Remarkably, the girl seemed to moan with pleasure. Could this be the same whore?
Soon after the body arrived before the portcullis of Lassignac and a moment later what had become almost a lissom beauty was back in the slave compound among her colleagues, they too, and Joanne especially, astonished at the transformation. Once on her pallet Martine kissed her parpaillote soul mate fondly. Then Joanne noticed the girl's body.
"Mon Dieu, they really slimmed and lashed you! Did you keep the faith, sister?"
Martine nodded. "And you? You're in a fine state too! They said you'd recanted."
Joanne stared at her and laughed. "Me? Have they whipped the sense out of you, sweet dunce? I'm still true and bright as the star of Bethlehem." She lowered her voice. "Florence told me you were due back and just as well because - and listen carefully - we're going to leave this prison and, if all goes well, this very week. Keep close to me, whatever happens. Just stay very close. And not a word."
Martine's eyes widened. Glancing at the other nudes chained alongside her, she saw that no one seemed interested in their murmurings; the return of a slave after a bout of training was a triviality, even if the body, for better or worse, had undergone a change.
Joanne took Martine into her arms and whispered what she had to impart. Bridling temptation, she spread spittle over her friend's welts and her own.
***
Beyond the massive walls of the castle, the odour of honeysuckle and boxwood wafted through the spring air, alive with the homely grating of the cicadas. The hills of the Cevennes rolled away into the distance under fleecy clouds that seemed to lie motionless, expectant in the sky. Time had halted as if surprised by a posse of men, several leagues away, gathered in the woods for prayer and briefing. The man on horseback went by the name of Lacombe, delegated by Castenet to lead the attack. The Protestant leader studied again the scrap of paper and Joanne's hurried scrawl. The bearded lieutenant called his posse of men, in their leather jerkins and clogs, around him and repeated the tactics for the coming Sunday's onslaught on Lassignac, when the castle would still be asleep. He chose the moment astutely allowing only a few hours to free and avenge their two abducted sisters. Each one of the group had been himself harassed by vile persecution, suffered forced billeting of dragoons on his household, seen his woman raped on the kitchen table, the cottages, temples burnt... The grapes of wrath were ripe.
Chapter Eight
The mists rising from the Tarn river hovered round the uplands of the Mont Lozere like a ghostly skirt as the men set out towards the hamlet of Bellecoste. The march through the bracken, still moonlit with the last glimmers, proved arduous until the sun rose. The posse halted in a gully for morning prayer, sharing the scant provisions of cheese and stale bread; it would be foolhardy to seek more at the Pont-de-Montvert where a company of dragoons was billeted.
The men veered to the south and mounted laboriously east towards Lassignac, its presumptuous turrets still dimly shrouded in mist. By daybreak they had arrived in the dell of gorse bushes just below the walls and rested, arms in hand. Castenet's lieutenant, Lacombe, the locksmith from Mende, leading them, the group offered up a psalm and received a blessing from their accompanying pastor who knew he was jeopardizing his life, if caught. Crossing the outside paddock, Lacombe led his troop to the stable doorway that, as planned, Florence had left on the latch - a risk she had taken with stealth and courage the previous evening, ensuring the castle was abed. Only three lazy guards, she had said, patrolled the battlements, and they would be sodden with drink. All the steps had been taken in line with the Camisards' message sent to Joanne hidden in a loaf of bread, both message and bread being shared with Florence. Thus all was set for daybreak on this, the Sunday of retribution, revenge and rescue.
Passing cautiously through the straw-strewn stalls without raising a neigh from the Marquis's stallion and the mares, the posse stunned a couple of dozing grooms and bound them; soundlessly the Camisards gained the rear courtyard, still shielded from the early rays of the sun by the crenelated battlements. There the men received their first shock.
Hanging naked from the gibbet bar above the yard's platform, the deathly pale female seemed to have frozen. The slavegirl Therèse had in fact spent the night there, following a prolonged flagellation from Bouchard, the major-domo; the whipping had been inflicted in line with Anthea's orders, for the slave's slovenly behaviour during a session of breast torture, for which the wretched nude had been chained to Elodie's bedpost. The Calvinists stared at the body with a mixture of horror and shock, for she was enough to awe and disturb even the chastest parpaillote-in-arms. Silently, at Lacombe's whispered order, one of his men crossed to release her; the bruised body collapsed to the boards with a groan and was covered with a horse blanket from the stables. Few of the men had ever even seen a naked female, let alone one chained, anally impaled and thrashed purple.
The drowsy guards on the ramparts were disarmed expeditiously, one receiving a pitchfork between the ribs, the others being tied fast, without cries or struggle. They were replaced by Camisards from the posse to watch out for the dragoons. Then the courtyard door to the keep was forced, that too left unlocked by the devout Florence.
Silence no longer vital, the sabots and weapons echoed through the tapestried passages as Florence herself appeared from the kitchens to greet Lacombe. After a brief parley with her, the austere Calvinist dispatched his band to various parts of the building. His orders were simple: "Kill in the name of Sion and Gideon only if you must, but bring the rest to..." Florence pointed along the long corridor and helped: "To the great drawing room over there brothers. And take care when you arrest the two louts, Bouchard and the bonehead Coursel. They could be armed. They're in their retreats down there on the left but spare the women with them. They may be of the faith, slaves or innocents." She looked at the leader. "Now is the time for you and a couple of our brethren to mount above and seize the Great Whore of Babylon where she transgresses with her accursed Anthea, that sister of Satan. They're your quarry too. Quick, before they wake."
"And the Marquis, Florence? And our two sisters in God, pardi?" the leader asked bluntly, aware he could risk only a few hours, at most, in the castle. "Where are they?"
The domestic hesitated. "I'm not sure about the Marquis but probably you'll find him with one of our believers in the west wing. The other is suffering in the slave cellar."
"We'll collect them later," the man decided. "But first, the damned Marquise on whose forehead," he quoted aloud, "is the name written, Babylon the Great, the Mother of Harlots and Abominations of the Earth. Take me to the room, devoted sister, for me to slaughter her, as Joshua destroyed the inhabitants of Ai. Joshua 8, verse 25," he added.
"Would that be wise, brother?" the woman murmured warily. "Maybe Joanne and even Martine should decide what should be done. After all, it is they who have suffered."
The man hesitated a second. "So be it. But the gorgon - or both of them - shall be whipped naked until they repent." With that, he and three men mounted the stairs with Florence, Lacombe's sabre bared and flashing. He kicked open the door of the bedroom.
Jolted awake, the two dishevelled women shrank back, drawing the silk sheets to their chins. Hauled from the bed, the Marquise had just time to seize a thin nightdress and stagger after her captors; Anthea, reeking with sweat and sexual discharge, had no such chance and was hustled out stark naked. Too alarmed to struggle, both women had their elbows bound behind, one of the Camisards pricking the younger female's buttocks to hurry her down. They stumbled into the great room, horrified to see virtually the whole household prisoner and aligned, kneeling in bondage. Only the Marquis was missing.
A moment later, Elodie and Anthea were also forced to their knees, a thickset Calvinist threatening the heaving breasts with his billhook. Trembling indignantly, the two glared at their enemies in silence. Time passed as the sun rose, flooding t
he room.
Having finished collecting the servants - Bouchard, an unclothed Coursel, his huge cock limp for once, a Brissac without his blacksmith's apron, and a naked Marie-Félice, drooling with what had been pumped into her in Bouchard's bunk - Florence conducted the Cevenol officer and a few men along the dim passage leading to the west wing and to what she knew it contained.
Joanne lay luxuriously upon the silken covers, listening to the Marquis, dressed in riding clothes, reading Racine to her. On the side table were the stale remains of the loaf, the scrap of paper it had concealed serving as a marker in the Marquis's book. The domestic composure of the scene left Lacombe dumbfounded; the Marquis seemed to be privy to the sudden violation of his castle. But there indeed was the startlingly alluring maiden from Pressignac, listening placidly to her captor. Only the bluish purple lash marks over the body, together with the manacles and flesh rings, showed she was one of the two slaves the posse had come to retrieve. The young, freckled face greeted the men with a broad smile of welcome as the Marquis closed his book, rose and bowed obsequiously. Gently he helped Joanne to slide off the bed into a fur-lined cloak. Frisking the noble Master of Lassignac for weapons and being about to bind his wrists, Lacombe perceived the girl's shake of the head, and desisted with a shrug. His stare at Florence showed the relationship lay beyond his comprehension.
The strange couple followed the Camisards and the cook into the long corridor.
Once in the drawing room, Joanne was offered Elodie's throne and, after she had spoken to Lacombe, the Marquis was allowed to stand unbound at her side. Open-mouthed, the household - and Elodie - kneeling in obeisance, saw the Marquis take Joanne's hand.
Guided again by Florence, Lacombe then descended into the cellar. The spectacle there alone justified the perilous attack; the candlelight flickered over a row of naked slaves cringing against the wall. Above each hung a hideous length of flogging leather.
"Which of these pitiable creatures is our sister, Florence?" Lacombe asked.
Martine was released and led upstairs, where it was her turn to be amazed, as Joanne signalled her to take the armchair next to her own. Before her stretched the whole herd of her owners, torturers, flunkeys, chamber maids and servants, bound and mute. But more startling still was the figure next to Joanne. Gazing solemnly at the array of kneeling prisoners, the Master of Lassignac appeared unabashed, even congenial. Nonplussed, Martine recalled that awesome initial whipping she had received from him in the holding cellar weeks before, and scowled. Joanne gave her a glance to reassure her.
Now only the Dominicans were missing. The saintly man and his acolyte had long since escaped through the sewers and fled for refuge in the Convent of the Annunciation. Neither was particularly eager to face Martine, Joanne or the Camisards.
"Now they are before you, Joanne," Lacombe announced, leaning on his sword after ordering Martine to be given some covering. The pastor, pained by the nudity displayed in the room, readily offered her a long cloak left by some guest and still hanging on the wall. "We shall abide by your verdict," the Camisard went on, "and that of your sister in the Faith. It is up to you. Whatever you decide shall be done. I've mentioned the scourge but this," he held out his sabre, "would be more expeditive. And appropriate." A series of low groans arose from the line of captives.
If only the dragoons were not so far away, Elodie lamented in silence - massacring burning, scourging, raping, chaining and fettering. And the Pont-de-Montvert lay only an hour or two's march distant... Elodie prayed silently.
Glancing down the row of recumbent forms, Joanne turned matters over in her mind. Events had evolved swiftly enough, as Florence had foreseen. Almost freed, she felt forgiveness welling up within her. About to pardon, she heard her sister-in-faith yell from the chair beside her.
"Let those two hyenas there," Martine's shaking finger stabbed towards the Marquise and her paramour, "those bitches, be whipped! On the gallows, pardi, in the yard! And where are those two priests of Ashtoreth? May heaven damn them. Where are they?"
A sepulchral silence fell over the room, Joanne staring at her companion.
"When we've done here," the dark-haired fury went on, her eyes narrowing like slits left by a whip, "I'll lead you down to the convent, brothers. There I've retribution due. An eye for an eye. Tooth for a tooth. So, brethren?" Bristling, she challenged Lacombe.
The hush became eerie, Joanne avoiding Martine's eyes. She made up her mind and addressed the line of bewildered hostages.
"At the slightest sign of resistance, these men will burn this hell-hole to the ground. We know," - she flashed a look at Elodie - "who devised our imprisonment here..."
"Otherwise you sluts would have gone to the Tour de Constance!" Elodie screamed across the room, "you squalid pagans... to Aigues-Mortes to rot like rats..."
Joanne disregarded the shriek. "And why here?" she went on. "To be used as whipping slaves." She turned to Francis-Etienne. "Although you negotiated it with the Marshal and his damned dragoons, presumably you did so to content your evil wife and this debauched whore of hers." Anthea aimed and spat at her. "Moreover, you yourself, Marquis, flogged Martine here when we were suffering in the holding cellar." She paused and, to Martine's astonishment, added: "You used me unceasingly in the west wing. Not that I hold that against you. For reasons of my own. In fact you saved me from much degradation by keeping me to yourself. I do not grudge you that, for I too had pleasure. You whipped me, yes, but also you treated me as... a human being."
Martina was struck dumb, only to see the Marquis bow gracefully. He looked almost elegiac as he replied. "If I may speak, Joanne dear, allow me to say that, in a way, I am also to blame, even if I gleaned great pleasure and shared it with you. I admit enjoying your superb body, as much as you did mine. You attract me as few women have done."
Elodie let out a hoarse cry of fury, only to receive a sharp jab from the billhook.
"As far as I am concerned and under the circumstances," the bearded one went on, "both of you may depart. Your flesh rings will be sawn through and removed. Your manacles also and I'll see to it you're given clothing and footwear to leave with these..." he sought for the word, "...these friends of yours. If you wish use the mounts in the stables. But, in the name of our past joys, spare my house and those whom it shelters."
Elodie could barely believe what she was hearing. Had this devious, pusillanimous husband of hers taken leave of his senses? What was this trash about mutual attraction between her Marquis and an abysmal slut of a slave, about to abscond? Incredible! True, the goings on in the west wing had exasperated her beyond words. Perhaps the man was playing for time, despite his hand fondling that of the blonde bitch. If ever she came out of this mess, she would whip that whore into hell itself. So she had to play for time and detain the lawless posse of peasant louts as long as possible hopefully at least until the company of dragoons at the Pont-de-Montvert got wind of the scurrilous attack. As surely they must, sooner or later - for she noticed the young stable boy, Lucien, was missing from the row of captives and may have escaped. Unless, of course, a hayfork had already stabbed him, screaming, to the planks of the horse stalls...
"We have no need of your help, thank you. Marquis," Lacombe put in. "These girls seek freedom and, par ma foi, we'll see they get it!"
Joanne beckoned to the man to exchange whispers at length, Martine leaning over and gesticulating wildly. A further remark from the Marquis interrupted the parley.
"But, pardi," he urged, dismissing his wife's pleas for help, "let me at least order your slave rings to be extracted. It can be done forthwith by Bouchard and Brissac, the smith. Under your friends' supervision, of course."
"Not that bastard Bouchard!" Martine's cry splintered the silence like glass. "Anyone but that Amalekite swine, that whoremonger from Nineveh! Pour out the vials of wrath!"
Taken aback, Joanne looked at her and then n
odded. "Very well, sister. Then Brissac'll do it alone, with Florence's help. In any case, we shall need Bouchard for quite another task - along with Marie-Félice." She had taken her decision.
"As you wish," Francis-Etienne murmured with eloquent reticence. "as long as your henchmen spare my folk and roof. If you will allow him to fetch his tools, Brissac can remove the rings and shackles here and now." Again the blonde nodded and Lacombe despatched a young Camisard to lead the blacksmith out. "But in what way, pray," the Marquis asked, "may my major-domo and Marie-Félice be of help?"
Joanne rose to pace the drawing room. "We have decided as follows. The entire household will descend to the courtyard, line up kneeling against the wall to watch the punishments my virtuous sister here proposes."
The stifling room became laden with menace. "We have decided that the pig Bouchard, shall scourge your lascivious wife while that trollop Marie-Félice, rather than yon bestial Coursel, flogs that hell-kite, Anthea, who had us sliced, shredded, and skinned me with her vile nipple cones, the bitch!" She paused to contain her virulence. "So, the Marquise will be hung head down from the gallows, that vixen there chained to the harrow. Is that what you want, Martine?"
The girl approved with an avid smile. Her maxim was simple: a humiliated slave should treat her tormentor, if given the chance, in the same way as the oppressor treated a slave, and unbelievably that chance had come. The pair of ruthless bitches deserved the whip, if not more, until their bodies and hopefully their malignant souls were cleansed with tongues of fire. And that, Martine added, Bouchard and Marie-Félice could do with the same ferocity as Sister Madeleine and Tertia down at the convent.
The Sufferers Page 20