I started praying, looked up at the priest’s aged smile, and burst into tears.
But it was later when they finally let me into the stark crumbling remains of my own home, and then I found him.
He was tucked under the counter where he often chose to sleep when I was out, so he would hear when I returned. The pallet was now a drift of blackened twigs and straw. My little boy’s small legs were drawn up tight to his chin, but whether in pain, or terror, or simply in sleep, I would never know. The melted ruin of his pretty face disguised all expression, creating horror where there had been sweet youth. Yet I immediately knew that he had not simply been caught unawares in the blaze and burned alive, nor smothered by smoke before able to escape. For the side of his skull was beaten in. He had been killed even before the fire had been started.
I carried him out in my arms and laid him gently on the riverbank. He weighed almost nothing and his smart new livery of which he had been so proud, was all fried into tatters, and his flesh beneath wept and oozed. Around his knees, the bone twisted out, as if escaping his stockings. I knelt beside him and washed the soot and the charred skin from his little face, but where the great hole lay and the blood was plastered black, cooked against his flesh by the heat, I did not dare touch.
Beyond the bare, blackened shell of my home and its gaping cavernous holes down to the cellar and foundations, the dawn’s tentative sunbeams refracted and spangled, turning fallen raindrops into diamonds. The last arch of the rainbow shimmered its reflection across the water.
People were still grabbing at me, yelling and pulling. I pushed them away. Then I leaned over and caressed where I had washed, as though moving the soft blonde hair from his eyes. But he had no hair, and only a scorched blur covered his small bald head. Then, very gently, I kissed the little face and its pinched brow, something I had never done in life. Then I straightened and with a bitter exhale of sour breath, and with the tears running in streams down each side of my face, I left my boy quietly laying in the strengthening sunshine and walked further along the bank. There I squatted down on my own and began to vomit.
I was still sobbing and heaving when the crowd found me and helped me back, while carrying Feep’s destroyed body towards one of the chapels much further up the bankside, where the Upper-Eden began to stretch clean and swept. They brought me water to wash the ashes from my hands and tried to give advice. “Mistress, the priests may help. Or get to a hospital. The loss of your son must seem dreadful, but you also need to look after yourself.”
I heard only Feep’s small voice in my mind, saying how you must kill your enemies first, before they kill you. I still had the pie I’d promised him, crumbled in my basket.
I sat there in the chapel beside him unmoving for some hours. I had no special thoughts, neither of revenge, nor even of confusion, for very little entered the walls of my mind. My brain remained blank, and my eyes blind. I recognised no passage of time until at last it was simple cold, and the shuffling of the congregation’s feet around me, which made me look up and see that all the candles had been lit and a multitude of golden flames soared up into the dark carved vaults high above. It was evening again, and I had nowhere at all to go. The fire had ended everything.
Very gradually, dark shapes shifted both around me and in my mind. The people began to pray, and I copied their words. ‘May all the gods have mercy. May the gods carry the soul of this innocent child into the peaceful sleep of the dead awaiting the gods’ reward.’
The hypocrisy of my thoughts didn’t even occur to me. If the gods existed after all, then why not ask them for help.
“Your tragedy is deeply felt by the gods, of that I am sure, mistress,” murmured the priest. “Tomorrow after dawn I will set the pyre outside, and your son will be sent high to the heavenly kingdom where he will be deeply comforted and will look down to smile at his grieving mother.”
“I’ll come to the pyre,” I mumbled through my tears, nearly choking.
I was still crying when I wandered from the chapel and stood outside in the slap of the winter wind, keeping the burned out apothecary business well behind. Then I realised that in my mind, I was holding him. Feep’s imaginary body was lying in my thoughts as I sang to him, kissed his forehead, and told him how I would never, ever forget him, nor the love I had for him.
Without much sense of purpose, I then wandered back to my shop. The ashes were cold now. Uncaring of danger, falling beams or collapsing bricks, I walked in and stared almost without interest at the ruin of my property. The top shelf holding my mother’s poisons had gone. No bottles, vials or tubs remained. The stairs were a stumble of splinters, but I managed to climb to my old bedchamber, with its garderobe, where I had kept anything I considered private. I wasn’t surprised to find my money chest gone.
It had not been large, just a neat wooden chest with copper hinges and an elaborate series of locks. A final padlock had hung from the top handle, all carefully sealed. It would not be easy to break, but a good strong axe would probably shatter the chest itself. All my money was there. A little fortune. The royal badge of precious jewels had lain there too, amongst the glittering coins. The purse I still wore was now all I had. It held five pennies, one cut in quarters, and one solitary Stripe. Enough to buy eight pies, no more. The money in the stolen chest would have been sufficient to buy me an entire house and enough furniture to make it beautiful. My good shoes, my second cloak, and my velvet gown had also gone, while the other worthless clothes hung in ashes.
Now I had nothing except the warm clothes I wore, and the two things I still loved on the ribbon around my neck. One was my mother’s talisman, and the other was Jak’s ring. But neither had any value, and in any case, I would never have considered selling them. The money would have helped so much. Obviously the theft made me bitter. But it was the loss of Feep which mattered, and I continued sobbing as I began to trudge back to the chapel.
Quite suddenly I realised I was staring into the face I wanted only to slap. Bryte was dressed in his best, with a cream silk shirt beneath a warm woollen coat, and black stockings, cut on the weft and fitting snugly. He said, “It is all arranged. Your life will soon be comfortable again, my dear. But how you must have suffered. If only you had sent a message at once. I would have acted sooner, but at least I have found you now. Sanctuary is all very well in times of war, but this is the moment for something quite different. The sanctuary I offer is what I believe you need. Come to my home, Freia, and I will leave you there in peace. Not marriage. I no longer seek that. Just simple warmth, food and comfort.”
I looked at him and saw only the kindness in his face and said, “What a sweet word – comfortable. I’m not hungry. I haven’t eaten a thing all day, but I think food would make me sick. I just want to lie down and sleep and sleep and sleep, and that would be the best of all.”
“Certainly,” he said. “I have rented a place to stay. You’ll be under my protection, but I swear, Freia, I’ll make no demands.” He paused, then added, “But of course, you should understand, that if you ever feel yourself able, my dear, I will gladly offer marriage.”
“Even without – the business?” He had never wanted me as I knew after his previous visit. He’d only wanted the shop, the money, and a wife as a slave. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t kind.
“Any business can be started up again,” said my returning suitor. “You shall have my house, which is larger and better furnished, while I stay nearby in the rented apartment. I shall provide a little food, and then leave you to sleep.” It sounded so wonderful I knew I’d cry for hours over Feep, and I hoped I’d dream of him. But a comfortable bed, a little warmth, a little quiet, with no faces looming over me was what I so desperately wanted.
I thanked him so sincerely. They might have been the last words I ever said to him. I can’t really remember.
He nodded, smiling, and bent forward as if to kiss me. I’d never permitted that before, but it seemed churlish to refuse now. There would be no marriage and no be
dding, but his kindness demanded something, and I permitted it. That first kiss disgusted me. His sweaty plump lips forced against mine, the push of his fat wet tongue, and the sour taste of his saliva. But I was considerably less eligible now, with no penny of dowry, no living parents to arrange such matters, no business nor property of my own to offer. At least at seventeen years and past, I was of a very marriageable age. And Jak had always said I was pretty. But this was not a good time to think of Jak.
It was a bad moment to think of Feep too, but I did.
Feep had not trusted Bryte. But Feep was only a child, and his short life’s experience had taught him to distrust most people. Perhaps he was even a little jealous. Perhaps also – shamefully it later seemed – I was desperate for someone who appeared to care, and who might bring the warmth back into my life. The shadows shivered around me and memories haunted those shadows.
I heard thunder like the distant rolling of a barrel, and knew a storm was building. Then the lightning struck against the outside of his window with white brilliance. The thunder vibrated, the window frame shook. Bryte kept staring, his face suddenly bleached in the violent illumination. “Here,” he said, unlocking the door for me. I had no luggage except the broken crumbs of Feep’s pie, everything else destroyed. So I smiled and hurried up the stairs to the inner doorway he indicated. Then the thunder rolled again, and I could hardly hear him. “You fucking trollop,” he said, and grabbed me.
I thought I must have misheard him, but his face was fierce, and he squeezed, then twisted my fingers. I yelled out when he slapped me, knocking me sideways, I kicked out, but my knee caught in my long skirts. The slapping didn’t stop, and as I tried to defend myself, he turned his slaps to punches. He swung me around, one arm wrenched up behind me, my wrist trapped in his grip, my back forced hard against his chest and his face over my shoulder, hoarse breathing in my ear. Then his other hand rummaged down the front of my tunic, fingers into my cleavage. He was laughing, guttural and furious, and his saliva was on my cheek. My gown ripped at the neck for it was old and much worn. With his arm hard up under my chin, I couldn’t look down, but I heard the tear.
Then his elbow was up against my jaw and hurt like hell. My eyes watered but I couldn’t speak, jaw clenched.
He didn’t seem to know much about undressing a woman or perhaps he was too angry to think about it. I kicked and scratched until all his hands and face were bleeding, but he punched me again, his fist banging up under my chin so that I bit my tongue. I was crying and yelling. He was still laughing. I hoped desperately that someone next door or upstairs would hear the struggle and the noise, but the rain was pounding on the roof and ramming against the window, and every board creaked and moaned, rattling and shaking. My head and jaw ached from his slaps and his knuckles, and my whole body felt bruised, but at that moment, it was fear which hurt most of all. I knew exactly what he intended doing.
Still grappling with the rip of my gown, he hauled me over, slinging me to the ground, his weight on top. It was as if he had a hundred fingers, all groping and pushing, a thumb in my eye and the heat of his breath in my mouth. I kept kicking and felt the jar and the jolt as I hurt him. I screamed and bit his nose. It made him squint. His eyes dribbled like his nose and he screamed back at me, a hideous screeching sound like an animal or a demon. It was the last chance I had to hurt him. After that, he just hurt me. At first, he was on his knees, straddling me. Then he sat back on his heels. I saw he was grinning. He grabbed me again and rolled me over. I grabbed his hair and pulled, jabbed my fingers in his eyes, and tried to kick, but although I knew I had hurt him, his anger was far greater than his pain.
He smashed my face on the floor, and I tasted my own blood. His knee felt solid and immovable on the small of my back against my spine. Then I felt his hands again. He shoved up my skirts from behind, tossing them up to my waist. Then a pause, while I was crying and yelling and struggling to twist back around, but he was too heavy. I heard him undo his belt. Then I felt it. He started to whip me, lashing me with the thin leather against my bare buttocks and the top of my thighs. I don’t know how many times he struck, for I collapsed sobbing, naked belly flat against the floorboards. Then where I was already stripped and surely bleeding, Bryte began to scratch. His fingers were stubby but his nails long. For just one breath, he stopped. “Teach you to scratch me, slut,” he sneered. My flesh was on fire. Then with a light caress which made me cringe, he stroked where he had hurt and wounded me, as if delighting in what he had done and admiring the result. I could hear him panting.
My own sobs were weak now, and I was simply struggling to breathe. Each thing he did was unexpected, each thing vile and painful and degrading. He wrenched my buttocks apart, and stuck two fingers inside me. I could hear him cackling, enjoying each cry of pain I could not control. Then he turned me over again, lying on my back and blinking up at him. He leered down at me and wiped his fingers long and hard down my cheek. Then he pulled out his knife, thin-bladed with a wide hilt. He held it up, close to my face. “Filthy sow bitch,” he muttered at me, almost chanting, “Slut, fucking prick-hole. You’ll pay all right. You’ll pay what you owe me and pay again. You led me on, you came out with me and held my arm. I arranged the wedding and looked forward to the shop – and the bed. Oh yes, I’ll show you how much you’ll pay. And you’ll take it, and take it again, and not one bite or one kick, or this knife goes in. First the hilt up your arse. Then the blade.”
He was pulling my clothes from me and then cutting them with the knife, the laces and hooks dug into my flesh before snapping apart, sliced finally loose. I could hardly think at all, but I didn’t think he’d kill me. So I thought of Feep. It had been far, far worse for Feep who was just a little boy when he’d been tortured, and afterwards had walked all the way from the Molly House, and the wherry, to the shop. This couldn’t be so bad, and I knew I’d survive, even if I couldn’t doctor myself for a long time afterwards. And as my little boy had managed to stagger on to find me when he was cut, so I could stagger to the Law-Giver and accuse this creature of brutal rape.
In the end, I was naked except for my stockings and garters, and he never did get them off me, though they tore. He didn’t even bother to undress, just tugged his codpiece aside.
It was fucking he wanted, but pain seemed to be such a big part of it.
I don’t remember everything. I was very confused. Years of modesty and naïve innocence were torn away as easily as the last vestiges of my clothes. The only men I’d ever seen intimately were Jak and Feep. That hadn’t prepared me for the way things worked. I’d heard about the discomfort of a woman’s first experience, but this was more than just that one small inevitable and expected snap. The immense anger that inspired this foul creature turned each touch into fire.
He forced himself into me, battering and thrusting, beating my head back again and again. My thighs were forced apart, and my body was pummelled, I knew I was lying in my own blood. The constant penetration terrified me, but everything he did was equally terrifying, even his spittle on my neck seemed just as vile. As he pumped, which became endless, he hissed obscenities and blasphemed with bitter fury. His climax disgusted me, but I hoped for relief and thought he must now let me go. I thought it was over. But, as the built-up rage subsided, he stood, adjusting his codpiece beneath his coat, and smiled. Then he began kicking me, aiming carefully. He still wore his boots. He kicked my breasts, along my ribs, my knees and feet and thighs and between my legs. He kicked my face, against my ears, and into my mouth. He seemed interested in places on my body which would prove the most sensitive, to make me gasp the loudest, or whimper, or plead. But I didn’t plead. Not once. I’d learned all those words from Feep and Symon’s friends. Now I swore back and struggled while I sobbed until I couldn’t really struggle any more.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sometimes I lost consciousness, drifted in darkness, but was then forced back into the horror of reality.
All the time the lightning struc
k against the window, forking and curving, then the thunderous explosions, the weather’s own violent climax. I began to lose all coherence, but while trying to stay conscious, I concentrated on the pounding rain. The room was dark as the wild sleet rattled against the little leaden triangles of the window, sluicing down and closing off the light and the whole world outside. Sudden eerie flashes shattered the black. Sight came and was instantly gone. Battering explosions of thunder trailed off into echoes. Again the light, the instant illumination of gouging hands, the stamp of his boots, his grin, and the wild tangle of hair above me. His guttural, excited panting. Heartbeat or storm. Grunt or echo. Hiss or rain. The breathless puffing of a man or the whistle of the wind. Nothing seemed real except the pain. I was no longer struggling.
He stopped abruptly, controlling himself, standing over me for a moment to catch his breath. Then, leaving me curled on the ground, he finally swung away and left the room, locking the door behind him.
For a little while I didn’t move at all, just closed my eyes and steadied my breathing. I could hear my own heartbeat like a drum, frighteningly fast. The nausea calmed as I drew my knees up to my chin and lay very still, but when I tried to sit, I found I could not. Very slowly, I wedged myself up on one tremulous elbow and looked around. My clothes, scattered beside me, were badly torn. I was bleeding consistently and from several places. The pain seemed concentrated in multiple areas, but I thought, forcing objectivity, had I been my own patient I would not doubt for my survival. The prolonged kicking would leave only bruises. I tested each bone, each joint, and thought that nothing was broken. I needed only privacy and time. I was young, I was supple, and I would recover. A building bonfire of furious determination was almost as much a pain in my head as the other more physical pains.
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