by Deryn Lake
John, a washable condom in his pocket, had been standing, reading it, when a voice behind him said, “Pray, what does that mean, sir?”
He had turned to see one of the sauciest little packages it had been his pleasure to set his eyes on in a long time. She was masked, as were all the women present, but that could not hide her natural assets of hair, a glorious shade of rich red, a tipped up cheeky nose, a full mouth with a most attractive underlip, and a pair of pert and pretty breasts which were almost breaking free of their constraining garments. Whether it was the recently swallowed aphrodisiac or the general eroticism of his surroundings but John felt instantly attracted to her.
He bowed and said, “I’m not sure,” then picked up her hand and kissed it slowly.
She gave him an amused glance and said, “Shall we go in to the cave and see if there is anything written in there?”
He knew perfectly well what she meant but was more than happy to comply. “Come on then,” he said, and taking her hand led her inside.
Within the atmosphere was highly charged, for there was a mossy couch made for love with probably the most explicit inscription of all written above. For John, reading in Latin, saw “Go into action, you youngsters; put everything you’ve got into it together, both of you; let not doves outdo your cooings, nor ivy your embraces, nor oysters your kisses”.
“I wonder what this one says?” she asked teasingly, obviously having had it translated for her many times before.
“It exhorts us to go into action,” John answered.
“Like this?” she said, and putting her arms round his neck gave him a voluptuous kiss.
“Or, even better, like this,” the Apothecary replied, and leading her to the couch, lay down beside her.
Vaguely he heard a couple come into the cave, say “Sorry,” and leave again. But John was past caring, indeed was having such a pleasurable time that the whole world could have walked through the cavernous entrance as far as he was concerned.
The little whore, who had remained masked throughout, grinned at him impudently. “I think you had a good time, young sir.”
“I had one of the best times ever.”
“Oh, you men. You all say the same.”
“And you? Did you enjoy yourself?”
“Not completely,” she answered truthfully. “It’ll take a bit of practice.”
John grinned and wiped his brow. “Madam, I am entirely at your disposal.”
She sat upright. “Oh, it don’t go like that. The Abbot has first choice of all the women. And then the men file past us for inspection. That’s in case a lady’s husband should be present, or an acquaintance for that matter.”
“Not very likely I would have thought.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised. We have a mix of females of quality amongst our number, here for the sport, like. And they enter into it with as much enthusiasm as any Covent Garden doxy. Anyway, if they should see anyone they know they have permission to retire without revealing themselves. But if all goes well, when every man has passed us by we unmask and that is how we remain.”
“I see. So how are the women picked?”
“By the gentlemen present, as you would imagine. But once they have taken one of us we become their lawful wives during our stay here. So, sir, if I please you and the Abbot doesn’t want me, then I am yours for the asking.”
“And ask I will,” John replied with enthusiasm.
And now it was evening and the men had walked past their prospective “brides” and the Abbot - Sir Francis Dashwood himself - had made his choice. Somewhat to the Apothecary’s surprise he had picked for his escort an extremely buxom blonde lady who John thought he recognised as Betsy. There had also been a slight mishap as John had seen her standing amongst the whores and ladies. He had wondered for a moment whether she would withdraw but instead she had given him a cheerful grin as he had gone past her. So her husband didn’t pick her, John thought, or was this part of a little game they played in order to keep their marriage alive?
“Brother monks,” the Abbot said rising, “you have seen the ladies and I have made my choice. Now you must make yours.”
The assembled company, all designated monks for the next few days, sallied forward, and John hurried to where his pretty little whore stood waiting.
“Well, sir, do you choose me as your wife?” she asked, smiling at him.
“Will you do me the honour, ma’am?”
“Gladly, sir,” and she curtseyed.
“By the way, what is your name?”
“Teresa, sir. Sometimes known as Tracey.”
“I think I shall stick to the old-fashioned version.”
“If that pleases you.”
She really was quite the most fascinating young creature the Apothecary had seen for some while and now, aided by yet another aphrodisiac, he sat in a bemused state of high excitement while dinner was served. It seemed part of the ceremony that every member present should introduce his lady and the Abbot now rose to his feet.
“Brothers, I pray you to look upon my fair Betsy who is the flower of her art and has taught many a young monk the rites of initiation.”
There was a rumble of laughter and one or two whistles. John, looking round, saw the lady’s husband, James Avon- Nelthorpe, sitting with an experienced-looking harridan of the older variety and thought that was obviously where his tastes lay.
“Now, brothers, it is up to you to introduce your ladies to us.”
A member of the company sitting at the far end of the table rose and gave his woman’s name and there was much general hilarity when one or two had to consult the lady before he stood up. It came to John’s turn and he got to his feet.
“Brothers, I want to thank you all for including me in your company. So far I have found it to be one of the most pleasant and enjoyable times of my life. Allow me to present to you my wife, the beautiful Teresa.”
Just for a minute the effects of the drug wore off and looking round he saw dissipated young rakehells and raddled old men; whores and hard-faced ladies of society; a gathering of people intent on an orgiastic pursuit of pleasure. But then he took himself to task. He had never been a saintly figure, had lived his life to the full, so why not take part now that he was here?
“I thank you,” he said, and sat down amidst applause.
And it was then, just as he was taking his seat, that he saw the faintest hint of a movement behind one of the columns, several of which filled the apertures leading from the anteroom. John stared and saw the briefest flash of a brown coat. So Samuel had not got lost but had followed and was now faithfully observing.
Wine was being poured from silver cups fashioned in the form of female breasts and John noticed several of the older men downing yet more pills. Running his eye amongst the women he definitely recognised several ladies of high society and realised that they were included amongst the gathering in order to have secret rendezvous with their lovers, for sitting beside them were certain high-born gentlemen whose faces were also familiar to him. For a moment he thought of the enormity of the whole concept, then a pressure on his knee brought him back to reality.
“What are you thinking, eh, pretty boy?” said Teresa.
“I was thinking about you,” lied John.
But he was silenced as another brother got to his feet. “A toast, brothers and sisters. Here’s to shaving. I see a look of alarm on the sisters” faces. I refer of course to chins only, nothing below.”
There was a titter and several ladies raised their fans and hid their cheeks. Naturally they knew they were not blushing but were aware that the movement showed their eyes to advantage. The brothers, however, rose to their feet and drank, chorusing “To shaving.”
Sir Francis stood up. “To those of us who must stand…” His hand briefly went to his privy parts so that no one could doubt his meaning. “…May Venus give us strength. To those beauteous receptacles, may Bacchus grant them be ever open.”
“Here, here,” came the
general chorus and once again the brothers rose and drank. Eventually after much toasting the food was served and John, realising that he was extremely hungry, tucked in heartily. Teresa, he could not help but notice, ate delicately, and he was suddenly and vividly reminded of Emilia and how much he had loved her. He recalled times when she too had picked at her food and how he had chided her for doing so.
He turned to the girl. “Are you not hungry?” he asked. “Usually, yes. But these Abbey meetings quite put me off my food.”
“Why so?”
“I don’t really know. Perhaps it is the crowd.”
John looked round at the sixty or so present, evenly divided between the sexes, and asked, “Are there more people here than usual? Or is this about average?”
“About normal. Don’t tell anyone, will you, but I find it rather intimidating.”
“Do you?” He took her hand suddenly wanting to protect her against the vicissitudes of life. “Shall we slip away when the meal is done?”
“Yes, please. By then the Abbot and the apostles will be at their private devotions.”
“Really? And where do they take place?”
“In the chapel upstairs. Nobody is allowed in but themselves.”
“Good gracious. I wonder what goes on.”
The girl giggled. “I don’t know but I reckon it is devil worship.”
“Do you now?”
“Yes, I do. And I’ll tell you a tale of that. You’ve heard of John Wilkes? The one who has been banished?”
“Yes, of course I have.”
“Well, he used to be a member here and one night…” Teresa put her hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh, “…he got the Abbey’s mascot, which is a baboon, and dressed it up in phantasmic garb and conveyed it to the chapel. Then he hid it in a large chest which is used to hold the ornaments and utensils of the Order when everybody is away.”
“What happened then?”
“Wilkes attached a cord to the spring of the lock, then hid it under the carpet and drew it through to his own seat. Well, later that night during the proceedings he jerked the cord and the baboon leapt out and landed on the shoulders of Lord Sandwich. My Lord went mad and thought Satan had come to claim him, and screams and hollers that he is not really a sinner, that he hasn’t committed a thousandth part of the vices he has boasted of. He tells the Devil to go and fetch those who really deserve it. Have you ever heard anything like it?”
John laughed at the mental picture. “No, I haven’t. What did they do to Wilkes when they found out?”
“Lord Sandwich, who is probably the most lecherous man alive, hated him from that moment on and set out to ruin him.”
“Which he has succeeded in doing.”
Teresa wrinkled her nose. “Apparently. But it would never surprise me to see him come back into politics one day.”
John looked at Lord Sandwich, who had his arm round an amply built girl, his hand inside her top, openly fingering her breasts. Then his gaze moved on to Coralie’s husband who sat, pale and withdrawn, next to the woman of his choice. He had not chosen a Covent Garden girl but had picked a member of the aristocracy. John stared at her, fairly certain that she was none other than the youthful Countess of Orpington, yet not completely sure because the lady had remained masked.
“What you looking at?” asked Teresa.
“Lord Arundel. He’s the one wearing…”
But Teresa interrupted him. “I know who he is. “Tis said amongst the girls that he has the French pox, you know.”
John gazed at her in astonishment. “He has? Are you sure?”
“He’s never picked me, thank God. So I’ve no direct proof. But it is certainly rumoured about that he has it.”
John thought of Coralie and he wondered if she, too, had contracted the disease. His mind shied away from conjecturing about the little girl.
“You’re looking horrified. Why?”
“I know his wife. I can’t bear to think of her with such a complaint.”
“Well,” said Teresa philosophically, “if she has, she has. There’s little you can do about it.”
But further conversation was made impossible, for it was at this juncture, the meal being over, that Sir Francis rose to his feet once more.
“I call the apostles to the ceremony,” he said in a thrilling voice. “For those of you who are attending for the first time, this is a totally private rite and takes place in the chapel. The rest of you brother monks, go to your pleasures with a will.” John turned to Teresa.
“Await me in my cell, my dear. I have one small errand to run then I promise to come to you.”
She gave him an inquisitive look but did not ask any questions, while John, seeing nearly everyone leave the room strolled out into the anteroom and gazed around him.
“Sam,” he said in a whisper.
Something stirred in the shadows and a voice murmured back, “Here.”
John crossed the space between them. “Well done, my friend. I thought we’d lost you on the way but you tailed us beautifully.”
“I had a job to follow you. There were times when I thought I’d been seen. But I made it safely and have been lurking round ever since.”
“What do you think of the place?”
“Well it’s a novel form of brothel, I’ll say that for it. But tell me about the women, John. I’ll swear that I saw the Countess of Orpington amongst the strumpets from Covent Garden.”
“You did, Sam. And there are other ladies from the beau monde present as well.”
“I suppose they do it for the sexual freedom it must bring,” said Samuel gloomily.
“They might well. But the consequences could be dire. It is rumoured amongst the whores that Arundel has got the pox.”
“”Zounds! Has Coralie been infected?”
“I’ve no idea and I’m not likely to find out. She is no longer speaking to me.”
Samuel groaned, quite loudly, and John raised a warning hand. “Quiet. Someone might hear you.”
“I’ll be careful, I promise.”
“Where are you going to spend the night, Sam?”
“Probably in the grounds.”
“I think they’ll be alive with copulating couples.”
“In that case I might go to a local hostelry and creep back early in the morning.”
“I wish we could get a look in the chapel. The Abbot and the apostles are celebrating something or other up there.”
“I can try.”
“No, Sam, it’s too dangerous. If anybody goes it will have to be me.”
“Then good luck, John. But be very careful.”
“Yes, I will.”
They parted company, Samuel tiptoeing out into the cloisters, John standing hesitantly for a few minutes. It was Sir John Fielding’s brief that he should find out as much as he possibly could. Yet he knew that if he were discovered prying into the Chapter’s secrets he would be asked to leave West Wycombe and probably be told never to return. Was it worth the gamble? Eventually he made up his mind that it was and squaring his shoulders he walked up the deserted staircase to the chapel above.
Chapter Thirteen
The stairs were dimly lit by candles, a chandelier in the hall below throwing some light, more being provided by another hanging from the ceiling on the landing above. Moving silently, John climbed upward, uncertain which direction to take. But as he ascended he could faintly hear the sound of chanting coming from his left and knew that this is where the chapel must be situated. Creeping along in the dimness, the Apothecary quietly approached a small flight of steps leading downward, then stopped short before two heavy oaken church doors. He had clearly arrived at the place in which the rituals were held.
He paused irresolutely, not at all certain what he should do next. To go in would be tantamount to instant ejection from the Abbey, but on the other hand there were instructions from Sir John Fielding to discover all he could. In the end John knelt down, put his eye to the keyhole and peered through, only
to discover that somebody had had the foresight to seal it up, allowing him no vision whatsoever.
It was at that moment that he heard footsteps coming up the stairs and stood petrified, knowing that he must hide but not knowing where. He stood up and looked round. In front of him were the doors to the chapel, behind him the flight of stairs, and to his left a few more steps leading to more of the corridor. John hurried up them and followed the passageway which obviously led to further rooms. Fate was with him for he spotted a large oaken chest standing against the wall. Without hesitation he lifted the lid and dived in on top of a mass of linen which lay inside it. Then he lay very still, listening.
The footsteps, which were heavy and measured, passed the entrance to the chapel and made for the corridor in which he lay hidden. John trembled slightly, wondering if for some devilish reason of his own the owner of the steps was going to open the chest. Then, to his horror, he heard fingers scrabbling with the lid. His worst fears had been realised.
The lid was pulled back and the servant - that much was obvious from the man’s apparel - gave a gasp as John, scrambling to his feet, leapt out and fled down the corridor as fast as he could, only to hear the sound of those measured feet pursuing him as soon as the servant had recovered from his fright. If he was caught the Apothecary knew that the game was up. Consequently he fled to the top of the stairs which he descended two at a time.
As he hastened away he could hear the servant yelling, “Stop! Intruder! Come here, you wretch!”
John hurried as if his life depended on it - which in a way it did - and did not stop until he reached the cloisters, where he turned right and found the row of monk’s cells. Diving into one which he mistakenly thought was his own, he discovered a young couple fully engaged. They did not even notice him and he hurried out, somewhat embarrassed. The next cell was his and he raced through the door, which he leant on, panting.
“Whatever is the matter?” said Teresa, somewhat sleepily.