by Cleo Cordell
Garnetta’s limbs felt heavy. The desire rippled and bloomed throughout her body. She stretched languidly. The scent of her own body, clean and sweet, rose around her. Oh, yes, she was sore in need of being blessed. Karolan had awakened her body to pleasure. Only now did she remember what a potent drug that was. ‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘Oh, yes, my angel, serve me.’
Instantly she was embraced by sensation. Her back arched as she strained towards the man who enfolded her. The glowing face was close to her own, those sculpted lips pressed firmly to hers. It seemed that all the surface of her skin was being stroked. Little spears of delight spread upwards from her toes. She tasted the moist salt of the angel’s mouth as the lips parted. His firm tongue explored her own.
She moaned softly, held tight against the gleaming body, the muscles moving warmly against her skin. Then she felt her thighs being spread apart and experienced a moment of resistance. It was too soon. The taste of fear, the recent recollection of harsh hands on her, the tearing pain and feeling of her blood running down her legs, swamped her. ‘Wait, I beg you,’ she breathed, her breath shallow, the pulse beating at her neck.
Was she cursed always to remember the pain of violation at the moment of pleasure? The angel did not heed her, but her panic faded. His touch was clean, welcome. This was not an assault. There was something of violence in the hands that caressed her, it was true, but this was a force bent only on serving her needs. This was a concentration of great strength, tempered to her will. She cried out and surged against the body that held her to the pallet with a silken strength. Her thighs were opened wide beneath him, her hips tipped up to admit the entry of his hard flesh. Fingers stroked her buttocks, her moist cleft, opening and softening her in readiness. She felt the slickness of her swollen coynte as the gentle stroking brought her towards the edge of pleasure. Karolan had awoken her to this need and now the tension within her throbbed and pulsed.
‘Now. Enter me,’ she gasped, her mouth sliding across the firm lips and moving down to kiss his chin.
Gripping her waist with both hands the angel lifted her onto his cock. The thick phallus filled her, forging into her, pushing aside the clinging walls of her flesh until it lodged against her womb. Garnetta felt a hand press against her mouth and pushed her tongue between the fingers, lapping at the musk tasting skin. As the cock thrust into her, she lifted her legs and wrapped them around the taut buttocks. Digging her heels into his back, she gripped him, lifting herself up and pumping her hips shamelessly in the pursuit of her pleasure. She felt loose-limbed, succulent.
The shining being gave a low chuckle. She moaned throatily as he bit at her nipples, holding one breast tightly so that he could suckle her while ploughing her inner recesses. It seemed impossible, but she felt his mouth all over her – between her buttocks, her toes, in her ears, at the hollow of her throat. She was drowning in sensation, borne along on the tide of the most exquisite feelings. Then she felt him swelling within her. Surely she would tear, but she did not.
He was hot and hard. She enclosed him completely, loving the way her flesh was dragged as he moved within her. Drawing out he rimmed her entrance, using just the big swollen glans to tease her towards the ultimate release. Every muscle in her body tightened as she strained against him. Her arms and legs were thrown wide. The sound of their joining filled the cell – harsh breaths, the kiss of flesh against flesh, the subtle wet noises of their joined sexes. She could smell them both. Musk, salt, the spice of sweat – and overlaying all was the faint odour of licorice. The angel was silent, concentrating only on serving her.
‘God. My God,’ she whimpered, beside herself with the glory of it. Her fingers clawed at the sheets as she caught the thread of her climax. The angel shuddered against her as she sobbed and threshed. He seemed hot. Too bright. The feeling of his slim body between her legs was like a benediction.
Afterwards, she could not remember what had happened next. All became confusion. Where the pleasure had been outside, now it was inside. Her skin was suddenly cool, as if the angel had withdrawn himself from her all at once. There was a dreadful pressure in her head, as if her skull was filled to capacity and the bones were trying to expand. The roots of her hair ached and stung. Her ears rang and her eyes swelled. Tears ran down her cheeks. Somehow the pleasure had become pain, but even then the boundaries of sensation were confused.
Her womb burned and spasmed. She felt every orifice invaded, stretched and then filled with a hot, throbbing fullness. Her belly grew taut, her lungs swelled, and she felt a creeping horror at the itching inside her skin. She could not see. Blackness crowded her vision. She imagined that fingernails were raking at the back of her eyeballs. A ball of terror knotted in her belly. Opening her mouth wide, she let out a silent scream.
This fear was an invasion, robbing her of the sweetness of pleasure, sending ice racing through her tortured veins. She could not even cry. It was as if bonds of metal pinned her to the pallet. Suddenly she felt a loosening, was able to speak. ‘No more,’ she grunted, her tongue as thick as a mutton collop in her mouth.
Abruptly the sensation stopped. The shining form was back, whispering, soothing her with words and touch. She lay against the warm chest and felt the dread ebbing away. Had she imagined the last few seconds? She did not know, but sleep was beckoning and would not be gainsaid. Her head rolled back onto the pallet. She was unconscious the moment her cheek touched the sheet and did not see the moment when the angel stepped back through the ‘door’ into the silver curtain of the air.
Nor did she see Stephanis’s face, sweating and bleached of all colour, as he let fall the worsted curtain and hurried out of the infirmary.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
In the chamber above the warehouse the only sound was of wheezing as each painful breath was squeezed into the lungs of the man who lay on the bed.
Karolan looked down at the old man, wondering how long he had lain there in his own filth, too weak even to reach the cup of water at his bedside. Judging by the state of the woman’s corpse on the stairs, this man had been alone for many days.
Filling a cup from the flask of clean water that hung at his belt, he poured in a few drops of herbal tincture and slid a hand behind the man’s head. ‘Drink. I’ll aid you.’
The hands that clutched at him were surprisingly strong. ‘Bless . . . you,’ he managed to say, his voice merely a whisper. ‘My . . . my wife?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Karolan said. ‘She is at peace. Rest now whilst I make you clean.’
The man turned his face to the wall. Before the sickness took him, he must have been tall, well-fleshed, but the skin had shrunk tight to the big frame. Karolan glanced around the chamber. The furniture was solid, well-made. The rushes close to the bed were stained with vomit and excrement, but the rest were clean. A clothes press stood against one wall. Inside he found clean sheets and nightshirts. He was lifting out a pile of clean linen when there were heavy footsteps on the stairs. He heard a cry of rage and anguish, then it seemed that a whirlwind entered the bedchamber. Karolan had a brief impression of an enormous, fair-haired man who smelt of salted leather and sweat before he was seized about the throat.
‘Ach! Christ’s bones, you bastard!’ the man grunted, his voice heavily accented. ‘They’re hardly cold and you’re robbing them! I’ll cut out your cursed looter’s heart.’
Karolan used the sides of both hands to chop hard into his attacker’s waist. For a moment the blond man loosened his grip, but he hardly seemed to feel the blow. Despite the man’s aggression, Karolan held back. The giant might tower above him, but he was no match for Karolan’s preternatural strength. Then as the thick fingers squeezed tighter and tighter, Karolan’s vision darkened. Pressing his thumbs into the man’s kidneys Karolan jabbed – hard. When the giant let go of his neck, he brought his knee up into the man’s groin and gave him a hard shove backwards.
There was a sound like a pig’s bladder deflating. The big man collapsed groaning onto the rushes. Clutching
his privy parts, he rolled onto his side. It took some time for him to recover. Wiping away blood from a cut lip, he made no attempt to rise, but sat looking up at Karolan, blue eyes vivid against his weathered skin.
‘I ought to kill you for that. No man has ever laid me out. Ach. What does it matter? Take what you want and go. I have not the will to slit your thieving throat. Leave me, so that I may bury my mother and father.’ His shoulders sagged, but there was no suggestion of weakness in the broad, handsome face, only a weary acceptance.
Karolan opened his mouth to explain. Before he could speak there was a movement from the bed. ‘Gunter?’ came the dry croak. ‘Is . . . is that you, son?’
The big man leapt to his feet. In a trice he was leaning over the old man. Careless of the stench he picked him up into an embrace like a bear’s hug. ‘Father? Praise be to God. I saw poor mother on the stairs and thought the worst!’ Karolan watched in silence as Gunter laid his father onto the bed, his face tender and full of joy. Gunter turned to face Karolan, his expression hardening. ‘You here still? Strange behaviour for a thief.’
‘Aye, if thief I was. I heard a call for help when I was passing. Come, man, let’s not waste time. There’s a chance of saving your father.’
Gunter gaped at him, taking in details of Karolan’s costly black garments. He struck the centre of his own forehead with the heel of his palm. ‘Ach! A fool I am to think you nothing but a looter!’ He grinned, showing strong, gappy teeth. ‘Forgive my lack of manners. I always did act first and think later.’ He extended a hand.
Karolan found his own hand enveloped by a muscled paw and pumped energetically. He grinned, liking this blond giant whose tender feelings belied his outward appearance.
‘Tell me what I must do,’ Gunter said.
‘Have you means of making a fire? Good. Set some water to heat.’
Gunter went off to do as he was asked. By unspoken agreement, they left the corpse of Gunter’s mother to be dealt with later. The needs of the living took preference over the dead. Once the water was warm, they stripped and washed the old man. Karolan measured out more of the herbal draught.
‘What’s that you’re giving him?’ Gunter asked suspiciously. ‘The apothecary who tended me when I had an ague gave me a concoction of bird shit, snail shells, and henbane.’
‘And what did you do with him?’ Karolan asked.
‘I told him to take his own poison. When he refused, I kicked his skinny arse out of here, that’s what!’ Gunter said.
‘I’d have done the same,’ Karolan said, laughing. ‘You have nothing to fear from this draught. It’s just willow bark to lower a fever, thymus to fight infection, and something to make him sleep.’
‘And a few simples will banish the pestilence?’ Gunter looked doubtful.
‘The draught will help his suffering, but the blaine must be lanced and drained.’ So saying, Karolan took out the rolled packet which contained his medical instruments.
Gunter blanched when he saw the razor-sharp lancet and other cutting tools. ‘Must this be done? Father is so weak. The agony of it may kill him.’
‘He’ll die for certain if we do nothing,’ Karolan said, putting a fresh candle into the holder. ‘The draught will help. Besides, he’s a strong man – like his son.’
When the candle flame burned bright and clear, he drew the lancet back and forth through the flame to cleanse it, then approached the bed. Folding back the sheet, he laid open the nightshirt to reveal the ugly black tumour in the old man’s armpit. Gunter watched closely as Karolan held a piece of clean linen around the blaine. As he raised the knife, Karolan said, ‘Hold him down. If he twists as I cut him, I may do him serious injury.’
‘For heaven’s sake be swift,’ said Gunter, his face pale.
As Karolan stabbed the lancet into the tumour, Gunter leaned his weight on his father’s shoulders. The old man shrieked and thrashed. Bloody pus spurted onto the linen. Karolan squeezed the pad of fabric around the blaine until it stopped leaking. The stink that rose from the pus surpassed all previous stenches. Even Karolan’s stomach heaved in protest.
‘Jesu. God and all His saints!’ Retching, Gunter staggered across the room.
While Gunter’s back was turned Karolan spat into his palm and smeared his caustic spittle onto the wound, then he wiped and cleaned the lancet before packing his instruments away. ‘He’ll live. Your father’s one of the lucky few.’
‘Amen to that,’ Gunter said, having recovered. ‘All thanks be to you, friend. You are leaving at once? Nay, wait. Have a sup to eat. Father’s sleeping now and needs no watching. Come into the back room.’ A shadow passed over his face. ‘I have but one task more to do, then I’ll be glad to join you.’
Karolan knew that Gunter meant to deal with his mother’s body. He did not offer to help, sensing that the man wished to pay his final respects in private. He went out of the bedchamber into a small room overlooking the river. The window shutters were open. A cool breeze blew into the room, bringing with it smells of tar, fish, the underlying taint of rot. There was a fire burning, which made the little room almost cheerful. An iron spit held a cauldron.
Through the open doorway Karolan could see a storeroom. Barrels and bales were stacked almost to the ceiling. There was a truckle bed against one wall. He guessed that Gunter used this room. Stretching out on a settle, he propped his booted feet on the hearthstone. He rubbed gritty eyes, unable to remember the last time he had slept the night through.
Since Garnetta’s desertion, he had slipped easily into his old habit of frequenting the taverns and bawdy houses. He roamed the dark streets and malodorous alleys, searching for diversions, always accompanied by the Fetch. The squalor, the depths to which humanity could sink, fascinated and amused him. He had felt a flicker of emotion at Jack’s passing, but his prime emotion was annoyance. Now he would have to find a new supplier of drugs. The deaths of the three whores, Adeliz, Isabeau, and Sabina, had not affected him unduly. Whores lived short dreary lives, the pox as likely to carry them off as a drunken pimp or the pestilence.
On the morrow, when he had slept, he would bind the Fetch into his service and send it out again on the quest to find Garnetta. It was time he set the capricious spirit to work. By now, it must be glutted with pleasure. Not since his days as a soldier of fortune, when the Fetch had been at his side on various battle-fields, had it fed so well. Now that he had time to think about it, he realized that he had not sensed the spirit’s presence for some hours. Which was unusual. It liked nothing better than to gloat over its doubtful pleasures. He imagined it bathing in bitter emanations, the murky colours within its shadow-shape, shifting and flowing like dark ribbons in muddy water.
He closed his eyes and instantly saw the image of Garnetta’s face. He began thinking about how good it had been to lie with her – to hold her and look into her face, to lay his cheek against her hair, savour the clean scent of it. Simple enough pleasures, pleasures which had started him dreaming. And then to have had the promise of happiness snatched from him. It was not to be borne. Suddenly he felt his anger at her dissolving. She had fled from him in fear of her life. That saddened and depressed him. Ah, but he was getting maudlin, his mood brought on, no doubt, by lack of sleep. Even his remarkable body needed a measure of rest. He allowed his head to fall back against the high back of the settle.
Garnetta. Come back to me. I want to tell you about everything. What made me as I am. Why I am guilty of so many crimes.
When Gunter returned, Karolan looked up wearily. Gunter flashed him a bleak smile, recognizing a fellow sufferer. ‘You look like you need more than ale to give you fortitude, my friend. I have just the thing.’ He dragged a heavy sea chest into the room and raised the lid. He passed Karolan a blue-glass bottle. ‘The best rum. See here, lemon fruits, cinnamon wood, nutmeg. I’ll make you a brew to warm your heart and wring tears from your soul.’
Karolan laughed. ‘It sounds wonderful.’ It was what they both needed, to drink themselves in
to oblivion and then sleep for long, dreamless hours.
When Karolan woke, the morning sun was pushing its way in through the cracks in the shutters. It was pleasant to lie still in comfort. For a moment he did not move, recalling the conversation of the previous evening. The more Gunter had drunk, the more talkative he became. It appeared that his mother had been German. She had come to England as a stowaway, after escaping from her vicious domineering father. She had got no further than the port, where she met Abel Woolmonger. Captivated by the German girl’s fair hair, blue eyes, and fiery personality, Abel had asked her to marry him within a week. Their first child had been named for her maternal grandfather, Gunter.
‘Hence my name,’ Gunter said, grinning. ‘Always causes comment on first hearing – Gunter Woolmonger.’ He was now owner-captain of a cargo ship, the Helga, his family having grown wealthy from trading in English wool. Abel had planned to build a house in the countryside to please Gunter’s mother, whose childhood had been spent on a sheep farm. ‘Ach. So much for that now,’ Gunter said, pouring himself more rum. After many weeks away, the Helga had returned to port, only to find that there were no dockers to unload her. After a brief investigation, Gunter ordered the unmarlied men amongst the ship’s crew to stay aboard and guard the cargo. ‘Only too pleased to stay, they were,’ Gunter slurred, grinning broadly. ‘Seen what the Death can do to a community. Spreads like a blaze. Whoosh. Jus’ like putting a match to straw. Naught to do but flee before it. ’S bad. Very bad. Poor mother. She was a good woman. My little Mutti. What a temper – but gentle? She taught me the German tongue, y’know? ’Twas her who advised father about wool.’ He gave a muffled sob that ended on a hiccough. ‘Ah, well. The Lord keep her, eh? Have another drink. We could all be dead on the morrow. Here’s to the pest . . . the Death – curse his hollow eyes and bared teeth!’