Rape of the Soul

by Dawn Thompson

  Once they were out of earshot of the wedding guests, Malcolm stopped crying.

  Colin carried him toward the staircase and set him down with rough hands, still keeping a good grip on the boy's shoulders. “Bastard,” he spat close in the child's face, “I've decided I truly do not want to murder you, because I have no appetite for hanging. It is a distasteful thing, quite beneath my dignity, but if I have to die to be well rid of you—so be it.” He jerked the boy hard. “Do not tempt my patience. You are courting sure and sudden death I promise you. Do not make me prove it."

  Malcolm stared his unimpassioned stare half smiling, and Colin shook him again. “What did you say to Mrs. Marshall, bastard?” he snarled, shifting his grip to the child's white throat. “Tell me—now, goddamn you, or I'll wring this scrawny neck before you take another breath and have done with it!"

  "Colin, let him be,” cried the vicar, attempting to put himself between them. “He told her she's going to die—a pretty piece to speak to a bride on her wedding day. Indeed, Master Malcolm, I trust you're proud of yourself?"

  "The t-tarot told me,” Malcolm whined, squeezing out fresh tears.

  "Ahhhhha, you put on airs before the vicar do you?” Colin roared. “Where were those great crocodile tears a moment ago, eh?” He buffeted the boy again.

  "Colin, please,” the vicar pleaded. “You'll have the whole gathering in here upon us."

  "Elliot, don't interfere. You've done enough of that already this bloody night."

  "Y-you're hurting me,” Malcolm wailed.

  "Good God!"

  "I . . . I haven't made it up,” the boy defended, “the tarot told me."

  "And just what the devil is this bloody ‘tarot’ you're blubbering about?"

  "C-cards,” Malcolm sobbed, plucking at Colin's hand fast in his shirt with a claw-like motion that only served to tighten Colin's grip.

  "Cards? What kind of cards?"

  Malcolm nodded, wiping his running nose on his sleeve. “They were my mother's,” he said with pride.

  The vicar gasped.

  "Jesus,” spat Colin. “Show me."

  "Colin, wait . . ."

  "Goddamn you, Elliot, will you please go back to your bride and your guests and see what you can salvage of the situation? How do I manage here without you daily anyway, eh?” He turned back to the child. Shaking him again, he steered him up the staircase by the scruff of the neck. “Let me see your bloody ‘tarot', bastard. Move!” he charged, shoving him along without a backward glance.

  * * * *

  Colin had no idea what Malcolm was talking about, but if he had something that had belonged to Mary, it had to be dangerous, and he would know exactly what it was. Stumbling along, the child led him up to his chamber. Once they'd entered, Colin flung him aside and raked his hair back roughly.

  Malcolm crossed the room to his desk and rolled back the cover. Reaching inside, he closed his fingers around an oversized deck of worn cards with pictures on them and inscriptions written in French. As he offered them to Colin, one of the cards fell out of the deck and floated to the bare floor face up between them coming to rest against the toe of Colin's polished, black shoe.

  "The hanged man!” Malcolm triumphed, hopping up and down excitedly, his thick lips set in their maddening half smile. “You had better enjoy yourself now—while you can, Uncle,” he said. “I get him about you all the time you know."

  "The little oracle, eh?” Colin snapped, snatching the fallen card up from the floor. “Well, this is the end of your ‘tarot', bastard,” he promised, holding the cards well out of reach of the hands that struggled to grab them. “Ohhhh, no,” he said through a cold chuckle, “I'll keep these, and if I ever catch you with anything like this again, I'll heave you over that bloody cliff you're so fond of out there, am I plain?” He didn't wait for an answer. Enraged, he brought the deck of cards down hard on the child's mouth with all the strength he could summon to drive them.

  Malcolm fell to the floor, blood oozing from a split in his lower lip where his canine tooth had pierced it. He opened his mouth to speak, but Colin's posture brandishing the deck as he stooped over him cut him short.

  "That's right, hold that murdering tongue,” Colin roared. “Do not suffer me to hear that hideous whine another time this night. It would give me great pleasure to strip that smug superiority from your blasted hide inch by bloody inch."

  Malcolm didn't cry. Glowering, his onyx eyes had narrowed to slits in their chalk-white sockets. Hatred issued from them, and something more that wouldn't stand probing.

  Colin raised the deck higher set to strike him a second time, and the child shrank back from him and crouched on the floor making a hissing sound that riddled him so violently with chills that he nearly dropped the deck.

  "Get into that bed,” he ordered, pointing with a stiff arm and a rigid finger, “and don't you dare to leave it again until you have word direct from me to do so—move!"

  The child scrambled to his feet and backed toward the bed, but the hissing had grown louder, and spittle frothed his lips mingling with the blood on them.

  "Christ!” Colin gritted. Turning his back on the child, he stalked out of the room slamming the door after him.

  When he reached the gallery downstairs the vicar was still standing where he'd left him. “Not now, Elliot,” he said, almost upsetting him on his way by as he marched into the servants’ wing.

  Moments later he burst into the kitchen and found Martha at the sink helping Cook, who went pale at the sight of him. Her fat arms trembled as she stripped some of the suds away from them and brushed a wisp of gray hair back from her cheek, abandoning the dishes entirely.

  Drying her hands on her apron, Martha stood mouth agape, her owlish eyes flung wide toward Colin's anger.

  "Martha,” he barked, waving the cards in front of her, “what the bloody hell is this?"

  "'Tis only a game, sir,” she breathed, shrinking back from him. “'Tis Master Malcolm's tarot, is all . . ."

  "A game, is it? What sort of game?” he demanded. “Answer me, goddamn you!"

  "'T-tis a card game, sir,” said Martha, “w-we had a game like that ta home when I was little. My father usta’ play cards with the gentlemen with ‘em. He called the game Tarok, he did, and my mother usta’ play at tellin’ fortunes with ‘em."

  "Fortunes, is it? I thought as much. More mumbo-jumbo.” He brandished the cards. “Where did Malcolm get these?"

  "Why, I give ‘em to him,” said Martha. “I found ‘em in his new room when we was movin’ him down from the third floor. They was in with some things we found up there what belonged ta his mother. When Amy burned the lot, I saved the cards and I give ‘em ta Master Malcolm ta play with, is all. I didn't mean no harm, sir—'tis only a game,” she whined.

  "That's another thing I've been meaning to address with you,” said Colin, still incensed over the child's relocation. “Who in hell gave you leave to move your charge down to his mother's old chamber in the first place? You take bold liberties in my house, madam. Explain yourself."

  Martha squared her shoulders. “Nobody, sir,” she said bravely. “You told me not ta bother you with nothin'. You said I was in charge. Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but you wasn't here for me ta ask, and my arthritis was fair killin’ me from goin’ up and down them wicked stairs all the day and night. ‘Tis bitter cold and damp up in that nursery, sir. Bein’ a turret room, it takes the brunt o’ the wind, and—"

  "I know how cold and damp it is up there, madam,” Colin cut in. “I ought to know,"—he thumped his chest—"it was my nursery. Enough about that.” He fanned the cards out in his hand and pointed at them with an animated finger. “The pictures and symbols on these cards, do you know what they mean?"

  "Y-yes, sir,” Martha stammered.

  "And you told Malcolm?"

  She nodded, taking another step back from him.

  Colin probed through the deck and took out the card that had fallen at his feet earlier. “Just what does thi
s card mean?” he demanded, waving it in her face.

  Martha clicked her tongue. “The hanged man,” she murmured, pointing. “Oh, he's a bad one, sir. The picture tells you what he means. See him hangin’ upside down there? That's sacrifice, and he don't belong like other folks. He's different, he is, and he'll come to a bad end for it, too, he will. He could help himself if he was of a mind to. See his feet there? Only one o’ ‘em is tied, and—"

  "Enough!” Colin spat out through clenched teeth. “This is the sort of dung you've been feeding the bastard, is it?"

  "I didn't mean no harm, sir,” she whimpered. “We never believed none o’ it when we was little ones—'twas only a game, sir."

  "Jesus! You lying bitch,” Colin flashed. “He believes it, and he's just insulted the vicar's bride because of it, goddamn your meddling soul!"

  "I didn't mean no harm, sir."

  "Get out!” Colin roared. “Get out and take that worthless husband of yours with you. He isn't worth a tinker's damn—he's never at his station; lazy, good-for-nothing dolts—the pair of you. I don't pay him to lay abed with you half the day while the bastard skulks about under my bloody feet doing murder to poor defenseless animals and God alone knows what other ghoulish horrors. What the bloody hell are you doing down here now anyway? You were told to keep that child out of the way. What—do you think I'm blind here? Jesus! Out, the both of you—now—tonight!"

  "But sir, who'll tend the poor lad? I love him like he was my own. I've had him since the day he was born, sir."

  "I'll send your wages care of Dr. Howard in the village,” said Colin, his voice grown dangerously calm. “I do not ever want to know your whereabouts, is that plain? Now get out."

  Martha's demeanor soured. “Don't worry, sir, I'm goin',” she snapped. “I'm well rid o’ the lot o’ you out here. Since I'm no longer in your employ, I'm goin’ ta tell you what I think o’ you—the fine master o’ Cragmoor. Ye're no gentleman, for all o’ yer fine clothes and puttin’ on airs—drinkin’ and whorin'—right here with the maids in this house. I know what's goin’ on—everybody does. Ye're mean and horrible ta that poor bairn what never done nothin’ ta you but get himself born. Sure he's wayward and strange, but what would you expect? He's left on his own but for me. There's no love in this house except what I give him, and all gettin’ shot o’ me is goin’ ta do is make it worse. Serves you right. Ye're like a horse broke with the bit o’ the bearin’ rein—yer head's pulled up so high you don't see nor care who ye're trompin’ on. Maybe the lad'll grow up and take ye down a peg. I'm goin’ ta pray for it, that!"

  "Bloody shrike,” Colin roared. “How dare you speak in this manner to me?"

  "'Tis a good deal better than the way ye just spoke ta me, sir—after all o’ my years o’ faithful service ta you and ta’ that poor little tyke, and ‘tis far better than you deserve. Thank you very kindly, but you can keep yer wages. We don't want nothing more from you."

  "Get out of my house! Out—now!"

  Sobbing again, clearly in mortal terror of the rage she'd ignited, Martha ran past him almost knocking Amy down as she burst into the kitchen.

  "Here, what's goin’ on? They can hear you clear ta the dinin’ hall,” cried the housekeeper, steadying herself against the cupboard.

  Colin's mad stare oscillated between Amy and Cook. “Anyone else want to have a go at me?” he thundered. “Anyone else want to get sacked? Just say the word and you can all go off together. No? Good! Now get out of my way."

  Brushing past them, he wrenched open the door on the side of the range beside the hearth.

  "Look out, sir,” cried Cook, “'tis hot still!"

  Colin had already burned his fingers. He scarcely noticed, nor did he respond to Martha's shrieks echoing from the servants’ wing corridor outside. Tossing the cards into the fire, he watched them catch and flare as the flames ignited the ink, watched the hanged man curl and dance to a charred, black, death. Once he was satisfied that each and every card was engulfed in flames, he slammed the cast iron door shut with a vicious swing that sent sparks flying in all directions. Then stalking out of the room, he marched down the hallway toward the gallery beyond, leaving Cook and Amy staring after him slack-jawed.

  Nearing the staircase, he caught sight of Elliot. “Jesus, are you still standing here?” he snapped, examining his hand.

  "What's going on, Colin?” said the vicar. “What was all that about the tarot? What could he know of tarot?"

  "You know what it is?” Colin blurted, looking up sharply from his blistered fingers.

  "Yes, but how could he know?"

  Colin glowered. “The cards belonged to Mary,” he said. “Christ, Elliot, I thought you got rid of all her crap."

  "So did I,” said the vicar.

  "Well, Martha gave the cards to the bastard to play with, God rot her soul! They're now in ashes in the kitchen stove. Elliot, what the bloody hell is ‘tarot’ exactly?"

  "Tarot cards go back to the Middle Ages. They were the forerunner of playing cards as we know them today."

  "It is just a game, then?"

  "Yes . . . and no,” said Elliot. “They date back to the fourteenth century. They were used as playing cards, it's true, but they were also used by fortunetellers believed to be possessed of supernatural powers, and by many who were condemned as witches. Their meanings are ancient—Gypsies still use them today."

  "Gypsies, is it? I should have guessed. Well, it doesn't matter now. They're gone—the Harcourts with them. “I just dismissed the bloody pair of them."

  "Oh, Colin,” cried the vicar. “What's to become of Malcolm? Who's going to tend him?"

  "The bastard can tend himself—I had to."

  "You had Amy."

  "Not at his age. Once I could walk without my bloody knees buckling, I had no one. Who in hell is he that he should be endowed with more than I? Christ—the little bastard hissed at me like a bloody snake up there. He was foaming at the mouth, Elliot!"

  "He actually told Emily that she's going to die."

  "Rubbish. He's seen her frailty just as I have, and I've no doubt in my mind that he's overheard us talking. The little bastard set out apurpose to deliver vengeance and he's done a proper job of it I dare say. Well, we'll just see how he fares without that bug-eyed bitch to suckle his fancies."

  The vicar watched him rake his hair roughly. “You cannot go on like this, Colin,” he murmured. “The sort of thing that happened here before in the conservatory has got to stop."

  "Don't start, Elliot. I've just had a lecture from Martha—of all people! I won't stand another one from you."

  "Now you listen to me,” the vicar snapped, “I was watching Landon in the dining hall when you were dancing with his wife earlier. You haven't heard the last of this I promise you. Why, he dragged her out of here and slammed those doors out there with thrust enough to set them off their hinges while you were collaring Malcolm. What—do you think the man's a fool?"

  "He didn't catch us, Elliot, you did."

  "In the conservatory—before all those windows and no door to lock, not to mention her husband and half of Cornwall in the dining hall outside. God Almighty, Colin, are you deliberately trying to get yourself killed?"

  Colin laughed coarsely, but the vicar ignored him. “What would you do without that child to heap fuel on your madness? What drives you so? What in God's name is it? Don't tell me you don't know how to conduct yourself. I've seen you over the past few days. You can do it, Colin. You can behave like a gentleman and you do it to perfection. Blood tells, my friend—you'll never change that for all that you'll try. I cannot for the life of me imagine why you would want to."

  "I like my bloody life as it is. Let's just leave it at that, shall we?"

  "I cannot leave it like that,” the vicar argued. “My God, what kind of friend would I be if I did—priest notwithstanding? You've bedded half the women in the village."

  Colin cast him a crushed look implying he'd been shortchanged in the tally, and the vicar
served him a baneful scowl in return.

  "All Cornwall's talking,” Elliot continued, “and I shouldn't wonder. You might at least be more discrete. Your reputation is in shreds and there's no reason for it—none. Just look at yourself. Any decent woman in her right senses would go down on her knees to you. You're young, handsome, you have Cragmoor, a stable full of the finest breeding stock on the coast—all the wealth you'll ever need. You could have any woman in the realm. But no, you'd rather throw yourself, and all of that away to carouse and lay about fornicating with slatterns. I cannot bear to see you debase yourself like this—I simply cannot!'

  "Then turn your bloody eyes away,” Colin served. “Don't you dare to preach your pious drivel to me. If you're bent upon that we can call an end to our friendship here and now. My life is my own bloody business. Keep your blasted nose out of it."

  With no more said, he turned his back and stalked off toward the entrance hall.

  "Where are you going?” the vicar called after him. “Colin—the guests!"

  Colin turned to face him across the Great Hall, his smoldering eyes narrowed, and his rigid jaw throbbing with rage. “To hell with the guests!” he roared. “I am going to the village to find a woman—any woman, and finish what was started here before. I would suggest that you ‘go, and do thou likewise'!"

  * * * *

  Later that night while Elliot lay wakeful beside his sleeping bride in their bed at the vicarage, he looked toward her nestled close beside him in the darkness. Her long wheat-colored hair, released from its plaits, lay loose across the pillow catching silvered glints of moon glow finally breaking through the begrudging clouds. Tears stung behind his eyes and his parched throat ached inside. Failure was a bitter thing to taste upon one's wedding night, and shame wasn't an easy pill to swallow.

  Suddenly he almost envied Colin's guileless virility—almost prayed for it, but not to selfish purpose. He didn't need to prove his manhood in the manner Colin did. But Emily deserved a husband. She was so willing, so tender, and not even that had the power to chase guilt long enough to prompt arousal.