‘Please, my lord, I want to go home,’ her voice caught on a sob.
The anger that had been growing within him throughout the day boiled over; first the prince’s retreat had put an end to his hopes, and now the girl dared to try her woman’s tricks upon him! Weeping was one of Margaret’s favourite weapons, she used it frequently to get her own way. Realizing his own weakness enraged him still further. Something of his anger showed itself in his countenance and with a small cry Elinor scrambled up and ran to the door, only to find it was locked. Boreland held up the key.
‘No escape that way, my pretty, at least not before you have earned it!’
She banged upon the heavy door with her small fists.
‘Help!’ she cried, ‘Bradgate, help me. Let me out!’
The marquis laughed softly, his anger under control now, ice-cold and pitiless.
‘There’s little hope for you from that quarter, young lady. Our host knows better than to cross me.’
She turned again to face her captors, her back pressed against the unyielding door. Boreland stepped up and laid one large powerful hand upon her shoulder.
‘Now then, gentlemen! Who shall be the first to take their pleasure?’
Julian Poyntz stepped forward, his chubby face flushed with wine and excitement.
‘For Gad, ‘tis an age since I had a virgin,’ he muttered, reaching out one hand to run his short, stubby fingers along the top edge of her bodice.
She recoiled from his touch and turned aside, only to find another man beside her.
‘I cannot recall ever having one!’ laughed George Rowsell. ‘There’s no need to be afraid, chuck, only behave yourself and you will soon be free to go. Oh, but you have spilled your wine over your petticoat. Let me help you remove it.’
Slowly he unlaced the strings at her breast while Boreland held her arms to her sides to prevent resistance. The stiffened bodice came away and Rowsell tossed it aside, followed by the heavy skirts and the quilted petticoat. She felt another pair of hands around her waist untying the strings that secured the pockets beneath her gown. Then, as she stood in only her lawn shift, the hands explored her body. Boreland released his grip on her arms and moved his large hands up to push the shift from her white shoulders, revealing the small, firm breasts. Watching from one side, Poyntz ran his tongue around his dry lips.
‘Let me take her,’ he muttered hoarsely, stepping forward.
Overcome by fear, Elinor whimpered as hasty fingers drew off her final covering, leaving her naked. With Boreland holding her arms again she could not even cover herself, but merely bowed her head, allowing her hair to fall over her face, the thick tresses covering her breasts. At this point Bishop Furminger jumped to his feet.
‘Gentlemen,’ he cried shrilly, ‘this has gone far enough –’
‘Hold your tongue,’ snapped Boreland contemptuously. ‘You have done nothing but whine like a whipped cur since you arrived.’ He grinned suddenly, ‘Don’t worry, Furminger, you can take your turn with the rest of us.’
‘I want no part of this!’
‘Growing squeamish, Bishop?’ jeered Poyntz.
‘Perhaps you would object less if we could find you a pretty young man for your amusement,’ drawled the marquis, enjoying the bishop’s discomfiture, but as the clergyman could not be drawn to say more, my lord refilled his glass, then rose and carried it over to the girl.
‘Perhaps, ma’am, you would care for another drink.’ He held the glass to her lips.
The blood red wine ran down her white body as she struggled against her tormentors, and as the marquis stepped away she spat at him in one final, desperate gesture of defiance. Thurleigh’s face darkened at the insult and he spoke with a deadly calm.
‘Take her to the bed.’
Boreland swept her up and bore her to the large canopied bed, tossing her down upon the coverlet. At a signal from Lord Thurleigh he reluctantly withdrew and the marquis drew the hangings across one side of the bed, screening himself and the girl from the others. Unhurriedly he started to undress.
‘Now Elinor. You are a sensible girl. You know you cannot quit this room until I give you leave to do so.’
‘Oh sir, if you have a daughter, pray consider if you would wish her to suffer in this manner!’ She raised herself up on one elbow, her face blotched with tears.
My lord knelt upon the bed, still clad in his shirt and breeches. There were no candles at that end of the room but even in the gloom she saw once again the cold hatred in his face, and instinctively drew away.
‘I have no daughter, thus such arguments are wasted upon me.’ His eyes ran over her body and he added softly, ‘but I did have a young bride, a long time ago, who looked very much as you do now…’
‘Then for her sake, don’t hurt me, sir! Pray let me go!’
The marquis laughed bitterly. ‘For
her
sake -! No, by God. ‘Tis for her sake you are here!’
His fingers traced the red wine that had spilled down over her body. There were no tears now: the girl lay rigid, waiting her fate – only the green eyes burned in the white face, their terror evident even in the near-darkness.
‘No-’ Elinor suddenly came to life, struggling to free herself. Reason had forsaken her, and she fought wildly, her fingers tearing at his lace cravat as she tried in vain to keep him away. At first he laughed, enjoying what he knew to be an unequal struggle, but at last, tired of the game, he struck her hard across the face. With a cry she fell back and he knelt above her, breathing hard, his desire fuelled by her spirited defence. But mixed with the desire was another, less pleasurable sensation. The ulcers and open sores in his groin were so painful he knew they would prevent his taking the girl, even as he looked down at her he felt his lust receding and disgust at the thought of his own pox-ridden member caused him to pull away. He gathered up his clothes and with a last look at the semi-conscious figure on the bed he walked away to the fire to finish dressing.
‘Are you done already, my lord?’ Boreland’s ribald laughter did not improve his humour. ‘I had expected to be broaching another bottle before we saw you again!’
The marquis gave a thin smile.
‘A virgin may give you brief comfort, Boreland, but one needs a woman for true pleasure.’ He glanced at the men around the fire, deciding which one would be least likely to notice his failure. ‘Rowsell, why don’t you try your luck with our little prize?’
The young man looked at him blankly while his wine sodden brain tried to make sense of the words. He rose unsteadily to his feet.
‘Aye, my lord, I will!’
He found the girl motionless upon the bed, her eyes closed and her lips moving silently as if in prayer. The sight of her pale body excited him and he fumbled with the buttons of his breeches. Not waiting to remove his clothes he straddled her, anxious to relieve the urgency of his desire. She lay unprotesting as he thrust into her, pushing and grunting as he spent his passion, then he collapsed beside her, breathing heavily. The effort had sobered him a little and he looked at the still form beside him. He found her lack of response unnerving and was not sorry to return to the cheerful fireside with his comrades.
Elinor did not move. She was oblivious to the chill air, her numbed brain conscious only of a wish that she might die, and soon.
Julian Poyntz followed Rowsell. He hesitated when he looked at the pale face, the half-closed eyes red-rimmed from crying. His glance strayed to the coverlet, where even in the gloom a dark stain proclaimed her lost virginity. The marquis approached, bearing a lighted candle. His cold eyes took in the scene in an instant.
‘What ails you, Julian, losing your nerve?’ he taunted the young man. ‘I have brought you a light, that you may see what you are about.’
There was more coarse laughter from the others.
‘Aye, I’ve long wondered about your manhood, Poyntz,’ Boreland called out loudly. ‘Perhaps you should become better acquainted with our dear bishop.’
‘Now there’s a thought,’ murmured Thurleigh, laughing softly as he returned to the fire.
Poyntz resolutely turned his eyes towards the almost lifeless form upon the bed.
‘Damn you, Boreland, you’ve no call to talk like that!’ he declared, and began to unbutton his small-clothes with grim determination.
After Poyntz came Boreland, a big bull of a man with thick black hair that covered most of his body. Elinor had shown no emotion towards the previous two men, remaining inert and submissive beneath them, but Boreland’s huge frame rekindled her terror and she tried unavailingly to hold him off. He laughed at her feeble attempts to fight him, his massive strength easily overpowering her. Elinor thought she would be crushed by his weight upon her own small frame while the thick hair of his body and the brandy fumes from his hot breath threatened to suffocate her. She felt her strength failing and cried out at the pain as he abused her already aching body. Then, mercifully, she felt herself slipping away into blackness.
* * * *
How long Elinor lay in the darkness upon the bed she could not tell, although she was aware of the chinking of glasses and the murmur of conversation in the room. The big bearded man forced himself upon her once more, but her body so ached with dull pains that she was beyond caring. At last, Lord Thurleigh came over and tossed her clothes upon the bed. She stared at him blankly.
‘Get dressed, Mistress Burchard. We are finished with you.’
‘She doesn’t understand,’ mumbled Rowsell, who had come up and was now leaning heavily against the bedpost. ‘Come along, m’dear. I’ll help you to dress.’
‘So too will I!’ declared Poyntz, struggling out of his chair and staggering across the room.
Amid much laughter and joking, the two men hustled the girl into her stockings and petticoats, and Poyntz claimed the privilege of tying the pair of embroidered pockets around her dainty waist. He carefully turned his head to look for them – sudden moves made him feel sick. When he observed that the pockets had slipped down from the bed and were now lying upon the floor, he did not even attempt to bend down and retrieve them, for to lower his head to such an extent would, he knew from experience, result in his making a most undignified descent to the floor and being quite incapable of standing up for a considerable period. Instead he lowered himself gently on to his knees. As he did so, his attention was caught by a dull gleam from just under the edge of the bed. Carefully turning his attention in that direction, he picked up the object and squinted at it with drink-misted eyes. It was a heavy gold brooch, intricately wrought and set with a single large ruby. In the recesses of his wine-sodden brain Poyntz remembered seeing the ornament in the lace cravat of one of the gentlemen present, although he could not recall just who was its owner. At that moment, a small sob from Elinor penetrated his thoughts and the first, faint pangs of guilt stirred within him. He picked up the pockets from the floor and into one of them he slipped the ruby brooch before rising carefully to his feet and assisting his companion to complete their task of dressing the girl. Finally, the green cloak was tied about her shoulders and Elinor was set upon her feet, her basket pressed into her hands. Blankly she looked about her. The bishop still sat nervously in his corner, never daring to speak, while the marquis dozed in his chair with his feet resting upon a stool before the fire. James Boreland stood by the door, holding up the key.
‘Here, chuck, open the door and you can go home.’
Some faint look of comprehension came to her at his words and she stepped up stiffly to take the key from him. As she did so, he jerked it out of reach, and grabbing Elinor about the waist, he gave her one final kiss before letting her go and giving up his prize.
‘In another year or so you’ll be a fine looking woman,’ he told her. ‘Mayhap I’ll come back for you then!’
But Elinor was too busy fumbling with the lock to pay attention to his taunts. At last she unfastened the door and staggered out into the passage. To get out of the inn she was obliged to go down the stairs and through the tap-room, which was crowded with local workmen, but she noticed neither the men nor the silence that fell as she stumbled between the chairs, stiff and bruised from her ordeal, with her hair dishevelled and her eyes red and swollen from her tears. When she reached the door she did not stop to collect her muddied pattens that she had left at the porch, but staggered out into the night, her one desire, to remove herself from the place with all speed.
* * * *
It was nearly an hour later that my lord Thurleigh roused himself sufficiently to take his leave. The fire had burned low, although none of them had noticed. James Boreland was stretched out upon the bed, snoring noisily, while Poyntz was slumped over the table, his head upon his arms, sleeping off the effects of a surfeit of wine. My lord rose from his chair, buttoned his waistcoat and buckled on his sword.
‘‘Tis is time I returned to Thurleigh. It was not my intention to remain here so long. My dear lady will be missing me.’ He ended upon a bitter note, unable to picture his wife watching and waiting anxiously for his return. His eyes came to rest upon the bishop, sitting uneasily in a corner, biting his lip. The marquis gave a contemptuous smile. ‘My dear Furminger, I wish you would look a little less anxious. I had thought your worries were at rest now that you have no need to pin a white cockade to your bishop’s mitre.’
‘I have no more wish than you to see the Elector upon the throne,’ returned the bishop peevishly. ‘It is to be hoped that His Highness will come off safely from this set-back.’
‘There is a faint possibility that he can hold Scotland, but if he is to keep his head, he would be best advised to return to France,’ drawled the marquis, easing himself into his coat.
Furminger cast a resentful look at him.
‘You seem mighty indifferent to his fate, my lord!’
‘Do I? Then it is because I refuse to concern myself over a matter that is out of my hands. You would do well to follow my example. Go home tomorrow and forget all about Charles Stuart for the present.’ He gathered up his gloves, then paused, walked to the bed and looked around it and underneath it, frowning. ‘Now where in heaven’s name is my ruby?’