The Innocent (11 page)

Then, almost conversationally, he said, “Anne, you belong to this house, yes?”

She looked up at him, keeping her voice calm. “I am freeborn, Master Piers. Not a serf.”

He laughed pleasantly. “You are a chattel. We give you meat and drink and a roof over your head. We expect loyalty in return.” He was on his feet and walking around her now, round and around, his fingers playing with the shaft of the whip. “Is this how you repay kindness from this house, Anne? You offered me violence today.”

Now Anne was on her feet. “Piers, that is a lie—you know it.” Then she felt the short lash of the whip through the cloth of her dress as it fell across her back. She choked down a scream as he circled her again.

“Servants in this house do as they are told. If they do not, I must inform my father. Especially when that disobedient servant is guilty of lewd conduct. You have tried to entrap me and that is wicked…

Unlace the bodice of your gown!” The whip cracked thunderously beside her ear.

Mutely, she looked up at him and could not stop the appeal in her eyes. He saw it and smiled down at her. “Do as I say, Anne.” He said it softly, almost whispered it, but the threat was clear and she began to unlace with shaking fingers, working as slowly as she could and bending her head to keep her breasts in shadow.

He walked around her again, closer now. She felt the handle of the whip under her chin as he raised her head. “Open the bodice, Anne,” he said almost patiently, as she stared at him, nearly mesmerized by fear. Slowly, she did as she was told, then, delicately, he eased the top of her gown off her shoulders so that her breasts were exposed in the light of the fire.

“Better.” Now he trailed the whip over and around each of her breasts and then down toward her belly as she stood there almost naked to the waist, trying to prevent the gown from dropping farther toward the floor.

“What was I saying before you distracted me?” This time he trailed the thong of the whip around her bare shoulders and then down her spine. “You can imagine, can’t you, Anne, what my father would do if a servant tried to corrupt his son? Such a girl would be thrown out of this house and whipped naked, at the tail of a cart, chased from this town as a slut and whore.”

Anne gasped. The handle of his whip had plunged down inside her dress. She grabbed the whip to stop him, saying as strongly as she could, “Your father would not believe you.”

Abruptly, Piers sat on his chair again, eyes bright with excitement, and laughed. “My father is much more likely to accept what I say than listen to a—What are you? Fifteen-year-old slut of a servant girl.”

Anne straightened her back and looked him full in the eye. “Sir, I ask you, in the name of Our Lord, to be generous and compassionate. I am a virgin.” She had said the wrong thing, she saw that immediately; he was enjoying forcing her to submit. Asking for mercy told him she was weakening.

“On your belly.” The tone of his voice was thick as he flicked the whip back and forth, back and forth.

Swallowing the acid in her throat, she stretched herself on the flags, shivering again as she felt the cold stone press against her breasts. “Crawl to me, Anne.” She lay there feeling the tears start. “Crawl!” A deep breath gave her the strength to slither toward him, trying all the while to retain some modesty as the long skirts entangled themselves between her legs.

The man in the chair looked down at the girl now huddled at his feet. He allowed the handle of the whip to meander down her spine—he enjoyed seeing the little convulsion it caused.

“How can you treat me like this when Aveline loves you?” The words were muffled because she would not look at him, but there was defiance in them.

“Aveline? I doubt love is a part of it—Aveline, too, is a slut, just as you are.”

Anne scrambled to her feet, burning with rage and misery. “You are a vile man. And I will not be called a slut—neither is Aveline one. I do not understand how she can love you, but she does.”

“If you dare to couple her name with mine again, she will leave this house as well as you. Think carefully, for it will be your responsibility when your friend is cast out into the street. Perhaps silence is preferable; scandal must not touch the Cuttifers—that would be bad for business, would it not? You must think on what I have said, Anne, but it is now time for you to be in your bed.” He smiled wolfishly.

She looked at him warily, and when he made no move toward her, she pulled the bodice of her dress up over her breasts. But before she could make a dart for the door, he grabbed both her wrists, forcing them behind her back, his mouth covering hers. She tore her head away to scream, but he brutally clamped his hand over her lips.

“Now that’s a silly thing to do. Just let me tell you what I intend. Ah! Now listen, listen…” She was struggling with him but he held her clamped against the length of his body, his hard groin pressing into the base of her belly. “I will let you go for now, but be aware that you will come back to me, willingly, when I tell you to. If you do not, I will speak to my father and you will be disgraced—and thrown out of this house. As will Aveline. Virtue is not its own reward. Ever.”

Anne looked at him with despair, though she tried to hide it. Clearly he enjoyed spinning out the moment when she would be forced to acquiesce on his terms.

“Next time, little Anne, next time I will teach you to enjoy this game.” He took his hand away from her mouth, and rested a finger on her lips, pantomiming silence, whispering, “This game is delicious, I promise you. And soon, ah soon, you will beg me, yes, on your knees and on your belly, crawling as you did just now, beg me to play it with you.” He forced a knee between her thighs and was rubbing against her as he bent her farther and farther back over the arm of his chair, pressing his mouth to hers, biting her lips, the weight of his body so great, she could not breathe.

“Go.” He released her so suddenly that she almost fell as she fled, his amused laughter following her out of the room. He stretched lazily—very soon now, it would be Aveline’s turn to please him. He’d never had two women under the same roof before—it was vastly stimulating and enjoyable, even in thought. Perhaps, in time, he could have both of them pleasure him at once? Yes, that was an aspiration, indeed…

Anne hauled up her gown as she ran, along the dark passages of Blessing House, ran and ran, and up the stairs to the solar, the gorge rising in her throat as she tried to wipe the remembrance of his hands on her body from her mind. She would never permit him to humble her like that ever again! Never!

At the door of the solar she halted and, taking a deep breath, tried in vain for calm as, with shaking hands, she relaced her dress as tightly as she could and raked her fingers through her hair. She entered very quietly to find Aveline stoking the fire.

“Where have you been?” Aveline’s tone was neutral, but she was gimlet-eyed.

Bobbing a curtsy to her mistress drowsing against the bolster, Anne hurried to the big coffer and scooped up the pile of Lady Margaret’s garments to be washed. “I’m sorry, Aveline. Shall I take these to the laundress?”

“No. Read to Lady Margaret while I see about something from the kitchen for her and the master. He will dine here tonight.” She took the pile of laundry back, and for a moment the girls locked eyes; it seemed as if Aveline wanted to speak, but then, shaking her head, she went to the little door that led down to the kitchen, closing it quietly behind her.

Anne breathed a deep, shaking sigh as she hurried over to her mistress in the great bed. Lady Margaret smiled drowsily at her, but seeing the girl’s stressed expression she tried a little ironic lightness. “Well, Anne, it’s not often you’re this quiet. The service this morning must have done you good.”

“Oh, madam, I pray you are right. And that Lady Mary and all the saints guard and defend me, sinner that I am!”

Lady Margaret was surprised by the intensity, but thought Anne must still be dwelling on whatever had happened after the king’s feast. “Come, child, make me one of your tisanes and then you can read to me from the prayers in the king’s Book of Hours.”

Master Mathew entered the solar a little time later, unobserved by his wife and her youngest maid. It was a charming picture he saw: his wife was in her bed, hair brushed and spread out over her shoulders like a child, and Anne was reading to her from the king’s gift as the firelight winked in the precious stones on its cover.

Mathew felt the prick of tears behind his eyes. For a long time now he had suppressed the anguish Margaret’s illness had brought him, striving hard to see it as God’s will, but now, here, she was restored to him. He was a man of moderate appetites but he felt he had managed his restraint for long enough.

He yearned for the closeness that flesh to flesh brought. He waited for Anne to finish reading her page and then applauded gently.

Margaret turned her head and saw him standing there. “Husband! Anne, pour your master some of the wine.”

When the girl had brought Mathew the beaker, he saluted first his wife, and then Anne courteously, before taking a hearty swallow and walking over to the bed to kiss Margaret on the cheek.

Lady Margaret looked up into her husband’s eyes and, seeing something of his intention, gently took his hand. Never taking her glance away from his, she said, “Anne, you may go down to the kitchen for a little time. I wish to speak with my husband alone. Please tell Aveline that the master and I will eat later.”

Anne curtsied to her mistress and then her master, and backed away to the door. As she entered the stairwell she saw her master gently place his hand on Lady Margaret’s breast, while she looked up at him, her face transformed with love and longing. The girl pulled the door closed, feeling desolate and alone. To see such tenderness, such trust, was to know what should be between a man and a woman. All she understood was fear and pain. And guilt. Quickly she fled down the stairs seeking a dark, warm corner of the kitchen to hide in until Deborah came.

Chapter Seven

It was late, for Deborah and Anne could hear the midnight bell being rung from the Abbey.

True to her word, Deborah had come to the kitchen door after the household had bedded down for the night, and had found Anne waiting on a warm bench near the banked cooking fires. After her encounter with Piers, Anne was almost feverishly exhausted—his attacks on her seemed like a waking nightmare as they played and replayed in her mind. Earlier, she’d helped her mistress prepare for the night, after Mathew had left the solar. Changing from the damaged green dress—a dress she’d try never to wear again—into her house kirtle, she’d escaped to the kitchen to eat a very late supper and wait for her foster mother.

Anne wanted no prying eyes when Deborah at last arrived, even those of her friends, so she’d hurried her foster mother across the mud of the inner ward in biting sullen rain and together they’d disappeared down a flight of steps beside the washing house that led into the winter root cellar; it was one of the few private places in Blessing House where they could talk undisturbed. Once inside the door, Anne groped for the lantern she knew was stored on a stone shelf. She’d brought flint and, even though her fingers were stiff with cold, managed to strike a spark and then another that finally caught the flax wick of the tallow candle inside. That small wavering puddle of light pushed the darkness back from the barrels and racks of stored summer vegetables.

Deborah held out her arms, and Anne ran to her with a sob. Gently rocking, the older woman let the child cry as she murmured soothing words. After a time, the sobs subsided and she wiped Anne’s hot cheeks with the hem of her own linen underkirtle. “I should like to help. Tell me.”

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, the girl began her story, stumbling and tongue-tied as she searched for words to make sense of the conflicting emotions she’d felt—and was feeling still. Deborah’s face became more and more severe, though she didn’t interrupt Anne as she listened to the pain, the confusion, and the fear.

Finally, the girl was quiet and almost warm as the two of them cuddled together. Anne had trusted this woman all her life: and now there was the comfortable, familiar feeling that she was safe once more and close to sleep just like a comforted child.

The older woman looked down at the exhausted girl in her arms and sighed. “Come. It’s late. We must be careful you are not missed.”

Deborah helped the girl get to her feet. “Time for you to sleep—tomorrow is another day.”

“But what can I do, Deborah?”

The older woman looked at Anne and smiled slightly. “Do? Many things. Pray to Christ’s Mother, whose day this is. Avoid the king, should you meet him again.” There was a momentary flash of resistance from Anne but Deborah held up one hand. “Girl, he is too powerful for you. As he is, and as you are. If you do not believe me, look into the flame with me…Perhaps Aine can help us—ask her to give you sight.”

Anne shivered. She’d seen Deborah use candles often enough to concentrate her thoughts when she wanted to “see,” or to seek guidance, but tonight, by invoking the name of Aine, the old goddess from over the sea in the west, whom the common people prayed to in matters of love and fertility, she was acknowledging that Anne’s concerns were serious and needed more help than she herself could give.

As Deborah carefully slid back the horn shield to reveal the tallow candle inside the lantern, Anne took a deep shuddering breath. The goddess was not to be called on lightly, and Anne had never prayed to her before. “Look deep into the light, child. Give breath to the wavering flame…ask that Aine show you what you need to know.” Her foster mother’s voice was warm and low and comforting; since childhood, Anne had heard Deborah chanting to her plants under the waxing moon each night to make them grow in strength, and now the familiarity of the tone took her back to the security of the past, and she relaxed.

“Aine, Aine, Aine…come to me. Help me…help me see…help me know.” It was an ancient, simple prayer and as Anne whispered the words three times, and then seven times more gazing deep into the candle flame, she began to float down deeper and deeper into shining darkness. And images formed—perfect small pictures as if from a Book of Hours—and she heard sounds…