Hellion

by Bertrice Small

  She saw the falconers at their trestle with the two huntsmen. She nodded to them, and Alain’s flick of an eye acknowledged her. She wondered if she might be allowed to visit the mews and see Couper. She knew that the mews had been stocked for Hugh. If she could only speak with Alain, she might learn when Hugh visited the birds. Perhaps she could break through Vivienne d’ Bretagne’s spell if she and Hugh were in familiar surroundings. It was all going to take time; more time than she had anticipated. And even if she could help Hugh, how was she going to break the spell Guy d’ Bretagne had woven about her?

  Guy now took her for walks outdoors, leading her down a narrow path in the cliffs below the castle. Usually it was gray and damp, but one early winter’s day the sun shone, and across the sea she could just barely make out the darker line of land.

  “What is that place?” she asked him.

  “England,” he said, and they continued their walk along the shelly beach, watching the gulls soar and dive. They could smell the salt tang of the sea, and the cold air was fresh and cutting. The deep blue water sparkled in the sunlight. “Do you miss England?” he asked her.

  “There is nothing to miss,” she lied. “I have found a far better life with you, my lord.”

  He stopped and looked down into her face. “Once I said that you would love me, Belle,” he told her. “Now, I find that it is I who am falling in love with you. It is dangerous for a man such as me to love. Love is a weakness, and makes one vulnerable. Do you care for me at all?” His dark violet eyes bore into hers.

  “I think so,” she answered him. Reaching up, she caressed his handsome face. “You must never wear your heart upon your sleeve, my lord. It places you in grave danger.”

  He smiled down at her. “If you did not care, you would not warn me, Belle.”

  They walked on, and she felt some little guilt for the deception she was playing upon him; and yet had his sister not stolen her husband, and taken Hugh’s memory from him, Isabelle of Langston would not have had to come to this place at all. And Guy d’ Bretagne would have never fallen in love with her.

  The Winter Solstice came and was celebrated at La Citadelle with much feasting. Great bonfires were lit upon the castle heights and the adjoining hills belonging to the d’ Bretagne family. During the celebration it was easy for Belle to mingle among the retainers in the hall without suspicion. She easily found Alain and Lind. No one would question her about sitting with them for a moment or two. They looked relieved to see her.

  “Are you bewitched, too, then?” Alain asked her.

  “Aye,” she said softly, “I fear that I am. Still, unlike my lord Hugh, I have managed to retain my wits.”

  “Our lord is lost to us,” Alain said grimly. “Let us all flee La Citadelle before the winter snows set in and we cannot. If Lord Hugh cannot come, lady, then he must stay. Will you allow our master’s son to be raised without either of his parents?”

  “I am not ready to give up,” Isabelle said calmly. “I do not yet know by what means of enchantment Vivienne d’ Bretagne holds Hugh, nor have I discovered how Guy d’ Bretagne holds me in thrall.”

  “What difference does it make?” the falconer demanded, his voice low with caution. “How can you thwart these sorcerers, lady?”

  “I do not even know if I can, Alain,” Isabelle answered him, “but would you want me to flee not knowing? How could I ever face my son if I did not do my best to free his father?” She arose from the trestle, smiling gaily for the benefit of any watching, and said, “I must go now, but first, Lind, tell me, how is Couper?”

  “She pines for you, lady,” he answered her.

  “I will try to remedy the situation,” she replied, and moved off back to the high board.

  “You stayed overlong with the falconers,” Vivienne d’ Bretagne noted when Belle sat back down.

  “They are concerned about my merlin, Couper,” Belle answered her. “I have raised her from a nestling, and now we have been separated these many weeks. She pines, Alain and Lind tell me.”

  Vivienne d’ Bretagne turned to her brother. “Why do you not let Belle have her merlin? The falconers tell her the bird is growing despondent for the loss of her mistress. It is not right that a fine creature be sacrificed, brother. Belle must have her bird.”

  “I do not want the creature in my apartments,” Guy said. “Belle may visit the mews if she chooses. I have no objection to that.” He turned to his mistress. “Will that suit you, my precious?”

  “Of course, my lord. I shall go tomorrow. My thanks.” She leaned over and placed a sweet kiss upon his cheek. “A token of my appreciation,” she said with a little smile.

  “I will expect far more than a token,” he rejoined wickedly.

  “And you shall have everything of me that you desire,” Belle promised him, her dark lashes sweeping flirtatiously against her fair skin. “I am my lord’s to command.”

  “You are becoming too artful,” he complained, but he was not displeased with her at all. He had never known a woman like his Belle.

  The following day he gave her a trunkful of exquisite garments to wear. She visited the falcon mews, taking Couper onto her hand, caressing the bird, feeding her, praising her lavishly. The merlin brightened immediately at the sound of her mistress’s voice, uttering small cries of welcome. Belle almost wept, for in her overwhelming desire to find a way to rescue Hugh, she had almost forgotten about her faithful Couper.

  As she walked about the mews’ yard, Couper upon her fist, she spoke with Lind, for Alain was angry that she would not leave Hugh and lead them home to England.

  “How often does Lord Hugh come to the mews?” she asked.

  “Almost every day,” Lind said.

  “Does he come at a particular time?”

  “Usually in the early morning,” Lind said.

  Isabelle sighed deeply. It would be difficult if not impossible for her to get to the mews at that time of day. Guy usually awoke at first light, rested and filled with lust to pleasure himself before he began his day. There would be no chance of getting away from him then, except during the few days when her link with the moon was broken, which he respected. She had only recently finished her flow, and it would be several weeks until it came again. She had no choice but to wait. “Lind,” she said, “does he not recognize you at all?”

  Lind shook his head. “Nay, lady. He knew not Alain, either, but then Alain told him he was his servant. Lord Hugh remembers nothing but his love for the birds. We have been teaching him about them all over again. Sometimes one of us will mention his grandfather and the birds of the Merlin-sones. He thinks a little, and then he shakes his head and says it is not important; but we can see he is distressed he cannot remember. It seems to hurt his head when he tries.” Lind frowned. “I am beginning to think that perhaps Alain is right, lady. Perhaps we should leave.”

  Belle shook her head. “Let us at least wait until spring, Lind. Perhaps by then I will have discovered the magic that binds my husband and me to the d’ Bretagnes. Besides, we should never be able to cross the sea now. You have but to look at the water to see that. And where would we get a boat? If we attempted to go overland instead, they would easily find us and bring us back. No. When we go, there must be no chance that they will catch us, Lind. Tell Alain that, and beg him not to be angry with me any longer. We must remain united.”

  Lind nodded, agreeing with her.

  Belle debated the wisdom of approaching Hugh too soon. In her heart she wanted to rush to him and tell him who she was, but she knew in his current state of mind it would be inadvisable. She forced herself to wait, for he obviously had eyes for no one but his mistress. He scarcely if ever even spoke to her, Belle knew, or acknowledged her presence.

  Then one day in midwinter she was surprised to find him in the mews when she arrived for her mid-morning visit.

  “Good morning, my lord,” she said pleasantly.

  He nodded curtly.

  “I had been told that it was your custom
to come earlier to the mews. If I disturb you, I will go,” she told him.

  “There is no need,” his harsh voice grated.

  Isabelle went immediately to Couper and took the merlin up upon her gauntlet. “Good morning, my darling,” she said gaily. “You are looking particularly beautiful this fine gloomy day.”

  The merlin chittered back at the sound of her voice.

  “She is very responsive to you,” Hugh growled.

  “I raised her from a nestling,” Isabelle told him quietly. “She was a gift from my husband.”

  “He was a falconer?” Hugh asked.

  “Aye,” Isabelle said. “He was a fine falconer. Once he showed me how he trained a gyrfalcon to hunt for cranes.”

  “In the spring you will show us,” Hugh replied. “There are cranes in the marshes hereabouts. I should like to hunt them.” Then he turned abruptly and left the mews.

  That night at table, however, he spoke indirectly to her, telling his mistress what she had told him about hunting cranes. “We will all hunt them together, will we not?” he said.

  “Who was the gyrfalcon trained for?” Guy asked her.

  “The king,” Belle answered with a half-truth.

  “Your late husband trained a gyrfalcon for King Henry?” Vivienne d’ Bretagne was impressed. “He must have been a fine falconer.”

  “He was,” Belle replied quietly.

  Later in their chambers, Guy could not swallow back his jealousy. “You spoke of him as if you loved him,” he accused her.

  “Loved who?” Belle asked, not certain what he meant.

  “Your falconer husband. Your rough-spoken Englander!” His eyes were almost black with invidiousness.

  “Of course I loved him, else I should not have been so unhappy when my brother destroyed him,” Isabelle said.

  “Why did he kill him?” Guy demanded.

  “Because my half brother lusted after me,” she replied, quickly inventing the tale. “He tried to rape me, and my husband came upon us. He beat my brother for it. It is not wise to beat your overlord, is it? My brother hanged my husband for his crime, and he and my half sister drove me from our father’s estate. Now you know the whole tale. Does it ease your jealousy any, my lord?”

  “No,” he said, but the anger was gone from his voice.

  “What will ease it?” she asked him softly.

  “To hear you tell me that you love me as you once loved your falconer. To hear you say it, and know that you mean it,” Guy d’ Bretagne burst out.

  “Cannot your sorcery make me love you?” Belle said quietly. She was rather surprised by his intensity.

  “True love cannot be forced! You mock me,” he said angrily.

  “I do not!” Belle cried, fearing the dangerous look in his eye.

  “Aye,” he said slowly, “you do, my pet, and you will be disciplined for it. Come! You will help me to fashion your own punishment.” He dragged her from their bedchamber into his magic room. Saffron glared at them balefully, his nap disturbed, as Guy lit the lamps. Flouncing down from his perch upon the table, the cat departed. “Give me the silver cup!” Guy commanded her.

  With shaking hands, Belle obeyed. Suddenly this room had become very frightening to her, the lamps and the firelight casting ghostly shadows upon the stone walls. And yet how many pleasant afternoons had she spent here? He had taught her to make several lovely creams and ointments that were used to improve pleasure and heighten the skin’s sensitivity. She had, beneath his careful eye, mixed potions over which he had murmured strange incantations, but would not tell her what their use was. One had the most delicious ingredients: rose water, myrtle water, orange blossom water, distilled spirit of musk, and just a dash of a waxlike substance called ambergris. They had bottled it in crystal flacons encased in silver filigree.

  Guy d’ Bretagne took the cup from Isabelle. He had assembled several jars, containers, and bottles upon the table. Fearfully, she watched as he poured a dollop of clear springwater into the cup, adding a large pinch of something, stirring it vigorously, and then holding it out to her. “Drink it!” he said in a fierce tone.

  Isabelle shrank back. “Do you mean to kill me, then?” she whispered. “Do not, I beg you! I will do your bidding, my lord!”

  “I told you once that I did not mean to kill you, Belle, but you have greatly displeased me, and I will chastise you for it. Now drink!”

  “What is it?” she quavered. Oh, God! His eyes were boring into her, and she could feel the all-too-familiar weakness sapping her will.

  “It is called cantharides,” he said softly. “It will arouse you as you have never been aroused before, and until it pleases me, you shall not be satisfied.” He pushed the cup at her.

  Despite herself, Belle accepted it, and drank the liquid down. It had an almost musty taste. He held out a piece of colewort to her. This herb, she knew, induced a love trance. The ancients, he had told her, had used it in their orgies. Unwilling, but afraid, she chewed the herb down, helpless to his will.

  He led her back to the bedchamber, ordering her to remove her garments as he removed his. When they were both naked, he made her stand in the middle of the floor. He poured powdered purple cyclamen root in a circle around her, murmuring incantations all the while. Isabelle was terrified as she had never been before. What was worse, she was beginning to feel dizzy. Her blood felt boiling hot in her veins, and every single bit of sensation had drained from her entire body to center itself with a throbbing urgency in her sex.

  Guy d’ Bretagne smiled cruelly, seeing her distress. “Ahh, my pet, you are beginning to understand, aren’t you? It will get worse before it gets better, I promise you. Do not move from this spot. I must fetch something I forgot in the magic chamber.” He hurried out of the room, then returned. “This cream is called kyphi,” she heard him say.

  “The kyphi will make your skin exquisitely sensitive, my pet,” he promised her, and in short order he had rubbed it into every bit of her flesh, even between her legs. Then, pouring a thin trickle of juniper oil atop the cyclamen powder, he lit it so that it caused a circle of flame to surround her. Again he muttered strange words she could not understand, all the while moving about the outside of the circle.

  Then Guy d’ Bretagne stepped over the flames into the circle of fire, putting a strong arm about his victim. His other hand began to caress her body. “How soft you are,” he said low, kissing her earlobe, his tongue then exploring its pink whorl.

  Isabelle moaned. His touch was gentle wherever his fingers and mouth met her skin, but the agony was almost excruciating because of the intense throbbing of her sex. “Please,” she sobbed. “Please!”

  “You see, my darling,” he told her, “I do not have to resort to the strap to punish you. How far more exquisitely painful this little chastisement is, eh?

  “Open your legs for me,” he commanded, and she quickly complied. “Now,” he said in a deceptively gentle tone, “spread yourself for me with your fingers, and show me your dainty little pleasure pearl.” Again she obeyed, and he continued, “If you close yourself to me without my permission, the torture you feel now will be nothing to the spell I shall cast upon you, Belle. Do you understand me, my pet?”

  She nodded, wondering nervously what new torment he was about to inflict upon her helpless body. She watched nervously as he sat cross-legged directly before her and drew from nowhere a long feather with a sharply pointed tip. He applied the tip directly to her pleasure pearl. The sensation was the most pleasurable, yet painful feeling. Her eyes widened in shock. Relentlessly, he worked the feather back and forth across her exposed sex, sometimes giving her a moment’s respite by sliding the tapered feather up and down her nether lips. “You are going to kill me,” she managed to gasp.

  He smiled cruelly. “You are bearing up quite well,” he noted, and reaching out with his other hand, he lifted a goblet she had not seen before to his lips. These objects seem to come from the air, she thought.

  “The drink I am drink
ing is called satyricon,” he told her. “It will ensure that my weapon does not flag this night.” Finishing his potion, he flung the cup from him, but she heard no sound of the vessel falling to the stone floor.

  Finally, Guy d’ Bretagne dropped the feather with which he had been teasing her. The ring of fire had burnt itself out. “You may close yourself for the moment,” he said, and taking her hand, he led her from the enchanted circle to a goatskin rug before the room’s fireplace. “Kneel down,” he ordered. “I shall first take you as a stallion mounts a mare in a field.” Moving behind her, he plunged his unusually swollen manhood into her burning sheath.

  Isabelle cried out, half with relief, half with pain, for he was enormous tonight, and deeper within her than he had ever been before. It was only the beginning. For the next several hours, he used her in a variety of positions; having her anoint his manhood with goat suet in between, which had a profound effect upon a man’s performance, and his was unflagging. She was but half conscious when he finally decided she had suffered enough. “You will never again mock me, Belle,” he told her, and then, making a motion with his hand, he willed her into sleep.

  When Isabelle finally awoke, she found herself in their bed, but Guy was nowhere to be seen. She lay quietly, hoping that she was alone in the room. Every muscle in her body ached, and her love sheath felt raw and sore. Guy d’ Bretagne had shown a side of himself last night that she hoped never to see again. And why? Because she had said she loved her husband, and he had obviously felt threatened by it. Cannot your sorcery make me love you? That had been the innocent question that had caused him to erupt with violence and anger.

  The question slipped unbidden into her head. What true sorcery had she ever seen him perform, or Vivienne, either, for that matter? They made potions and lotions, it was true, but never once had she seen them turn anything into something else. Never once had she seen them call the wind, or make the rain stop. Was that not what sorcerers did? Any old witch woman in the forest could make love potions and ointments. Sorcerers did really important things, or so she had always believed. Other than Hugh’s very odd condition, she had seen no real magic of a serious kind. And what of that passionately uttered cry he had made in his anger? “True love cannot be forced.” Was it possible there was no magic?