by Josie Litton
She went out into it happily and with a light step made her way to the village. It was a pleasant walk from the manor house, down the tree-lined drive, through the tall iron gates and out onto a road framed on both sides by hedgerows.
Just as Ismay had said, Charles was right there on the Green. In trousers and an open-necked shirt, he looked none-the-worse for over-indulging. Youth and the natural resiliency of a robust constitution had no doubt spared him what would otherwise have been his just desserts.
Seeing her approach, he broke off his conversation with several men and met her near the center of the green.
Taking her hand, he said, “I didn’t expect to see you so early. You were sound asleep when I snuck off.”
“I’m surprised that you did. How is your head?”
He smiled ruefully. “Better than I deserve. I don’t usually do that, you know. Get drunk and have to be rescued, I mean. I have more than my share of vices but that isn’t one of them.”
“I know.”
At her soft reassurance, he looked relieved. Drawing her closer, he nuzzled his nose into her hair. Despite her wish to remain entirely proper and decorous in front of their audience, she found herself leaning into the hard, solid warmth of his body.
“You smell divine, as always.”
A small laugh escaped her. “I suspect that might have something to do with the bacon I had at breakfast.”
He took another sniff and grinned. “You do know that’s an aphrodisiac for most men? I’ve known fellows you could come upon three days dead and they’d wake to a good whiff of bacon.”
Absurdly pleased by the easy mood between them, she gave him a playful tap with her hand. “You’re being silly. Tell me what you’re doing here and how I can help.”
“Help? Oh, well, just stand about, nod and smile from time to time. But as for what’s going on, we’re just finishing off preparations for the bonfire.”
Her gaze directed to the great mass of wood in the center of the Green, Gemma blinked in surprise. Atop it was the effigy of a man, his body formed of saplings twined round with vines, his head crowned with foliage. Most remarkably, he sported a startlingly large, fully erect phallus that jutted from his body with obvious intent.
“Oh, my, what’s that?” she asked.
“The Green Man,” Charles said. “Surely, you’ve heard of him?”
“Yes, of course.” The curriculum at dear old MM had emphasized all aspects of history and culture, no matter how ancient, touching on the superiority of the male and reverence for the same.
“He was a pagan deity, god of nature and rejuvenation,” she said. “He may even have helped to inspire the story of Robin Hood. Still, I didn’t realize that he was represented in so…vigorous a fashion.”
“Fertility god,” her husband said with a shrug. “Has to have the goods, doesn’t he?”
The point taken, Gemma looked around for something else to focus her gaze on. It was absurd that she should be embarrassed as several times each day and night she encountered a phallus equally impressive, proportionally speaking. Still, villagers were milling about. She felt herself the object of lingering glances.
Those turned quickly to warm smiles as Charles tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led her to the front of the fair where dignitaries were gathering for the official opening.
The head of the local council--the portly gentleman who could have stood in for Father Christmas--said a few words of praise for the inhabitants of Ardsley who together assured the well-being of what was beyond doubt the fairest land in all the sceptered isle. Most especially--he took care to point out--credit was due the members of the Ladies’ Beautification Committee who were responsible for the lovely floral displays seen through the village.
That brought a hearty cheer after which the vicar offered a brief blessing. Charles stepped forward to cut the bright green ribbon stretched symbolically across the entrance. As he did so, the church bells rang out to signify that the fair was officially underway.
“Come along,” Charles said as the crowd began to stream past them. “I’ll show you around.”
He did so with an eagerness that Gemma thought was oddly endearing. Before long, she found herself cheering on a gaggle of small children engaged in a sack race, admiring a prize-winning ram, chatting with a group of women proud to show off their butter churning expertise, and yes--even judging a pie contest.
Charles scarcely left her side and then only to good naturedly join in a tug-of-war, half the village males lined up against the other with his lordship’s assistance determined by the toss of a coin. That also proved the winning margin to the groans of the losers and the hearty back slapping of the victors.
All in all, it was a delightful day filled with simple, wholesome pleasures. At her husband’s tender urging, Gemma quaffed rather more ale than she was used to whilst sharing a savory meat pie that he insisted on feeding to her bite-by-bite. His care of her and the indulgent smiles this provoked all around them filled her with giddy happiness.
Inevitably, the day aged. As dusk crept over the fair, sleepy-eyed children were carried off to bed. Their parents returned shortly, as eager to get on with the festivities as the clusters of young men and women faced off around the fairgrounds and all but bouncing with excitement.
“Can the children be left alone?” Gemma asked.
She knew little of children, scarcely remembered being one after her years at dear old Mary Magdalene. Still, she had a deep-seated instinct that they needed protecting and not only from themselves.
“I know it must be very safe here but still if one wakes…”
“The old ones keep watch on them,” Charles said, a bit absently.
She assumed he meant their grans and grannies but a glance around revealed many a gray-head still present. Moreover, the wrinkled faces she glimpsed looked just as excited and eager as everyone else.
As a lodestone drawn irresistibly to true north, her attention returned to her husband. In the fading light, it seemed as though his boyish good humor had fallen away. He looked every inch the lord of all he surveyed, serious, focused, even somber. A man willing and able to shoulder his duty.
The vicar passed by just then, inclining his head to them courteously. His gaze lingered on Charles for a moment before he, too, departed.
For a breathless moment, the last of the twilight hung about them. Then it, too, was gone.
A great shout went up.
The music of flutes and drums suddenly filled the air. From somewhere, torches appeared and were passed hand to hand until they reached the high circle of wood surrounding the Green Man. One by one, they were tossed into the waiting pyre. As the flames caught, the people of Ardsley began to dance.
Round and round the spreading, leaping fire, men and women, old and young, threw aside their everyday concerns, kicked up their heels--in a good many cases, shoes went flying as well--and joined hands.
Gemma watched spellbound as what began as an impromptu trot quickly morphed into a far more complicated series of prancing steps at which everyone appeared adept. She feared for a moment that Charles might draw her into it and she would not know what to do. But instead, he held her apart, standing off to one side as together they watched the revelries.
Faster and faster the dancers went until they became a blur of motion and color whirling around the flames that by then had reached the Green Man himself. As the fire caught hold of him, the music suddenly stopped. The villagers stumbled to a halt in mid-step and moved back, their heads turning upward as one to watch the god burn.
Bending close to Gemma’s ear, Charles murmured, “The important thing is to just accept the spirt of the thing. And remember, come tomorrow, everything will be back to normal.”
Gemma was still pondering that as the star-strewn blanket of night settled over all.
Chapter Six
Was hail!” As the portly, white-bearded alderman shouted out the toast in the language of his ancient Saxon fo
rebearers, he tipped his goblet and let a stream of drink pour down onto the earth.
As one, the crowd did the same before quaffing liberally. “Drinc hail!”
Gemma and Charles joined them. Moments before, a pretty girl with a garland of daisies in her hair had shyly served them. The girl’s gaze had lingered on Charles but he’d seemed oblivious to it. Now, as Gemma took a cautious sip of what proved to be honeyed wine, another shout went up.
The burning pyre had engulfed the Green Man, drawing him down into it. While most maintained a prudent distance from the conflagration, young men darted up to it repeatedly, hurtling fistfuls of flash powder from which huge, loud fireballs erupted. The silly fools were quickly singed but none seemed to mind.
“Have they no sense at all?” Gemma asked.
“They’re trying to impress the girls.” Her husband’s big hand reached round to grip her ass. “You can hardly blame them. It’s a perfect summer night, made for fucking.”
What was that in his voice? She must be mistaken; t couldn’t be hint of hesitancy. There had never been a man more boisterously enthusiastic about the act of carnal intercourse. Anywhere, anytime, nothing ever dampened his ardor.
Yet the impression lingered; something was not quite right.
She squirmed, trying to ignore the effect of his touch so that she might think more clearly. Undaunted, a long, lean finger pressed further, inching between her thighs to stroke her through the thin fabric of her dress.
A rush of heat spread from that most improper touch, curling upward. She felt her nipples tingling and feared that anyone looking at her would see her arousal.
But no one was looking for by then, the celebrations were truly underway. Other, smaller bonfires had been lit across the Green. Men and women were gathered around them, laughing and singing as the drink ran freely. In a very short time, more than shoes were being tossed away.
A man’s shirt went sailing into the bushes along the outer edge of the Green. A pair of trousers made it farther, coming to rest atop one of the hanging baskets the Ladies’ Committee had put in place. A pretty checkered print dress billowed on the breeze before catching on the tiled roof of the venerable Cock & Balls, the oldest of the three pubs that served the village.
Skin suddenly shown rosy and bare all up and down the Green. With very little ado, Ardsley was reverting to a shocking state of nature.
As though to emphasize that point, a naked young woman ran by, giggling, with a young man in hot pursuit, his shirt tails flapping against his bare bottom. He caught her and pressed her up against one of the trees beside the Green. They kissed hotly and were very shortly doing a good deal more.
“Oh, my,” Gemma said. She knew that she should look away but she couldn’t manage it. They were so intense, so passionate, so utterly consumed by one another.
Charles was continuing to stroke her boldly, with the result that she was quite shamefully damp. Added to the spectacle before her, she was shocked to find herself suddenly on the verge of coming.
However rudely--and crudely--her husband used her body, he was undeniably attuned to her response. A soft chuckle escaped him.
Bending closer, he whispered in her ear. “You’re so hot, baby. Always so ready. I can get you off right now but I’m not going to. Not yet.”
Unthinking, she opened her mouth to protest only to stop abruptly. A bevy of young women came skipping across the Green directly toward them. Not a single one had a stitch on, although they did all have very nice flower garlands in their hair.
Charles seemed unsurprised by this shockingly immodest display and at the same time only moderately interested. Indeed, his thoughts appeared to be elsewhere as he removed his hand from beneath Gemma’s skirt and stepped back.
“I’ll leave you to them,” he muttered before suddenly and inexplicably hastening off.
What was she to make of that? One moment her husband was teasing her most shamelessly and the next he’d been seized by--what? A sudden desire for a pint with the lads? Where on earth had he gone?
She intended to go after him but the young women surrounded her, all coy smiles and laughter. Before she could make a move to stop them, they plucked off her dress, stuck a flower garland on her head and handed her a large silver chalice.
“Drink,” one said, encouragingly.
“Drink, drink, drink!” the rest sang out.
Several urged the cup to her lips. Confusion filled her. She didn’t understand what was happening. Or she did but couldn’t bring herself to admit it.
Had the charming country gathering truly revealed itself a full-out pagan festival? One involving not merely all the townspeople but the lord and lady of the manor themselves? That couldn’t possibly be happening.
And yet…there was no denying that a great many people were running around naked, fornicating up against the trees, on the ground, spread over the stone walls…couples, threesomes…groups with more writhing limbs and heaving bottoms than she could count. All that was hard to overlook.
So far as Gemma could recall, she had never heard a whisper of such goings-on anywhere in Britain except at the occasional music festival. Yet there she was, stark naked, flowers in her hair, as the young women held the wine to her lips. Some of it spilled over her breasts but a good deal slid readily down her throat.
Very quickly, the night took on a dreamy quality, as though tendrils of mist were wrapping around her mind. Dimly, she supposed that the wine contained something more than fermented grapes. A hint of cloying sweetness lingered on her tongue. She felt adrift, happily unmoored from all mundane concerns. Modesty, propriety, what were they?
A giggle escaped her as the young women seized her hands and tugged her along toward a tent formed of multi-colored strips of silk. Draped from a central pole, the strips writhed and danced, separately and together, in the night air. A hum rose all around, Circe’s song, soft and seductive.
The sound caressed every inch of Gemma’s skin. She heard a ragged moan nearby and was startled to realize that it was her own.
“Bring her in,” a woman said.
She stood at the entrance to the tent, clothed in firelight and a cape of woven moss and flowering vines. White-haired, round-faced, she bore a startling resemblance to Mrs. Bambridge, the fruit-and-vegetable purveyor’s wife. But that couldn’t be. This was a woman of confidence and power, not someone to haggle over the price of turnips.
“It will be easier if you just relax, my lady,” Not-Mrs. Bambridge said. “Let the Goddess enter into you. Become one with her. This night, you will become her.”
“Blessed be,” the young women murmured. They drifted around Gemma, murmuring and stroking. A fragrant oil was spread over her breasts, down her belly, to the cleft between her legs.
Her head fell back. She stared up at the spear-point of the ceiling and felt the world whirl away.
After that, it was rather blurry--for the most part.
They were back on the Green.
Someone cried out, “She comes!”
A cheer rippled through the air. Beneath it, Gemma heard the soft, sensual beat of drums and the high, haunting cry of pipes.
Proceeded by Not-Mrs. Bambridge, the young women led her to the center of the Green where a smooth slab of flat-topped rock rose from the earth. A circle of torches surrounded it. Just beyond, in the shadows, she glimpsed the men and women of Ardsley. They watched intently as the young women lifted Gemma up onto the rock.
She lay staring up at the sky. Distantly, in the back of her mind, she knew that she should be alarmed. Perhaps even was except that the sensation seemed to belong to someone else. What Charles had begun, the oil rubbed into her skin had taken to new, scarcely bearable heights. She teetered on the edge of arousal so intense that it felt like a vise.
Her arms were stretched over her head, her legs spread wide, held in place by a force she could not even begin to resist. She looked down the length of her body and saw the white-haired woman mantled in flowers lift her ow
n arms to the sky and cry out.
“He comes!”
The rhythm of the drums suddenly quickened, blocking out even the beating of her own heart. She strained, trying to see, only to freeze in terror when she saw what approached.
A beast, huge, heavily muscled with the long, curving horns of a ram rising from its head. All that would have been alarming enough without the long, thick phallus jutting from its groin, the bulbous crest already oozing pre-cum.
Gemma opened her mouth to scream but the best she could manage was a weak, reedy cry. Another’s heart pounded wildly, another strained to run. She was held fast, laid out like a sacrifice on the altar of stone.