by Cleo Cordell
‘Come then, Madam,’ Karolan said. ‘Remember, you are my niece. I’ve been tending your fever in my tower to contain any spread of infection.’
‘That part is true enough,’ she said, swaying gracefully so that her body brushed against him as they descended the stone steps. ‘You’ve been tending to my body’s needs rather well, my lord.’
She sensed rather than heard his withdrawn breath. His long fingers closed over hers, squeezing them gently, managing to convey reassurance and intimacy combined. A flush warmed her skin. It seemed not to matter how often they lay together, the hunger burned deeply and abidingly within them both.
At the bottom of the twisting staircase, they emerged into a small room. Garnetta hardly had time to take in the richness of the wood carving on the wainscotting before she was shown into a vaulted hall. Servants stood in line, shifting from foot to foot with impatience. She hid a smile at the thought of why they had been kept waiting. Did her shamelessness show on her face?
The steward, Romane, stood a little to one side. Garnetta saw a tall, silver-haired man with a slight stoop. He was dressed in a flared black gown, covered with a furlined, quilted surcoat. A huge bunch of keys hung from a belt at his waist. The steward took a step forward, only the slightest hesitation betraying the fact that he was lame. He bowed, his face impassive, but Garnetta saw the flicker of pleased surprise in his faded blue eyes. She wondered what Karolan had told him and glanced to one side to find that Karolan was grinning in a conspiratorial manner. Lifting her chin she prepared to act like a lady.
‘Welcome, my lady,’ Romane said. ‘Allow me to introduce the servants.’ Garnetta smiled as each person was presented. According to their rank, they either nodded or bobbed a curtsy.
‘Pleased to meet ’ee, Ladyship.’
‘God give thee good day, mum.’
After the introductions, Romane offered to accompany Garnetta on a tour of the house before she and Karolan left to go riding. Karolan nodded his assent. ‘I’ll away to the stables and see that the horses are ready. There’s a sweet brown mare I have picked out. Now remember, Romane, you are not to tire Garnetta.’
Romane inclined his head. ‘I understand, my lord. I am pleased to see that your . . . niece is making such a rapid and splendid recovery.’
Garnetta saw the look which passed between them and heard their complicity of tone. The steward knew that she was Karolan’s mistress, but there was nothing in his demeanour to give away the fact. As Karolan turned on his heel, Romane clapped his hands, dispersing the servants. ‘If you will come this way,’ he said pleasantly, standing aside for her to precede him.
‘The original building was a single hall with a solar at the far end,’ he informed her as they passed rooms with lime-washed walls and exposed oak beams. ‘Lord Rakka had an upper floor and staircase built and partitions put in to make a number of small chambers.’
Besides the usual sparse furniture of trunks, tables, and high-backed settles, there were shelves on which were set carvings inlaid with mother of pearl and lamps of stamped and incised brass. The walls were hung with armour of strange and archaic design. Garnetta looked with wonder at a cabinet of red lacquer decorated with toothed creatures breathing fire. There were low couches of intricately carved wood, piled with silken cushions, rows of metal plates set with gleaming cabochon jewels.
‘Lord Rakka is much travelled,’ Romane explained, when Garnetta commented on the diversity of all she saw. ‘He brought back some of these things from Cathay and others from the Holy Land. My lord is a collector of the arts as well as of knowledge. He is an extraordinary man.’
‘That fact had not escaped me,’ Garnetta murmured. ‘Is it not . . . unwise to leave so much on display?’
Romane emitted a creaky noise, which she realized was a laugh. ‘No one would dare to steal anything. They know better than to risk Lord Rakka’s anger. He is a hard master, but fair. Every vassal has enough to eat and is allowed to bring any grievance before the justice. Of course,’ he smiled thinly, ‘Few would wish to make such a petition.’
The chambers on the upper floor were meticulously clean but with the musty smell of rooms unused. It surprised her that the house should be so spacious, so richly furnished, yet devoid of family members. She looked questioningly at the steward.
‘We have few visitors,’ he said with regret. ‘My lord guards his solitude.’
She gained the impression that he was avoiding broaching the weightier question. So be it. She would ask Karolan about his wife. The poor woman had probably died in childbed. But it was curious that a man such as he had not remarried. How he must wish for a son, an heir. The rambling house was too quiet. It ought to be ringing with the cries of children. ‘Is the lack of visitors because of the things people say about Lord Rakka?’
Romane did not look surprised. ‘Of course you have heard the folk tales. Is it the nature of men to fear that which they do not understand. Tell me, what do they say? Since the pestilence gained a hold, I’ve heard no news of the outside.’
Garnetta shuddered. ‘They say that the forest around the manor is cursed, that the intervention of Pope Clement himself – bless the Vicar of Christ – could not make the place holy again. I’ve heard tales of mad women running through the forest, clutching murdered children to their breasts. A demon is said to live in a cave. He pounces on the sinful and strips the flesh from their bones before hanging them from a tree, where they sway in the black wind like monstrous fruit.’
‘And what has my lord to do with all this . . . this fabrication?’
Garnetta hesitated, unwilling to repeat the tales. Now that she knew and loved Karolan they seemed too ridiculous to repeat. Romane prompted her to speak, by a quizzical lifting of one eyebrow. ‘Some years ago a charcoal burner was hanged for the killing of a mother and her child. The child, poor mite, was monstrously deformed. And the woman had been greatly torn . . . about the privy parts. The man was found scraping a shallow grave for the bodies, so there was no doubt of his guilt. But he accused Lord Rakka of having a hand in the sorry mess. Nothing was proved of course – how could it be? – but many people thought Lord Rakka was not entirely without knowledge of the events. It was known that he engaged in doubtful practices. But alchemy is a noble Christian art, practised by kings and monks.’
Romane nodded and murmured, ‘It is indeed.’
Garnetta paused before continuing. ‘The charcoal burner’s corpse was tarred and suspended in a gibbet from a tree. Some misguided souls, who reckoned the man to be innocent of the murders, took gifts of flowers and goods to lay at his feet. Even now, anyone who wishes to harm a neighbour will sneak into the forest at night and make a blood offering to the tree of woe.’ Garnetta took a deep breath. ‘Lord Rakka saved my life. Why would he do that if he was such a monster?’
‘My lord’s ways were ever his own,’ Romane said enigmatically.
With her heightened senses she became aware of the increase in his heartbeat. There was the slightest tang of nervous sweat rising from his clothes. She knew with certainty that he was hiding something from her.
Romane gave her a searching look. ‘If I may make so bold, may I offer you some advice?’ When she nodded he went on. ‘Experience has taught me that truth is a slippery thing indeed and not at all easy to gain a hold on. It’s best to reserve one’s judgement until you are sure of a thing.’
He seemed to be talking in riddles. She smiled placatingly. He was an old man and old men’s minds were apt to wander. ‘Shall we move on?’ she said, with an authority with which she was only just becoming familiar. ‘I have yet to see the kitchens before I join your master in the stables.’
Taking her comment as natural to her assumed station, Romane shook out the folds of his long back gown and afforded her a shallow bow. ‘Of course. Forgive me for presuming on your time. Cook is eager to meet you. She wishes to ask whether you have a special way of preparing lenten cakes.’ His eyes twinkling he said, ‘I, for one, would be heartily gl
ad if you would furnish her with such a receipt. ’Twould be a blessing to us all. I understand that your illness has made you exempt from the rigours of fasting, but I confess that I’m hardly able to stomach any more stockfish and black bread! They’re mortal hard on an old man’s teeth. Won’t you have pity?’
Laughingly, Garnetta accompanied the steward. She liked this old man who was trusted with the running of the household and lands. He obviously had his lord’s interest at heart, but she also perceived that he was fond of Karolan and held him in high esteem. There had been genuine liking between the two men earlier in the hall. Romane must have been with Karolan for many years. Was he privy to all Karolan’s secrets, she wondered?
She felt again the thrill of her lover’s glamour and charisma, but there was still that underlying – something. It was nothing tangible, rather it was a subtle impression, another of the strange, unwanted messages given out to her by her newly sensitized mind.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Garnetta awoke with a shock and sat upright. The threads of the dream were woven around her still. The spell of it, the dark eroticism, held her in thrall.
Reaching out she felt the empty space beside her and remembered that Karolan had told her he would not be coming to bed for many hours yet. No doubt he was in his workroom – that secret place to which she was denied entry. He had explained that there was an unusual configuration of the planets he wished to study. When she expressed an interest in accompanying him, he had kissed her cheek and told her firmly that she still needed to rest.
Closing her eyes, Garnetta allowed herself to drift back into the dream. Almost instantly she found herself looking down on an open-air courtyard, where the sun cast a pall of heat over a terrace of blue-patterned, mosaic tiles. Slim, white archways, intricately carved and gilded, curved overhead, reflecting in the still water of a pool. On a low couch, shaded by the fronds of delicate trees, lay two naked men, both sleeping.
One of them was dark-skinned, a colour like burnished copper. His body was mature, well-formed, heavily muscled. A cap of curly black hair fitted closely to his skull and his features, which were half in shadow, were strong and angular. The other man was young and fair-skinned. He lay face-down, his long yellow hair spread over the silken pillows, his slender, muscled limbs spread in a way that suggested total surrender to the pleasures of sleep.
Beside the low couch, there was a metal table holding a bowl of fruit, glass bottles of coloured oils, and something which Garnetta did not recognize. Long sticks of burning wood protruded from a slim-necked flask and sent blue-grey smoke spiralling upwards, spreading a heavy, soporific perfume into the air. As Garnetta’s dream-self watched, the blond man stirred, turning to face the older man, presenting her with a view of his broad shoulders, narrow hips, and taut buttocks. His limbs were long and finely made. There was not a single trace of spare flesh on his body.
The blond man’s lips moved and she heard him murmur a name, ‘Harun? Harun, my friend. Are you awake?’
With a low growl Harun gathered the young man into his arms, one hand meshing in the tangled flaxen hair. They pressed closely together, lips meeting in a joyous, passionate kiss. Harun uttered some words in a strange language as his hands slipped down the other man’s body until they came to rest on his buttocks. Moving delicately he caressed the tight globes, trailing his fingertips down the damp crease, dipping into the furrow where thighs and buttocks joined.
As Harun cupped his firm scrotal sac, the flaxen-haired man sighed with pleasure and worked his hips, rubbing his engorged shaft against the other’s dark belly. Their tongues lashed at each other between wide-open lips. In a while the blond man pushed the other to lie on his back, all the time running his palms over the planes and hollows of the hard, polished muscles.
Harun relaxed against the embroidered silk, his dark curls gleaming with droplets of sweat. Now fully revealed, his face was seen to be handsome although running to flesh at the jaw-line. His most striking features were his piercing black eyes and wide, sensual mouth. Deep grooves led down from the sides of his nose to the corners of his mouth. He was strongly erect, the thick phallus jutting up from a mat of dark curls at his groin. The purplish glans was smooth and uncovered by a hood of skin.
The younger man sat up, his long hair swinging forward to mask his face. Reaching out he encircled the cock with one hand. Harun arched as the other man worked on him, then he grinned, his white teeth flashing against the mauve-brown colour of his lips. ‘Ah, no. This is not the caress I crave,’ he said in a deep accented voice. ‘Onto your belly, for this day the infidel shall lay siege to and conquer a Western portal!’
With a husky laugh, the other man did as he was bid, murmuring, ‘As it shall please you to pleasure me. I bow willingly to your onslaught.’ Sweeping his long, fair hair to one side, so that it lay over his shoulder, he pressed his belly to the couch. His revealed profile was pure and clear-cut, the light, honey-coloured skin without a blemish.
Garnetta’s dream-self registered shock. She moaned in her sleep, twisting so that the sheets wrapped around her body. Her lips parted and she uttered a sound of denial.
Harun looked down at the body spread before him, his face bound by desire and fascination. His brown fingers slid over the lightly tanned skin. ‘Ah, but you are passing fair, Karolan,’ he murmured, softly, then his voice deepening with humour added, ‘For an accursed Christian!’
Karolan chuckled and looked over his shoulder. ‘I imagine you wish to do more than just look.’
Reaching for what looked like a brass lamp, entwined by a snake, Harun closed his lips over the brass mouthpiece and took a deep pull of the water pipe. The fragrant blue smoke seeped out of his mouth and nostrils and he closed his eyes as the drug spread through his veins. ‘Here,’ he said, passing the pipe to Karolan. ‘Draw deeply of the nargileh. The mixture is of my own blending. It will make your pleasure more acute.’
As Karolan sucked at the pipe, Harun dipped his fingers into a bottle of oil and with slow sensuous movements stroked his cock, squeezing the bulbous tip until a drop of clear fluid trembled at the slitted mouth. The oil gleamed on his dark phallus. Easing the younger man’s buttocks apart he lubricated the shadowed rift and slipped his fingers into the tight entrance. Karolan closed his eyes, murmuring with pleasure. Harun laughed huskily as he stroked and probed, urging the muscled thighs to open to him. Soon Karolan’s hips began to work. His breath quickened. ‘Now. Let it be now,’ he grunted.
Kneeling between the widely spread thighs, Harun pressed his oiled glans against the anus and dug his fingers into parted buttocks. Karolan jerked under him, crying out. Harun shuddered as the ring of hot flesh closed around his rigid shaft. ‘By the One God,’ he murmured, as he probed the depths of the other man’s vitals. ‘You are a sweeter drug than any elixir ever made by Jabir the Persian.’
Karolan spoke in a breathless voice. ‘Elixirs? You speak of al kimiya? All these things and more, you will teach me as you have promised?’
‘When the time is right, impatient one,’ Harun said, his face screwing into a rictus of ecstasy. He thrust powerfully between the parted buttocks, the sweat pouring down his face. ‘I shall teach you more things than you have dreamed possible. Oh, yes. Just that way. Tighten around me. Ah, you are becoming very skilled, matchless one.’
Karolan bucked and ground his hips against Harun’s pubis. His damp blond hair whipping out as he threw back his head with total abandonment. ‘Then . . . when shall you reward . . . me with my . . . heart’s desire?’
‘Soon. There . . . are so many secrets I shall impart . . .’ Harun whispered, the breath hissing through his stretched lips. Then his whole body went rigid as he emptied himself. ‘Ah, the samum possesses my body!’
After their frenzied coupling the men lay intertwined on the couch, now and then drawing on the water pipe. In the dream, the day grew long. The heat went out of the sun. Spreading leaves cast a map of shadows over the interlocked bodies.
Garnetta woke for a second time. This time she was fully awake, her heart beating fast. Thoughts crowded into her head. She was both revolted and aroused by the forbidden images. Why had she dreamt of Karolan and that other . . . Harun? Nothing in her own experience could furnish her with such lewd imaginings. Shuddering, she pulled the bedcovers over her. The dream had been so vivid, so detailed. Then her preternatural senses came into play and she understood.
Instinctively she knew that she had experienced a vision of something which had actually taken place, but she was unwilling to believe that Karolan had ever lain in the arms of the handsome dark-skinned man. He frequently expressed views which bordered on heresy, but he could not be a sodomite. Sodomy was a grievous sin, denounced by the Church as worse than murder. The punishment for such foul practices was death by burning.
Then she laughed with relief. Of course. The young blond man had only resembled Karolan. It was not truly him. Karolan was white-skinned, his hair as black as ebony. Somehow her reasoning gave her no comfort. She found herself staring into the darkness, unable to rest, and searched back through past conversations with Karolan. Had he not told her that he had gained his knowledge of medicine in the Holy Land? The darkly handsome man in the dream was surely an infidel. The tiled courtyard, the pool – these things belonged to someone of wealth and culture, like a knight or a doctor. And he had called Karolan by name.
Eventually she threw back the bedcovers and padded across the chamber. She had to speak with him. From force of habit she threw a cloak over her shift even though she did not feel cold. As she passed by the open window, a movement caught her eye. She stopped and looked out beyond the fields to the edge of the forest. Moonlight shone on newly sown crops and silvered the tops of trees.
There came the subtle shifting, like the twitching of a curtain inside her. She knew at once that the tall, slim figure standing under the canopy of trees was Karolan. Even with her eyes closed she would have known it was him. She caught the subtle traces of his thoughts, touched the complexity of his persona. She focused expertly, hardly registering her body’s adjustment now, and saw in the darkness that Karolan was looking skywards, a metal instrument against one eye. For a second she caught a glimmer of colour, a trembling amongst the newly emergent leaves on the branches of one of the trees. There came the blurring of a shadowy movement, then it was gone. She shrugged. Some trick of the moonlight.