Wages of Sin (9 page)

Jane smiled grimly as she watched them go. No doubt she would pay for her temerity in defying Mother Ursula, but whatever happened to her it would be worth it if she'd managed to make the harsh lives of these poor unfortunates just a tiny bit easier.

She smiled ruefully at Sister Marie. ‘Well,' she said, lifting the empty buckets, ‘time to face the music.'

 

Mother Ursula was waiting, almost incandescent with anger. Her thin lips were nothing more than a tight line in her gaunt face and her eyes glowed with suppressed rage. ‘So,' she hissed, ‘you dare to defy me yet again.'

‘Why no, Reverend Mother,' said Jane, bowing meekly. ‘I was merely acting from Christian charity. Didn't our Lord teach us to feed the poor and hungry?'

In two quick strides Mother Ursula was standing in front of her. A hand lashed out so fast that Jane didn't even see it. She bit her lip to keep from crying out as her head rocked on her shoulders and a white handprint appeared on the side of her face where the other woman had struck her. As the blood flowed back the print turned from white to scarlet, as if the mark of Cain had been branded on her cheek.

‘Go to your cell and pray for humility,' ordered Mother Ursula, her voice shaking. She controlled herself and smiled coldly. ‘And since you have shown such concern for the poor and hungry, you will not mind going without yourself, as penance for your disobedience. Your meat can go to the pigs.' She whirled on Sister Marie, who cringed back like a rabbit in the glare of a stoat. ‘And as for you...'

Jane stepped forward. ‘The fault was mine and mine alone, Reverend Mother,' she protested. ‘Sister Marie did her best to dissuade me. I would not listen.'

‘Headstrong as well as disobedient,' purred Ursula. ‘Is there no end to your sinfulness, girl?' A smile touched her lips. ‘And since you are so well versed in the words of the Good Book, you may remember another quotation from it. “Spare the rod and spoil the child”. You may think on that as well, while you are in your cell.' She turned to Sister Michael and Jane's insides shrivelled. ‘Take her there - and lock the door.'

Jane spun on her heel before the woman could put her foul hands on her and stalked down the grey corridor with her head held high. Sister Michael strode behind her, the skirts of her habit rustling, and it took all Jane's courage not to begin running to get away from her. It seemed an age until she reached the sanctuary of her cell. Once inside, she backed against the wall and waited for whatever was coming next.

To her relief Sister Michael did not follow her inside. For a moment she stood on the threshold and leered at the panting girl, then the door swung slowly closed, shutting out the light, and Jane heard the key turning in the lock. She breathed a sigh of relief at getting off so lightly and flung herself down on the narrow cot.

 

With nothing to do but think, the minutes seemed to drag like hours. With no window to see the passing of daylight she had no way of telling how long she lay there.

The walls of the cell seemed to close in upon her in the darkness, the air thickening in her throat. To pass the time she thought of escape. The village was only two miles away. If she could reach it, would someone there hide her?

She dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come. Last year's poor harvest had brought the villagers close to ruin. She remembered the number of supplicants at the gate that morning. They were unable to feed themselves, let alone a runaway. Besides, she thought bitterly, the convent provided their only source of help in a hard and unforgiving world. If they aided her, Mother Ursula would have no compunction in punishing them too, and without the food and medicines the nuns dispensed, no matter how grudgingly, how would the very young and the very old survive? She shook her head. There was no help to be found there.

Her stomach rumbled and hunger pangs gnawed at her insides. She'd had no time to break her fast this morning and now even the thought of the scraps she'd doled out made her salivate. She rolled over and curled up beneath the thin blanket. If only she could sleep she could forget her hunger.

A sound made her freeze, her eyes staring into the darkness, searching for its source.

She forced herself to relax. Perhaps it was just a rat. She smiled ruefully. If it was, then it was on a fool's errand; there was nothing to eat here.

Her smile vanished as she heard it again. That was no rat - or if it was, it was the human kind. A thin line of light flickered beneath the ill-fitting door and she cringed back as she heard the key turn surreptitiously in the lock. Holding the blanket to her breasts, she watched as the door quietly creaked open.

For a moment, so used to the darkness, she could see nothing. Then, as her eyes adjusted, she drew in a shuddering breath. The scene before her was one from her worst nightmares. Six shadowy figures stood there, each with a candle in its hand, the flickering light distorting their faces into masks of evil. She cowered back against the wall.

‘Ah, not quite so defiant now.' It was Mother Ursula. Her voice whispered back from the stone walls like the hiss of a snake.

Fear settled on Jane like an icy blanket. ‘Wh-what do you want?' she stammered.

Mother Ursula laughed coldly. ‘Did you think you had escaped your punishment? No one defies me and gets away with it. Oh no, my dear. You must learn your lesson - and we are here to teach you.'

Cold hands grasped Jane and tore her from the safety of the cot. The bare stones struck cold on her feet as she was dragged along the corridors, the candles streaming in the draught and casting monstrous shadows on the walls. The only sounds were their footsteps and Jane's desperate panting as she struggled to break free. Her thoughts raced as they stopped before a carved wooden door. It was the chapel. What were they doing here? The door swung open and she was thrust through. For a moment her mind refused to grasp what it was seeing.

The roof soared away into nothingness, and the chapel itself was a mass of shifting pools of blackness, apart from the altar, which was surrounded by hundreds of candles. But this was no celebration of Christianity. This was something older and darker. A scarlet cloth embroidered with gold covered the altar and at its head - Jane swallowed - lay thin ropes, coiled and waiting like poisonous serpents.

She whimpered and tried to back away, her bare feet slipping on the polished floor. It was useless. Like a sacrificial lamb she was dragged towards the waiting table. Flickers of light illuminated the faces of the holy statues, which seemed to peer down at her in pity.

All too soon she stood before the altar. ‘Strip her and bind her,' ordered Mother Ursula. Eager hands pulled the ragged shift from her body, using this as an excuse to fondle the shrinking flesh beneath. Her russet hair spilled down her back as the rough linen binding was tugged off, emphasising her pale beauty, then she was pushed face down on the altar and her hands were seized and bound above her head. She moaned as she was hauled into position and the coarse embroidery rubbed against her tender breasts.

Mother Ursula smiled down at the smooth white body that lay stretched out before her like an offering, the proud globes of Jane's buttocks quivering in the candlelight.

She withdrew her hands from the concealing robes and there was a greedy intake of breath at the sight of the thin leather whip she held. Jane twisted her head and gasped. She closed her eyes and waited for her punishment to begin.

She didn't have to wait long. Mother Ursula raised her arm and the lash whistled through the chilled air to cut into Jane's tender bottom, leaving a thin red line against the milk-white skin. She stiffened as a wave of agony gripped her. She bit back a scream, determined not to give in - but Ursula had only just begun.

The whip rose and fell, rose and fell again, until Jane was sobbing helplessly, her bottom scarlet and glowing. Eventually it was over and she sagged with relief... but it was short-lived.

‘Turn her over,' ordered Mother Ursula. Willing hands seized Jane again and she whimpered as her bruised flesh met the rough cloth beneath her. She gazed up with frightened eyes and gasped as Mother Ursula ran the whip gently over her breasts, teasing the soft flesh of her nipples until they rose into tight pink buds. Smiling, her tormentor trailed the lash down her body and over the curve of her stomach to the secret place hidden by her clenched thighs. Jane's muscles tightened convulsively as she tried to protect herself. ‘Why don't you beg?' said Mother Ursula softly. ‘I would like to hear you beg.'

Jane stared at her defiantly. ‘Never!' she spat.

‘Dear, oh dear.' Mother Ursula sighed, shaking her head with mock regret. ‘So young and yet so sinful. Perhaps Sister Michael can teach you better than I can.' She nodded and the woman stepped forward, smiling evilly. Jane shuddered as she slipped off her habit to reveal her bony body, the chest almost as flat as a man's, a tuft of wiry grey hair at the juncture of her scrawny thighs. Jane closed her eyes to shut out the sight. No matter how much the woman beat her, she would never give in. She braced herself for more pain.

Instead, humid wetness enveloped one nipple, while fingers twisted and squeezed the other. Her eyes shot open and she gasped in horror. This unnatural act was worse than any pain. She gazed at Mother Ursula, pleadingly. ‘No! Please, no!' she begged.

‘Too late now.' Mother Ursula was smirking. ‘You brought it upon yourself.'

Jane moaned and tried to twist away, but Sister Michael continued her tormenting attentions. Her tongue circled and teased the trapped nipple, her fingers kneading and pulling its twin until they were both pulsing and swollen. Jane gasped in dismay as the heat in her buttocks began to radiate through the rest of her body, changing from pain to a kind of twisted pleasure. She felt herself moisten and groaned again, this time in horror at her own reaction.

The tormenting tongue began to drift lower, leaving a hot wet trail behind it. Jane's belly quivered as it reached the juncture of her thighs. She brought her knees up, twisting sideways.

‘Oh no,' said Mother Ursula. ‘It's not that easy, my dear.' She clapped her hands and Jane's legs were seized and pulled apart to reveal the glistening pink opening crowned with flame-red hair. She whimpered as Sister Michael bent her attention to the swollen knob of her clitoris, lapping and circling it until Jane thought she would go mad. The tongue darted into the soft wet centre of Jane's body, slithering in and out like a hot snake.

‘Please,
please
,' she moaned, no longer sure whether she was begging for her torment to stop or continue. Her hips jerked convulsively, forcing the muscular tongue deeper inside herself.

‘Enough,' ordered Ursula. Reluctantly Sister Michael withdrew, and Jane stared up, her eyes glazed with unsatisfied lust. Then she realised what Ursula was holding and moaned with fear.

The church candle was two inches in diameter and almost ten inches long. Smiling, Ursula watched as Jane tried frantically to twist away from what was coming next, but the cruel hands held her in place as Ursula advanced.

Jane whimpered as she felt the thick candle pressing against the vulnerable opening of her body. There was a moment of resistance then, inch by irresistible inch, Ursula pressed it home, smiling as most of the length disappeared from sight. Jane's eyes flickered shut and she whined with a mixture of pain and pleasure as it filled her completely.

Mother Ursula began to move it slowly in and out. It slid smoothly, faster and faster, lubricated by Jane's juices, and she forgot everything but the wild sensations spiralling through her. And when other hands took their pleasure from her writhing body she didn't even notice as she screamed her satisfaction and release.

For a moment she lay there, warm and sated, then reality broke in again and she burst into tears of humiliation. Unbearable shame washed over her. These perverted women had used her for their own satisfaction, reducing her to nothing but a hungry animal, willing to do anything to satisfy its basest appetites. And she had let them do it!

Lost in her own misery she barely even noticed the lewd comments or the stumbling return to her cell.

Once there, she curled into a protective ball and huddled beneath the thin blanket, shivering. Her last thought before she fell into a sleep haunted by nightmares was that Mother Ursula was no bride of Christ.

She was a bride of Satan!

 

 

 

At the head of the refectory table Mother Ursula sat with a small, triumphant smile on her lips as she regarded the results of her handiwork.

Exhausted by a night of sleeplessness, Jane had dragged herself through the day avoiding everyone. Now she kept her head bowed low over the early evening meal - not through piety but through mortification. Her eyes darted sideways, surreptitiously surveying the nuns as they ate. Which of these chattering women had witnessed her shame of the night before? Mother Ursula, certainly, and Sister Michael - but who were the other four? She closed her eyes and shuddered.

The leering faces, hidden by the veils and coifs and distorted by the flickering candlelight, had been hideously anonymous. How could she look any of them in the eye, not knowing if the pious expressions they wore hid the secret knowledge of her shame? That when they looked at her they were gloating over the memory of her base, animal writhings? She pushed her plate away, sickened.

How could such evil exist in a place dedicated to God?

Mother Ursula's mocking voice floated over the chatter, stilling it immediately. Jane flushed as every eye turned towards her. ‘Not hungry, my dear? What a pity. I wonder what has caused your loss of appetite? Still, waste not want not. What doesn't fatten you will fatten the pigs. And since you are so fond of feeding the hungry, I think we shall give that task to you. I am sure you will do it very well.' She put down her spoon, daintily dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin, and rose. ‘You will begin immediately,' she ordered.

Jane opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it, fearful of risking another punishment. ‘Yes, Reverend Mother,' she replied meekly, writhing inwardly at her own cowardice and the knowledge that those poor unfortunates would go hungry because of it. But what could she do? Rebellion would solve nothing. It would only provide another excuse for Mother Ursula to torment her, while people still starved. She stared after Mother Ursula, hatred in her eyes as the woman left the refectory.

One by one the others finished their meal and drifted off to their evening prayers, leaving Jane alone. With a sigh she went to the kitchen and returned with the half-filled slop buckets to begin the distasteful task of scraping the slimy remains of the food into them.

With another sigh she rolled up her sleeves, seized one of the overflowing buckets and staggered out of the refectory and across the back court to the tumbledown lean-to which housed the pigs. Her entrance was greeted with grunts and snorts as the two animals jostled each other in their eagerness to reach the food. She tipped it into the trough, spilling it over her shift. The odour of stale food and sour milk drifted up to her and she smiled ruefully. Now she would smell as bad as the pigs did.

Returning to the refectory she collected the second bucket. On her return to the sty she passed a stout lay sister, sweat stains under her arms, working in the convent garden in the last of the daylight. Glad of the diversion the woman stopped her weeding, leaned on her hoe and gave Jane a cheerful grin from which the two front teeth were missing.

‘The Last Supper, eh?' she chuckled. Jane stared at her blankly. ‘The Last Supper,' the woman repeated, annoyed that her wit had gone unrecognised. ‘The pigs.' She rolled her eyes at Jane's stupidity. ‘Not long for this world,' she explained patiently. ‘Father Peter's visiting next week. The pig-sticker's coming at first light tomorrow morning, so this'll be their last supper.'

‘Oh, I see,' said Jane. She forced an answering chuckle. ‘The last supper. A clever jest.'

Mollified, the woman continued. ‘Just you wait. There will be no stinting when he's here.' She grinned and smacked her lips. ‘Roast pork. Boiled ham. Sweetmeats. Wine with every meal. Nothing but the best for Father Peter and his company.' Cheered by the thought, she returned to her weeding with fresh vigour, leaving Jane to continue to the pigsty.

The second bucket of slops was greeted with as much enthusiasm as the first.

‘Enjoy your meal,' said Jane sadly, leaning over to scratch behind a floppy pink ear, eliciting a grunt of pleasure. ‘Poor beasts. It will be your last.'

She sighed. It was hardly the pigs' fault if they fed well at the expense of others. Though they could not know it, they would soon pay dearly for the privilege. It was a hard world.

 

She slept badly again that night and was woken by an unholy shrieking. For a moment she thought she had died and gone to hell, then she realised what it was. She moaned and rolled over in her narrow cot, covering her ears to shut out the sounds of the pigs being slaughtered. There was a final squeal of terror, then silence.

Then the door of her cell banged open. ‘Get up, you lazy slugabed,' ordered Sister Michael, jerking the thin blanket from her naked body. ‘Lying there like a lady when there's work to be done!' For a moment she stood watching as Jane slid wearily out of bed and into her stained shift, then, satisfied that her orders were being obeyed, she bustled out again in a swirl of black skirts.

 

The next few days were a blur of activity, meals reduced to hastily consumed slices of bread and cheese, as preparations for Father Peter's visit went ahead apace. The carcasses of the pigs were reduced to joints and roasts, the blood caught in huge basins to be turned into humbler black puddings. The long trails of guts were emptied, laid in the stream to be cleansed by the running water, then filled with minced meat and herbs to produce fat sausages. The kitchens smelt of blood, meat and smoke in equal proportions, filled with the red glow of the fires and sweating black-clad figures, like some anteroom to hell.

To Jane's portion fell all the filthiest jobs. Burning the bristles from the carcasses. Scraping the bloodstained fat from the skins, while plump black flies buzzed around her head and settled on her sweaty face. She stank from head to foot of smoke and grease, her shift was sodden with unmentionable liquids, and every bone in her body ached with effort. Still, all this was nothing compared with what she had already endured - and at least in the whirl of activity she could push her humiliation to the back of her mind and forget it in sheer physical exertion.

Even better was the fact that Mother Ursula seemed to have forgotten all about her. Without lifting so much as a lily-white finger, the woman supervised everything, chivvying the already harassed nuns into further effort. The guestrooms were scrubbed and polished, the mattresses lifted and laid in the sunshine to sweeten. The chapel brasses were polished to perfection and the altar cloths laundered to within an inch of their lives. Jane smiled ruefully. Anyone watching the frantic activity would have thought the Pope himself was coming to visit!

Finally all was done. In her comfortless cell at the end of the last busy day, Jane raised her arm to wipe the sweat from her forehead and recoiled in revulsion. She stank like a polecat. She looked down at her stained shift in disgust. The laundresses had been working overtime as well, but while everyone else had been issued with clean habits in honour of Father Peter's arrival, she had been conveniently forgotten. She pulled a wry face. No doubt this was all part of Mother Ursula's plan to keep her in her place: humble, downtrodden - and smelly into the bargain!

She grinned. Well, it wouldn't work. She might not be clad in velvet and ermine, but at least she could be clean. Before her courage deserted her again, she tiptoed to the door, eased it open and listened. Nothing but silence greeted her ears. The exhausted nuns had settled gratefully into their narrow cots, like a flock of plump chickens settling back into their nests after the fox has gone. Hardly daring to breathe, she stepped out into the corridor. There was a faint sound and she froze, then laughed softly as she realised it was nothing more than a ladylike snore from the adjoining cell. Barefoot, she crept along the corridor to the outer door, wincing as the huge iron key screeched in the rusty lock. Closing her eyes she waited, expecting Mother Ursula to sweep down on her in a fury at any moment. Nothing. Pulling the door open barely a crack, she slipped through.

She stopped on the threshold, breathing in the clean night air after the stench of the previous few days. Moonlight silvered the trees and the dew-pond gleamed like a dark mirror in the hollow between them. For a moment she stood there, savouring the beauty of the night, before running lightly down the hill towards the cool inviting water, her bare feet leaving dark prints in the soft damp grass.

Stripping off the stinking shift, she threw it into the shallows to soak, and stood there, a slim white statue in the moonlight. Then, bracing herself, she waded in, sending silvery ripples across the still surface of the pond.

She shuddered as the water crept up her thighs, caressing her sweaty skin with cold fingers. When it reached her waist she flung herself forward, gasping as it enveloped her completely, her nipples shivering into tight buds with the shock of the icy embrace.

Laughing, she rolled on her back like an otter, kicking her legs to propel herself towards the centre of the pond. A few sleepy quacks protested this unexpected disturbance, only serving to make her laugh the more. Buoyed by the silky water, she lay there staring up at the starry sky as a feeling of peace washed over her.

All too soon more prosaic thoughts crept in. If she had not done this on impulse she could have planned it better, and stolen some lye soap from the laundry. As it was she would have to do the best she could without it.

Using her hands she rubbed every inch of her body, to remove the last lingering traces of sweat and grime. Her skin tingled beneath her fingers and she could feel herself moisten in ready response, but briskly she pushed the tantalising feelings away. There was no time for that sort of thing when her absence could be discovered at any moment.

Ducking her head beneath the water she scrubbed her hair and scalp, hoping the itching she experienced there was due to sweat and not lice. When she re-emerged her wet hair clung to her in dark tendrils. Sighing regretfully, she swam back towards the edge. Time to wash her shift and get back to the convent before anyone noticed she was missing.

Despite its soaking and her feverish scrubbing, there were still faint stains on the threadbare garment. But she had done the best she could under the circumstances and at least it no longer stank. She wrung it out as much as possible and struggled back into it, the wet linen clinging to her equally wet body, outlining every curve and hollow, her nipples jutting against the harsh material. Shivering with the cold, she set off up the hill towards the dark hulk of the convent.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she found the door still open as she'd left it. Slipping through, she closed it carefully behind her. She'd got away with her little escapade...

‘Dear, oh dear,' came the voice she hated more than any other. She whirled to find Mother Ursula standing behind her, tapping her foot, a mocking smile on her lips. Behind her, in the shadows, other figures stood, waiting. Gasping with shock, Jane pressed her back against the door as if she could force herself through it by sheer will alone.

Mother Ursula heaved a dramatic sigh. ‘Such a headstrong girl,' she tutted, through pursed lips. ‘It seems that one lesson was not enough. We shall have to teach you again.' She put a thoughtful finger to her lips and cocked her head to one side. ‘I fear a harder lesson is needed this time, but what to use? The quirt? The rod? Yes, the rod, I think.' She clicked her fingers, motioning to the shadowy figures. ‘Take her to my study.'

This time Jane did not even try to struggle. What was the point? The end result would be the same and why should she give Sister Michael the excuse she needed to fumble and grope her reluctant body? Besides, she would need all her strength for the ordeal to come. Meekly, she allowed herself to be led along the corridor.

Sister Ursula's study was a revelation. Even in her state of shock, Jane noticed the opulence of the Reverend Mother's private quarters. Carpets from Turkey decorated the polished floor. The chairs and settle were covered in soft brightly coloured cushions. A fire burned in the grate and tall white candles in silver candlesticks gleamed off a goblet of Venetian glass, filled with rich red wine, that sat on the small table beside it. Apparently the vow of poverty the nuns had sworn did not extend to Mother Ursula!

She did not have time to appreciate her surroundings. ‘The prie-dieu,' snapped Mother Ursula.

Jane's eyes widened as the heavy prayer chair was dragged into the middle of the room and she was forced to kneel at it.

Her hands were jerked above her head and fastened to the arms, leaving her helpless. Lingering over the task, Sister Michael peeled the damp shift up, revealing the soft white globes of Jane's buttocks, still beaded with droplets of water. She licked her lips and Jane cringed away as those grasping hands reached towards them.

‘Not yet,' purred Mother Ursula. Sister Michael's hands dropped reluctantly to her sides. ‘Later,' she promised. ‘Punishment first and pleasure afterwards.' She pointed an imperious finger. ‘The rod,' she snapped.

Obediently, one of the others scuttled to a corner to fetch it, handing it reverently to her. Jane peered fearfully over her shoulder as Mother Ursula bent it between her hands, flexing it in anticipation. She tapped it lightly on her hand.