"So
be it," the young man snapped and plunged into the new wine.
Thomas
excused himself and started toward the hulk of the man waiting for him, the man
who performed most of his unpleasant chores for him, God's most obedient fellow.
Such devotion demanded reward, and as Thomas drew near the tall figure, he
withdrew his purse from the folds of his robe.
"Jack
Spade," he called out in warm greeting. "A pleasant Twelfth Night to
you."
As
the man beamed, Thomas considered a plan for the evening and shook out enough
coin to cover any pangs of conscience Spade might experience, although in truth
Thomas knew that no such pain ever plagued commoners. A miraculous breed, the
lowborn. Their measure of life was so simple, uncluttered by civilized
refinements such as conscience and guilt. They simply marked the seasons and
devoted all their energy to staying warm and well-fed. They were neither
perturbed by the thinker, nor tortured by the dreamer, nor dwarfed by the poet.
Merely step by step, they lived through.
How
he envied them. And, laying a hand on Jack Spade's shoulder, he whispered,
"I have need of a favor."
As
he filled the rough powerful hand with coin, he knew the man was his, no matter
how offensive the scheme or brutal the plot.
It
was after three in the morning when the last reveler stumbled drunkenly down
the cliff walk from Eden Castle, when the porters extinguished the last torch,
when the night watchmen lowered the grillwork defenses and secured the castle
gates.
The
servants, approaching complete exhaustion, retired immediately. The scattered
bones and bits of bread and spilled beer and wine would keep until morning. The
shambles that was the Banqueting Hall would be awaiting them at dawn, another
full day of backbreaking, bone-wearying restoration.
Thomas
had sent Billy to the Queen's Bedchamber shortly after one. The young man had
been drinking too much, a harmless state generally, but Thomas knew from
experience that too much wine could have a devastating effect on a man's
ability to perform. On this the night of Billy's initiation, he needed all the
help he could get.
Thomas
paced in his upper bedchamber, listening to the voices outside his window
diminish. It had been a good evening, the villagers warm and receptive. Feeling
mellow, he stretched out on the bed and wished that Jack Spade were bringing
him the prize. He chuckled softly, pondering his susceptibility to young
serving girls. At least this one couldn't talk and, recalling his defeat by
words in William Pitch's house, he considered a tongueless woman as the best of
all.
Softly
he heard the knock he had been waiting for. He drew his robe about him and
hurried to the door.
On
the other side was the slack-jawed countenance of Jack Spade, and in his arms,
lightly bound at wrists and ankles, a muslin gag distorting her pretty face,
her dark eyes rolling in terror was Ragland's pet.
The
sight offended Thomas and he ordered, "Put her down and untie her. Surely
such measures were not necessary."
Spade
stepped inside the room and did as he was told, explaining, "Oh, no,
milord, it weren't her. At first she was quiet as a lamb. But when she wouldn't
come, I had to pick her up and she did make an outcry then, and I was fearing
old Ragland—"
As
he talked, he withdrew the bondage from her arms and legs and left her standing
somewhat wobbly in a plain white nightshirt in the middle of the floor.
"Ragland's
the one," Spade whispered. "He fancies her terrible, milord. If he'd
known what I done, he'd come after my head." Spade suddenly stopped, as
though aware that he was saying too much. He wiped his mouth with the back of
his hand and murmured, "I'm sure he don't begrudge her you, though,
milord."
Thomas
found the man's presence repulsive. "She's not for me. She's for my
guest."
Light
dawned on Spade's face. He grinned. "A lamb for a lamb, that's what I
always say."
As
the man rambled on, Thomas kept his eye on the girl. She seemed frozen in her
fear, scarcely breathing, her eyes down.
Thomas
disliked what he had to do now, but he owed it to Billy, and while he knew it
would cause an increase in the girl's terror, he vowed to do it quickly and
gently.
Standing
before her, he made a quiet request. "Would you please remove your
garment?"
When
she failed to obey. Jack Spade laughed gruffly. "She's without wits,
milord, dumb as my brood sow. You want me to—"
As
the man stepped forward with his brute hands, Thomas ordered sternly,
"Stay away." Moving with care, Thomas himself unbuttoned the nightshirt
and pushed it from her shoulders and watched it fall in a small circle around
her feet.
Clinically
he assessed the body. It was good, firm, still developing, but full enough to
please a man. He stepped to the edge of the bed and motioned for the girl to
follow him. When again she either failed to understand or refused to obey, he
finally gave Spade permission to lift her bodily and deposit her on the bed.
As
Spade restrained her, Thomas turned a deaf ear to her whimpering and pushed up
the sleeve of his robe and with his hand began gently to probe inside of her.
She was tight, virginal tight. At last his fingers found it, the thin membrane,
the maidenhead intact.
He
stepped quickly back in an attempt to ease her fear. Such examinations were customary,
even for highborn ladies. A man had a right to know what he was getting. Even
though he was standing away from her, her objections were growing more
pronounced, the long black hair thrashing from side to side on the bed.
Thomas
smiled. She may be minus her wits, but a little spirit helped, heightened the
game, sweetened the conquest.
"Newborn
as the dawn, eh?" Spade said with a grin, I could a' told you that.
Ragland seen to that. Ragland ain't let a man come near her."
With
restraint no longer necessary, both men stepped back and watched the girl, her
arms attempting to cover her nakedness. She was a female of marvelous beauty.
There was her fear, however, and Thomas decided he would have to do something
about that. It was his intention to deliver to Billy the perfect gift.
With
the view in mind of putting her at greater ease, Thomas dismissed Jack Spade.
There was a moment's protest from the mountainous man, as though in spite of
his own limited wits he knew he was being dismissed before the sport began.
"You sure you can handle her, milord? I'd best stay, just in case—"
"No,"
Thomas said sternly, ushering him to the door. "Go to your quarters."
Thomas' voice softened. The ability to handle servants was an art. "You
must be tired," he added in a tone of consideration. "And I'll need
you tomorrow in the event my guest wishes to ride."
The
man bobbed his head. He glanced over Thomas' shoulder toward the girl lying on
the bed. He grinned. "Be sure and don't leave no footprints," he
whispered, "or old Ragland will have my hide."
Thomas
stepped away from the foul breath and repeated himself, "She's not for my
pleasure. She's for my guest."
Again
Jack Spade grinned. "I know others who'd serve him better," he
offered slyly.
But
Thomas shook his head, eager to be free of the man. "Good night then,
Spade," and literally pushed the man into the darkened chill corridor and
closed the door behind him. He waited a moment, listening for the heavy
receding footsteps, then he turned his attention back to the girl on the bed.
In
the dim light of fire and lamp, she resembled a lovely statue. As he moved back
to the bed, he stopped and retrieved her night garment. "Put it on,"
he ordered.
As
she scrambled to do as she was told, it occurred to him that perhaps she
responded best to orders. She sat, covered now, though a little slumped on the
edge of the bed. Thomas sat beside her. "Are you warm enough?" he
inquired politely.
There
was no response. He noticed that she still was trembling, and considered giving
her brandy, then decided against it. He recalled Ragland's words, "She's
never partaken before." To an untutored system even the smallest sip might
produce sleep. He wanted her awake.
"Are
you feeling better?" he asked kindly, bending forward so that he might
view her face.
Blessedly
she nodded, only a faint response but better than nothing. She was so utterly
childlike. He lifted her hands and observed their shape and contour, small,
though well-defined fingers, roughened and red from her days in the Scullery,
but nonetheless graceful.
She
permitted the examination, even appeared to be fascinated by it. As he released
her hands, she lifted them before her face as though to see for herself what he
had discovered. Softly she smiled. Then, with a delicate movement, she lifted
his
hands, spread the fingers apart as he had done to hers, and the smile grew as
though she'd mastered a complex game.
Thomas
found her completely enchanting. Quickly he stood before her and drew her to
her feet. "You'll come with me," he ordered. "You must work this
night."
She
looked at him as though struggling to comprehend. For a moment he debated
whether or not he should offer her a bauble of some sort, or even coin. Why
not? Billy would pay handsomely for such a prize on the London market. He
retrieved his purse from the table and withdrew one guinea. "It's
yours," he said, handing it to her.
She
stared at it but did not seem to know that she was to take it. Thomas placed it
on the edge of the table. "If you do well," he said, "you may
come for it in the morning."
The
girl merely looked at him and drew a deep breath as though confounded by every
word and gesture. Again he regretted the game, regretted his involvement in it.
Perhaps he should have sent Jack Spade after one of the kitchen whores. But no.
He'd promised Billy and he'd keep his word. If the young man failed to respond
to this, he was beyond all help.
"Come
along with me," he commanded and took her by the hand. He felt it grip his
in response, an unspoken bond of trust coming from her to him. His tension
increased as he led her down the narrow passage, through the Morning Room,
skirting the Great Hall, then fairly running up the flight of stairs which led
to the Queen's Bedchamber.
Before
the massive carved door he stopped. She was still with him, her fear apparently
gone. As he looked down on her in the faint light, she gave him a dazzling,
though blank smile. He knocked sharply on the door, then pushed it open.
Positioned
about the large room were three lamps burning low. He closed the door behind
him, abandoned the girl in the center of the room, raised the lamps, then spied
the senseless lump in the middle of the enormous bed, a magnificent bed,
constructed on orders of his great-great-grandfather for a state visit from Elizabeth,
rivaling the Bed of Ware with its splendid carved columns and damask
tapestries. Elizabeth had loved the West Country, where she had felt safe to
indulge her various passions away from the clacking tongues of the Court.
With
a wave of amusement, Thomas considered the caliber and expertise of passion
which would take place in the great bed on this night. Surely Elizabeth would
find it wanting. With considerable roughness, he nudged the sleeping lump in
the center of the bed. A startled and very sleepy Billy Beckford emerged from
the mountain of fur robes.
"Look
what I've brought you," Thomas said, trying to inject a degree of
excitement in his voice. Quickly he withdrew a lamp from the table and held it
directly in front of the girl. She shied away from the light, but Thomas
grasped her hand and drew her back.
Sluggishly
Billy rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat in a childish position on his
knees in the bed, looking more boyish than ever in his white nightshirt with
high collar and lace trimmed sleeves.
"Well,
look!" Thomas urged again, dragging the girl nearer to the bed.