by Robert Beers
“Nothing I cannot put off untill later, my Lord.”
“Good. Good.” Cloutier got up from his table, and walked around it to stand, facing Morgan. “I wish you to bring our nubile young guest to my chambers this evening. Have her suitably prepared; we will consummate our union this night.”
“No, my Lord.”
Cloutier reared back his head, thunderstruck at the refusal. “No? What answer is this?”
Morgan stood at attention; his eyes fixed straight ahead. “The only one I can honestly give, my Lord.”
“The only one you can honestly give?” Cloutier began pacing back and forth, the volume of his voice rising as he spoke. “The only honest answer you can give? Of course. Morgan, the straight arrow. Morgan the unmovable. Morgan the pure. The most incorrupt officer of the court. The loyal military lapdog of the house of Berggren.”
“My loyalty is unquestioned, my Lord. If you only ask of me another...”
“I don't want another!” Cloutier whirled to scream the interruption into Morgan's face. “Was your loyalty unquestionable when you bedded the Countess those three and a half decades ago?”
“My Lord ... I...”
Cloutier's laugh was bitter and sarcastic. “Of course it wasn't. The Duke was away, at war, and she needed comforting. The years of loneliness would have driven her mad ... but for Morgan's comforting hand...” He pressed his face up to Morgan's, nose to nose. “...or other body parts.” He hissed.
“Did you know, Morgan,” Cloutier's pacing took him past his table where he scooped up a knife. He toyed with it as he paced and talked. “She bore your bastard. She tried to keep its genesis from the other members of the family, as she tried to keep your identity secret. Children can be especially cruel.” He looked at Morgan out of the corner of his eye. “Did you know that? They can be cruel with an inventiveness that passes all genius. Pity none of them live today.”
He paced over to where he stood in front of Morgan again. “Have you anything to say to that, my dear Captain? Have you anything to say about the poor bastard you left to the gentle ministrations of a court full of sadistic little gets?” His voice rose to a shriek.
“My Lord, I am sorry ... but, uggghh!”
“Goodbye ... father.” Cloutier twisted the knife he'd driven into Morgan's heart a couple of times, and then pushed the body off of it.
He looked at his father's body, with his head tilted to one side as he wiped the blade clean with a linen napkin.” I suppose this means I'll have to summon her to my chamber myself. Youch!”
* * * *
“Nnooooo!” Charity's despairing wail echoed through her chamber as the servant left. She threw herself onto her bed, and cried. She wanted to kill herself, and join Morgan and Adam. First she had lost her brother, and now she had lost the only man she'd cared about since her brother was taken away from her. The world was too cruel for her to stay in it.
She bounded off the bed, and began searching for something she could use for her suicide. She found no sharp or pointed objects that she could use on herself. Morgan had been very thorough in that regard.
The thought of his name brought another cry to her throat. She looked around the chamber wildly. The window! Of course. The wall beneath had no handholds for climbing, so it was left unbarred. They never thought she would be so foolish as to throw herself from it. Morgan, Adam, she thought. Here I come.
“No.” The voice whispered. “You cannot kill yourself.”
She stopped halfway into the window. “What? Who's there?” There was no answer, but the interruption had broken her self-destructive grief. She stepped down from the windowsill, and walked back over to sit down on her bed.
The voice was right. She really couldn't kill herself, but she was sure she could kill that slimy son of a bitch of an Earl. At the very least, she was sure she could give it a damn good try.
* * * *
Milward ran his hand over the scryglass as the image faded. “Bardoc bless you, child. You've courage enough for us all.”
* * * *
Cloutier stood under the rain bath, luxuriating in the warm fall of the water over his body. It was times like this when he enjoyed most the power of his office. He plucked a bottle of scented soap-oil off the ledge, and began rubbing it into his skin. Small bubbles rose into a citrus-scented froth as he rubbed and thought about his evening to come. The anticipation of it caused him to break into humming an old melody he learned as a child. Yes, it was good to have the blessings of the Sorcerer.
“Milord?” Youch called from his place outside the rain bath.
“I wasn't speaking to you, Youch. Nothing has changed.”
“Must you do this again, Milord?”
“Again, Youch? How often must I instruct you in the pleasures of the flesh? There is so much more available to the one who ... experiments. Yes ... a perfect word for the description. Experiments. Taste, smell, sight, touch, how much of them do you use, Youch? Bah! You're just like all the rest of the sheep. Go, get the girl, and have her prepared for me. If there is one spot of sweat, or one hair out of place, I'll be dining on your sweetbreads.”
Youch left at a run.
* * * *
Charity paced back and forth in her chamber. Morgan had given her the skills and the training to defend herself against the Earl, but it would do her no good if enough guards got involved. Given enough numbers, even the best of fighters can be overwhelmed ... and killed. There had to be a way ... there had to be.
She knew practically nothing about ... it. The closest she'd ever come to the situation was her brief encounter with the Avernese soldier who had tried to rape her. She remembered how frightened she'd been. How could she deal with what Cloutier had planned for her? There had to be a way.
She half-remembered something Morgan had said ... something about drawing your opponent in, allowing them to believe they were winning. This belief usually caused an opening that could be exploited. How to do it, that was the question.
* * * *
Plop! A peeled potato dropped into the pot of water.
“Potatoes again, Flynn. I bloody well hate peelin’ bloody potatoes.” Neely griped as he reached into the bag next to him to pick out another potato.
“Shhh.” Flynn put a finger to his pursed lips. “I can't hear what's goin’ on up there.” He pointed to the window alcove two stories above him.
They had their backs against the Palace wall in a small courtyard that backed up against the kitchens. Flynn was the one who had found out that the alcove above led to the Earl's bedroom.
Neely looked up at the alcove. “Don't see why we even try. Can't hear a bleedin’ thing. Haven't heard a bleedin thing since we first set up here a week ago.”
“Heard the shoutin last week.” Plop! Flynn reached for another potato.
“So what.” Plop! Neely reached into his potato bag. “Just ‘is grace shoutin’ at some poor goober named Captain somebody. No moanin.’ No groanin.’ No nothin.'” Plop!
“Ya think he'll take Miss Charity, Neely? Th’ pot boy tol’ me he heard th’ cook say th’ chamber maid tol’ her he would tonight.”
“Well, I'm not surprised.” Plop!
“Neely!”
“Oh, I'm not sayin’ I'd be doin’ her. No, Flynn, you put that thought right away. I'm just sayin’ I'm not surprised. Th’ Earl's a mighty lusty man, he is. A mighty lusty man. Now, you give man like that an opportunity to be th’ first one ... well, I'm sure I don't have to tell you what can happen.”
“What is that, Neely?” Plop!
“You don't know? You never heard...? Well...” Nelly leaned back and gestured with his peeler. “What's th’ worst fear a virgin has about her first time? Not bein’ good'nuf, of course.”
“You sure about that?”
“Stands to reason, Flynn. Stands to reason. Now you take a lusty man like his Grace th’ Earl, there,” He pointed up to the alcove. “He ain't gonna stop at just one turn o’ th’ wheel, now, is he? Once ya gets
past th’ first time, a virgin wakes up, doesn't she? She's ready for another two or three at least. Hard to stop once she's warmed up, a virgin is.” Plop!
“So, you think we'll hear somethin'?” Flynn worked a bit of peel off his peeler.
“Won't hear a bloody thing.” Plop!
* * * *
“Please, Milady.” The chambermaid clutched the towel between trembling hands. “You must bathe. It's my head if you don't.”
Charity looked at the girl. She couldn't have been much older than Charity had been when they brought her here, maybe a year or two younger. She was barely beginning to show topside. Of course, her mother could have been one of those women with small breasts, more boyish than womanish. The Mayor's wife back in the village, Darzin's mother, had been like that, but this girl didn't have the sour, puckered expression Darzin's mother always wore.
She held out her hand to take the towel. As much as she wanted to act contrary to the Earl's wishes, she couldn't bring herself to be the cause of this girl's death.
“Oh, thank you, Milady. Thank you.” The chambermaid gushed as Charity lowered herself into the bath.
“You're welcome.” Charity grumped, making the mannerism sound like a complaint.
“Oh, please, Milady. You don't know how He is. You just make things worse on yourself if you fight Him. I think he likes the punishing.” She shuddered.
What the chambermaid said sparked an idea within Charity. She thought about it as she lathered herself. Morgan had told her about drawing an opponent in ... how could you do that with someone like the Earl? He was simply the Avernese rapist with an Ermine collar. She had to consider this.
“You are most comely, Milady.” The chambermaid broke into her reverie while she added heated water to the bath.
“What?”
“Your shape. I wish I had such ... pillows.” She blushed slightly at her directness.
Charity looked at the girl. “How old are you?”
“Thirteen summers, Milady.”
“Thirteen.” So her guess was right. The girl was a few years younger than she was. And already used by the Earl, if she didn't miss the meaning of what she'd been told; alive, most likely, because she hadn't struggled when she was taken.
Charity worked some lather into her hair. “Give yourself some time. They grow.”
“Yes, Milady.”
The knock on her chamber door cause Charity's hands to fumble while fitting the last tie on her bodice. “It's time.” She thought.
She looked at herself in the floor-length mirror. The gown she'd been given to wear must have cost as much as the Lord Mayor's house back home. The skirt and bodice were of the finest white silk, with a trim of small perfect pearls. The bodice was laced abominably tight, and cut distressingly low. Her breasts looked like two escapees nearly succeeding at the job.
The knock came again, along with, “are you ready miss?” The voice was male, and tentative.
She crossed the room, and pulled open the door. There were two of them, both young, maybe a few years older than her, and both were nervous.
The smaller guard's eyes widened at the sight of Charity's exposed bosom. He stammered a bit as he began to speak. “I ... it's time, miss.”
Charity closed the door behind her. She'd determined to not let them see a shred of nervousness or fear. Early on, during their tours through the palace's hallways, Morgan had pointed out the Earl's rooms to her. She began walking that way, ahead of the two guards, her head held high.
Cloutier's private chambers were three floors and several hallways away from where she'd been housed. Charity spent the walk replaying the points of her plan over again, the guards keeping pace with her at a few steps behind.
The chambermaid who had helped her with her bath had proven helpful in making her aware of what was to come. She had personal knowledge of what the Earl liked to have done to him. She shared this knowledge with Charity in shocking detail. It very nearly drove her off of her plan entirely. At first she gagged inwardly at the thought of doing such a thing, deciding that it just may be better to die rather than submit to the Earl's obscene desires. But, as the time for her trial approached, her resolve stiffened and then solidified into a deadly calm, and now she made her way to Cloutier's chambers with a will.
The two guards had escorted a number of young women along the route. Some were dragged, wailing in despair, to their tryst with the Earl. This was the first time they'd ever had to work to keep up with one. Charity could hear their whispered conversation as they walked the palace hallways.
“Cor, Reilly. This'un's a cold bitch, she is.”
“I hear you, Giff. Not a twitch. Not one bloomin’ twitch.”
“You think she really wants it?”
“Don't know, why don't you ask her?”
“Why don't you?
“You crazy? She's His nibs’ property! One squeal, an’ we're dog meat.”
“What about all those we had to knock on th’ head and drag there?”
“Yer a damn fool, Giff. We was told to knock ‘em in the’ head, and you should remember that. This'uns a prize doxie, an’ we're damn lucky she's wantin’ a go there, and that's a fact.”
“I suppose yer right, Reilly.”
Charity was glad her hair covered her ears, so that the two guardsmen couldn't see how red they'd become.
They reached the double doors that led into Cloutier's private chambers, and the smaller of the two guards knocked, once.
An imperiously indolent voice called from inside the doors. “You may enter.”
The guards pushed the doors open.
Cloutier lounged against an embroidered couch shimmering with gold thread on burgundy velvet. He waved a negligent hand at the guards while sipping from a goblet of wine. “Leave her there, and leave us alone.”
Charity stood in the center of the chamber foyer; the highly polished tile reflected the flicker of the candles in their sconces. The click of the closing doors sounded to her like the ring of doom.
Cloutier rose from the couch in a smooth single movement. She barely repressed the shudder that tried to overwhelm her as he laid his hands on her shoulders, and then ran them over her bosom.
“Sssssp.” He inhaled wantonly. “You don't know how long I've waited for this evening, my dear girl. Let me look at you.”
He grabbed onto her bodice, and ripped it away from her. The ruined fabric fell into a rumpled pile around her ankles. She stiffened in anger.
The Earl, nearly overcome with lust, mistook her body's reaction. “Oh you're a hot one, aren't you?” He panted.
He dropped his hand, bruising her with his thumb and forefinger. Her sharp intake of breath was mistaken, as well, and he fumbled rapidly with his laces. “Yesss, you are. Don't worry, my lusty one. I'll soon fill the emptiness within you.” His voice was hoarse with passion.
Cloutier dropped his hose, and Charity nearly screamed. She tried to focus on her plan, as she did what the chambermaid had told her she should do. The Earl moaned with pleasure.
She dropped to the floor, and swallowed a bubble of bile that tried to rise in her throat. What she had to do next was the hardest thing she would ever have to do, but she had to do it for Morgan.
Cloutier tilted his head back, and closed his eyes. He began to groan loudly, and then he began to scream.
* * * *
Giff and Reilly stood at their posts on either side of the double doors listening to the sounds coming from the other side.
“Hear that, Giff?”
“Aye, Reilly. We said she was a hot'un.”
“That we did, Giff. That we did.”
They both knew they were lying.
Their eyes widened when the moans turned to high-pitched womanish screams, but they did nothing. This wasn't the first time they had heard such coming from behind those doors. The screams rose in pitch, until they were nearly beyond the range of hearing, and then they ended in a burbling gurgle. Giff and Reilly looked at each other, and t
hen they each found something else to occupy their eye's attentions.
They were shocked back to the present by the doors bursting open, and a nude woman with blood on her mouth running past them, and down the hall. The last thing Giff remembered seeing before rushing into the Earl's chambers was a vision of bouncing sandy hair and a tight pink bum.
“Oh, Deity.” Reilly put his hand to his mouth, and then emptied his stomach as he fell to his knees.
“Bardoc's beard!” Giff had a slightly stronger stomach, and managed to hold his gorge down, barely.
Cloutier, Lord Earl of Berggren, lay before him in a pool of blood, his head at an impossible angle, and his manhood stuffed into his mouth. He was quite dead.
Reilly finished his business, and shakily climbed to his feet.
Giff helped him up the rest of the way. “What're we gonna do, Reilly? Go after her?”
Reilly wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “You can if you want, Giff. Me, I'm headed into town and gettin’ drunk. As drunk as I can. I never seen nothin’ here, an’ if you've got a brain in that skull o’ yours, neither did you.”
Giff looked at what used to be his employer, and nodded. Then he spat into the blood, and turned on his heel. “First round's on me.”
Chapter Twelve
Charity pushed open the door at the bottom of the servant's stair that led to the kitchens. By using back ways and some of the hidden passages Morgan had revealed to her, she'd managed to avoid being seen by all except one unfortunate over-zealous armsman. When he awoke, it would be several desperate escaped prisoners who overcame him, rather than one naked slip of a girl.
The hour of the day should mean an easy passage through the kitchens, as most of the kitchen help would be asleep. The bakers weren't supposed to begin their day for a few hours yet, and they woke up the roosters.
She eased the door shut behind her, and tiptoed around the baking island. She missed seeing the leg sticking out beyond the end of the island, and fell, sprawling, towards the flagstones of the kitchen floor.
She tucked her head, and rolled on one shoulder to come up facing whoever had tripped her. She stayed there, crouched and poised on the balls of her feet, and then flew into them.