"Ton premier petit mort," she replied in a whisper. "It will take some time, then you will spill your seed in doing so."
"What?" I asked, fully disturbed.
"This is how infants are made," she explained patiently. "You put your seed in the woman's womb and she has a birth."
"This is how my father humiliates my mother," I said quietly. "She doesn't want it, yet he does it anyway. So there can be no good in it."
Lady Isabelle reached for my shoulder and I turned to her, but without looking at her. "If your father does it against your mother's wishes, then he is a disgusting fellow. But that doesn't mean the thing itself is bad, mon jeunot."
Seeing my distraught face, she pulled me almost motherly to her on the bed and covered me. She slowly stroked my hair and whispered, "Who knows, maybe I taught you a little too soon."
As she continued to stroke my hair, I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Chapter 10
It did not remain with this one instruction. Despite the fact that I hadn't had very much enjoyment the first time, Lady Isabelle soon brought me back to her bedchamber in the late evening. As time went by, I became more relaxed and found it easier and easier to concentrate on the pleasurable aspects of our being together. However, I could never have imagined how many variations and ways of playing this one thing could come up with. In the weeks that followed, I learned something new each night. The initial guilty feeling soon disappeared and in time I was able to give most of the acts a French name, which usually made Madame particularly excited.
And so the weeks went by. As February came to an end, I could read and write in French. I didn't yet have a perfect mastery of the language itself, but it was good enough to be able to read and understand everything I picked up. Only my pronunciation was criticised by Milady. I simply could not eliminate my strong accent in English. Whenever I behaved stupidly and foolishly again, Lady Isabelle tried to soothe me by stroking and caressing my newly discovered organ. Unfortunately, it often had the opposite effect and upset me so much that we found ourselves - stripped of our clothes - in the most impossible places. And although I feared that I would provoke her disapproval, she liked it very much. Milady's serious, aristocratic face had become coloured these days and her eyes sparkled happily whenever I crossed her path.
One problem, however, was the fact that Lady Isabelle had concentrated so much on expanding my knowledge of the French language that I was still barely able to read and write any English. One day, my mistress informed me that it was about time to teach me Latin as well. This language was very important to be able to understand the sermons in the churches. On this occasion I asked her why she didn't go to church on Sunday in a nearby town. The people of Longhill did not have the opportunity to do so, but she had a carriage and horses.
She said she did not, because she was a Catholic and the Protestant churches were barbaric breeding grounds of infamy. Once she was back in her homeland, she would regularly attend Catholic services again.
But even before I could take my first lesson in Latin, the second day of that winter came, which I will never forget for the rest of my life. It was the twenty-fifth of February and it had snowed so heavily in the morning that the village was barely visible under the white cover. I was so fascinated by this scene that I spent more time in the south rooms of the castle than would have been appropriate. As a result, in the middle of the forenoon I spotted a man struggling up the path from the village - a ragged figure with a solid beard and greasy hair. His appearance was typical of Longhill's inhabitants, I realised, but what was he doing here? While I was still racking my brains, I heard him banging the heavy, cast-iron ring against the door at the portal.
I hurried down the stairs and opened the door a little. "Lady Isabelle is not available to anyone at the moment," I said, knowing she was still asleep.
The man in front of me was quite short. His clothes were exceptionally shabby and he had got a red nose from the cold. When he opened his mouth to speak now, I could see his half-rotten teeth and smell his foul breath. He looked distraught as he spoke. "I have not come to see Lady Isabelle."
"No?", I asked in wonder. I could see now he was not only confused, but seemed downright fearful.
He looked around from time to time as if someone was following him. Then he asked, "Are you George?"
"I am," I said, beginning to feel very uncomfortable.
"My name is Morgan. Your father sent me, George. You should know I don't like what he's doing, but he said if I didn't give you this message, I could find work on another boat. You see, I've been working on your father's boat for a short time."
"What message?", I asked, my stomach clenching.
Now my opposite rolled his eyes frantically. "I told Martin it was madness, but he couldn't be talked out of it."
Morgan pulled a small cloth from a pocket in which something was wrapped. He nervously moved it from his right to his left hand and said: "Martin has gone mad or is possessed by evil demons. But what was I supposed to do? If I had said something, then he would also have ..."
"What did he do?", I shouted at Morgan. My heart was threatening to stop as I tried to imagine what my father might have done.
Now he began to sob, which seemed quite ridiculous from a character like him, but I didn't think it was ridiculous. I felt pure fear rising inside me.
"Your father asked me to come to him and I didn't think anything of it. So I went to him and entered his house and there I saw that he had tied your mother to the bed. She was lying on her stomach and you could see that he had violated her. I wanted to flee in shock, but your father threatened me with losing my employment. So I stayed. I heard your mother. She was incapable of a normal word and not even of screaming. Her voice was hoarse and soft sobs came from her throat. Then he took a knife and did this to her."
With these words he opened the piece of cloth and let me see the contents.
I think my heart stopped for a moment. My eyes grew wide. Then I sank to the floor and threw up. I was dizzy when I rose again. I didn't want to believe my father had done this to her. When I looked at Morgan, I saw that he looked as white as a sheet and as stunned as I was.
"Martin said it was a message for you," he continued. "He told me to deliver it. He said to tell you to come down to the village to your father or he will cut her throat. If you bring anyone with you, he will kill her immediately and I swear he means it." The last words left his mouth again in that panicked, half-screaming tone.
He shook his head once more in disbelief, dropped the bundle in the snow and ran off like a man possessed.
I stared down for a while longer at the bundle and the drops of blood starting from it and staining the snow.
There was not much to think about. I had to go to him, there was no other option. But I would not make things easy for him. I quickly made my way to the hallway on the upper floor. There were a few weapons hanging on the walls for decoration. I took a rusty hunting dagger and hid it under my robe. Now I left the castle running - not knowing that I would never return here again.
Chapter 11
The icy wind blew in my face as I hurried down to the village with a death-defying determination. I tried not to think about what else my father might have done to my mother in the meantime. I needed a clear head if I wanted to stop him from doing anything more to her. Of course, this led to the question of what he was planning to do to me in the first place. Obviously he was looking for revenge, that was obvious to me. But what exactly did he want to do? Was he going to break my leg again or was he even going to kill me?
I once again touched the handle of the dagger under my robe, determined to use it. But doubts nagged at me as whether I would be able to use it at all if it really came down to it. After all, he was my father. He was a primitive bastard and undoubtedly the most vile creature ever to walk God's wide open fields and certainly I had every reason in the world to hate his guts, but a hunch inside me told me that I would not be able to kil
l him.
Completely frozen and with snowflakes in my hair, I reached the hut and pushed the door open with a thud.
My eyes wandered frantically through the four walls. I saw my mother, tied to the bed as Morgan had told me. Her skirt had been flung up and I saw the bare, bruised flesh of her bottom. She appeared to be unconscious. Bloody scratches ran down her face. Her left eye disappeared under a huge bruise.
"Mother!", I called timidly, went to her and saw the left hand with the severed thumb. The blood had already clotted and formed a black layer over the wound. "Mother!" I said again, but she did not move.
But suddenly I heard noises right behind me. I turned to the door and saw Martin. For a moment my breath caught in my throat. He looked like a ghost. His face was covered with half-healed scars on the right side. His right eye was swollen shut and his left arm was bent unnaturally. Apparently, the bones had not grown straight back together, but crooked, which made his already disfigured appearance completely ugly. His healthy right arm, however, clutched a crude wooden club and it gradually became clear to me what he intended to do with it.
The burgeoning fear in me was suddenly obliterated by an overpowering wave of anger and disgust.
"Why did you do that?", I shouted at Martin, pointing at Ethel's mutilated hand.
Now my father was smiling and I could see he had no teeth left. A devilish grimace grinned at me that seemed to have nothing human about it anymore. "I wanted to get your attention. That's what you do - to better people like you." His words came out in a whisper and a lisp, but they sounded grim and altogether malicious.
"What do you want from me?", I roared.
"Can't you guess, my boy? You sent a fellow after me. He beat me up and broke my arm. Do you think I thought that was funny?" His quiet voice suddenly swelled into a truly frightening roar. "I didn't think it was funny, George!"
Suddenly he regained his composure and smiled softly. When he spoke, the words were barely audible. "Did you think I would just let this go, George? Did you actually think I would let you get away with it?"
His voice was filled with madness and it slowly dawned on me that this man standing here before me had lost his mind, that he was only living for a revenge that he now intended to execute.
It was quite simple. Either he killed me or I killed him first. So I didn't think twice, pulled my dagger out of my robe in a flash and let my stretched arm fly towards his chest. But Martin reacted with a swiftness I had not expected. With his wooden stick he knocked the weapon out of my hand.
For a moment I was petrified. My only means of defence sailed in a high arc across the room and landed in a corner.
Before I could blame myself, I felt a heavy, hard punch hit me in the stomach. I slumped down. The wooden club landed with full impact on my shoulder. Father lunged again to hit my head, but I quickly protected it with one arm. I couldn't protect my face, however, when it was hit hard by a powerful punch that threw me halfway across the room.
Martin only used his right arm, but it was quite enough to finish off a half-grown man like me.
I ended up on the floor and gasped for air. With a raging burn on my cheek, I struggled to my feet and saw my father now pulling the iron fire iron out from under the cooking pot instead of the club.
"No!", I stammered. I tried to get onto my feet faster and flee, which I succeeded in doing, but as I was already lurching towards the door, a slash hit me on the legs and brought me down again. A stabbing pain and the gentle pulsation of leaking blood was all I felt in my limbs. I looked up, half unconscious, to see my father swinging the fire iron and crashing it full force against my head.
In retrospect, I must say that I had been very lucky. The iron did not hit my head directly, but grazed it sideways, causing a deep cut, but I escaped without a fractured skull. I still noticed how my left eye suddenly became flooded with blood, then I lost consciousness.
***
When I came back to myself, I first felt a strong throbbing in my skull. I would have liked to scream, but I lacked the strength to do so. The left eye could not be opened because it was clotted with blood, but with the right eye I realised that I was on the bed and lying face down next to my mother. I was shocked to realise that she was looking straight at me. Her lips produced a brittle word that must have meant 'George!'
My whole body ached and I wondered where my father was, when I suddenly heard his voice close to my ear. "Ah, the master has perked up again," his toothless mouth murmured. I could smell his disgusting breath and if I hadn't already vomited after seeing my mother's thumb, this moment would have been now.
He sat on top of me with his legs spread and grabbed my mother brutally by the hair. "There, Ethel," he said. "Now I'm going to show you once what a really willing bedfellow looks like." And then he grunted in my ear, "And I'm going to teach you some manners, you bastard."
"George," my mother breathed desperately. Her arms tried to loosen bonds that clasped her hands, but it was useless.
I felt Martin tampering with my trousers. He pulled them down, exposing me and laughing dirty.
Only now, when he was fingering the hem of his own trousers, did I realise with all clarity what he was actually up for. For a moment my breath stopped, then I felt such a tremendous surge of disgust and revulsion inside me that I thought I would have to die immediately before I endured this humiliation. I was out of my mind and could not believe that my own father could do such a thing to me. However, I suddenly realised that I did have an advantage. I was not as badly battered as he thought. I gathered my strength, waited a moment until I was sure he thought I was defenceless, and then threw myself forcefully to the side.
He was completely taken by surprise, lost his balance and fell to the ground. I picked myself up, came over him and put all my remaining strength into a kick that landed in his crotch. My boot hit his privates with all its energy and full width. He gave such a bloodcurdling scream that my ears began to hurt. Then he curled up like a dog and whimpered like one too, but these sounds did not inspire any feelings of pity in me. I pulled my trousers back up, grabbed the fire-iron that still had my blood on it and stood wide-legged over him. I lashed out with all my might and let the iron rod crash against his upper body. He cried out again and I saw blood where I had hit him, but it was not enough blood.
"How do you like it?", I shouted at him. "How does it feel, you bastard?"
I hit him again, hitting his crippled arm and breaking it in two again.
When I struck a third time, something happened that I no longer thought was possible. He suddenly gripped the iron bar tightly and snatched it from me.
He came back to his feet with a shriek of pain and rage. He lunged with the iron, but I jumped back, staggered against the door, opened it and disappeared into the snow.
I whimpered in pain and dragged myself to the opposite side of the road where our shed was. I didn't think about each step, but I think my subconscious planned the attack carefully. With difficulty I opened the door and staggered inside the dilapidated building. I felt the walls of the shed and found what I was looking for.
My father had meanwhile risen in the house with a groan. He must have been completely devastated, but not quite at the end of his tether. I think he thought that if he couldn't kill me, he would at least have the satisfaction of having sent Ethel to the afterlife. He looked down, saw her battered body, far too weak to ask forgiveness, and swung out the fire iron.
He was about to bring the instrument of murder down on my mother when a shadow fell on him. He turned to the door and saw me standing there.
I slammed the door behind me and looked at him angrily. At that moment I must indeed have appeared to him like death incarnate. My body was covered with wounds. My trousers were soaked with cold blood and a wide wound gaped at my temple. But the look from my grey eyes was merciless and filled with hatred. In my hands rested the handle of a heavy scythe. The blade pointed its tip at Martin and I grinned, knowing my supremacy. "Die, fa
ther!", I shouted and swung the scythe.
He backed off in fear when he realised what I was about to do, but by then it was already too late. The huge scythe blade whirled through the air and severed his head from his body with a single cut. The head fell to the ground and the body collapsed. Blood spurted from the stump of its neck.
It was easy, I thought, staring down at the dead body.
In the beginning there was only emptiness. Only slowly did I become aware of what I had done. I tried almost compulsively to feel some emotion, but there was nothing but the simple realisation: 'He is dead'. Where was my regret? Where was the recognition that I had made a mistake? The severed head with the torn open eyes no longer seemed frightening to me at all. I asked myself what I had actually expected. Had I thought it would be difficult for me or that I would be reluctant to do it? Well, neither had been the case. It had come easily to me and it had brought me a satisfaction not unlike the feeling of joy. I shuddered to myself at that thought. What kind of person was I if murder came so easily to me and weighed so little on my conscience?
While I was thinking about it, I suddenly felt a heavy weight in my limbs. Exhaustion prevented me from thinking further about what I had done. The scythe slipped from my hand and fell to the ground. I did the same a moment later. I toppled over like a stone and lost consciousness again.
***
When I opened my eyes again, it was already dark. I must have slept for many hours and would not have woken up if I had not heard the voices that reached my ears.
"Martin!" a man called out. "Come, show yourself! We know you're there."
I stood up, my skull pounding, and looked around. My God, I thought, when I spotted the head next to my father's torso. I suddenly remembered the fight again and its bloody ending. "What have I done?", I asked myself in disbelief.
Guardsmen of the King: A Historical Adventure Novel (George Glen's Adventures Book 1) Page 5