Household (8 page)

Catlin put out her little tongue and ran it slowly around her lips. “That was delicious.” She stretched out so that the tips of her bare toes were touching Richard’s thigh. Her pillow had dropped to the floor, but she did not seem to notice it.

“Delicious,” Richard agreed. His heart was beating faster, and he was as sure of that as his desire for her was mounting. “More wine?” he asked.

“Is there more?” She glanced at the decanter.

“Enough,” he assured her huskily. Again he tipped the decanter, filling her glass a trifle fuller than his own and praying she would not notice it. She did not, but he noticed that she did not drink the wine as quickly as she had before. She sipped it slowly, eyeing him over the rim of the glass and smiling at him with so heady a mixture of innocence and sensuality that he could not refrain from caressing her delicate little foot. It was beautifully shaped. Almost without volition his hand was moving slowly up her ankle. He expected that at any moment she would pull away, but she did not. Looking up, he met her eyes again and caught his breath as he read excitement in them, an excitement that matched his own. Her mouth was slightly parted, and he could see her breasts rising and falling. She was breathing quickly, almost as if she had been suddenly robbed of breath, and she was gazing him as if she expected... wanted... as if, indeed, her desire matched his own! Then, incredibly, amazingly, she reached out her hand and lightly caressed his hair.

“Catlin,” he whispered and knew somewhere in the depths of his numbing brain that they had been given a stimulant—an aphrodisiac, perhaps. He must warn her, apologize, explain... but these scruples dissolved even as they formed, flitting out of his mind, leaving only desire behind.

Outside, a wind was blowing and tree shadows danced on her face. He must brush them off. He shifted his position. He was lying against her now, his lips on her throat, and beneath his hands he felt her hardening nipples. He tore at her gossamer garment and it yielded easily; soon that flimsy barrier lay in shreds. Her body was very white where the shadows did not darken it, the tree shadows flicking against her belly and her thighs and against the soft golden fleece that bloomed between them. He had stopped trying to brush the shadows away. He would kiss them away, instead. And that was when the men came, the men in the dark robes, wrenching the two of them apart and bearing Catlin away, her sudden screaming echoing in his ears.

“C
atlin... Catlin...” Richard cried in fear and agony, then found Sir Francis at his side, soft-voiced and reassuring. “You’ll see her soon again, lad.”

He spoke as if he were addressing a boy of 12 rather than a man of 22, Richard thought resentfully. But why did he, himself, feel so dull and dizzy, and what had happened to Catlin? He caught Sir Francis’ sleeve. “Where is she?” he demanded furiously. “Why did they take her away from me, and who was it? Tell me so that I can carve his guts out!”

“Lord, you are a firebrand, dear Richard, but you must release me. There are matters to which I must attend—immediately.” Sir Francis made an effort to pull himself out of Richard’s frenzied grasp.

“I’ll release you,” Richard said between his teeth, “when I know where you’ve taken Catlin. She must be allowed to go home. She’s no wanton. She’s a virgin!”

“I quite understand.” Sir Francis still spoke gently. “And you, dear boy, were bent on relieving her of that particular asset, were you not? Well, I promise you, your thirst will not go unslaked, but meanwhile you must be patient.”

“Damn you!” Richard tightened his grasp on Sir Francis’ sleeve. “I do not...” Whatever else he would have said died in his throat as he felt himself grabbed from behind, his arms pinioned by a huge man in a monk’s habit. Cursing and struggling he tried to free himself but to no avail. The hands that clutched him were iron to his wood.

Moving back, Sir Francis shot Richard a commiserating look. “Sorry, dear boy, but you’ll see her again and very soon.” He glanced at Richard’s silent captor. “I suggest you bring him with us.”

Though Richard struggled fiercely, he was no match for the man who held him. He was forced to follow Sir Francis, for his captor fell into step behind him and there were others in back of them, a procession. Down the stairs they went, and as they reached the ground floor, they were joined by dancers in motley, leaping in front of them through the open door and out into the windy darkness, where in the shadows a violin screeched, a fife squealed and someone beat a drum. Someone also was singing incomprehensible words in a loud ugly voice, yet there was an odd rhythm behind this deliberate cacophony. Richard could actually feel the strange strident music coursing through his veins. His ears were ringing, and oddly he found himself moving in time to it. He cast a glance over his shoulder and found that the whole procession was infected by that shrilling, pounding noise.

The wind had risen. The sawing tree branches were silhouetted against a huge round moon and shards of clouds skittered across its white face. Some of his dizziness had left him, and Richard realized that the drug from the wine was wearing off. Concurrent with that realization, his captor’s arms fell away but he was borne onwards by the surging crowd behind him—the roistering monks and the giggling nuns.

“To the caverns... the caverns,” someone yelled.

“The caverns... the caverns,” other voices echoed shrilly, eagerly.

Richard was being pushed down. He tried to fight against the pressure but fell on his knees, feeling sharp jagged rocks through the silk of his cassock. He was being urged to crawl over this sharpness through a narrow opening that he could barely see in the darkness. He tried to rise but stumbled and fell against a boulder. He was yanked to his feet and saw moonlight through a hole in a rocky wall. Just as he realized he was in some sort of a cavern, he was urged forward again by those behind him. He stumbled and fell down again, swallowing a groan as he scraped hands and knees together on crusty protuberances rising from the floor, little stalagmites gleaming orange under the light from torches stuck in brackets along the craggy walls, throwing a lurid glow on the faces of the assembly as well.

“Catlin... Catlin... Catlin...” Richard roared and thought he heard a faint reply coming from a cavity in the wall, a few feet away. Staggering to his feet, he took a tentative step in that direction only to be pulled back by a small, strong hand on his arm.

“Richard Veringer, stay here with me,” a low, insistent feminine voice urged.

He turned and looked down, finding one of the so-called nuns beside him. She was short and dark and her eyes seemed filled with fire, but that, of course, was only the reflection from the torches. Her body was slender and shapely but failed to stir his senses. He thought of Catlin’s small, round breasts, those beautiful fruits from the trees of Paradise! Where had they taken her? Was she lost to him? He groaned deep in his throat, needing the relief, the release of his passions so summarily denied him. His head was spinning again, and he coughed as perfumed smoke entered his nostrils. Incense! They were burning incense in the cavern. He had heard that the stuff was used in Papist ceremonies. And now he saw little prie-dieus, prayer benches, lined up across the cavern. Was he in some manner of church? Sir Francis had said he was a nonbeliever, but if one recognized the existence of Satan, conversely one also believed in God. He moved forward again and almost bumped into a statue of the Virgin. Staring angrily at it, he noted something wrong with its profile and coming around the front saw that the face beneath the traditional blue veil was that of a hog with a tremendous snout and small red eyes! Laughter bust out of him. Even in the midst of his worry over Catlin, he had to appreciate the impudence of that unknown artist.

The small nun stepped to his side, whispering that a ceremony was about to begin and that he must come back to the others.

“What others?” he whispered, wondering at her evident nervousness.

“Come!” She grasped his hand, pulling him toward the back of the cavern. “You must not be conspicuous,” she warned. “You’ll anger them and they are already angry.”

“Who are they, and why are they angry?” he asked. “They are always angry on these nights—angry and dangerous. They’re frightened, you see.”

“Of what?”

“You’ll understand presently.”

A bell rang.

All the company sought out the prie-dieus and knelt. Richard had no such intention, but the girl at his side yanked at his hand and upset his precarious balance. As he fell, she pushed a bench in front of him, saying at the same time, “Don’t be a damned fool.”

He clutched it. “Are they not all damned fools here?” he whispered, appreciating his own jest and beginning to laugh.

“Hush,” she hissed. “Look there.” She thrust out her hand and pointed.

Obeying, Richard saw a man in monk’s robes mounting a small flight of rough-hewn steps toward a bowl-shaped platform, carved with strange signs. A pulpit, Richard decided and then swallowed a cry as the man faced the congregation, if so it could be termed. He was wearing a mask—a goat’s head, incredibly ugly and, Richard guessed, frightening to a goodly number of the people present. The goat was a symbol of Satan. He wondered why that particular animal had been chosen. He had never been particularly fond of goats. He did not like their odd eyes nor did he appreciate their penchant for eating everything in sight. As a child, he had lost a favorite hat to the voracious appetite of a black and white billy goat.

“My children, hear me.” The voice issuing from the mask was hollow and echoing. It recited Latin prayers, but how odd they sounded—not like the Latin Richard had learned in school to the accompaniment of a ruler over his knuckles each time he missed a declension.

Around him, the crowd of “monks” and “nuns” were muttering those prayers, were intoning other responses, were rising and kneeling. In the glimmer of torchlight, he saw an altar. Rising behind it was another reversed cross on which was stretched the tortured image of a man in a loin cloth, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and two horns buried in his hair. His legs ended in hoofs. Richard smiled derisively—more mockery of Papist symbols. Sir Francis had to be a believer, else he could not have taken such pleasure in degrading his faith!

A scream rang out, which was choked off quickly, but not before Richard recognized Catlin’s voice. He rose and was pulled down once more by the surprisingly powerful grasp of the small girl by his side.

“’Tis too late. You can do nothing as yet,” she said obscurely.

“Do nothing? Catlin needs me, I tell you,” he yelled, forgetting that she could not know who Catlin was.

“You cannot go now. You’d be torn to pieces. Wait. She is safe enough.”

Unwillingly, Richard knelt down again. He had to believe her. He also agreed that there would be danger if he were to interrupt the ceremony. He could not quell a cavernful of fanatics!

The tinkling of a small bell was in his ears, and a strange chant arose from the congregations. Though the words had a familiar ring, he could not make out what they were saying. It sounded like gibberish.

“Name thy be hallowed, heaven in art who father our..” they sang.

“Our father who...” Richard automatically reversed the phrase and realized why the words had sounded so strange. The prayers as well as the crosses were reversed. More sacrilege, he thought contemptuously, finding the reverse more confusing than perverse. It was all child’s play!

“Come to Communion,” boomed the figure in the goat mask. “The host is ready. The red host is ready and the altar prepared! Come to thine altar, my dear children, and eat of the flesh and drink of the blood of our Lord Sathanas, long may he reign on earth as he does in Hell and heaven, Amen.”

Richard recognized Sir Francis’ tones—Sir Francis with a goat’s head clapped on his shoulders! Sir Francis, who knew where they had taken Catlin, now stood behind the altar, awaiting the faithful who worshipped Satan!

He was being urged to his feet by his companion. She wanted him to join the line of men and women surging toward the altar, he guessed. He did not resist her this time. Once he reached Sir Francis, he would shake him like the dog he was and force him to reveal what he had done with Catlin.

“Be calm,” murmured the voice he now knew. The girl was behind him and obviously concerned about him. He wondered why.

They moved with the line. They were passing the altar to partake of the wafer, that which was called the “red host.” He knelt and knew that for appearance sake he must take the biscuit in his mouth and drink from a silver communion cup shaped like a goat’s hoof. As he swallowed the wafer, he would have sipped from the cup but it was tilted and the liquid poured down his throat. He swallowed convulsively once, twice, thrice before it was taken away. It had a strange pungent taste, but it was not unpleasant. In spite of his concern for Catlin, he wished he might have had more of it.

Someone pushed him to his knees crying, “Kneel in the Presence!”

Falling forward, Richard reached out to save himself, grasping the altar and feeling flesh! He stared down, seeing now that the silver dish containing the scarlet wafers was not resting on a linen or a cotton table cover. It lay on a nude body, a woman’s beautiful naked body. Her breasts were like apples, tipped with hard little red nipples. Her face, however, was as pale as death, her blue eyes open and filled with horror.

“Catlin!” Richard reached for her, only to be thrust aside and held, straining against a powerful grip, while the rest of the congregation passed by and the man in the goat mask gave them the blood-red wafers, lifting each from the dish reposing on Catlin’s belly.

A gong boomed out, and the cavern was filled with a brighter light. Almost magically, the prie-dieus were gone, pushed away by some of the monks. People were talking all at once—talking, screaming, laughing, singing, embracing. In another second, they were writhing together on the floor, the monks tearing at the transparent robes of the nuns and wrenching them off, while the women kissed and embraced them.