by Georgia Fox
"That was different, boy." Guillaume grunted and pushed himself into a more upright position against his bolster. "I was seized in the powerful clutches of a wench who used magic to keep me there. I couldn't stop fucking her. My balls were bewitched."
He laughed and stepped closer to the bed. "How are you, father? As soon as I arrived they told me you had taken a turn for the worse."
The old man waved a hand through the air. "I'm better now. A lot of fuss about naught. That's the trouble with having all these women about now. They make mountains out of molehills and treat a grown man like a child."
"Perhaps my return has improved your health," Nino replied with a cocky wink. "You want to hear all about my exploits no doubt. That will improve your spirits further."
Guillaume's eyes narrowed and he leaned his head back against the wall. He looked tired and drawn, his face paler than usual. "Tell me about her then."
"Her?" He was shocked. Was it so plain on his face?
"You brought a wench home with you. I heard the news already, boy. Who is she? Is she rich? Does she bring property with her?"
"I...don't think so."
His father groaned and rolled his eyes. "Not another penniless hussy! What did I tell you idiots? Find wives with rich fathers and land for a dowry. Instead you bring me a collection of wenches, most of whom don't even have shoes on their feet."
"But Isobel brought a fortune with her, father," he pointed out, "and Cedney too."
"And does your wench have big titties and broad hips for birthing at least?"
Until that moment he had not thought of marrying Jesamyn. He'd imagined bringing her home simply to entertain the family for a while, with no plan beyond that. Or so he'd assured himself. Now, however, faced by his father's brusque questioning, he realized he might like to marry her. Perhaps.
He flinched. No, he was not certain she would make a good addition to the other wives. She kept secrets and had a stormy temperament. She seldom answered questions with a straightforward reply. And there remained the matter of the three men in the stable.
"Well, boy? Speak up!"
"I will let you see for yourself, father," he replied carefully. "I haven't made my mind up yet."
His father's graying brows rose high. "So you bought her home for your brothers to try out, eh?"
"I suppose I did." Suddenly he wasn't sure why he'd brought her there. It was as if his mind had been in a fog when he had her in his arms or she had her arms around him. Now, with distance between them he was able to think with greater clarity and sense. Had he brought her there because of the scars on her back? Because he was sure he'd met her before and she was the little girl in the souk? Or had he brought her there just because he enjoyed fucking her very much?
"Considerate of you to let your brothers make the choice," his father remarked snidely. "What's the matter with her? Not sure she can be handled? Don't think the pony can be saddled?"
"She's very...unusual. And she keeps secrets."
Guillaume nodded slowly, flint-gray eyes narrowed. "I dreamed you were in danger, boy. It woke me from my sleep like a shower of cold arrowheads pricking me all over."
"Me? What danger?"
"I know not. But I was certain of it. That is why I called for you."
"Well, I can look after myself, father. My brothers may not believe it— and neither may this quarrelsome wench I found— but I promise you I can."
Guillaume smirked. "Bring the girl up to me. Now you've made me curious, boy. And at my age that's a troubling thing indeed."
* * * *
She laid the cards out in the same pattern on the table and turned over the center card.
The Empress.
"That is you exactly, Princesa," exclaimed little Jeanne, laughing. "I always said you carried yourself like an empress!"
Jesamyn never liked laughter when she gave a reading, so she looked sternly at those who seemed about to laugh with Jeanne. "This card is the symbol of fertility," she explained, "of beauty and femininity. But it can also signify a woman dependent on others. A slave to her own fears of inadequacy."
Princesa blushed, hugging her now sleeping babe. "I was once a bond slave, the concubine of a wealthy nobleman. I suppose those days remain with me even now. I am submissive. It is in my nature."
And that was why these men liked her, thought Jesamyn crossly.
She turned over the circle of cards and read from right to left. All was love and joy, much to her annoyance, just as it had been for the first two she read. Isobel's significator card had been the lion of strength, symbolizing courage and patience. Jeanne's had been the star — meaning hope, spirituality, and renewal. There were no clouds looming in the future of these women, nothing she could use to scare them into rebellion.
By the time she came to the nine of cups— success and harmony— Jesamyn felt sick to her stomach.
"It seems your fortune is a rare one too, Princesa. It is filled with happiness and contentment." But then came the four of Swords. Aha! Finally. "But you must guard against jealousy."
"Jealousy? Goodness, I do not know when I—"
"No doubt it will come," Jesamyn interrupted. "Five wives together must experience some ill-feeling."
They all stared at her blankly, but she got the sense that they would not admit it in any case.
Now she moved on to Cedney, the most recent acquisition to join the d'Anzeray harem. Her significator was the sun— warmth, vitality, and fun. Her fortune contained the promise of a prosperous marriage, many good friends and the king of Wands, which told of a tall, strong, dark man, loyal, honest and sincere.
"That is Dominigo, of course," said Isobel, nudging Cedney, who smiled and turned a little pink.
"He is one of the elder brothers," Aelfa explained in her ear. "Dom brought Cedney home and he adores her."
Jesamyn gathered up her cards. "Do these men not love you all equally? I thought that was the arrangement."
The other women exchanged glances back and forth across the cookhouse table.
Finally Princesa spoke. "Of course they do. But there are different meanings to the word."
"To what word?"
The small woman looked down at the babe in her arms and smiled. "To the meaning of love."
Jesamyn glared at her. "I don't understand."
Isobel tried to explain. "There is the act of love, the need for sexual adventure. There is a caring, protective concern. And then there is the deeper emotion. In this house we have many shades of it. Many layers."
But Jesamyn did not believe the d'Anzeray men knew anything about "deeper emotion". Least of all love. They had sold these poor women on a fantasy and let them drink it down as if it were a magical elixir. Why had these women agreed to live this way? Because they were lonely perhaps, or needed protection and escape from their past lives. From what she had heard, all these women had suffered at the hands of men before they were "rescued" and brought there. In that case, anything might seem like an improvement.
"Aelfa," exclaimed Isobel, "will you not have your fortune told too?"
The auburn-haired woman declined again. Jesamyn noted now that there were scars across Aelfa's hands where she'd once been beaten. She closed her eyes, seeing again the misery of her own childhood at the hands of The Master. Quickly she let her mind rove, stretching out into Aelfa's thoughts. And what she saw there in the other woman's memory sickened her.
It caused her sympathy for the second wife to grow stronger, pushing beyond her wariness and her skepticism. She wanted to help Aelfa. They had shared similar hardships, known equal horrors. Aelfa's heart was good, glowing with kindness and honesty, but it was protected by a hard shell to show the world that she was brave. If she was hurt she would never show it. And she believed in love, that every soul was worth saving. In many ways, Aelfa reminded Jesamyn of her beloved sister.
Surely she could befriend the women, she reasoned. They were victims in all this.
It would not stop her hatred of
the men in the family and her determination to see them dead.
A draft swept into the room, battering the candle flames. They all turned and there was Nino, looking for her. "My father wants to meet you."
Excitement stirred her blood, made her pulse quicken. She would meet the black heart of this family at last. She was in.
* * * *
Nino led her up the tower staircase to the room in which the notorious Guillaume d'Anzeray rested on his supposed deathbed, like a great spider waiting in the midst of his web.
Supposed deathbed, because Jesamyn saw at once with disappointment that he was not dying. The man feigned illness for some reason. At first, she did not know why, but it would come to her if she let her mind search long enough.
"What's your name, wench?" he shouted at her, as if he thought she might be deaf or stupid.
"She speaks the tongue, father," Nino explained, his tone bemused. "No need to bellow."
Guillaume stared at her through sly, narrow eyes. "Well? Is she mute?"
She drew herself up, spine straight, shoulders back, chin high. "My name is Jesamyn of Al-Andalus."
He smirked. "And many places since, eh?"
She looked at him, ready to feel the full heat of her hatred.
But he was just a man lying there. A man with grey-peppered curls and a beard to match. A man who was still handsome, still had a powerful presence even as he pretended to be weak and dying. A man with a mischievous spirit.
Like her Tarot cards of late.
Nino would look like that one day, she mused. It was an unexpected thought. Pointless, idle and irritating. "Yes, I have been in many places," she snapped.
This was her least favorite, because it was trying her as none other ever had. Spirits were pulling her in many directions. She suspected she was being tested.
Was this man's power trying to thwart hers? Trying to challenge her?
His eyes twinkled as he laughed.
"What do you find so amusing?" she demanded, fists clenched at her sides.
"She's a handsome creature, boy, but be wary. There's a fire in her. I think she'd rather slap you than kiss you."
Nino laughed. "I know that, father." He rubbed his cheek with one hand. "She has done both to me."
"I have never slapped you," she exclaimed.
"In the souk you did. Remember? When I wanted to hide behind your pot and I offered you some of my supper. You kissed me, slapped me and then kissed me a second time."
She stared. "Supper?"
"Honey cake with almonds. I had some, and I gave it to you."
"No." She refused to believe it. Refused to believe this was the man with whom her twin had shared a kiss. How could her good sister have succumbed? Of course, she could not have known the boy would grow up and in just a few years would ride alongside her murderers. His own sword might have been the very blade that killed Jasynda, the dear little girl he once kissed.
If that was a true story. If.
He shrugged and said to his father, "She just doesn't remember the first time I met her."
Guillaume made a tutting sound with his tongue against his teeth. "Women usually only remember the things they care to." He turned his head to study her again. "What are you looking at so intently woman?"
She was sorting through his mind, racing down the twisty, tangled passages. Until at last she saw the answer to her question. "You feign this illness, d'Anzeray, to spur your sons into action."
That turned his self-satisfied grin into a frown. "I am dying, wench. You will have respect for me."
"Nonsense. You are no nearer death than I. Or anyone here."
Nino was staring at her, appalled, astonished. "Silence, Jesamyn."
"No. I speak as I find. Why should I be silenced?"
"You will not speak to my father this way."
"Ah, you are a coward then. A fool indeed," she sneered. "You are not a grown man, and they are right to treat you as a boy if you cannot stand up to your father." She turned back to the man on the bed. "Your ruse has worked thus far," she added crisply, "with a generation of grandchildren already being born. What happened, Guillaume? Were your sons avoiding marriage for too long? The eldest must be thirty at least. You found it necessary to take these measures to get them married? And this idea of seven brides to be shared would keep them from feeling as if they had committed themselves only to one woman. A feeling you yourself could never bear."
There was silence in the chamber. Only the gently sighing wind that cleared clouds and allowed the sun to shine across the floor, made any sound.
Until Guillaume growled. "Get her out of here."
As she turned to leave, Jesamyn finally realized there was another figure in the chamber, an old woman in nun's robes, mixing something in a pestle and mortar. The woman had been so silent and unobtrusive, lurking in a dark corner, that her presence had not registered. Now she rushed forward to open the door for Jesamyn, and as she did so, she gave a wry smile and muttered, "About time."
* * * *
"Why did you say those things to my father?" Nino demanded, his hand tight around her arm as he raced her back down the tower steps. "Why did you insist on raising his wrath?"
"Because it is the truth." Apparently no one had ever told Guillaume that before. Were even his sons too scared?
"How do you know he is not dying?"
She stopped on the steps and turned to face Nino, spinning around so fast that the bells still around her wrists and ankles all tinkled. "He has the aches and pains of any man his age. Perhaps a few more because of the ungentle life he has led. But he is not dying."
"How do you know?" he persisted, voice rising in anger.
"Because I see it."
"In the cards?"
"No," she said simply. "I see it inside him. I see it with my mind. I see inside all of you."
He exhaled a small, tight sound of frustration and hurried her onward.
"Who was the nun?" she asked. "I did not think your father allowed such within his walls." Perhaps she could somehow get her poison into whatever potion the old woman mixed for her wicked patient. Clearly she would have to use poison, as there was nothing weakened enough inside the old man, no natural thorn to push on its way and finish him off.
"Sister Marie Angeline is the only nun he allows to tend him in this illness, the only one whose presence he ever tolerates."
"I am surprised. For a man of no religion, to have a nun at his deathbed—"
"It is no business of yours, wench."
Ah, now she was back to being "wench" again, because she had dared suggest his father was a liar and a malingerer, using a supposed "illness" to achieve obedience from his seven wayward sons.
"If you desire to remain a blind fool, cub, so be it." Why should she care whether he believed her? His approval meant nothing to her. He meant nothing to her.
"You are only here to entertain us," he reminded her briskly. "Tonight you will dance for us and earn your supper."
It occurred to her then, as she felt his waves of anger, that just as she was determined to remain on her course, he was equally resolved to keep to his.
Good.
He left her in the cookhouse with the women again while he went to find his brothers. Everyone was busy preparing supper. It was a lively scene, and the other women drew Jesamyn into it, without hesitation, finding little jobs for her that would make her feel as if she belonged.
"Why are you all so pleasant to me?" she demanded of Aelfa.
"We have no cause not to be," came the reply. "Do we?"
Ha! Little did they know. She studied the wine jugs. She could slip poison into just one of them and fell several wicked d'Anzerays in one supper. "Do the men drink from a separate vessel?" she asked innocently.
Aelfa smiled. "No. Why?"
Oh, then she could not act yet. She did not want one of the women to drink from it and accidentally be poisoned.
She should have felt annoyed by this barrier, but instead a wave of
relief swept over her. Tonight at least she need not worry about her mission. She could eat and plan. Yes, very good. It might be as well to wait until she had been there a little longer, gained more of their trust.
Chapter Seven
Nino bit into a leg of roasted pheasant and let the good juices slide down his chin. This evening he was ravenous. But not just for food.
As Jesamyn danced around the hall, he followed her every move with his eyes, drinking her down. The damned woman had dared insult his father and called him a fool. She was sly, not to be trusted. His father had warned him, and he knew it was true.
She'd already wormed her way into the affections of their wives, telling the women some sad tale of her past. Very probably all lies. Princesa had come to him that afternoon and asked if he meant to "keep" Jesamyn. The wives, it seemed, wanted her to join their group. He had replied that he did not think she was suitable. Princesa did not dare argue, of course. Princesa was an obedient woman who did not think she knew everything, or that she could pry inside the great minds of men.
It was late and the women all gone to their beds tonight, but the brothers remained, eager to enjoy the entertainment. Now that their father's health seemed improved again they had something to celebrate. Not that they ever needed much excuse when there was a naked woman in their midst.
A stunning enchantress with sable hair, breasts like dainty tear-drops, and the sweetest, intoxicating, addictive pussy Nino had ever tasted.
Do not give in to her. He was certain she used magic to enchant him, for he'd never experienced this rush of confusion when he looked at a woman. She was a whore— whatever she called herself. He should remember that and not look into her eyes, nor look at the scars across her back and remember the little girl with whom he shared honey cake.
Jesamyn danced with her bells only, nothing else to obscure the beauty of her graceful, flexible body. All the men were entranced as she walked around on her hands, with her back arched like a bow, feet resting on her head and knees parted. In this manner she presented her tantalizing pussy for a tasting by each of his brothers.