A Sister's Crusade

by Ann Turner

  ‘No, father, I shall not be treated like the cow to be mated by a stud bull,’ Esma hotly answered, as red spots of anger flared on her cheeks.

  Oswyn was amused at this. He had not thought of himself as a stud bull looking to cover the cow, but it sounded appropriate. In her objection, she was suggesting she would not to be as docile or receptive as a cow. This behaviour promised much from her; she would prove a match for him.

  ‘He speaks wisely, Esma. Do as I demand or I shall see that your worthless livestock is slaughtered in front of you and that shithole you call home is burnt to the ground with all three of you inside,’ Oswyn threatened.Esma remained unmoved by the warning. Her face set in a scowl, her eyes still focused on him.

  ‘She will come willingly with you, my lord,’ Aelrid said quickly and pushed his daughter towards the horse, ignoring her protest. Oswyn held out his hand again.

  ‘But father—’ she began. Her ears were boxed again. Knowing now she could not argue her way out of this encounter, Esma indignantly slung her hoe down, tutting her displeasure loudly, to accept Oswyn’s hand and he pulled her up behind him. Without a further word, and with Esma holding his belt, he wheeled his horse around and rode at a trot towards the stables close to Romhill.

  Heresuid helplessly watched her daughter being taken away. ‘You know what will happen to her,’ she said to her husband.

  Aelrid shrugged his shoulders and returned to his work. ‘Would have happened on her wedding night anyway,’ he muttered, impassively.

  Heresuid sighed, unhappily, looking in the direction where her daughter was being taken,. ‘It would have been more suitable if there had been a husband waiting on her return.’

  At the stables, Oswyn dismounted and threw the reins to a groom that had come running out of the building. He turned and lifted Esma down. Holding her arm to prevent any escape, he kicked open the doors of the stables, startling the other grooms and their lads with his entry. Ignoring their hasty greeting, he pulled her to a set of ladders that led to the hayloft above the stalls.

  ‘Up there,’ he said.

  In an attempt to delay the inevitable, Esma slowly climbed the rungs one at a time. Oswyn followed while trying to look up her skirt, in the hope of catching a tantalising glimpse of that warm secret place he was aching to invade.

  Once in the hayloft, Esma stood with her hands clasped in front of her, waiting. Oswyn looked at her. That spirit he had seen in the field appeared to have deserted her now.

  ‘Lay down and pull up your skirt,’ he ordered.

  Obediently, Esma did as she was told. Pulling off his gloves and throwing them aside, Oswyn sighed with frustration; he had wanted her to argue, to defend and fight for her honour, to bite and scratch. He would have grappled with her, overpowered her, thrown her onto the straw and had her – all of that would have made the attack on the defenceless girl more satisfying. He had never walked away from a potential conquest. He would still have her even if it would not prove to be the thrill he had expected.

  Oswyn dropped to his knees between Esma’s legs. He leant forward and unlaced the front of her dress, releasing her breasts. He clamped his mouth over one and sucked hard as a leech attached to a sick man’s arm. Her body stiffened to the touch of his tongue on her nipple. His hands moved up her thighs, under her skirt, until he discovered that soft firm flesh and felt her flinch. He pulled back a little to rest on his heels, grinning with complacency at her face, pale and afraid.

  ‘Warm, moist and, as yet, unsullied,’ he remarked under his breath, moving his fingers about, teasingly, tantalisingly, hoping for a reaction from the girl – an invitation for him to continue. Again, she lay inanimate.

  ‘My lord, I am not worthy of your attention. I beg you, please, not to continue. Let me go,’ she implored.

  The pleading went unheeded, and loosening his hose, he felt the rush of desire fill his body. He was primed, ready to proceed and he pushed down hard onto her, into her, hearing a small yelp of hurt from the girl and felt a shiver ripple through her body. Finally she was showing some emotion, but still not enough, so he pushed forward with brutal force and she cried out aloud. He clamped his hand over her mouth to stifle her shouts for help, but no one would dare to stop him having his moment’s victory.

  Below, the grooms and lads waited uncomfortably for their lord to take what was undoubtedly his by right. They were unable not to hear, forced to listen to the barbarism from the platform. The fathers among them thanked God it was not their daughters who were being forced to submit to the indignity of the assault above them.

  Once completed, Oswyn got to his feet and regarded the pathetic girl before him. He was quickly losing interest in her. He had satisfied his lust and she was no use to him now.

  ‘What shall I do, my lord?’ Esma asked, her voice shaking with overwhelming feeling.

  ‘Whatever you always do. Do you think it concerns me?’ he replied coldly, retrieving his gloves before going to the ladder and climbing down without a second look at her. He strode out, pulling his gloves on, while the stablemen with enforced deference bid him farewell and compliments of the season to him and his lady.

  Esma remained hidden for a while longer, tidying her skirts and pulling her fingers through her hair to smooth out the tangles and remove the brittle stalks of hay. She felt unable to go down the ladder, to face the men below – afraid that they could take advantage of her in this distressed state. But knowing Lord Oswyn would have left the stables by now and that she could not remain here for the rest of her life, she finally descended the ladder, attempting not to notice the pain and soreness throbbing through her. One of the grooms came forward with a tankard of ale.

  ‘Here, girl, drink this and tarry a while,’ he suggested.

  Esma stepped back, gasping in terror, in fear that he would continue her nightmare. Instead, he placed the tankard on a bale of hay and backed away slowly. Seeing the kindness in his wrinkled face and the gentleness in his old eyes, she sat on the bale. He was no danger to her. Another, younger, man handed her some bread and cheese on a battered old plate, which she snatched away from his outstretched hand and ate quietly. She avoided looking at any of the grooms or lads, keeping her eyes fixed on the food resting in her lap. The old man attempted to talk gently to her, to sooth her, but Esma would not be encouraged to speak. Eventually, and with hesitant thanks for their kindness, she departed the stable and walked slowly back to the field.

  Heresuid saw her daughter returning and nudged her husband, who glanced up. There was no talk of what had occurred. No one asked whether Oswyn had hurt her; no one spoke of the bloodstains drying on her skirt, or her eyes that were red from tears. Neither parent could look their daughter in the eye. Stiffly, for she was still hurting, Esma picked up the hoe that lay where she had thrown it and returned to her work, prodding the hard soil half heartedly. It was as if nothing had happened, but her maidenhood had been robbed from her – stolen for a cruel man’s lust. Life would go on as usual for everyone else, but for Esma, nothing would ever be the same again.

  ‘Sorry,’ Heresuid whispered to her daughter.

  The daughter’s mouth drew into a hard and bitter line, keeping her gaze fixed on the unyielding soil. It was too late to be sorry now.

  The church doors were flung open and the padre stood in the porch, sheltering from the swirling snow that was blowing around the small building. He greeted the villagers as they filed in silently. Several of the men spoke to him as they led their families to the benches to sit and wait for the lord and lady to arrive. The Christmas Day service would only begin once they had arrived and were seated on padded chairs in their private stall, separated from the congregation by an elaborate screen.

  And so, Lord Oswyn entered with his pregnant wife on his arm. He stared forward as they slowly walked up the aisle, aware of the respectful silence of the villagers. He had demanded his de
licate wife accompany him to the service, even though this pregnancy had made her ill from its beginning. This long-awaited child had to be a son, though Petronella had repeatedly assured her cold husband that it was God who would decide upon the gender. It was because of this that she now turned her sad eyes to the gold crucifix standing solidly on the altar and mouthed a silent prayer for this child to be male.

  From her position toward the rear of the church, Esma watched sullenly as her lord passed by. He had forgotten the incident in the stable, but she had been unable to get the hideous images from her mind. Nightly, she relived the pain as he had forced her into submission, and then left her without guilt. She wanted to stand up and shout to Lady Petronella that her husband was a callous rapist, but knew it was likely that his frail wife was aware of his adulterous activities and it would not be a surprise. By her side, Heresuid felt her daughter shudder with hatred and put a hand on her arm, whispering in her ear not to speak out of line in God’s house. Esma bit her lower lip and glowered at Oswyn, wishing him ill will and desiring his destruction. These were inappropriate thoughts to have in the house of God, and how this could be achieved, she had no idea.

  2

  In the early months of the new year, Esma began to feel unwell in the mornings and had to run behind her home to vomit. She felt lethargic and it took great effort to rise from her crude bed to begin the day, before the dash to wretch her heart out. Her body felt strange and she could not understand these curious sensations inside her. It was Heresuid who first suggested the cause of this malady, but Esma refused to believe it was true. Her mother calculated that the assault had happened just before Christmas and now, in the new year, there could be only one reason behind the sickness.

  She was pregnant with Lord Oswyn’s child. Esma was horrified to contemplate this revelation. Why should it be her that this had happened to? She was not married, so could not insist the child was her husband’s; nor could she say it was Oswyn’s by the act of jus prima noctis. She had been an unwilling participant in the event that had created the life that was beginning to grow deep inside of her. She would be shamed and her family would be shamed. Esma would be turned out of the village to fend for herself as a pregnant single woman and, if she survived childbirth, would have to care for her child alone.

  ‘Your father need not know yet,’ Heresuid told her daughter. ‘We will hide your growing belly while we decide what is to be done. This is my grandchild you carry. It is innocent of the sin of its father and I shall do what I can to assist you now.’

  Esma threw her arms around her mother’s neck and hugged her tightly. This was not what she had expected from her. Heresuid had been a dutiful wife; she had always obeyed her husband, agreeing with every demand he made – even siding with him when Esma had been defiant and had had to bear the relentless beatings of his fists raining down on her. She had never been the loving mother outwardly and now her true, caring nature was coming through.

  ‘Your father may have wanted a son instead of a daughter, but I have always been proud of you and the spirit in you. I have loved you since the day you were born. You have inherited that spirit from me, as I stood up to my own father and was beaten for it, too. I have steered your father round to my way without him realising for all our married life.’

  Esma felt humbled by the admission. ‘But I cannot stay here once the baby is born. Father would never permit it,’ she said.

  Heresuid smiled slyly. ‘It will take some cunning, but we will find a way for you to have your child. Then, we shall decide what is to become of both of you.’

  Esma was intrigued as to how her mother would defy and deceive her father. This new and defiant side to her mother was a joy to see.

  Over the months as Spring blossomed in the trees and hedgerows, Esma’s belly expanded and she had to wear looser clothes. She still worked the fields and helped her mother with the household chores and baking, not wanting to be a burden to her, or give her father any idea of what was going on inside her body. The child was growing fast and, when they could, Esma and Heresuid would watch her belly and sometimes see a small ripple as the baby moved inside its mother.

  In the sixth month of the year, news reached the village that Lady Petronella had given birth to a daughter and that both had survived. Esma would whisper secretly to her belly, saying that the baby’s half sister had been born and that their lives would be so different. The newborn girl would want for nothing, but this baby would have nothing.

  The planned celebration for the infant’s birth was quickly altered. Oswyn was bitterly disappointed in both his wife and his new daughter. He cursed his bad fortune and questioned God on what had he done to be denied the son he craved. The baptism of his daughter was quickly held at the local church, with very little ceremony.

  The news of the birth at Romhill gave Aelrid an excuse to excess with the ale. He sat at the table, a large jug in front of him, and poured overflowing cups for himself. He swallowed the strong liquid greedily, and then became abusive to his wife and daughter as the ale took its effect on him. The two women sat as far from him as they could in the small room, accustomed to the foul language spewing from his lips. When he was like this, the beatings soon followed. It was a regular pattern, but this time Esma was afraid for her unborn child. Heresuid had already positioned herself closer to Aelrid, preferring to take the beatings for her pregnant daughter.

  ‘So, what will become of this new sprog up at Romhill?’ Aelrid asked, rhetorically. ‘Spoilt and pampered while we starve. Though at least now I can say that Oswyn is like me and can’t produce a son! Ha! He won’t get any sons out of that stick of willow – just like me. Esma, get here!’ Scared, Esma glanced at her mother, who now came and stood close to him.

  ‘We are fortunate with a beautiful daughter in Esma,’ Heresuid began. ‘You must look for a husband for her soon. She needs to be married and give you grandsons.’

  ‘Be silent!’ he shouted, lashing out and knocking Heresuid aside. ‘I said, come here!’

  Hesitantly, Esma walked around the table to stand in front of her father. Heresuid slowly got to her feet, wiping a smear of blood from the side of her mouth. Aelrid snatched at Esma’s wrist and pulled her closer to him. ‘Do you realise how useless you are to me, girl? What can you bring to me? If I marry you off, it will cost me to send you to a husband, so don’t get any fancy ideas about marriage. You will live and die here as a spinster.’

  As Aelrid pulled her closer again, he noticed that her body was looking unusually large. ‘Getting fat, are you? I must be feeding you too well.’ He put his hands on his daughter’s stomach and felt its firmness, suddenly realising what was causing the swelling. Speechless, he looked into her face.

  ‘Father, I can explain everything,’ Esma began quickly, but was silenced by a painful slap across her face.

  ‘When did this happen? Who was horny enough to poke you?’ he asked. ‘You cheap whore!’

  ‘It’s not what you imagine,’ Heresuid added, standing by her daughter. A disbelieving expression appeared on Aelrid’s face as he looked between the two women.

  ‘No? Do you think this is an immaculate conception then? And I am to be the grandfather of the second Christ?’ He lashed out towards his wife and she stepped back to avoid the slap to her face. He turned his attention back to Esma and, with a closed fist, struck her in the belly, causing her to drop to the ground and cry out in pain.

  Heresuid scrambled to her side, gathering Esma in her arms. ‘What in God’s name do you think you are doing, Aelrid? You could have killed her and the child!’ she shouted at her unrepentant husband.

  ‘Done us all a favour,’ he growled back, fumbling for the tankard. He looked towards his daughter, his face now red with rage and ale. ‘When did you get the chance to slip away to get humped? Who done it and how many times have you spread your legs and shown him your pudenda for him?’ He leaned forward ov
er the two women, once again closing his fist in readiness to strike. Esma cowered back in her mother’s arms.

  ‘It was Lord Oswyn who done this, Father. Remember at Christmas when he took me away.’ she sobbed.

  Aelrid thought back and waved his hand in dismissal. ‘I’ll not have his bastard in my house. I cannot feed another mouth. What were you planning to do after it is here?’

  Esma moved in her mother’s arms and looked at her. She had put her trust in Heresuid, who had promised to resolve the problem of the baby. ‘I… I am not sure,’ she answered, hesitantly.

  Aelrid prodded her several times with a thick finger. ‘I’ll tell you what you will do, my girl, you will pack your belongings and go away. I never want to see you again – bringing disgrace to my good name! Who will have you now? You are spoilt goods; nobody wants a pranged cast-off.’ Aelrid said, coldly.

  Heresuid was alarmed. ‘Husband, do not be so hasty in your decision. We can resolve this without throwing our daughter out. We need her in the fields, as it will soon be harvest time. How can you and I gather it all on our own? She is a strong girl. Let her stay until the infant is born and then you can decide what we will do.’ She emphasised it would be his decision, but both she and her daughter knew she would carefully talk her husband around to a more sensible solution. Having sat down again, he looked at them over the tankard, swallowing the ale and pondering his wife’s words.

  ‘You can stay until it is born and the harvest is in, then you and your bastard go,’ he conceded.

  Esma relaxed; she was safe for now. ‘Thank you, Father, you are too kind.’ She was quickly learning to pander to his vanity.

  ‘No special treatment, my girl. You have to work as hard as the others. That thing means nothing to me, so I don’t want to hear you complain that you are tired or need more food. You will get no more than you get now,’ said Aelrid, and then he picked up the cup of ale and downed it in one swallow. Picking up the jug, he pushed his chair back and stood up. ‘I’m going out on business.’ He pushed past the two women, and then went through the doorway and out into early evening air.