Resurrection (5 page)

Gerard withdrew his teasing, tantalising fingers and rolled back on top of her. This time the head of his cock slipped into her entrance with relative ease. He pushed, filling her a little more, then further still. Jane's sense of well-being evaporated as her body stretched to accommodate the intrusion. She started to resist, all her previous fears rushing at her again with a vengeance.

"My lord, I do not think—"

"Hush now, 'twill soon be over." Gerard paused, seemed to withdraw a little and Jane sighed in relief. Perhaps they might attempt this again when she could be better prepared. Suddenly though, he surged forward, driving the full length of his cock deep inside her. Jane screamed, her lower body convulsing in agony as she clawed and fought him.

Gerard caught both her wrists in one of his hands and pinned them over her head. He held her still, not moving himself either as she quivered in terrified surrender beneath him.

"Has the pain passed?" he enquired after several moments.

"Yes, my lord." Jane's voice was a ragged whisper. She dared not moved, convinced she must be mortally injured. "Please, may we stop now?"

"Soon, Janey. I will leave my seed in you, then we are done."

"Seed? I—oh..."

Gerard withdrew his monstrous cock, only to sink it back into her. He moved more slowly now though, allowing her the time to adjust, and to stretch around him. He did it again, and again, taking care not to jar or jerk. Incredibly, Jane found his continued penetration did not pain her unduly. Indeed, if she angled her body just very slightly, it began to feel really quite nice. She closed her eyes and sank back against the pillows, wary still but content to see where this incredible experience might yet take her.

Gerard continued to stroke in and out, his movements picking up pace. Jane succumbed to the overwhelming need to clench and squeeze, aware that she was searching for something, reaching, hoping for—

Her husband grunted and Jane felt his cock lurch violently. He went still, and a wet hotness seemed to fill her. Moments later Gerard sagged forward to bury his face into the pillow beside her. For a few moments she bore his weight, then he rolled to the side and dragged his softening erection from her body.

"See? Not so terrible. You live still, my lady?"

Jane lay on her back, motionless, disappointed, confused, desiring more though she had no idea what the more might be. As she remained on her back, her legs still spread wide, a strange dampness pooled beneath her buttocks. She shifted to the side to escape it.

"Ha. My seed is dribbling from you but I trust you will retain a sufficient quantity in order to conceive, my lady."

"What? I—" Jane clamped her legs closed and rolled to lie on her side, her back to her husband. If her part in this endeavour amounted to no more than producing the heir so vital to Roseworth, then she would do her bit.

*****

Alas, despite Jane's best efforts, and her husband’s dutiful monthly visits to her chamber, no heir had yet been forthcoming. In the four years since that fateful night, twice Jane had conceived, and twice she had miscarried in the fourth month of her pregnancy. Her babies were too little to discern their sex, but in her heart Jane believed them to be the sons her husband desired and it was her duty to provide. Although he did not say so, she knew Gerard considered her to be barren, the very worst kind of liability for a man of his station.

Her mother never missed an opportunity to remind her of her obligations, and the potential consequences of failure. Lady Margaret was currently making an extended visit to Roseworth following the death of Sir William and a subsequent, very public, altercation with the new Countess of Acton. Eleanor, wife to Jane's eldest brother Edward, had declared the dowager countess to be an unbearable shrew and ordered her from Haveringham.

Lady Margaret had arrived at Roseworth in the full expectation that she would be welcomed with open arms by her most precious daughter and her noble husband. Gerard had shrugged and bade his mother-in-law make herself at home. Jane had written at once to Eleanor but to no avail. Haveringham was closed to Lady Margaret. Further missives established beyond doubt that neither of her other sisters were likely to exhibit even the slightest interest in their mother's welfare. Resigned to her fate Jane realised she had better make the best of it.

Jane drew no comfort at all from Lady Margaret's observation that an heir had better be forthcoming without delay or Sir Gerard would likely find no alternative but to resort to such remedies as might be available. After all, who would blame him? Jane might yet find herself set aside, banished to rot away the rest of her life in the cloister. Men had legitimised bastards before now, and the good Lord knew Gerard had plenty to choose from.

As she lay in her lonely bed, her husband long departed for whatever warmer nest he might find, Jane reflected on that truth. She recognised her husband's features on more than a few infant faces around their keep and the nearby villages and hamlets. Her barren marriage was clearly not his failing. What would become of her if he did indeed conclude that an infertile wife was of no further use to him?

Jane pondered the lacklustre nature of their personal relationship and wondered if the outcome might have been different were she able to stir her husband's passions even slightly. He was a man with healthy appetites, but it seemed nothing about her inspired his hungers. Although spankings had been mercifully few and far between she could hardly even describe their relationship as convivial. His visits to her chamber had been regular over the years, but his lovemaking was merely functional. Her handsome husband did not seek out Jane for her company nor for conversation, and most certainly not for sensual pleasure. All those he found elsewhere. The one thing he looked to her for, she could not provide.

Jane toyed with the notion that a more passionate relationship might have borne fruit, but quickly dismissed that foolishness. She knew of plenty of children who were the products of loveless marriages such as hers. No, she was merely unlucky.

Hours passed as she tossed and turned, seeking a comfortable position and finding none. The silence of the huge stone castle was eerie, the darkness outside her narrow window absolute. She could not discern so much as one star in the inky sky, no moonlight, nothing to lift the gloom which seemed to pervade her very soul.

The rhythmic thud of approaching hooves took her by surprise. Visitors were not infrequent here at Haveringham, but they did not generally arrive in the dead of night. As the sound turned to the clatter of hooves on cobbles Jane slipped from her bed to peer out of the window into the courtyard below.

Men's voices reached her, and she watched as two of her husband's grooms rushed across the yard, rubbing sleep from their eyes as they ran to seize the dangling reins of the single horse now prancing around their bailey. The rider slid from the saddle, swaying as his feet connected with the flags. He struggled to right himself, then limped toward the main portal. As he glanced up at the castle looming above him Jane caught sight properly of his features.

Garrick. Her husband's captain of the guard, the messenger from the King's forces.

Without hesitating for even a moment Jane grabbed a robe and wrapped it around herself as she dashed for the door. She expected to meet her husband, also heading down to greet the man, but the corridors and stairways remained deserted. When she arrived in the hall it was to find Garrick, his outdoor cloak still around his shoulders, leaning on the long central table. The soldier was clutching his side and gasping for breath. A somewhat bewildered and bleary-eyed kitchen lad hovered beside him.

Jane bustled in, her usual responsibilities guiding her first response. She ordered the boy to find food and drink for the newcomer, then she grabbed the one lighted candle from the table and used that to illuminate several wall torches. By the time she returned to the table Garrick had staggered into a seat and was accepting a tankard of fine mead from the lad. Jane seated herself opposite and surveyed the man before her.

In the lamplight she could see his face was ashen, and his hands bloodstained. He wore no gloves, neither did he appear to possess a sword. He swayed dangerously in his seat, and as his cloak gaped open she saw a huge bloodstain covering most of his right side.

"Garrick, you are injured. We should—"

As Jane stood again, ready to summon more aid, the soldier waved her effort aside. "I must speak to Sir Gerard. At once."

"He will be here shortly, I do not doubt."

"He... the King...." The man slumped forward to rest his head on the table. He groaned, then promptly shifted to puke the contents of his stomach all over the clean rushes on the floor.

Jane ignored the mess, leaning forward to grasp the man's shoulder. He had news of the battle, and she would have it before he lost consciousness or worse.

"How goes it with Richard? Is the King victorious? Tell me, at once."

Garrick shook his head, as though refusing to impart his report to any but her husband. He looked up at Jane, his eyes starting to roll in his head. The man was dying before her.

"Tell me. Now. How fares the King's cause?”

"The King is dead." The man uttered the words, then allowed his head to slump back onto the table.

"No!" Jane could not accept his words. Garrick must be mistaken, or delirious, or lying. He had clearly seen battle, had been grievously injured, and that could addle any man's brains. She reached for the tankard and lifted the soldier's head to press the rim to his lips. "Drink, you will feel better. We shall dress your wounds, and—"

"The King is dead. I saw him fall." Garrick shoved the tankard aside and raised his gaze to hers. His expression seemed lucid now, and Jane could detect no signs of confusion.

"You cannot have seen that. His guards would protect him. You are mistaken."

"Nay, my lady. I saw him fall, slain by a single blow from an axe. I saw his crown topple from his brow to roll into the hedgerow. One of the Tudor's men grabbed it and held it aloft on the point of his sword as the King lay in the dirt. I saw it, I saw it all with my own eyes."

Jane's knees started to buckle. Though she knew in her heart that Garrick spoke the truth, and that his report was accurate, still she did not, could not accept that her beloved childhood hero was lost, killed in such an ignominious manner. She staggered back as though taking the deathblow herself.

"Take care of him. I... I shall go to summon my husband. Perhaps he—"

"'Tis over, my lady. The battle is lost. The Tudor has the throne."

Garrick's parting words pursued Jane as she grabbed her candle again and used it to light her way as she dashed back up the staircase. She darted past startled servants, disturbed from their slumber by the commotion and only now starting to emerge. Jane ignored them all as she rushed to her husband's chamber. Despite everything, despite his indifference and her own growing mistrust of his intentions towards her, Gerard was the one person Jane sought as her heart splintered. Her all-powerful husband would know what to do. He alone could make her whole again in the face of such overwhelming tragedy.

She reached the door to his chamber and paused, her hand raised to knock. She drew in several long breaths, seeking to steady herself, then placed her hand on the doorknob.

Voices reached her from within. Her husband was not asleep after all, and neither was he alone. He must have heard the sounds of Garrick's arrival and summoned his page to aid him in his ablutions. As Jane twisted the knob, she realised that the second voice was not that of Edmund, the young lad serving as squire to her lord. It was a female voice, and unless she was sorely mistaken it belonged to one of her own maidservants. Betsy was a pretty enough wench, Jane should not be surprised that she had caught her husband's wandering eye, but the wrench to her gut was real enough even so. And why now, on this night of all nights, just as her world was collapsing around her, why was her husband to be found cavorting with a common strumpet just when Jane needed him the most?

Jane turned the doorknob silently, and leaned her shoulder against the door. It opened, just a few inches, and she peered inside.

Jane had never slept in her husband's bed. He always came to her, in her own chamber, and left her there after he had finished. She was familiar with the room, of course. As chatelaine of this castle she knew every inch of Roseworth intimately. As she stared across the spacious chamber though she was utterly unprepared for the sight which met her eyes.

Betsy was naked, face down on the bed, her wrists and ankles secured to the four corner posts. Stripes criss-crossed the pale skin of her buttocks, the deep red welts left by her husband's heavy leather belt which still dangled from his fist. Even as she gaped in amazed horror, Gerard circled the bed, his back to Jane as he concentrated on the woman restrained before him.

"What say you now, wench? Have you had enough?"

"Nay, my lord. Never enough." Betsy peered up at the earl over shoulder, and her expression was one of pure, undiluted pleasure. She was aroused, clearly enjoying the whipping she had received and seeking even more punishment.

Jane blinked, unable to comprehend the scene before her.

"Shall I fuck you? Is that what you want, slut?"

"Yes, my lord. Please, please, I need—"