Denzil’s liquid voice made her whimper. How could she have thought that she’d be able to do this? In what universe could she best Denzil Moorcroft who was born to this malice, a true worshipper at the altar of perversion? She, a daughter of 2020 knew so much and she knew nothing. He could do as he wished with her.
No. How could she not do this? Nothing that Denzil did mattered, as long as she could help Nat. Florence put the fear into its box and turned her thoughts briefly to Ethan; she really hoped that he had gone. Denzil wouldn’t have chased him; he only wanted her.
This was a child’s game of hide and seek and Denzil made a noisy pretence of searching downstairs and calling to Holless ironically, ‘She’s not here! Oh, where should we look next?’ There was a muttered reply. Holless had no sense of fun. ‘No. Not there.’ He crashed a cupboard door shut. ‘Oh, wherever can Florence be!’ The chamber door unlocked.
Tense and breathlessness with fear, she tried not to inhale the thick cords of dust. She lay on her side, hearing the footsteps approached and had a fine view of his black shoes with their distinctive silver buckles facing her. She could see the intricate design on them: the infinity symbol entwined with another infinity symbol — infinity times infinity. Ah yes. He liked his little games. Denzil was toying with her, of course; a cat playing with its mouse.
Under the massive bed she lay, her lungs burning for air, trying not to breathe — or sneeze. She was lightheaded, the dust motes, suspended in the air glistening like fairy dust around those fine-stockinged calves. He planted his feet squarely and her heart stopped. She waited for his hand to reach under the bed and drag her out. Dear God! All of her childhood fears were here. The nightmares where hands reached from under the bed with claws which would grab her. And here he was: plausible, handsome, intelligent Denzil with his buckled symbols of enduring time, and his hypnotic charm, hunting her; no nightmare — too real.
Holless called from downstairs and the buckles swivelled, walking quickly until the heavy coverings hid them from sight. Her heart beat again and she gulped in air and her limbs began to shake until she had to clutch her sides to stop the spasms. He was gone. He was gone. She made herself believe it but she knew that she wasn’t yet safe. She turned to the far side of the bed, thinking only of escape from this room. She would have to brave the trellis. Through the curtains of her hair, she looked towards the promise of blue light flooding in from the window when an up-side-down full moon of a face with its blazing, blue eyes suddenly filled the space and the bubble of her terror exploded.
‘Boo.’ He blew quietly at her, snuffing out a candle. Her heart finally burst and she screamed. She was angry with herself for that.
‘Do come out my love. We both know that this enjoyable fine pursuit has ended. I may not even beat you.’ How generous he was, his voice smooth and amused, as he slid from atop the bed and lay on the floor, facing her in a hideous parody of the marriage bed, holding out his hand to her in the thick dust.
There really wasn’t a choice and so she slid out on the far side of the bed from him. She would not touch him. She stood, plucking off the thick clumps of dust which coated her. Denzil leaped up with coiled energy and sprawled on the counterpane, resting on one elbow, flushed and grinning at her. Excited.
She knew how much he liked pleading, ‘I’ll stay, Denzil. Let Nat go. Release him and I’ll be your wife.’
‘Wife,’ he crooned comfortingly and then there was the sea change of menace, ‘you are my wife. This has not, nor will, change. Is no reason to release Nathanial Haslet - besides, he has been so very entertaining. Now, be silent or I will silence you.’ He gestured towards her and patted the bed next to him. ‘Come my dear. Take your place beside me. Ah, but I have missed you.’ He hadn’t raised his voice and the smile on his face, didn’t reach his eyes.
Florence stood her ground. As terrified as she was of this man, she was repulsed by the idea of lying down beside him. No more deceit. ‘Tell me, Denzil, have you heard the word psychopath before?’ She saw him twitch.
‘Mm. Florence. Let me tell you something that you may not know. I have no intention of ever being without you. You will live a long life with me – I shall make sure of it. Now, lie here, my dear for I have things to share with you.’ He patted the bed and she could hear his fury.
‘Go fuck yourself!’ That felt good.
‘Anglo Saxon and Greek! What a learned woman you are. Lie here with me, Florence, or God’s word, I shall make you regret it,’ he hissed through clenched teeth.
She folded her arms.
‘Very well, then perhaps I shall inflict my displeasure at your refusal on your dear friend, Nathanial.’ He began to lift himself off the bed, with a dramatic sigh. His delight was unbridled as he watched her move towards him, hoist herself on the bed and arrange herself on the high mattress next to him.
She usually flinched when he lifted his arm but she was as still as an effigy when he placed his cold hand flat on her breast bone.
‘Do you know, I think your sweet paps were your first attraction for me. He slipped his hand into her bodice and lifted first one and then the other breast out of the shift. ‘Lovely.’ He flicked her nipples with his fingertips. ‘Ah, you see, you cannot resist my charms, my love,’ he observed as her nipples stiffened.
‘An involuntary action I can assure you,’ she hissed. ‘If it’s sex that you want, just get on with it.’
‘Well, I do want you and we will couple but I thought that perhaps you might have more interest in pleasing me if I were to tell you my very good news.’
She steeled herself not to respond and so he continued.
‘I have mentioned that dear Nat is staying with us my dear wife. He has been with us for . . . some few days now but I think that you have not yet seen him. He, however, has called out to you and seems anxious for your well-being.’
Cold sweat beaded Florence’s lip.
‘Oh yes. He’s quite the font of information although I must say, his curses might shame the devil! He swears like a sailor! There was silence.
‘Wife, I am disappointed and surprised in your lack of interest. I shall redress this and escort you to greet him — perhaps tomorrow, when we are able to leave our bed. We are but wanton creatures who must sate our carnal desires. Is that not so, wife? I am a fortunate husband who has a wife who wishes only to please him. Some women are less … giving, I fear. Of course, should you refuse me then I shall leave you and sojourn awhile with Nathanial. Either prospect will please me.’
And there it was: if she wished to protect Nat, she must accommodate him; she had to please him. She did this for Nat.
‘You know my tastes, love,’ he whispered with glinting eyes. ‘Please do not disappoint me. You know how my humour is stirred by disappointment.’
Florence did know. Her demeanour changed. Slipping downwards, she forced her hand to draw between his legs and the growing swell. Turning her back to him, she slid her hair behind her hair so that she might see better. ‘Then, I shall need your aid, husband. This fastening must be untied.’ She thought that she managed to keep the disgust out of her voice.
He reached over and pulled the string as the garment fell away. She let it fall to her waist, kneeling beside him.
‘You would be more comfortable without your garments.’
‘See to it.’ His voice was husky.
She very much hoped that those hormones were severely restricting his ability to think. Reaching him, she crouched above him, allowing her breasts to brush his naked torso. He began to reach for her but she pushed his hand back towards the bed, gently pinning him with her knee. ‘You delay me my love. Let me do my work and free your . . . desire.’
Denzil was cautious now. The woman was too obliging. He held her throat with his strong hand, ‘I like this new enthusiasm woman, which I strongly suspect is born of a desire to achieve your own ambition in protecting Nat. I advise you: take a care. So many fragile lives rest on your ability to please me — not just this night
but for the many joyful couplings in our marriage and, God willing, we will have many children to bless our union — but do take care never to falter for I mean to keep you keen to please.’ Denzil’s tone swung between childlike enthusiasm to threat — a cultured conceit designed to keep his victims nervous.
He was bruising her but she gave a slow smile, as he removed his hand, leaving his fingerprints white on her neck. While one hand slipped towards the laces of his breeches, the other moved the spike of a hefty five-inch blacksmith’s nail into her grip. When she’d found it in the garden, and hidden it in the frame underneath the bed, she hadn’t known if she’d have the courage to use it — on Denzil or on herself. Now she had no doubt.
Just as he closed his eyes in the ecstasy of her fingers stroking his flesh, she raised her arm and with every atom of her strength and fury, she stabbed at the tumescence with a visceral scream. Denzil opened his eyes, sensing the pause, and his reaction caused her to miss her target — slightly. The thick, iron spike sank deep into his groin and he pulled up into a foetal ball screaming in agony, blood spurting onto her face and breasts.
Florence didn’t pause but snatched the key from around his neck and ran for the door. A demented Holless flew past her and threw himself at Denzil, flailing hands trying to stem the flow of arterial blood. He shrieked at her, ‘What have you done, harlot!’ and she saw with satisfaction how his collar was turning red.
Denzil’s continuing screams of agony, echoed through the house together with Holless yelling for help. She hoped that nobody came for them and that he bled to death like a stuck pig. Down the staircase she ran and then under it. It was velvet black. Furiously, she pressed panels and indents but nothing opened. She knew that her time was limited. Frustrated and desperate, she hammered on the wall, not caring who heard. There was a click and a door opened a crack.
45
Oubliette
Her primal instincts were screaming out, ‘Don’t go into the cellar!’ But Nat was down there. Alone. Where else would she go? She pressed down on the lid of her fear as a breath of air touched her, and she pulled open the door with her fingertips. Florence stepped onto the top of a flight of stone steps and squinted into the darkness below. She couldn’t make out any feature there. To her left, a sconce held a readied torch but she had nothing to light it with. Neither was there any handrail on the steps. It was a dangerous descent and Florence felt each one of the stone steps with her toes as she descended further into the abyss
These were the foundations of a building centuries older than the Tudor Hall above. The further she descended, the more faint detail emerged. The walls were thick stone, ancient, built for defence and there were the arches for doors on either side, now filled in. Florence had the impression that she was seeing just a fraction of what was here. What she couldn’t see, she could feel. The stone was sandy and bone dry, loose mortar powdering her hands as she felt her way forward and each step bore a distinctive hollow from footsteps long used to this route.
Deprived of sight in the velvet blackness, she counted them. Thirty. It was a long way down. They finished at one end of a long, narrow corridor, where in the distance, a faint light seeped out around the edges of a curtain. Florence wondered what she would find when she pulled it back. Knowing that Denzil was lying upstairs, bleeding copiously, gave her the courage to continue; at least he wouldn’t be in there.
She let the curtain fall behind her and moved delicately into the room. The floor crackled with broken fragments. Braziers on the floor and candles in wall sconces, lit the room in an orange glow which bounced off the array of glass bottles and flasks and a variety of metal plates and shallow dishes most of which contained . . . something dark and viscous. It was still cold in here.
A long rectangular table dominated the centre of the room, littered with experimental equipment; the work of a madman to be sure. But it was the smell which took her breath away. There were almost suffocating fumes — ammonia? And a strong gagging smell of excrement. And - oh God – something metallic. Blood. She followed the stench towards a flask where something dark bubbled. Drip by drip the warmed fluid slid down from the edge of the table and oozed onto an iron grate at the edge of the floor and the wall. It drained away through it as she watched. She leaned low towards the grill. What was that far, far, below the drain? Murmurs of voices reached her, distant and whimpering in the depths below. Christ! This was the oubliette that Granny had told her about. Please don’t let Nat be down there! Florence stopped her gasp of horror with her fist and then turned away, trying to stem the gagging that was a pure reflex. Whose blood was this? What was this place? She hadn’t guessed the depths of Denzil’s depravity.
Her fleshed crawled. The lively flames told her that Denzil had not intended to be away for long. Well, she’d altered that! She doubted that he’d be moving for days — if ever — but he might send Holless. Scanning the room, she almost missed a dark alcove where a lattice of iron bands caught the flames dully. She would have dismissed it had she not seen the small twitch of a hand, gripping the cage. She knew it was Nat, even as she began dragging herself through the slime and filth, snagging the ragged shift against shards of broken glass. Nat was hidden in plain sight, lodged and fastened against the wall in a wrought-iron banded coffin which held his body upright. The pale hand grasped the iron work but his head was down, face hidden by rancid hair.
‘Nat,’ she gasped against him, gagging at the odour as she came closer, ‘Nat. Can you hear me?’ Now the tears were unwelcome, blurring her vision. He was alive and his knuckles tightened on the iron bars as he managed to rasp,
‘Key. On the table. Keeps it within sight. Likes me to see.’ Still his head was down but when he lifted his swollen face matted with dried blood, Florence saw his blue eyes swimming in hurt and defeat. She might not have recognised that mess of a face without them. The key was placed on a small velvet cushion. The twisted bastard! Shaking, she unlocked the iron maiden, trying not to force it when it resisted her. She hoped it wouldn’t snap in the lock. It turned.
‘Nat, you have to let go of the frame. I can’t open it while you’re holding on.’ She pleaded gently.
‘No strength. Can’t stand.’
‘I’ll catch you. Let go.’ He had to do as she asked if they were to escape. The iron screeched as she tore at it. For a moment, Nat seemed moulded into place and she had to take hold of his clothes to detach him from the frame. He was heavily soiled and stank of shit and vomit and he fell into her arms making her almost topple over with the unexpected weight of him. He was in her arms, obnoxious and revolting and warm and far too light and so very important to her. His rib cage was heaving through the rotting cloth.
‘Nat! Use your legs. Come on. You have to. Stand! I’m not strong enough to carry you unless you help.’ She urged. ‘Come on. Do it!’ She grabbed at him, grunting with the effort.
He stiffened and trembled, firing the damaged muscles, and finding the strength to stand, taking most of his own weight. The thigh wound made him sick with pain.
‘Wait,’ he gasped. He reached over to the table and grabbed the small red fire engine with extending ladder and put it in his shirt, turning to Florence and throwing her a triumphant grin which reopened the split in his lip. ‘He won’t like that.’
Throwing his arm over her shoulder, they stumbled along and they began to work their way towards the curtain, over the strewn floor. Every step was accompanied by broken tinkles of glass and shards of pottery cracking beneath them. ‘He throws glass and pots when he’s angry. Like a Greek restaurant . . .’ he wheezed.
The stairs were purgatory for him, weak and injured as he was. They pulled themselves up one step at a time. ‘Just a few more steps. Nearly out, Nat. Don’t give up. Come on.’ She urged. Squeezed together on the narrow staircase, each one was a triumph. Even then they had to stop twice as he sagged with the pain and the effort.
Finally, Florence shoved open the panelled door with her knee, beyond worrying about maki
ng a noise, and they tumbled onto the hall floor. Somehow, they dragged themselves across it and burst out of the entrance, feeling the light rainfall on their upturned faces. He smiled at the gentle cleansing of it but they were not safe yet, not until they found cover, somewhere away from here. Florence looked around anxiously. She’d harboured a hope that Ethan . . . but there was no sign him. That was only right. He should be with Prudence.
Towards the west end of the grounds, they saw a single figure emerge from the kitchen garden. Nat knew her immediately.
‘Cook,’ Florence was surprised and worried.
‘Kylie,’ Nat groaned as he leg throbbed. ‘Tell you later.’
He felt Florence hesitate, ‘’S’OK. Safe.’
Cook held out a bag for them. Without a word, she thrust it at Florence, her face pained as she saw Nat’s condition. She said nothing but turned back in to the Hall kitchen. Florence didn’t ask, grateful for this small mercy.
With super-human strength, she dragged him into the forest until Nat could bear none of his own weight and she couldn’t support him any longer. She knew they weren’t far enough away as they lay there, exhausted and traumatised.
He closed his eyes and raising his bruised face to the starlit sky, smiled.
‘Nat, we must move — find shelter — food and water. Just a little farther?’ she pleaded, breathless. She had left her cache of supplies on a bank near to a stream, a mile or so from Montebray. If they could reach that, they might have a chance. Nat was damaged to his core but each step away from the Hall, gave him the energy of hope. He dragged himself to his feet.
The sack of supplies was there and in it were simple clothes for both her and him. She had anticipated the need. She tried to help him but he shied away, ‘Florence, I’m . . . filthy — disgusting. I have to wash. Help me towards the water.’
‘We shouldn’t . . . no time . . . later.’
Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles Page 43