Wages of Sin (4 page)

‘Aren't you finished yet?' Sir Thomas demanded.

‘Yes, my lord,' said the woman. The door burst open and he strode in.

‘Well? Is she still virgin?' he demanded. She shook her head reluctantly and his lips curled in a snarl. He fumbled at his belt, pulling out a bag of coins which he flung at her viciously. It hit her shoulder and fell to the floor, clinking. ‘Get out,' he spat, ‘and take your foul baggage with you before I have you burned as a witch.'

One glance at the rage suffusing his face and even the midwife's formidable composure broke. Stooping for her wages, she seized her bag and scuttled for the door.

He stalked over to the bed and Jane cowered back against the pillows. ‘As for you, you little whore,' he said icily, spitting out each word as if it was poisonous, ‘mark my words, you'll pay for bringing shame on me. My God, but you'll pay!'

He seized her mother's arm and dragged her towards the door. It banged shut, the key turned with an ominous click and Jane was alone with her terror.

 

The next few days dragged unmercifully. Confined to her room, Jane grew pale with lack of exercise and poor food. She watched wistfully from her casement as the business of the house went on without her. Boredom made even the smallest event - from the cook pursuing a recalcitrant chicken round the yard to the gatekeeper's daughter playing in the dust - something to be savoured to while the weary hours away. Robin flung longing glances towards her window each time he passed, but she withdrew, lest she bring retribution on his innocent head as well as her own.

She wandered over to her mirror and smiled wanly at her reflection. At least there was one consolation; time also seemed to have tempered her stepfather's rage. Despite his threats he had not been near her chamber since the dreadful confrontation with the midwife. Three times her mother had ventured in to see her, unlocking the door with care and glancing over her shoulder before slipping through, but her nervousness and the fresh bruises on her skin had only served to intensify Jane's guilt. She sighed. Better to suffer alone than see the suffering her impulsive behaviour had brought on others.

The sound of laughter and chattering outside in the courtyard brought her back to the window and she stared down in amazement at the crowd of servants thronging their way towards the gate. They were dressed in their best, even the lowliest kitchen maid flaunting a fragment of ragged ribbon in her hair. Behind the common throng rode her mother and her attendants, a splash of vivid colour in a sea of grey and brown and green. What was going on?

Realisation dawned. Of course! It was the Mayday Fair. The maids would have already been out at dawn to wash their faces in the May dew and now everyone from the oldest to the youngest would be off to join in the revelry on the common green.

A wistful sigh escaped her lips as she thought of what she was missing. The striped maypole, set up in the centre of the green. The brightly coloured stalls and booths scattered round the edge of the common, their wares spread out to tempt hoarded coins from greasy purses. Gypsy fortune-tellers promising luck, love and fortune to anyone gullible enough to cross their palms with silver. Hucksters and pickpockets and sweetmeat sellers. Lovers holding hands oblivious to everything but each other. Old men and women remembering their youth as they carefully nursed their ale and watched with bright beady eyes, storing up gossip for months to come.

Last year there had been a dancing bear and the year before that a bull-baiting - though she hadn't enjoyed that. She shivered at the memory of the excited faces and greedy eyes watching eagerly as the dogs were tossed into the air to lie twitching and bleeding in the dust. Still, even that was better than being shut up inside while everyone else was off enjoying themselves. Depression descended like a grey cloud as the empty house settled round her, enveloping her in silence. She hadn't realised how much she took the usual hustle and bustle for granted: voices calling from the courtyard; the sound of feet pattering along the corridors as maids fetched and carried; the normal comings and goings of a busy household which were simply an accepted part of life. It was only once they were gone that you missed them. She shivered. It felt as if she was the only person left alive.

A faint scratching noise made her gasp as all the forbidden ghost stories Alice had whispered to her when she was a child rushed back into her mind. She pressed one hand to her breast to still the pounding of her heart, laughed breathlessly and scolded herself for her own stupidity. Now she was being ridiculous. It was nothing but a mouse scuttling behind the wainscot.

She paused, feeling suddenly cold. There was something! She held her breath and strained her ears to listen. This was no figment of her overheated imagination. She was alone in the house yet she could hear the sound of heavy footsteps echoing along the deserted corridor - and they were coming towards her room!

She whimpered with fright as they grew nearer, her eyes focused on the thick door that was the only barrier between her and whatever horror stalked the long gallery.

The key grated in the lock; she cowered back as the doorknob turned slowly and the door yawned open to reveal - her stepfather!

Relief made her smile, until she saw the expression on his face. All thoughts of ghosts and bogies evaporated before the terrifying reality of what she read in his eyes. Face white, she began to back away.

For a moment he stood on the threshold, his lips twisting with pleasure as he savoured her terror, then he advanced into the room, kicking the door shut behind him.

‘Ready, my pretty little whore?' he whispered. ‘It's time to pay the piper.'

 

 

 

‘Wh-what do you want?' she managed through numb lips, as she scrambled away from him.

‘What do I want?' he jeered mockingly. ‘You thick-witted slut! What do you think I want? I want what you've already given away to every Tom, Dick and Harry.'

For a moment she stared at him. What was he talking about? Then it dawned on her and her already pale face drained of all remaining colour. No! He couldn't mean that...?

‘I... I don't know what you mean,' she stammered, playing for time as her mind raced, looking for an escape from this monstrous situation.

‘Oh, yes, you do,' he hissed, his hands reaching for the buckle on his belt and beginning to fumble it free. ‘If you can play the whore for any passing stranger, then you can play the whore for me.

‘Who was it took your fancy?' he sneered. ‘Some glib-tongued gypsy rogue? Some sturdy beggar with a strong body beneath his rags? Or a pilgrim perhaps, who stopped to pay his respects to Venus instead of Our Lady?' He snorted, his smile becoming lascivious. ‘What does it matter who he was? He had you. And now I shall have you too.'

‘You would not dare!' she gasped. ‘It is against all the laws of man and God! You are my father!'

‘Stepfather,' he reminded, grinning. ‘As you are so fond of pointing out, I am merely your mother's husband.' His cold eyes ran over her cringing body in an assessing fashion. ‘And why should I content myself with the scrawny old hen when the plump young pullet is so ripe for the plucking?'

‘I shall scream,' she warned, taking a step backwards.

‘Scream away. There's no one to hear you. Everyone's at the fair, except for old Tom and he's as deaf as a post. You could scream loud enough to wake the dead and he'd still not hear you.' He chuckled as he stepped towards her. ‘There's no knight in shining armour coming to save the fair maiden this time. It's just you and me.'

Backing away from him she bumped against her toilet table. One hand groped behind and her fingers closed on the carved wooden box that held her few jewels. As he stepped towards her she lifted it and swung it towards his head. He grunted as the corner caught his temple and the lid flew off, scattering her baubles over the floor. For a moment he staggered and she made a dart for the door - and freedom.

She squealed in pain as a cruel hand caught her upper arm and dragged her back. He whirled her round, his face, swollen with rage, scant inches from hers, his breath hot against her cheek. Blood trickled down from the wound above his eye. ‘You little bitch,' he snarled, slapping her with his open palm.

Her head spun, but she still managed to raise her other hand to claw at his cheek. He grinned as he caught it, forcing it behind her back to join its twin. He had both wrists trapped in his left hand now and she writhed against him in a futile effort to break free. He twisted viciously and she arched her back, trying to escape the pain in her shoulders.

‘Nice... very nice,' he said, grinning as the movement thrust her heaving breasts against him. He tugged at the neck of her thin shift so that it tore away, revealing the soft rosy-tipped mounds quivering beneath. He took a ragged breath, his mouth becoming slack with lust. Even beneath the codpiece she could feel him swelling and cold fear ran through her.

His free hand began to fumble at her dress and she squealed with pain and terror as his fingers dug into her skin, leaving red imprints as he fondled her roughly. Then he seized her nipples, twisting and pulling until they hardened beneath his attentions. He bent his head and took one in his mouth, rasping his tongue over the soft flesh, his teeth closing round it. She froze, waiting for the moment of agony when he bit down.

But it didn't come. Instead his mouth moved upward over her throat, leaving a snail trail of saliva behind. Gripping her hair he pulled her head back and forced his mouth down on hers, thrusting his thick tongue between her lips. Jane responded by biting down, hard.

With a muffled curse he threw her from him. She sprawled on the bed. As she fell her head banged against the head-post. There was a moment of sick dizziness, then everything went black.

 

When she came to she was naked, face down amongst her pillows, her arms stretched out above her head and tied to the head-post with the remains of the shift he'd torn from her back. She tugged frantically at the twisted cloth, but it held as strongly as any rope. She was helpless.

‘Not so clever now, are you, madam?' he taunted, his voice thick. Blood stained the spittle on his lips. ‘Let's see how you enjoy this little game.'

She strained to turn her head, then wished she hadn't. He was standing, legs apart, his hands on his hips - and the belt which had been round his waist was now hanging from his hand, the end trailing on the floor. As she watched in horror, he raised his arm. The lash flickered through the air, landing on her smooth white buttocks with a crack. Her whole body stiffened as pain exploded through her, but she bit her lip, determined not to give him the satisfaction of a response. He paused, breathing heavily, and licked his lips as he watched the rich colour stain the plump white cheeks of her bottom, still quivering beneath his blow. He raised his arm again.

This time she did scream. The blow landed in the same place, curling lovingly round the curve of her hips and leaving a broad white line before the blood rushed back in a crimson tide. She clenched her buttocks and writhed against the coverlets, her body trying to escape the intensity of the hurt that flooded it. Another blow followed, then another; each one more agonising than the last. Finally she broke.

‘No more,' she whimpered. ‘Please, no more! I'll do anything you want. Just stop, I beg of you!'

‘That's better,' he said, with satisfaction. ‘A whore should be obedient to her master.' His tone became threatening. ‘Shouldn't she?'

‘Yes...
yes
,' Jane moaned.

‘Good,' he said. ‘You've learned your place at last, my fine lady.' His breath came faster. ‘Now roll on your back like the bitch you are,' he ordered.

Arms still tied, she struggled to do as she was told, the material biting even more tightly into her wrists as she twisted round. She winced as her tender bottom came in contact with the harsh brocade of the coverlet, but the pain was nothing compared to the shame she felt, exposed to his lustful gaze. She closed her eyes in humiliation as he gloated over her naked body.

His eyes glazed as he gazed down at her. ‘Spread your legs, slut,' he ordered thickly. She shuddered and pressed her thighs tightly together, trying to protect the last tatters of her modesty. It was useless. With a curse he wrenched her legs roughly apart, leaving her open and vulnerable, her vulva parting like the soft petals of a flower to reveal its moist pink centre. Smiling ruthlessly, he used the remains of her shift to pinion her ankles to the posts at the bottom of the bed, leaving her spreadeagled helplessly before him.

‘That's better,' he said, with satisfaction. Licking his lips, he took in the enticing picture before him. Her auburn hair, spread out over the coverlet like a burning tide; the proud swell of her breasts; the narrow waist, leading into the soft curve of her belly and the gateway to paradise that lay beneath, guarded by its crest of fiery fleece, waiting for him to enter.

He leaned closer and ran his hands over her as if he was assessing a piece of horseflesh. He lingered on her breasts, kneading and squeezing, then turned his attention lower. His fingers bit into the soft flesh of her inner thighs, then he thrust two fingers inside her, smiling as she squealed at the sudden pain.