“Betty?” Ian sat up in bed. “Is that you, lass?”
She closed the door fully, and now all she could make out was the white of the bed linen, a blob of light in the dusk. She dropped her shawl to the floor, tugged her shift over her head, and before her nerve failed her, she walked towards the bed.
“What…?” He didn’t get to say more. She kissed him, and his arms came up around her, so warm against her goose-fleshed skin.
“Betty…” he groaned when her hands slid in under his shirt. “We mustn’t. I’ve promised Da.”
“I don’t care,” she told him, and soon he wouldn’t either, of that she was quite sure, her fingers caressing the soft heaviness of his balls. “I’m no longer married,” she said between kissing him, “and so I come to you…” She raised herself on her arms to look at him, a dark shape no more. “If you want me,” she said uncertainly.
“Oh, I do, very much I do.” He rolled them over, bent his head to nuzzle her throat, and Betty’s toes curled together. Betty inhaled loudly when his cock nudged at her. Go on, she told him with her hands, please go on. She wriggled even closer, and finally he was there, where she wanted him to be. She laughed out loud.
*
“I must talk to your father,” Ian said next morning. They were alone in the stable, each of them sitting by a cow.
“Not yet.” Betty walked around with a sensation of disembodiment, her legs extraordinarily heavy while the rest of her was a weightless blur. She sniffed and blushed. She could smell him on her, everywhere on her, and she liked it so much she hadn’t washed properly this morning. A slight shift on the milking stool relieved the heat that flared between her legs…wanton, she chided herself. Betty Hancock, you’re wanton.
“Now,” Ian insisted, smacking the cow out of the way to see her.
“No.” She intended to take no risks, and if that meant forcing her father’s hand then so be it. “We wait.” They had until her eighteenth birthday, and she fervently prayed that she might conceive before then.
Chapter 35
Jacob rounded the corner of Watling Street and Bread Street in such a hurry that he crashed into the couple coming the other way. Only by his quick reactions did he save them all from landing sprawled in the unappetising gutter.
“My apologies,” he stuttered. “I’m so sorry, sir, mistress.” He helped the woman straighten up and was surprised to find himself face to face with Helen – Mistress Cooke.
“Inconsiderate fool!” the man huffed, rubbing at a smudge on his breeches.
“I’m that sorry,” Jacob repeated, “but my master has sent me with a hasty delivery to one of the seafaring ships.” With his head, he gestured towards the waterfront. After yet another quick bow, Jacob took off, and not one word had he said to Helen.
He had placed an arm around her waist to stop her from tumbling to the ground, and he frowned, trying to grasp what it was that was bothering him. It struck him just as he reached the Customs House, half out of breath after his run. Her belly… Jacob swallowed rapidly and shook his head. Fat, he tried, dear Helen had gained weight. A lot of fat to be in one place, a cynical corner of his brain laughed.
On his way back, Jacob counted. Helen had been married since late September, and for her to be heavy with child in May was in no way surprising – if it hadn’t been for those reassurances of hers that she didn’t want a child with her elderly husband. Jacob licked his lips. It had been a very long and intense night back in September, and…nay, of course not! He increased his pace, in a hurry to get back to Master Castain. His head buzzed with all the information he was presently revising for his examination the coming month.
Jacob had scarcely slept of late, working far into the light evenings, and spending a further few hours studying with Master Castain, who seemed as nervous as Jacob was. He stopped for a moment and gazed up at the May sky. These long evenings were something very special, purple round the edges with all the shades of blue one could imagine. Well, when it didn’t rain, of course, which it had done quite a lot the last few weeks. Fortunately, Jacob smiled, thinking back to a most agreeable hour a week or so ago, spent in the protection of one of the arches of St Saviour’s in Southwark with Charlotte on his lap.
He adjusted his breeches over his privates. Charlotte had a very competent hand, and when Jacob was in one of his darker moods, he couldn’t help but reflect over where she had learnt such skills. Maybe he should ask her, he mused; he could do that tomorrow. A smile spread over his face at the thought of tomorrow – he hoped she would like the ribbon he had bought her.
*
“Where have you been?” Richard cornered Charlotte with his bulk.
“Out,” she said.
The slap left her reeling. “Where?” The three apprentices in the workroom kept their eyes on the work at hand.
“In church.”
The next slap threw her back against the wall.
“Try again,” he said, “and the truth might be a better option.”
Charlotte’s throat dried up. Richard gripped her by the arm and she was half carried, half dragged up the stairs to the private quarters.
“That country lad needs a lesson,” Richard said once he had beaten the truth out of Charlotte. Every single meeting she had listed, from that first time she smiled at him in St Mary-le-Bow to this latest evening stroll beyond the Tower. The red ribbon had been torn to pieces, and Richard prowled the room, glaring alternately at her, alternately at the stained glass panes in the long low window that faced the street.
Charlotte sidled away from him. No one had ever hit her before, not like this, and she didn’t like the way Richard was looking at her. He blocked her way out of the room and invited her to sit, smirking at her obvious discomfort.
“The contracts, it’s time you sign them.”
Her hands were shaking where they lay in her lap. “The contracts?” She attempted an innocent gaze.
Richard gave her an amused look. “No, no, little Charlotte. That may work with a callow youth not yet eighteen, but it won’t work with me – not this time. So, the contracts, you’ll sign them tonight.”
“Tonight?” Charlotte swallowed. “But I’m not yet sixteen.”
“Ah, but I’m thirty-eight, and I can’t wait to bed my beautiful, blooming bride.” His fingers traced a patch of reddened skin on her face. “It’s difficult, isn’t it? To believe you have the upper hand and suddenly realise you don’t.” He leaned forward and wound a tendril of her hair round one of his fingers. “I chose to wait, Charlotte. But now I choose to wait no longer.”
Charlotte wet her lips. “I’ll sign them.”
“Oh, but of course you will.” He toyed some more with her hair, dragged a finger down her cheek, smiling when she flinched. “Tonight, before witnesses.” He took her by the arm and propelled her to her room. “I’ll be back in some hours, and I expect to find you radiant.” He kissed her cheek and all of her trembled. “Wear the brocade bodice,” he said as he closed the door behind her. To her surprise, she heard a bolt grate into place on the outside, and when she turned to angrily draw her own bolts, she found them gone. Charlotte Foster felt very frightened and very alone.
*
Luke listened in silence as a most aggravated Richard Collin expounded on Jacob’s deviousness, detailing meeting after meeting between Jacob and the fair Charlotte. The goldsmith couldn’t sit still, pacing the room as he talked, his big hands fisting whenever he spat out Jacob’s name.
Luke poured Richard yet another glass of wine. “Silly lad! I have repeatedly warned him off.”
“To no avail.” Richard threw himself into a chair. “Do you think he’s bedded her?”
Luke considered the question. There was no question that Jacob very much wanted to bed her, but Luke doubted that she had allowed it to go that far. And, to give Jacob his due, he was so besotted he’d insist on wedding her first.
“No,” Luke said.
Richard stood and tweaked his dark coat into place. “Seven, then, and don’t be late.”
“Oh, no,” Luke promised, “I’ll be punctual, most punctual.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Richard said in lieu of farewell.
“Keep what in mind?”
“That he’s your nephew.” Richard let the door swing shut behind him.
Luke opened the door. “Richard!” He waited until the goldsmith had turned his way. “I avenge my own. Best you don’t forget that, aye?”
*
“…and what about garlic?” Master Castain said, holding up the door to let Jacob through.
“Ah well, garlic…” Jacob took a deep breath to launch into a description of all the uses of this versatile little onion, but was cut off by a beefy hand that came down over his mouth. Jacob struggled, and someone clobbered him over the head. Vaguely, he heard Master Castain’s loud protests, how the door to the shop squeaked open, and the master was pushed inside before the key turned, twice.
Jacob was pulled to his feet. Dazed, he was led through streets full of people, people who stopped what they were doing to gawk before hastily returning to their tasks. He had by now regained his senses and tried to fight himself free. A decisive yank, and he had one arm free, but three against one were uneven odds, even more so when something sharp dug into his lower back.
“Come along nicely, or else…” The blade dug that bit deeper, and Jacob’s inhalation whistled down his windpipe. Sweet Lord, but that hurt! He rose on his toes in a vain attempt to evade the knife’s tip, and tried to control the loud thumping in his head that he recognised as his racing heartbeat.
They marched him past St Mary-le-Bow, took a left down Friday Street, and well before they reached Maiden’s Lane, Jacob knew where they were going, his stomach tightening into a hard knot at the sight of Richard Collin’s house. When he was led into the secluded yard and tied spreadeagled to the fence, he had to swallow hard not to cry.
He didn’t like the glint in Richard Collin’s eyes, nor did he like the look of those hands. And then pain exploded in his face, in his chest, in his abdomen, as Richard proceeded to beat him from top to toe. He almost fainted when Richard broke his nose. A foot was brought down on his toes, and he yelled out loud. His head snapped back when a punch was driven into his chin, a blow on his ear had his head ringing, and all the time blood was flowing from his nose, dripping from his bitten lip. An eyebrow burst, and Jacob sagged in his ropes, crying for Da. He heard Richard’s heavy breathing; a hand grabbed hold of his hair and forced his head back. Jacob could barely see.
“Enough?” Richard asked.
“Enough for what?” Jacob managed to say, his tongue probing his teeth.
“Enough that you never approach my wife-to-be again.”
“Your wife-to-be?” Jacob coughed. “So it’s no longer enough to abuse her? Now you have to force her to marry you as well?”
“Abuse her? Is that what she’s been telling you? That I make free of her on a nightly basis?” Richard leaned very close, but Jacob only saw him in a haze. “I’ve never touched her, you fool, and I hope for your sake that you haven’t either.” He straightened up and kicked Jacob in the balls. Jacob couldn’t scream, he couldn’t breathe – all he could do was register the excruciating pain that had his privates howling in agony.
After that last kick, Richard snapped instructions, and Jacob was sluiced in bucket after bucket of water. Someone crudely reset his nose, which almost hurt as much as the original break, and then he was led off to where Richard was waiting.
“Had I wanted to truly maim you, I would have crushed your hands,” Richard said, “but I promised that this time I wouldn’t. However if I ever – ever – find you anywhere close to Charlotte again, I will. Understood?”
Jacob fisted his hands. Yes, he understood. Without his hands, he was doomed to poverty, unable to work at anything but the most menial of tasks. His brain was incapable of processing everything that was happening to him, but one thing kept echoing round and round, and that was Richard’s cold assurance that he had never touched Charlotte. Jacob tried to clear his mind. If not, then why all the herbal remedies? Why all these detailed stories of evenings spent behind her bolted door while her inebriated stepfather pounded at it?
He concentrated on studying his ten whole fingers. He had no idea why he was here, looking like a dishevelled ruffian, or who Richard had promised not to maim him for life. Charlotte, of course, he smiled, seeing a weeping Charlotte on her knees, begging for him. It heartened him, this image of his distraught love, her fair hair undone, her blue eyes looking pleadingly at her stepfather.
“Come with me,” Richard said, and for all that he could scarcely walk, Jacob shuffled after him. He shivered in his wet clothes, his face was a throbbing mess, and at least one tooth was missing. He wondered if he had swallowed it as he had no memory of spitting it out.
He was dragged up a flight of stairs and led into a dark-panelled room, where he was pushed to sit on a stool. Jacob took shallow breaths and leaned back against the wall. He very much wanted something to drink, and then he wanted someone to tuck him into bed and promise him all this hurt would soon be over. Mama…he gritted his tender jaw in an effort not to cry. Instead, he wiggled his toes and a shaft of pain shot up his leg.
There was a commotion by the door, several male voices talking and laughing at once. Gingerly, Jacob opened one swollen eye and, to his consternation, the first person he saw was his uncle. He closed his eyes, hoping thereby to remain invisible. A careful peek indicated that hadn’t worked very well, because here came Luke, eyes blazing in an uncommonly pale face. Luke was intercepted by two of Richard’s men, and from the ensuing argument, Jacob gathered that his uncle intended to rip their hearts out unless they allowed him access to his nephew. The men were adamant, and with a glowering look that should have reduced both of them to smouldering ashes, Luke retired to stand on the opposite side of the room, his eyes never leaving Jacob.
Jacob wanted to reassure him, tell Luke he was alright, but everything hurt too much, and so he just opened his mouth a couple of times, blearily taking in his lavish surroundings. There was a table placed centrally in the room, and Jacob counted to twenty candle holders, all with burning candles, which seemed excessive given that summer daylight still lingered outside the long small-paned window. St George and the dragon, Jacob concluded after having studied the stained glass for some time. Dark polished floors, walls that were decorated with tapestries, several small tables that held goblets and flasks of wine – this room was grander than Uncle Luke’s parlour. He fidgeted. He needed to pee and his balls hurt.
*
“Ah, quite the blushing bride-to-be,” Richard said when he came to fetch Charlotte. She tried out a smile and straightened her spine. In the tight brocade bodice, her breasts rose high and round. Richard extended his hand. She glided over the floor, fully aware of how fetching she looked with her unbound hair falling down her back. Her heart was beating like a trapped bird, and when his fingers clasped hers, she could hear a golden fetter close around her wrist.
She entered the parlour on Richard’s arm, and the first person she saw was Jacob, a shivering, befuddled Jacob that gawked at her as if she’d been an angel come to earth. Richard made a warning sound, and Charlotte swept by Jacob without as much as a glance.
“My dear, you must of course greet our guests,” Richard said, indicating the men who were standing near the centre of the room. Charlotte smiled and swept them a deep curtsey. She knew one of the men was Jacob’s uncle, and a quick inspection made it very clear who that was, his bright eyes regarding her with such dislike she wanted to sink through the floor.
After some minutes of polite remarks, Richard steered her across the room to where Jacob was sitting hunched on his stool. Charlotte was inundated with shame for what had been done to him. He didn’t deserve this, not for loving her and giving her flowers and holding her hand.
“Do you know who this is?” Richard asked.
Jacob’s head jerked back, something green and dangerous moving in his eyes.
Charlotte cleared her throat and made a number of looking Jacob up and down. “No,” she said, “but I’d assume he’s an apprentice given his scruffy appearance.”