Wages of Sin (18 page)

She groaned again. Was she unique, or were all women the same? Did even the highest lady in the land secretly imagine what it would be like to be a tavern whore, fornicating with a dozen men a night?

The secret place between her own thighs throbbed demandingly, and she was tempted to lift her skirts and use her fingers to bring herself to blessed relief. But the thought of Sir Edmund returning to catch her pleasuring herself was too much to bear. Scarlet-cheeked, she leapt from the bed, pulled down her skirts and adjusted the neck of her dress so that her exposed breast was discreetly covered once more.

Walking over to the mirror she checked her reflection to see that she was decent. Only her flushed face and glittering eyes revealed the confusion in her mind, but she could not stay here in her chamber, with only her tormenting thoughts for company. She had to find something to do. But what?

The answer came to her in a flash. Mother Ursula! For all she knew the woman was lying dead somewhere. She would find her and do what she could to ease her. Picking up the remains of the marigold salve Sir Edmund had used on her own weals she tucked it into the pouch that hung at her waist. But how to find her? The castle was huge. The woman could be anywhere.

The kitchen, that was it. If anyone knew where she was, it would be the servants. Gossip spread like wildfire through their ranks. She smiled ruefully. Many a fine lady, taking a lover to her bed, would be horrified to find out how much her maid and laundress knew about her so-called ‘secret'. Martha would know what had happened to Ursula if anyone did.

 

The heat from the ovens hit her like a blow when she entered. For once Martha's swain was not hovering in attendance. As Jane entered, she was standing over a huge black pot, stirring the contents with her ladle. As soon as the cook saw her she nodded to a skivvy to take over, with strict instructions to continue until told otherwise, and hurried towards her.

‘You'm looking better,' she said, eyeing Jane approvingly. ‘Got a bit of colour in them cheeks of yours for a change. Come for some more of Martha's cooking, have you, lovey?'

‘Thank you, Martha, but no,' smiled Jane. ‘It is information I seek. Do you know where Mother Ursula is?'

Martha responded as if she had been asked to swallow poison. ‘Her?' she said scathingly. ‘What d'ye want to bother about that old cat for? Deserved everything she had coming to her, that one.' Her voice dropped confidentially. ‘Mark my words. If you knew some of the tales about her, well...!' She shuddered dramatically, setting her plump body quivering with horrified delight. ‘‘T'would freeze your blood, and no mistake.'

‘I can well imagine,' said Jane grimly. ‘But that doesn't matter now. I can't just leave her to crawl off and die in a corner.'

Martha's expression suggested that
she
could, without a second thought, but she shrugged and gave in to Jane's pleading glance. ‘They do say,' she said slowly, ‘as how she's in the old storeroom at the foot of the north tower. Best place for her if you ask me. Along o' the rest of the old rubbish.'

‘Bless you, Martha,' Jane replied softly. ‘You'll get your reward in heaven, for your good deed.'

‘Humph.' She snorted. ‘Like as not you're right - since it's certain I shan't get it here.'

Jane turned to go, then a thought struck her and she turned back again. ‘Oh, just one last favour,' she said. ‘May I beg a loaf of bread and a jug of wine?'

Martha's eyes narrowed. ‘For that old bitch?' Jane nodded. ‘Waste of good food, if you asks me. Let her live on her own poison.'

Despite this, she fetched the smallest loaf she could find and filled a dented mug with sour red wine.

‘Thank you,' Jane said gratefully, taking them. Arms folded, shaking her head over the stupidity of soft-hearted fools, Martha turned back to her cooking, the matter at a close.

Ignoring the lewd comments from the lounging men-at-arms, Jane hurried across the courtyard to the north tower, careful not to spill the wine. As she approached her heart sank at the sight of the thick oaken door. If it was barred, then she had little chance of entry. It was, but the huge iron key was still in the lock. Grunting with effort she twisted it round, hearing the final click of the tumblers with relief. Her first attempts to push it open failed miserably, and she was forced to put her shoulder to it. Finally, it creaked open.

Coming from the sunlit courtyard to the darkness, she could see nothing at first. She wrinkled her nose at the stench of damp and must. The lower half of the north tower had obviously been used as a storeroom for time out of memory. Everything that was no longer useful, but was still ‘too good' to throw away, had ended up in here, left behind when the previous owner of the castle had fled. Thick grey cobwebs festooned every nook and cranny and the dust, disturbed by her arrival, floated in the air like a miasma, catching at the back of her throat.

Then, as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, dim forms began to take shape. She scanned the dust-filled room. One corner was filled with broken arrow-chests, piled one on top of another in a mouldering heap. On rusting hooks hung ancient harnesses and an equally ancient saddle, their leather cracked and dried with age. Against the opposite wall there was even a dented suit of armour, lying in an agonised jumble of arms and legs. She shivered. It wouldn't have surprised her if the bones of the previous owner were still inside. A pile of black rags lay in the far corner. In the other...

She gasped, and her frightened eyes returned to the heap of rags. It was moving! Her first thought was that rats had built their nest amongst them, then a low groan revealed the truth. She had found Mother Ursula.

Oblivious to the clouds of dust stirred up as her skirts swept the floor, she hurried across and knelt down beside the huddled figure, placing the bread and wine at her side. Mother Ursula stared at her with unseeing eyes. ‘No, please, no more!' she whimpered, rolling away and curling into a frightened ball.

The movement dislodged the remnants of the dress that covered her and Jane gasped again. Her back was a score of criss-crossing red lines and a bruise in the shape of a handprint curled round one bony hip. Tentatively she reached out and touched Mother Ursula's shoulder. The woman jumped as if she'd been scalded.

‘Fear not,' said Jane gently. ‘I have not come to harm you. I brought salve for your wounds.'

Instead of soothing Mother Ursula, her words had quite the opposite effect. Quick as a snake the woman twisted round and uncoiled, her clawed hand striking unerringly for Jane's eyes. If Jane had not jerked back at the last minute she would have been blinded. Spent by the effort she lay there panting, staring at Jane with hatred.

‘Have you come to gloat?' she hissed, her voice malevolent despite her weakness. ‘To enjoy the sight of me brought low?'

‘N-no... of course not,' Jane stammered. ‘I came to help.' She reached into her sleeve for the pot of salve and held it up. ‘See, I came to ease your pain.'

‘There is no salve in the world that can mend what you have done to me,' whispered Mother Ursula. She cackled softly. At the sound of the madness in the woman's voice, Jane's blood ran cold. ‘But I shall have my revenge. You mark my words, my fine lady. Your paramour will soon tire of your niminy-piminy ways... and when he does, I shall be waiting.'

Jane rose to her feet, pretending a confidence she did not feel. ‘Have it your own way,' she said, flinging the pot of marigold ointment down beside the food and drink. ‘I have done with you.'

Head held high she stalked towards the door and the blessed sunlight. Mother Ursula's laughter, venomous as a snake's hiss, followed her, and it took all her courage not to break into a run.

Once the heavy door was locked behind her she breathed a sigh of relief. She had done her best and been rejected. Whatever happened to the former Mother Superior now, her conscience was clear.

She made her way to the solar and the solace of her embroidery, but neither the weak October sun nor the fire crackling merrily in the grate seemed able to take the chill of the north tower from her bones, and the red thread against the white linen reminded her unpleasantly of the weals on Ursula's back. With a shudder she pushed her work away.

Unable to settle she walked across to the window seat, picked up the lute that lay there and attempted to play the latest song popularised by King Henry. Her nimble fingers plucked out the melody but the words ‘Alas my love, you do me wrong' stuck in her throat. Rumour had it that the king had written it for the Great Whore herself. How ironic, when the wrong being done was to his faithful wife, Catherine. She threw the lute down and sighed. Was everything in the world tainted?

Wandering listlessly down to the great hall she picked at some food, then decided to return to her room. Lying on her back she stared at the ceiling and eventually drifted into a light doze. Even in sleep there was no escape. In her dreams she was trying to release a trapped hare, which twisted under her frantic fingers and, beneath her horrified gaze, turned into a black snake that sank its dripping fangs into her wrists. She awoke with a start, to find that she was not alone.

‘Wh-what do you want?' she whispered, still dazed from sleep.

Sir Edmund stared down at her coolly. ‘Not what I want, madam, but what you want,' he said. She noticed the figure standing behind him in priestly robes and her mouth dried.

Father Peter!

Was she to be subjected to yet another ordeal? But then relief washed over her as he stepped forward and she realised there was absolutely no resemblance at all between this priest and Father Peter.

A kind, elderly face peered out from beneath white curls and its owner cast anxious glances from Jane's face to Sir Edmund's. He cleared his throat nervously. ‘May we get on, my lord?' he asked. ‘I must be back at chapel in time for evening prayers.'

‘Why certainly, Father Andrew,' gushed Edmund. ‘This should not take us long.' He clicked his fingers and the priest held out a scroll. Edmund took it without a glance and flung it down on the bed beside Jane. She picked it up and began to unroll it.

‘To whom it may concern,' it began. ‘I, Edward Spence, Lord of the Manor of Edgeholme, do hereby deed and gift the following Properties in perpetuity, to Mistress Jane Montague and the issue of her body.' Beneath the heading the page was blank apart from the words ‘Item One: the Gardens of the Convent of Saint Ursula at Edgeholme.'

She stared blankly from it to Sir Edmund. ‘What is this?' she asked.

His lips curled scornfully. ‘Do not pretend that you are stupid as well as grasping, madam. Since my word was not enough for you, here is the proof of it. Each of your “payments” will be added as you earn them.' His good eye sparkled icily. ‘Will that satisfy you, lady? Or would you have me write it in my blood?'

Stung, she glared back. ‘That will be unnecessary,' she retorted. ‘Just one little detail, my lord. Who keeps this precious document? You, or I? I would hate it to have an “accident”. After all, parchment burns so easily.' She laughed scornfully.

‘God's blood, girl,' he snarled. ‘Is there no end to your impudence?' He tore the scroll from her hands and pointed it at Father Andrew. ‘The good priest will keep it in his charge. I trust you would not cavil with Holy Church?'

Jane opened her mouth to protest that Holy Church could be as venal as any innkeeper, then looked at Father Andrew and changed her mind. Not all priests were like Father Peter. This man had a transparent air of honesty and innocence about him. Obviously bewildered, he still had a quiet dignity that made her trust him instinctively.

‘That will be perfectly satisfactory,' she agreed.

‘Good,' snapped Edmund. ‘We are in agreement at last.' He thrust the scroll into the priest's hands and waved a dismissive hand. Still bewildered, Father Andrew backed towards the door, sketched a brief sign of the cross in the air to give them his blessing, then disappeared, breathing a sigh of relief that his part in whatever was going on was at an end.

When they were alone, Sir Edmund stalked towards the bed and glared savagely down at her. Heart pounding, she cringed away. ‘Well, my lady,' he hissed, ‘now that matter is settled to your satisfaction perhaps you will be a little more eager to keep your side of the bargain, though whether you are or not, matters not one whit to me.' His face suffused with lust as his gaze raked her trembling body. ‘I shall be coming to your chamber to exact payment tonight, madam.' He bowed mockingly. ‘Whether you like it or not!'

 

 

 

Once Sir Edmund had gone, the heavy door slamming behind him, Jane got up and stared at herself in the mirror. She had haggled like a hardened whore, yet the face that looked back at her was still as fresh and innocent as it had always been. Or was there a new hardness round her eyes? She blinked away the thought. If there was, it was hardly her fault. She had not asked for any of this, and if she had to give an accounting of herself before the gates of heaven, at least she would be able to say that some good had come out of her wickedness.

Seizing her comb, she ran it through her tangled curls. If Sir Edmund thought she intended to cower in her room until he came to claim her, he had another think coming! Slipping off the green velvet gown, she lifted the lid of the heavy cedar chest and raked through its contents.

At last she pulled out what she was looking for, smiling with satisfaction. If he wanted a scarlet woman, then who was she to deny him? The gown she selected was a gaudy flame-red, the colour of autumn bonfires, matching her hair. The smooth satin caught the light from the hearth until the very room seemed to glow.

She slipped it over her head, and gasped as she struggled to pull it down. The waist was so tight she could hardly breathe and, without a corset, the neckline cupped and held her breasts, forcing them upwards until it seemed they would spill over. The soft material outlined the hard points of her nipples as they pressed against it, the effect somehow even more erotic than if she'd actually been naked.

She spun round in front of the mirror, laughing in delight. Armoured in youth and beauty she was dressed for battle, and it was time to slay the dragon. Straightening her shoulders, she marched across the room, flung the door open and set off for the great hall.

At the door she paused, her stomach fluttering. The evening meal was already in full progress. Servants scurried hither and thither, some carrying platters of meat and bread while others staggered beneath the weight of jugs of beer. There was the heavy rumble of male laughter interspersed with the occasional not entirely displeased shriek as one of the men-at-arms fumbled beneath the skirts of a serving-maid. Taking a deep breath, she entered.

There was an immediate stunned silence. Ignoring it, she walked the length of the hall, looking neither to right nor left. When she reached the high table she swept into a deep curtsy, her skirts spilling round her in a pool of flame. Sir Edmund stared, his food halfway to his lips.

She smiled up at him from beneath demurely lowered lashes. ‘May I suggest you close your mouth, my lord,' she said, her cheeks dimpling. ‘Otherwise the flies might get in.'

He flung down the chicken leg he was clutching, stood up, walked round and pulled her to her feet. Placing her hand on his arm, she was escorted gallantly to the seat on his left-hand side. Smiling graciously, she nodded her thanks. There was a low murmur from the hall, the men-at-arms staring at her enviously, nudging each other and winking lewdly. Jane flushed, then held her head higher. Let them chatter like washerwomen for all the good it did them. She might be their master's leman, but she was better born than any of them and nothing could change that.

A hand on her arm made her start. ‘Some food, my lady?' said Sir Edmund.

She nodded gratefully. Perhaps the master could behave like a gentleman even if his men could not. His next words shattered this pretty illusion.

‘After all,' he continued, licking his lips and focusing his leering gaze on her half-exposed breasts, ‘you must build up your strength for later. A good appetite at board means a good appetite in bed.'

She raised an eyebrow and stared back at him challengingly. ‘Only when what is offered is tempting, my lord.' She smiled and ran her eyes over him, her expression disparaging. ‘Even the healthiest appetite sickens and dies at the sight of maggoty meat.'

His blue eye narrowed. ‘You did not find my meat quite so maggoty the other night, madam. ‘In fact, if my memory serves me right, you swallowed it whole - and begged for more. In faith, it was like bedding a hungry cat. I still have the scratches on my back to prove it.'

Her face turned scarlet and she stared down at the food the harassed maid had just laid in front of her.

‘What, my lady?' he went on. ‘Cat got your tongue? Have you no witty riposte to put me in my place?'

Stung, she lifted her head and glared at him. ‘I wouldn't waste my breath, you - you insufferable oaf! You have a hide like a donkey, and the brains to match.'

‘And the other equipment as well,' he responded with a smirk. ‘Don't forget to mention that. Particularly when you were so pleased to avail yourself of its services.'

She smiled sweetly. ‘I think perhaps you overestimate yourself,' she replied. ‘Did you truly think that I enjoyed your feeble attentions? As you have so kindly pointed out, I am your whore, remember? And a whore's most important job is to convince the man who pays her how marvellous he is - no matter how incompetent.' She lolled back in her chair, closed her eyes and began to pant in mock abandon. ‘Oh! Oh! Oh!' she gasped, rolling her head back and clutching the edge of the table. ‘Yes! Yes! Please! Now...' There was a stunned silence and many open mouths in the hall as every eye focused on her, writhing and moaning.

She sat up straight again in triumph. ‘There! Was that not a pretty performance? And that's what you bought, my lord. Not love, not passion, not even lust - a performance. Something you could have had for pence from any cheap mummer.' Her mouth curved in mockery. ‘And you were too much of an arrant fool to know the difference!'

A ripple of amusement ran through the hall, as those at the nearest table passed her words on to their neighbours. Sir Edmund glared from face to face until it died away.

His face was white with shock and fury. ‘You're lying!' he snarled.

She picked up a morsel of meat, popped it between her lips and smiled. ‘Am I, my lord? And how would you know?' She stared fixedly at his face until he shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Have you looked in the mirror recently?' Do you honestly believe those features would inspire love in a maiden's heart? I think not. You have but one eye, and that scar... God's blood, sir, I have seen better looking jack-o'-lanterns! Small wonder you have to pay. No woman in her right mind would bed you willingly.'

His hand lashed out, catching her on the cheek with a loud retort and making her head spin.

She smiled through the pain, quoting his words back at him. ‘What, my lord? Cat got your tongue? Have you no witty riposte to put me in my place?' She paused, her eyes flashing defiantly. ‘Obviously not, when violence is your only answer. Where did you learn your wooing skills, sirrah? In the stables with the other beasts?'

‘You will soon find out,' he promised grimly. ‘And then I think you will regret your foolhardy words.'

She rose swiftly to her feet. ‘In that case, my lord, in for a penny, in for a pound, as they say.' Lifting her manchet, she broke it over his head. Meat juices and bits of broken bread slid down his horrified face and dripped on to his satin doublet. ‘There, my lord, your appearance is much improved.'

Head held high, she stalked through the stunned silence in the hall. As soon as she had left it she took to her heels, and as she fled along the corridor she could hear the laughter swelling in her wake. Laughter at Sir Edmund's expense.

Back in the safety of her room she banged the door shut and leaned against it, giggling. What a fool the man had looked with his hair plastered to his scalp and gobbets of meat dribbling down his ugly face. It had been worth a king's ransom just to see it.

Gradually her laughter died away to be replaced with apprehension. She must be mad to do what she had just done. She had humiliated him in front of his entire household. He would never forgive her for that, and as he had already pointed out, between these stone walls he held the power of life or death.

She shivered, suddenly cold despite the crackling fire. Every castle had its oubliette: a small hidden cell, where those who had displeased the lord of the manor could be imprisoned and conveniently forgotten about. Forever. Perhaps in centuries to come they would find her remains - a small heap of bones, mouldering to dust - and wonder what she had done to deserve such a fate.

She shook herself. Sir Edmund would never condemn her to death. He still lusted after her body far too much to deprive himself of it by shutting her away to rot. The thought was not a particularly comforting one. She had laughed at him, and impugned his manhood in front of his men. It was the worst thing a woman could do. What would he not do to punish her for that?

She shivered again, remembering a young whore she had seen once, when her family had visited nearby York. Her face had been hideously scarred and she had overheard the servants discussing her. ‘Used to be a rich man's mistress,' they whispered, ‘till he caught her putting the cuckold's horns on him with one of the grooms.' The poor creature had been in a terrible plight; gaunt, haggard and reduced to servicing all comers for a few farthings. Would that be her fate, too? She pushed the thought away. Even death would be preferable to that.

Hugging herself for comfort, she walked up and down her chamber. As the candles burned lower and the shadows in the corners lengthened, her natural optimism reasserted itself. Perhaps he would not come after all, and by the time he had slept on his anger he would have mellowed.

She stopped suddenly, her head cocked to one side like a frightened doe. Was that the sound of footsteps echoing along the corridor? Her mouth dried and her heart began to pound. It was! He was coming! All her fears rushed back and she stared towards the door in dread.

She gasped as it swung open and banged against the wall. Judging by his flushed face and the smell of wine that oozed from his pores, it was obvious Sir Edmund had drowned his humiliation in his glass. The smile on his face was ugly, and as he strode into the room he stumbled. She cringed inwardly. Had he been sober she might have had a chance to reason with him; high-flown with drink, there was no chance.

‘Wh-what do you want?' she stuttered. Even as the words left her mouth she realised how ridiculous they were. She knew exactly what he wanted. Her only hope was that it would be over quickly.

He leered at her drunkenly. ‘Why, I am come a-courting, madam,' he announced, his tongue tripping on the words.

She stared at him blankly. ‘A-courting?' she echoed, in disbelief.

‘Yes.' He sat down heavily on the bed, his expression becoming crafty. ‘I have brought you a gift.'

‘A gift?' she echoed again. Was she run mad - or had he?

‘Isn't that what one does,' he asked, hiccuping, ‘to win a fair maiden? As you so kindly pointed out, madam, my face will never be my fortune so I must find another way into your heart.' He beckoned to her. ‘Come, see what I have brought you.'

Was it some kind of a trick? Reluctantly, she walked towards him. He brought one hand from behind his back and proffered her a small package, wrapped in a scrap of linen. She accepted it, and stared at him suspiciously.

‘It's not a dead toad, is it?' she demanded, remembering her sixth birthday and a cousin with an unpleasant sense of humour.

He blinked at her, then roared with drunken laughter. ‘A toad? What put that notion in your head? Why would I give you a toad?' The laughter stopped and he eyed her lasciviously. ‘No, it's something for you to wear. Go on, open it.'

Could it be jewellery? Her fingers picked the knots apart and the linen fell undone. She stared at the contents in bewilderment. What on earth were they? And how was she supposed to wear them? She held up the brief scraps of leather and suddenly everything became clear. She shook her head in shock and disgust.

‘I will not wear those - those garments...' Words failed her for a moment. She flung the unwanted present back in his face and glared at him. ‘They are indecent. No respectable woman would.'

‘But you are not a “respectable woman”, are you, my love?' he sneered. ‘You are my whore.' His lips tightened and his drunkenness fell away as if it had never existed. His voice was chilling in its coldness. ‘And as such, you will wear whatever I tell you to wear. Now put them on!'

Her own mouth set in equally stubborn lines. ‘I won't!' she replied, tossing her head.

His hand snaked out so suddenly she didn't even see it coming. Grasping her wrist, he pulled her towards him and, with one quick movement, flipped her over his knees. She struggled furiously but he held her with one hand while the other reached down and scooped her skirts over her head, revealing her plump buttocks and long flailing legs.

Sir Edmund paused for a moment to admire the sight, then raised his hand and brought it down sharply on her bottom. The smack of hard hand on yielding flesh echoed round the chamber like the crack of a whip. She shrieked, but her scream of pain and outrage was muffled by the material of her gown and came out as a pathetic squeak. His hand was large and calloused - and it hurt!

The first blow was swiftly followed by another, and yet another. The creamy globes of her buttocks quivered, whitened, then turned scarlet beneath his cruel ministrations. She writhed in pain, but all that served to do was increase his excitement and she could feel his member growing beneath her, pressing hot and hard against her belly. Her shrieks turned to whimpers as the punishment continued and discomfort spread through her lower body. It felt as if she had been scalded, her bottom almost incandescent - and still he went on, until she would have promised anything if only he would stop.