Florence couldn’t bring herself to hold on to Denzil. Her arm fell at her side and she felt a small object placed discretely in her hand as Cook leaned towards her ear and whispered, ‘’Twill help, child.’ She clutched it, saying nothing. Denzil distracted by the cheering of the crowd, didn’t see.
34
A Monster Calls
Holless was already in the vestibule, with candelabra, ready to lead the way with the solemnity of an ancient priest leading a virgin to the sacrifice.
‘Thank you, Holless,’ she slurred, in her new authority and he bridled at the condescension. It was a small victory. ‘I shall not forget your service to me.’ And neither of them were in any doubt as to exactly what she meant. Holless sneered. She would be sober in the morning.
Denzil carried her up the stairs with little effort. Step after step, he followed Holless climbing the magnificent oak staircase in stately procession, the bubble of candlelight enveloping them, barely penetrating the darkness beyond. He kissed her neck twice. Holless flung the door wide and placed the candles on the table. When Denzil dismissed him without words, his last look was a smirk at Florence. Denzil set her down on the edge of the bed. ‘I shall be with you shortly, my dear. Please, make all haste in your preparations, for I burn for you.’ He patted her cheek in parting and she recoiled. He laughed. ‘Obey, wife.’
At least she did not have to worry about Denzil expecting her to be chaste – a virgin. She’d admitted nothing, of course. She wondered what Denzil’s experience was? Surely, on his trips to London . . . A horrific thought hit her. Had he used brothels? He could well have gonorrhoea or syphilis! How would she know? How could she ask? It really wouldn’t be a consideration to him. He could do what the hell he liked.
Unbidden, she thought of Henry, her last lover in the life before. They lived together, depending on their commitments, and he’d been fun. There had been affection but not really love. They enjoyed their time together, neither of them thinking that it would be forever. He’d be sad that she’d disappeared . . . shit! They might even think that he’d done away with her! But here, in this age, it really was till death us do part. All day, she’d tried not to think of Nat, his tenderness and his appreciation of her body when they made love. She thought of that moment in the woods and the intensity and longing between them. She thought of . . . No. It would not do to think of that now. She should focus on surviving this consummation.
Prudence came in to clothe her in the silk nightdress and dressing gown. The girl’s hands were shaking and clammy and she struggled to unfasten the body-laces. She twitched in her nervousness.
‘Prudence,’ Florence held her two hands in her own, ‘it is I who should be nervous, not you! Do not worry. I will be . . . fine. Prudence wouldn’t meet her eyes and gave her a nervous smile and suddenly hugged her.
‘Aye, lady.’
It was clear that there was more. ‘Spit it out then,’ Florence looked at her friend, resigned to her fate.
‘Cook tells me that she has given you . . .’ and, at this, her courage failed her. Florence looked towards the small pot that she’d placed by the bedside, dismissing it as some sort of old wives’ remedy. Now she unstoppered it and smelled the sweetness of flowers – lavender, roses? No. Marigold? What was this? Then she understood.
‘Ah. Please tell Cook that I . . . appreciate her . . . gift.’ By the look on Pru’s face, Florence suspected that Cook had explained the benefits of the oily substance to her. Florence wondered if this particular recipe had ever reached the history books. It was a thoughtful gift – if unnecessary; she doubted that she’d need it but it prompted her to ask Prudence to bring a jug of claret and two glasses. The girl was shaking as she set them down. It seemed to Florence that Prudence busied around the chamber for a protracted time, until Denzil walked in.
He carried his own goblet of wine and paused appreciative as he saw her in the thin shift barely covered by the open silk robe. He was flushed and his eyes bright. In the distance, Florence could hear raucous voices cheering him on from the bottom of the staircase. His eyes never left her body and she held her chin up. Denzil barely cast a glance at Prudence, waving her out of the room which she left with a bowed head and some haste. He shut the door behind her and locked it. ‘I would not like us to be interrupted by my more enthusiastic retainers!’
She swallowed. She hadn’t thought of that.
‘Well, you are . . . ravishing! You have met my expectations so far.’ There was a slight slur to his words as he set down his glass and started towards her.
‘Another glass . . . surely. There’s no rush is there Denzil?’
‘I think not, wife . . .’ he purred in a low and suddenly more sober voice. ‘As Master Shakespeare said, drink is good for only three things and my purpose is elsewhere. Shall we to bed?’ His hand was steady as he pulled the cord which tied the robe around her, falling around her feet in a wave of blue silk. She felt the warmth of the fire at her back through thin nightgown and knew that the transparency of the cloth hid nothing. She stepped over to the wine, pouring two glasses and handing one to him. ‘Well I could do with another glass.’ Denzil took it from her hand and flung it into the flames.
‘I think not, dearest,’ he said, ‘I have waited over-long for this moment.’ And he reached down to touch her breast. The nipple rose involuntarily and he grinned at it kissing her mouth hard, holding her tight to him. She felt his hand slide between them, squeezing her breast so hard that she winced.
‘You’re hurting me,’ she shuddered.
His voice was husky in her ear, ‘But I don’t care, Florence. Come, let’s shrug off these garments that divide us.’ And he clutched the fine cloth of her shift, ripping it so that it fell away from her, stepping back to view her better.
She stood before him, brazenly defiant, trying not to think of the intent look of a cat sighting its prey.
‘Now you will aid me, wife, Come, Florence, free me from these . . . restrictions.’
She stood rigid. ‘Do it yourself, pig.’
‘I see.’ Florence didn’t see the hand that struck her. Even if she’d been sober, she wouldn’t have been able to stop it. It knocked her to the floor and she caught her head on the edge of the chair. Dizzied, she brought her hand away from her temple and saw blood on it.
‘Excellent! We will not have to fabricate a stain on the sheets I believe. Your blood will seal the legality of our union. Now, undress me.’
Feeling nauseated, she turned towards him and started to loosen the laces in his breeches. His shirt, he’d already tossed aside and he groaned with pleasure as her fingers freed him from all constraints and he kicked off the garments. He knew that he had a fine body, pale as the hair on his head. She tried to stand up but he pressed his hand on her head, keeping her down, ‘I please you wife?’ She was in no position to say no.
‘Yes,’ she croaked.
‘I am a fine man, a good husband?’ he pressed her head harder until her neck hurt.
‘Yes.’
For one moment she thought that he would force her towards . . . but no, he was satisfied with the answer. His voice now was distinctly throaty and he let her up,
‘Climb upon the bed,’ he instructed.
It was a climb. These great beds were platforms well above the ground and she knew how much he was enjoying the view. Florence started to roll over onto her back, wishing for this to be over, wondering if she might reach for Cook’s gift, but was surprised by his body pinning her down. She knew he would take her quickly and was glad of it as his mouth suddenly pressed onto hers, tongue penetrating hard and she stifled a cry as he thrust deep into her. Mercifully, it was swift. Within moments, he lifted his mouth away to groan with release, settling his weight on her as he savoured it, so that Florence was trapped, unable to breathe. She tensed, trying to shift him. Still joined, he raised himself on his elbows and looked at her.
‘Do not concern yourself, my dear, I am told that there is always some discomfort for
women on the first occasion of their husband’s passion. Now that the breech has been made, it will be less onerous for you. You did well, wife and I am satisfied.’
And with that he slid off her and flopped on to his back, eyes closed and breathing heavily. Frozen with disbelief and some anger, she could feel the wetness seeping from her and wanted to deal with it but he lay his open arm across her breasts and commanded,
‘No. Be still. It is not yet time to sleep. Let us rip through the iron gates of life once more!’
‘Denzil,’ she hesitated, ‘I need . . .’
‘Why, Florence! Did you not know that your needs are entirely irrelevant here? You are my wife, my property, mine to do with what I will. Your only need is in continuing to please me. You will soon find it customary to embrace your wifely duties and know well how to satisfy your husband. Now, turn over, wife and I shall educate you further in those duties as a good husband should.’
Later, as Denzil snorted in his well sated sleep, Florence wept.
All that night she was conscious of his every movement. He’d had consoled her at one point when she’d cried out in pain, ‘My love, do not distress yourself so. This will become easier for you as we renew our coupling. ‘Tis always a trial for virgins but wives . . . learn to accommodate their husbands. Fear not. I shall send for Prudence in the morn, to bathe you and soothe your tender skin. I am a most kindly and loving husband so be not afraid, my dear wife.’
Florence thought him disgusting.
In the morning, Denzil left with the dawn and Florence drew her knees up in the bed and waited for Pru. She put on her linen shift and caught a glimpse of herself in the reflection of the large mirror he’d had brought into her room. The red bruises on her arms and thighs would discolour but at least they wouldn’t be seen. She was grateful that her humiliation wouldn’t be common talk. Prudence had entered silently and when she turned, the girl was staring at the stain on the bed and then saw the bruises on Florence’s body.
‘I . . . he . . .’ stammered Florence, suddenly ashamed although she didn’t know why.
‘Oh, Florence,’ the serving girl exclaimed. ‘I am so very sorry.’
Florence didn’t want the girl’s pity and flushed with indignation. ‘And why should you be sorry! I married him. I probably deserve this. Help me to bathe and say nothing to anyone. Do you understand? Nothing!’ Florence’s anger and shame burst out of her and found a target in Prudence. Tears stung both women’s eyes and Florence immediately regretted it. Pru wasn’t the target of her pain and she’d spoken to her like a serving maid. She reached for Pru’s hands, gripping them tightly and shaking. Nothing more was said as her friend bathed her tenderly with the balm of warm water. Nothing could hide the bruises however, and Pru was particularly careful in those areas. She patted Florence with soft flannels and stopped mid-movement.
‘I do know, Mistress,’ she whispered. Florence was confused. Was she saying that she knew about sex?
‘Dear Pru, your secret is safe with me. I shall tell no one. Some lad in the household? A secret love? Ethan perhaps?’ She twisted around and smiled into Pru’s face, holding her hand over the one wielding the flannel. They were after all just two girls trying to make their way in this misogynous world.
Pru was shaking her head and in a trembling voice she whispered, ‘I do know him.’
The tableau was frozen in that moment: Florence processing what Pru had said, absorbing what she meant. Pru was horrified at what she’d revealed but Florence’s reaction surprised her. She’d taken a towel and stood at the window, looking out, her voice level, emotionless.
‘Tell me, Prudence. I am not angry.’
And the girl did. How she’d been very young when her aunt had first delivered her to her Montebray’s door. Holless had told her to do whatever was asked of her and that if she made any trouble or fuss, she’d be turned out and be branded with the mark of a whore! She had, of course, been a virgin – no more than thirteen or so, and had not known how it was between a man and woman - although she was familiar with the gist of it from observing the farmyard, she added.
‘I was always sent away before daybreak and Cook, bless her, would be waiting for me to feed and soothe me. We never spoke of it, for she knew that I had no choice.’ She paused and looked Florence in the eyes. ‘And I am very sorry for welcoming your arrival.’
Florence met her eyes, ‘What do you mean, Pru?’
‘Close to the time you came to the Hall, he stopped sending for me and, God help me, I was so very glad of it. I should have told you, warned you of what he was. And for that, I do repent me.’
Florence nodded gently, ‘Leave me,’ she choked. It was another betrayal.
‘No. There is more you should know. I have told him about the mark of the acorn on your neck.’ Pru was as white as a sheet.
‘Why?’
‘He quizzed me on you. Needed to know about you. Said that if I did not tell him some secret thing, then he would harm my Ethan – and I believed him.’ She flung herself at Florence and tried to hold her, begging forgiveness. ‘I told him a little thing to satisfy him. Tell me I have not betrayed you.’
‘So, he knew . . . all along.’
Prudence nodded into her shoulder. Florence pushed her gently away.
‘I understand why you said nothing, Pru. I’m sure I can forgive you – but not now. Please go.’ She didn’t hear the door close and it must have been several minutes before she moved again. The memory of the night returned and she considered what Prudence had known and why she had said nothing. She’d been glad enough to call her friend once and even more eager to accept her servitude. She was ashamed of herself as she began to understand that Prudence was also trying to survive in this time and place.
The jagged pieces of the jig-saw were forced into place. How could she have been so utterly gullible? Her lack of pedigree, her ridiculous story. Of course, he hadn’t accepted it; he didn’t care about that. That wasn’t what he wanted from her, so what game was he playing? He had married her for a reason – not out of charity or lust. She had thought that she was seducing him and he’d seen through all of it and had drawn her in. Florence rocked in the wildness of her confusion. This stupid acorn tattoo was known about by the dying man on the road and now Denzil was interested in it. Why?
Finally, she remembered Nat’s warning and the chill spread through her as she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that there was something very wrong about Denzil Moorcroft.
She rang the little bell to call Pru back and Florence hugged her as Prudence sobbed.
‘We have both been misused by Denzil Moorcroft, Pru. What say we find a way to exact our revenge? Pru looked at her through blurred eyes. She rubbed the tears away and expelled a short breath. ‘Revenge? I would like that, Florence. Very much.’ They continued the intimate process of dressing in silence but with warmth between them. When she’d finished, Florence turned to her. ‘Pru, we are friends, yes?’ Of course, they were. ‘Please, speak of this to no one. I would not be shamed.’
Pru consoled her. ‘Do you think that I am any more anxious to speak of your own shame than my own, Florrie? No word shall pass my lips of your hurt, until that day when Denzil Moorcroft is dead or gelded.’ They both laughed at that.
‘When you go back to the kitchen, will you thank Cook for me. She is a true ally - to us both.’ She had one more ally in this world but she had sent him away.
It was cold as she descended the staircase. As she entered the great hall, she felt no sense of belonging to this place. This was no longer the home she’d left in the future. This place was stamped with Moorcroft’s possession and it was a prison. Denzil stood as she entered the great hall, coming towards her with his dazzling smile, and ushering her towards the large bay window with pronounced tenderness. ‘My dear, you look charming. Marriage suits you I think,’ he laughed, pinching her cheek, firmly. ‘I thought that we might enjoy the sun and break our fast beside the window. Look, I have had Holless place us a s
mall table there.’ He pulled out a chair for her and seated her. She sat gingerly but he seemed not to notice and was like a young boy as he pointed out the delights of the food placed before her. ‘… and there’s honey for your cakes, dearest. I know that you have a sweet tooth.’ They drank small beer and Denzil pushed delicate cakes and breads towards her. He was totally oblivious of her physical discomfort.
‘Now,’ he pronounced cheerfully, ‘what will you busy yourself with whilst I complete my estate business this morning? I thought that perhaps we might partake of a light repast together at noon and then later, we may have a conversation.’
Here was a chance. ‘Well,’ she chirped, trying to match his tone, ‘I thought that I might familiarise myself with the household ledgers and speak to Holless about his responsibilities now that you have a wife and Montebray has a mistress.’ She spread the honey thick on her bread, holding her knife to prevent her hand shaking.
He didn’t respond to her suggestion but asked,
‘Indeed. The servants . . .’ he mused, ‘And your girl – Prudence – do you find her to your satisfaction?’ his face was unreadable.
‘I do.’ The bread and honey were impossible to swallow.
‘Excellent! Then she shall stay close by and provide for our every need. I have always thought that she was . . . capable.’
Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles Page 33