on Ea’ will you do that? We are but women here. We cannot fight and you are five only, and one female at that. Upstairs there are hundred men and all of them armed, and all of them cruel – or perhaps you have already defeated them?’
‘No, we have not, but our plan is moving on smoothly. If everything goes well you will all be free by tomorrow. If it does not then nobody will be free tomorrow.’
‘And I suppose until then we must continue to pleasure those devils above?’
‘No, Miss Beltez, we would not allow you to suffer one minute more. Please listen everybody. I doubt we have much time to spare and we need your help. First of all, have you seen Helen Travers?’
She had been dragged most of the way because she refused to walk. They didn’t beat her for it: that was the prerogative of their sorcerer chief. The men would take recompense later. Dumping her on the floor of the Master’s apartment they retreated, one or two of them sniggering; one or two sporting bruises, bite marks and scowls.
She sat there, as they slammed the doors behind them, skirts in a tangle, wondering what would happen next.
‘So you are here at last, young lady.’
The voice, unexpectedly urbane, came from her left. In that side of the room she saw a fireplace. The mantlepiece was a huge affair of heavy oak standing six feet high and nailed to this mantle were a pair of manacles at least five feet apart. The fire was not lit because of the oppressive heat.
Before the fireplace a man of formidable size lounged in a large brocaded chair, the back of his red-necked head towards her, his black hair greased and combed back, his shoulders nearly too large for the chairback.
‘Come and sit here,’ he commanded, indicating a footstool with a kick.
‘Why should I?’
There was a pause before the sorcerer spoke again. Could it be that he was surprised by her defiant tone. He changed tack and in a softer voice said:
‘Because I ask you to, My Lady. Only that I can see you better by the light of these candles.’
The room was indeed brighter where candles clustered on candelabra by the fireplace. Helen considered her choices and concluding there was little point in trying to run away she decided to comply with this modest request. Even so she hesitated before seating herself at his feet. Was this the first of his many victories over her? Unsure she looked up at his face and nearly knocked over the stool in surprise. He wore a black mask and though there were holes for his eyes she gained a disturbing impression that nothing stared out of them.
He seemed pleased by the effect but that was not all his desire.
‘You are very beautiful,’ he said. She had been told this before but from this man of power the flattery was something to be blushed at.
She was beginning to experience an unfamiliar feeling of inferiority and she didn’t like it. She glared at him to disguise her doubts.
‘Well done. I am bored with the gutless women of this petty house. Where is your home? It sounds like more of a challenge than Moreda! No don’t bother: there’ll be plenty of time for questions later. I am pleased that your resentment is not veiled like those other bitches.’
‘They have a cause for resentment, sir, and reason to be cautious with wicked men like you ruling their lives. You have them all wrong. The women here are not gutless. They demonstrate the true meaning of bravery, though I doubt you know the word.’
‘I do not. What does it mean?’ His tone was sarcastic. Not wishing to be a foil for his enjoyment she held her tongue. He reached out a calloused hand to stroke beneath her chin, as though she were his lap cat. Helen recoiled at the touch.
‘Do you hate me so much?’ he asked. Her reply was the contempt in her eyes. ‘You see, it’s very wearing to meet only frightened people: people who hate me without knowing me. I had thought, perhaps, that such a fierce will could forget fear. They said you were a fighter. It would be good to talk to someone who could listen and respond as normal people do. Do you understand?’
Helen was sure she did, but wouldn’t admit it. Was he a lonely man? Because of the power he wielded, because of his mask and because of his cruelty he had become loathsome and loathed. But eventually even evil men must tire of their games of violence and yearn for some less fraught relationship. Perhaps this evil man was looking for a friend.
‘No!’ she said firmly. ‘I will give you nothing of my self. You are repugnant: a murderer, a torturer of children, a violator of all things proper, and I should be worse than you if I—’
‘If you what? Let me save you, Miss Travers, from your conscience,’
Helen shuddered. The sorcerer bent over her, his mask inches from her face.
‘Whatever you wish to deny me I will demand; whatever you seek to refuse me I will take. You have no free will in this
place. I will take what I want from you. Grubb! You see, Helen Travers, I have complete power while you have none. My pleasure is to exercise that power and your role is to suffer it. Grubb, get in here!’ A hard looking man followed by two other leering thugs entered the room. ‘See here: this pretty maiden wants to dance for me. The fireplace, if you please.’
When Helen Travers had been taken away an hour before, she had left the women in a state of turmoil. The cowardly and unnerved women, those weak at the start and those who had suffered most had been beyond her power to move in any way – they were too much in shock. As for the stronger willed or less tortured there had been two opposite reactions to Helen’s arguments. The older women had lived their lives honoured by men who acted always with the utmost chivalry; and chivalry is a fine system for protecting the weak from the excesses of the strong. The problem is that those honoured by such a system may become little more than worshipped possessions. Within such a code women can lose the power of self-determination. In the whole of El Seno men had come to rule everything. They had the power to be generous and fair minded, while women had the honour and duty of accepting the kindnesses of men. Men owned the houses and lands, the wealth of the forest; they allowed their women the pleasure of managing the domestic necessities. The women of Beltez counted themselves lucky, and were happy to defer to their lords and masters. All was well. But in time this happiness promoted an inability to do anything else but defer. Now, no matter that the ‘masters’ were no longer kind, decent or generous, a perverse sense of dignity and honour demanded that they continue in their allotted role, that they followed the ‘normal’ rules of life. There had been suicides already among some of the older women not prepared to accept the dishonour forced upon them, but there was in the cellar, their prison, a majority who could do nothing other than meekly accept whatever happened to them. Their sex had become their fate.
Miss Travers had spared little time on these women, but for their part they were quick to condemn her arguments. They considered her shameless and dishonourable. Helen was angry with them. ‘You’ve got to fight for your damned honour’ she told them, “You can’t submit for it.’ Her words carried no weight with these women. They assured her she was wrong and returned to their prayers, praying for the strength to survive their travail first, and for deliverance second.
There was a younger group who prayed less and less as their incarceration continued and Catarina Beltez was their leader. Catarina was a proud woman, she was after all granddaughter to the Master of Beltez, and the idea of her ancient and noble family murdered by cut-throats roused more fury than tears. She’d not been cowed by her experience in the armoury. She was inflamed by the needless butchery, outraged by the continuing abuse of the women and children, and she was enraged by the timidity of her peers. And yet she could do nothing about it. Catarina had tried her best to stir them up but she found it impossible: too respectful of her elders her upbringing had left her without the language or forcefulness that came naturally to Helen Travers. As one hideous day succeeded another, however, without any chance of relief from the excesses of the Black Company, that respect diminished. Catarina and others like her were ready for something to change.
One evening the men had come for Catarina herself, as they had come for other women on other nights. Sometimes the women were returned to the cellar in a terrible state but sometimes they did not come back at all. Catarina feared the worst. Kelsly’s threat of offering her up as sacrifice was ever present in her thoughts, and utterly terrifying to her, and she expected now a quite horrible death.
They took her to the Hall. The Company was at feast and they were very drunk. Catarina breathed a little more easily when she realised that none of the sorcerers were present and the men were in a mood for jest rather than spilled blood. She was surprised at the indiscipline in the hall – that man Trant seemed to have the whip hand over this pack but, by rumour, he was now travelling south in search of more victims. With no one to keep them in check these man might do anything and Catarina wondered what indignities awaited her.
An auction was what they had in mind. Aware of her pedigree it amused the men this evening to put her virginity up for sale. As they continued with their feast she was stripped and then forced to parade naked along the tables. The prospective buyers took their opportunity to inspect the merchandise before they made an offer. Though Catarina was twenty years old she had yet to develop a womanly figure and her face might have been described as homely, but her hair was the typical lustrous black of her family and she was, overall, far from ugly. The brutes at their trough, however, decided to insult her bluntness of feature, to cast doubt on her status, and in the end she was dismissed unsold. They had better looking pigs in the yard, they said. Her ordeal lasted just half an hour and although she was roughly handled and lewdly displayed, she suffered no hurt so great as her battered pride. As she was bundled out of the hall and back down to the cellar, clutching her clothes to her, there was one thought in Catarina’s mind. She wasn’t scared by them any more, and she didn’t care what they might do, her only desire was to pay them back. All she needed was support as she planned her revenge.
Miss Travers’ arrival had gained her that support. Helen’s speeches had raised the temperature as Catarina could not. Helen made them feel ashamed by their lack of courage; they were resentful of the new girl’s jeering (and none more so than Catarina); they were left desperate to prove that they too could be brave, and actually do something to save themselves.
It was Catarina who started the hasty plotting after Helen had been carried-off, and she who attempted the first blow. That her attack on De Vere was a failure was a great annoyance. When Seama asked about Helen’s whereabouts she was livid. Why was this uncouth Travers girl thought to be so important? What about the women of Beltez, the slaves of Moreda who had suffered so much?
‘Helen Travers is undoubtedly lost to you,’ she said. ‘She has been taken to the chief of those monsters upstairs.’
To her dismay, Seama didn’t seem very concerned.
‘It seems that I will need to see to this man earlier than I intended. Do you think we can rescue her, Angren?’
‘Why not? We need something to do before daybreak. They stay up late in this house, don’t they?’
‘Nothing is as it should be in Moreda.’ Catarina was not only talking about her captors. ‘And what are we to do until dawn?’ she asked. ‘Don’t you think we need rescuing as well? Are we to sit here praying we’ll be forgotten? Many have died already, many are so ruined they want to die. We have had enough. There are over fifty of us here. Are we not more important than that single girl? Why do you risk your lives for her instead of us?’
‘Lady Catarina, we intend to save you all. Outside is an army whose sole reason for braving these deadly sorcerers rests with the safety of that one girl. I must show them a minor victory: I must bring her from the house in order to give them the courage and the confidence to complete the task. We have planned that Mr. De Vere and young Guy here will stay with you to help organize your defence. Now, if that is clear, will you please tell me how I can find this sorcerer?’
The scene in the Master’s rooms was not much changed except that the manacles nailed to the chimney breast were now occupied. Helen Travers hung there, arms spread, toes just touching the floor, with her back to the room. Thankfully they had not lit the fire. It seemed to her that she could smell the burnt flesh of earlier victims. They had stripped her down to her shift and she shivered now as the first gust of cold wind rushed down the chimney. Outside lightning seared the night and thunder battered the rooftops as the storm attacked the house, smashing a tumult of rain against the rattling windows.
‘Cold?’ asked the devil’s voice from not far away. ‘Well I’m sure I can warm you up.’
Oh Gods, she prayed silently, not the fire, please not the fire!
He made no movement.
She hated not being able to see him. The words of the women downstairs came back to her. She realized that fear was clutching at her heart just as they said it would. But she was determined not to show it.
‘So kind. Why am I chained like this?’ There was no reply. ‘Do you want to take off that mask? Is that it? You are ashamed to show your face. Is it so vile? It’s said that evil shows a fair face; are you pleased to be the exception?’
‘Wit from such an unfortunate position is a novelty. It all adds to the amusement. I wonder if it will save you any pain at all.’
He came up close behind her. She could feel his breath on her neck. ‘You are all questions, Lady. You mistake your role once more. I like to cause pain. I like to see a fine young body quiver in anticipation of pain.’ Without warning he tore off her last garment, burning her skin in the process. For the first time in her life she was naked in the presence of a man but she barely thought about it: she was more concerned with her aching arms and the promised torment to come.
‘Ha! And what a fine body you have,’ he said, ‘still young but shapely all the same. What shall we do with it?’
‘I don’t suppose you would know what to do with a woman, being more used to pigs and cows.’
He sniggered. ‘Such crude insults from an innocent. Delightful. Well you can be my pig. I’m going to make you squeal.’
Before she understood his meaning she heard a sudden rush of air and received a cutting lash that curled round her back and flicked at her left breast. She screamed. For perhaps four seconds the pain was excruciating.