Tales of the Huntsman

by M Palmeri

  Marie was already wandering away, her face gone pale, numb to the core with what Elsbeth’s story implied. Elsbeth merely took it as a sign of overwhelming jealously and took no small delight in it.

  “My dear…?” Stephan laid his hand on Marie’s shoulder from behind as she stared blankly out the newly glazed windows onto the now expertly-cultivated gardens.

  “My stepmother is right, of course,” Marie finally managed to say once she had found speech again. “I won’t be staying. Just a visit…”

  Marie summoned Leanna later that night, after she had enjoyed a meal with her father (and only her father, because Elsbeth seemed to continue to disdain her favor with him) and the household servants had retired.

  “I remind you that you are by no means my servant,” Marie told Leanna quietly, in the privacy of her old bedroom—a too-small room with a too-small bed that no longer felt like her home. “But I do ask one dear favor as a friend, which I will understand if you refuse: I must go back to the castle. If you do not wish to go, I…”

  Leanna held a finger to Marie’s lips to interrupt her, and took her hands in hers.

  “I will have the coach and horses ready at first light.”

  Marie spent her first night in many months in her own bed, alone, and by morning wished never to do so again. She said good-bye to her father, shared tears as she promised to visit again soon. But as the coach took her away, it was like she was leaving a stranger’s house—it was no longer her home.

  But then, neither was the castle.

  Chapter Twenty-Five: The Golden Key

  “Where are my sisters?”

  The question leapt out of Marie’s mouth before she was even fully through the doors and into the Great Hall, before she could even really think before spitting it out.

  The force of her voice echoed back on her from the gray stone walls, and it took her by surprise, enough—at least—to make her hesitate, to doubt her course, for the first time in the day-and-a-half of her urgent return journey. She immediately realized that she had never used such a demanding tone in this place before, despite all else that had passed here. She had never even heard the Ladies—the true mistresses of this castle—command so brazenly (especially not him). Marie found that it both thrilled her and frightened her at once, and she stopped in her tracks to see how she might be received for it.

  By the look that flashed at her from Richard’s eyes, her tone had apparently taken him somewhat by surprise as well.

  The Count was apparently alone despite the hour, as if he had been waiting for her, sitting in his usual place—his “throne”—at the center of the main dining table that had been put to so many intensely perverse uses during Marie’s months of “servitude”.

  But then the look was gone so quickly that Marie was not sure that she had seen it at all. Now Richard just stared with idle disinterest through her, pretending not to acknowledge her abrupt entrance in the least.

  Marie steeled herself right where she was before him, drew breath sharply, and repeated her demand: “What have you done with my sisters?”

  “Step-sisters,” Richard corrected her with a calm patience, as if she had somehow forgotten that basic fact, the subtle hint of condescension in his tone enraging Marie all the more. He was talking to her like she meant nothing to him, as though her return wasn’t exactly what he’d wanted by manipulating the events that drove her back here, back to him. But he was acting as if she were just another one of his dozens of too-willing maidservants, ready to jump to please him day or night. Or maybe not even that. And this was what angered Marie the most. (But it was better to be angry than feel the hurt that was still threatening tears, the fear that she had really been dismissed like a servant or an unwanted plaything. And worse: that she had been replaced—on a capricious whim or by calculated spite—by her three hideous step-siblings.)

  But then the great twin doors shut behind her, and Rose and Ella were there on either side. And Marie grinned reflexively despite the shock of the ambush, because it proved they had been waiting for her, all three of them, as if the precise moment of her entrance had been calculated. This removed any doubt Marie had left: her return had been planned—quite expertly manipulated, in fact—and likely well before Richard had dismissed her. And she had performed exactly as expected.

  “You knew I would figure it out,” she accused him. He didn’t seem to hear her. He just sat and watched her as if this was just some mild annoyance interrupting his idle evening. But his performance was shallow enough that Marie was now absolutely sure that it was all an act, and that he had indeed gone to almost unbelievable lengths specifically to ensure that she would return like this. She could not hide a triumphant little smile at revealing the plot, despite how nervous she otherwise felt at confronting him so daringly. Because if this was somehow all for her benefit, that meant he did want her to come back.

  The only question that remained was: Why? (And why go to the extreme effort and expense of seducing her stepsisters into the game?) Was this some kind of perverse test, or just another idle amusement? (And what part, other than bait for the trap, were her step-sisters to play?)

  Marie tried to calm herself, tried to mimic the demeanor of the Ladies that ruled this place, waiting for him to acknowledge her.

  “You haven’t been allowed in here clothed but once since you first came to us,” he finally spoke, scolding her coolly. “And that was on the occasion of your release from your indentured service to me. If you choose to return now, of your own free will, then you agree to subject yourself to the rules set for you. And that rule has not yet changed.”

  Marie just stood there glaring at him, matching his icy regal confidence, refusing to retreat an inch, silent, daring him to act.

  He did not need to even gesture to cue his companions to play out their roles. Rose and Ella were quickly on her either arm, pinning them down to her sides. Marie was still wearing the blue gown, and just as she had always been taught to wear such garments in this place, she had nothing on under it. The two Ladies’ expert hands moved like liquid over the lacing, and in the time it took Marie to take a breath in and brace herself, her dress was on the floor.

  Marie instantly found that she was still too used to this to even reflexively try to cover herself. The Ladies then marched her forward and around the table, standing her within easy reach of the Count. And instead of shrinking from him, Marie found herself proudly and almost defiantly displaying herself to him, tempting him to touch her.

  The slight smile again almost shone through his stern but steady gaze.

  “Tell me,” he calmly taunted her, “did you return out of any genuine concern for those three shrews that have made your life so miserable for so long? Or did you return because you were jealous of them?”

  Despite his putting voice to her baser drives, Marie just continued to glare back at him with resolute defiance, even as he stood up before her, only inches away but still not moving to touch her, just appraising her. Then he gave a quiet, condescending chuckle.

  “No. It’s more than petty jealousy that they may have taken your place, isn’t it? I must say, despite how intimately I’ve come to know you, you still surprise me: It really isn’t concern or anger or jealousy that brings you rushing back here. I know what you want—you stand revealed to me now far more naked than I have ever made you by forbidding you clothing. It makes me wonder how long you must have fantasized about it. Forbidden dreams, late at night… For how long? Since we opened your eyes to the myriad possibilities, put flesh to fantasy and let you create like an artist with paint and canvas? Or did you have these desires even before I brought you here? Perhaps you were less innocent than you presented yourself to be…”

  Marie could not stop herself now from flushing red with rage. He had touched the one secret truth she was not yet willing to admit, not even here in a place with so few taboos. But her immediate reflex to slap him died when Ella’s powerful hands pulled both her arms up behind her back. Rose had
produced a length of her favorite silk cord, and wove Marie’s wrists together with expert grace. Marie felt her bound hands pulled up between her shoulder blades, and then the cord wrapped her upper arms and pulled them back, thrusting her breasts out further. Marie bit her lip, and started to step her feet wider apart, anticipating what would come next.

  “No, my love,” Richard told her softly. “No spreader irons this time. No sweet suspension from the rafters or pinioning to furniture. Not for this particular story.”

  Her sudden flash of frustration surprised her, and Marie knew he could see it—smell it on her—despite her attempt to hide it. He did smile more gently then, and finally touched her: his fingers lightly danced over her bare breasts, pausing to play briefly with her nipples before tracing absently down her belly as he had done so many times before, when he would tell her how beautiful she was. But then, before they reached their ultimate goal, he withdrew them. And Marie felt the rush of her frustrated desires rising again, thrashing within her, perhaps more agonizing than ever before. And she realized that it was not just because of his skill at arousing her, and neither was it just her overwhelming wish that he take her to prove that he did really want her to return. He had baited her, after all—and worse, he had revealed her, somehow knowing what secret darkness tempted her heart.

  “Patience,” he told her. And that made it worse, because it meant that he was well aware of exactly what was struggling inside of her. “Just one more story...”

  “Once upon a time there was a young peasant girl with three older sisters. And this frustrated her because she knew that, by custom, her sisters would have to marry first before she could.

  “But one day, a rich young noble with black hair came in a magnificent coach and offered an impressive bride-price for the oldest girl’s hand. Sure that she would be guaranteed a life of comfort, and at their own much-needed profit, her parents readily agreed to the match, and so the oldest sister rode off with him.

  “Barely a week had passed when another coach with another young noble, this one golden haired, came to win the hand of the second sister. When the parents questioned this unusual coincidence, the young lord explained that the black-haired youth had been his cousin, and that he had told his family of the beauty of the three remaining fair daughters, and to expect other suitors. As before, the second sister was taken to wed.

  “And just as foretold, a third young noble—this time a dashing military officer with flame-red hair—came for the third daughter. And then only the youngest was left.”

  He paused then as if to gauge her reaction, certainly knowing the “fiction” mirrored what her father had just told her exactly, but Marie gave him nothing.

  “She did not have long to wonder if she had been left behind: A coach even richer than the other three came bearing a strong and handsome count with hair and beard so black it was almost blue. And this blue-beard made his offer for her hand the instant he laid eyes on her, and took her off to live happily ever after.

  “Though overwhelmed with the opulence of her new husband’s estate, the youngest sister wondered what had happened to her siblings, as they did not attend the small ceremony in the castle chapel that wed them. And though happy with the passion and attentiveness of her new husband, she was equally curious as to where he would disappear to during the days (for she never saw him ride off to hunt as he said he was going to).

  “On the third morning of their marriage, before he left her, her husband gave her a set of keys to the castle Keep and told her that everything in it was hers also. But then he showed her one key on the ring: a small and ornately carved golden key, and told her should she find the lock that this key fit, that she was forbidden to open it.

  “Left alone, she tried to overcome her growing curiosity by exploring the castle to find what treasures and secrets the other keys unlocked. There were opulent rooms exquisitely furnished, and chests of coin and jewels beyond her dreams. But still, she could not shake the question of the golden key from her mind, and found herself searching the castle from towers to cellars, until she found, hidden behind an old threadbare tapestry in the deepest and barest cellar, a solid oak door reinforced with iron, and set in it was a delicate golden lock.

  “Before she could consider anything but what she dreamed must lie behind it, she opened the door, and to her horror, she found not treasure but the carefully-preserved bodies of several young women, all naked and evidencing the wounds of a variety of terrible tortures. And more paralyzing than this was her recognition that the three freshest bodies had been her sisters (because in every case their faces had been left intact).

  “She dropped the keys in the thickening blood that had pooled on the floor, and almost overcome by the stench she ran out of the death chamber, only to realize quickly that her husband would find her out before she could manage her escape. She dashed back into the display of horror just to claw the keys up off the floor, half-blind with tears, and she locked the door back up behind her.

  “Returning to the kitchen, she tried to compose herself as best she could, but then saw that the keys were sticky with blood. She tried her best to wipe them clean with shaking hands, but the delicate scrollwork adorning the golden key held the blood stubbornly. She was still trying to scrub it when her husband appeared behind her, took the keys from her, and immediately saw the blood.

  “’Now, my darling,’ he said to her, ‘it is time for you to join your sisters.’”

  Marie realized she was shivering as the Count ended his tale, not just because it had been so overtly murderous, but because their stories had usually rung of truth, in many cases of their own personal histories, or were presently acted out for their amusement. But they had never shown true cruelty during her “lessons” here—in fact, had sought to defeat and punish those who harmed women for pleasure. (Or was that deception? Had Rose inherited her ancestors’ blood-thirst? Were they simply reassuring her all this time to groom her for something unthinkable?)

  All this whirled through Marie’s head as Richard reached into his shirt and withdrew something small and glittering. And Marie’s legs almost failed her as he put it on the table where she could see it: A golden key, small and decorated with fine scrollwork, with something dark brown encrusted deep into its lines.

  Wrist still bound up high behind her back, Rose and Ella marched Marie down deep into the castle Keep, down past the mill wheel, down further than the chamber that contained its torturous gears. It was musty, damp and devoid of any light except the candelabra Richard used to lead their way. And cold—Marie felt the chill of going deep into the earth tighten her bare skin, her bare feet freezing on cold stone, making the shivering of apprehension all the worse.

  They did not speak to her all the way down. They simply marched her in the silent superiority of the victor: they had trapped her, manipulated her, cast her as a player in yet another of their twisted tales. And she had played her part exactly as scripted: running back here like a jealous child, not wanting to be replaced by her horrid stepsisters, and more than that: not wanting to be left out of what awaited them, what Richard and his Ladies must have planned. Because this was her fantasy, her secret story. And somehow, they had stolen it, hijacked it, twisted it.

  But the story they had just told her kept overriding all of that, spinning her mind to much darker places, chilling her more than the physical descent. What had they done to her stepsisters?

  Rose… How old was she? (Ella had mentioned she had married Richard perhaps twenty years ago.) She still looked young… Was this her true secret: did she learn from her sires and practice their terrible magic to keep herself so vital? Were all her prior displays of “playful” torture only a pale shadow of what she practiced in some secret place they were now leading her to? Did the maids who “graduated” from this estate really find places at Court or happiness out in the world, or were they all still here?

  All these fearful possibilities washed over Marie unbidden, no matter how much she tried t
o deny their rationality. She had never seen true cruelty from Rose, certainly never murder. (Though she had killed her own grandfather/father with her own hands, and sentenced her mother to death by torture. Marie had taken the latter to be self-defense and the former justice, but were those simply excuses for premeditated homicide?)

  (And Rose’s “games” had been taking on more and more the quality of rape and torture, despite her always obtaining verbal consent from her victims.)

  The candelabra illuminated an old, worn tapestry that seemed to depict some version of the torments of hell, blocking their path at the base of the long spiral downwards. The stone was wet under Marie’s now painfully numb bare feet.

  “Do you proceed of your own free will?” Richard asked her as they paused. Marie held her breath in and nodded. She needed to know, she realized, no matter what cost.

  Richard reached out his free hand to pull the curtain aside, and Marie could barely keep from screaming.

  Icy blue eyes suddenly flashed at her from a death-mask of a face—a face that locked those eyes on Marie, only to twist thin mouth into an animal grin.

  Claire—face intentionally distorted by the flickering candlelight—had been waiting here for them.

  “I knew you would come, my dearest friend,” the Red Hood purred at her with the hungry joy of a predator trapping its prey. And there was a shimmer of silver—of steel—as Claire flashed her long seax blade just in front of Marie’s nose. Marie made herself freeze, and Claire lightly played the razor tip of the weapon over her bare flesh, teasing her cheeks, her neck, her breasts, down…

  Claire stepped beside her now, tracing the big blade around her thigh, up the curve of her ass. This stepping aside allowed Richard to illuminate what was behind her, what had been hidden by the tapestry: a solid oak door reinforced with iron, and set in it was a delicate golden lock.