Wages of Sin (22 page)

At the gate the guard did not even give her a second glance as she trudged through. She blessed the rain again. Had the sun still been out, no doubt he would have broken the boredom of his watch by chaffing any maid who crossed his path. As it was, he was far too busy trying to keep warm and dry to pay her any heed.

Outside she straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath. The air seemed cleaner away from the forbidding shadow of the castle. Resisting the urge to take to her heels and run, she plodded on, the veritable picture of a dutiful servant, resigned to an unpleasant task.

After half a mile it was no longer a pretence. Despite the cloak she was soaked to the skin, and the cracked boots had raised a blister on both heels. Thankfully, the church was only a mile away, on the outskirts of the village. As she crested the last hill it stood amongst the huddle of poor hovels, like a dowager duchess amongst a crowd of beggars.

The closer she got, the more she realised this was an illusion. This was nothing like the richly decorated chapel of the convent, with its polished wood and brass. The wall surrounding the graveyard was crumbling in several places and the stones had obviously been carried away long since, to be used elsewhere. As for the walls of the church itself, they were stained and cracked where ivy had grown wild and rank. Even the bell-tower looked distinctly precarious.

Inside, it was even worse. A puddle of water from the leaky roof sat in the centre of the aisle. The whitewashed walls were peeling and the mural of Christ on the cross behind the altar was so badly damaged by damp that the Saviour had almost lost his face. Only one eye remained, to stare at her accusingly. The image reminded her unpleasantly of Sir Edmund. The solitary tallow light, flickering wildly in its battered pewter candlestick, barely impinged on the darkness and Jane's nose wrinkled at the stench of burning fat that filled the church. She shivered and pulled her wet cloak even more tightly round her. It was colder in here than it was outside.

A movement startled her as one of the shadows detached itself from the surrounding darkness and moved towards her. Her stomach clenched with fear, until she realised it was only Father Andrew.

She had not noticed before, but the priest was as shabby as his church. The hem of his cassock was frayed and the elbows had been clumsily darned. Despite this, he possessed a quiet dignity, at odds with his obvious poverty. ‘How may I help you, my child?' he asked gently.

In response, she flung back her hood and his demeanour changed. ‘My lady!' he gasped, bowing stiffly. ‘My apologies. I did not know you.'

‘No matter, Father,' she replied, smiling. ‘We are all God's children, no matter how high or low our estate. I merely come to seek information.' She stared at him anxiously. ‘Do you still have the deed Lord Edmund put into your safekeeping?'

‘Of course, my lady. It is in the chest in my study. Do you wish to see it?' She nodded eagerly. ‘Then come with me. There is a fire there. Please, you must dry yourself and allow me to offer you some refreshment.'

Gratefully, she followed him out of the church and into the priest's house that stood beside it. Peeling off her cloak, she held her hands to the feeble coals and looked round. His ‘study' was a poor room, with only a rough chest beneath the window, a rickety table, a chair and a stool.

He dragged the chair towards the fire. ‘Please rest, my lady, while I bring you some refreshment.' Once she had seated herself, he hurried out.

When he returned he had a bowl of thin broth and a hunk of bread in one hand and a horn cup of thin wine in the other. Only after she had greedily consumed both did the guilty realisation dawn on her that she had probably just devoured the poor man's meagre dinner.

‘You must allow me to return the favour,' she said. ‘I shall have a basket of provisions sent down from the castle to thank you for your generosity.' And she would stand over Martha herself to make sure she didn't skimp on it, either. ‘Now, to business. May I see the deed?'

‘Certainly,' he replied. He got stiffly to his feet, walked over to the window and raised the lid of the rough chest. ‘Here we are,' he said, pulling out the scroll of parchment and proffering it to her. ‘Sir Edmund rode over here himself, first thing this morning to amend it.'

She took it, unrolling it carefully and smoothing down the coarse parchment. Her eyes ran over the thick black ink and she sighed with relief. There it was, neatly added beneath the earlier script: ‘The Chapel of the Convent of Saint Ursula'. She rolled it up again and handed it back.

‘Thank you, Father,' she said. ‘You have been most kind.'

‘Not I,' he protested. ‘It is Sir Edmund who is kind.' She gaped at him in disbelief. ‘He explained it all to me,' he went on happily. ‘How he is generously giving you the convent and its grounds for the benefit of the poor, in return for a few small services. Indeed, he is a truly Christian gentleman.'

Jane's disbelief turned to rage and she fumed inwardly. How dare he, the two-faced bastard? Exploiting her was bad enough, but to disguise his wickedness as good and pass himself off as a benefactor of the poor was beyond redemption. And he would hardly have bothered to enlighten the good Father as to the exact nature of the ‘small services' he was claiming in return for all his so-called ‘generosity'!

She opened her mouth to tell Father Andrew the truth about Sir Edmund, then stopped. He was still smiling over the supposed benevolence of his master, an expression of unworldly happiness on his face. Sir Edmund had already destroyed her innocence. Could she, in turn, now destroy that of this good old man? With a sigh, she nodded her head. ‘A truly Christian gentleman,' she agreed, through gritted teeth.
And may his black soul rot in hell!
she added silently.

‘I must go now,' she said, rising. ‘My thanks again for your help - and your hospitality.'

Father Andrew beamed. ‘You are welcome, my child. Is there no other service I may offer you, before you leave? Do you wish me to hear your confession, perhaps?'

She shook her head. ‘Thank you, Father, but I must return to the castle. Mayhap another day, when there is more time.' Her confession? If she started on that they would be here till the trump of doom!

At the door he sketched the sign of the cross in the air and said a quick blessing. She bent her head and crossed herself in turn. Turning away from the brief moment of comfort, she set her face towards the castle again, and to the weary path ahead of her and whatever lay at its end.

If she had hoped to slip back into the castle as easily as she had left, she was very much mistaken. Instead of huddling out of the rain, the guard at the gate was standing rigidly to attention. At her approach his face broke into a relieved grin and he strode forward and gripped her arm as if to prevent her suddenly taking flight. Despite her struggles, he dragged her into the courtyard by brute force. ‘I have her, sir,' he announced, hauling her up to his master.

‘Unhand me, knave,' she snarled, shaking him off and glaring at Sir Edmund.

He was wearing his riding gear and was almost as bespattered with mud as she was. Stepping forward, he grabbed her shoulders and shook her till her teeth rattled. ‘Just where the hell have you been, you treacherous little bitch?' he demanded. ‘I've had this place turned upside down looking for you.'

‘I merely walked out to see Father Andrew,' she retorted, wrenching herself free. ‘Is visiting the church a crime, now?' She stared at him coolly. ‘If so, perhaps you should shackle me and have done with it.'

‘Don't tempt me,' he snarled. ‘You'd not stray far with a set of leg irons round those delicate ankles.'

‘Pretty sentiments for such a noble benefactor of the church,' she mocked. ‘What a fine Christian gentleman you are!' He stared at her, taken aback by her response. ‘Oh, yes,' she continued with a sneer. ‘Father Andrew told me all about your “generosity”! Hedging your bets, are you? Hoping he will pray you into heaven?' She spat at his feet. ‘I think not. It will take the hottest fire in hell to burn away your sins.'

‘And yours, my lady,' he said softly. ‘Or are you forgetting how eagerly you joined me in the sinning?' It was her turn to flush and he grinned in satisfaction. ‘But I digress,' he went on. ‘We have not finished discussing this morning's escapade.'

She opened her mouth to protest, but he stopped her. ‘Don't waste your breath proclaiming your innocence,' he advised. ‘That pretty story will not wash. Look at yourself!' His good eye raked her from head to foot, taking in the shabby gown and cloak and the egg-basket still clutched in one hand. ‘What lady pays a visit to church dressed like a scarecrow? Do you think I am stupid? You knew exactly what you were doing, madam. Defying me yet again.' His lips set grimly. ‘And for that you must be punished.'

He leaned forward until his face was almost touching hers. ‘Perhaps you will be more anxious to obey your master after twenty-four hours with only bread and water for sustenance. Oh, and one last word on the subject of my sins, sweet lady.' He ran one finger teasingly over her lips. ‘What I have done already is nothing to what I intend to do next. So, if confinement bores you, think on that. Anticipation should help to while away the weary hours.' He stepped back, clicked his fingers and two men-at-arms leaped to his command.

‘Take her away,' he ordered. ‘And lock her in the turret room.'

 

 

 

Kicking and struggling, Jane was hustled across the courtyard to the east tower. The heavy door was unlocked and she was thrust over the threshold towards the narrow winding stairs. One guard pulled her upwards while the other, the erstwhile gatekeeper, followed behind to bar her escape.

‘Little bitch,' he muttered, smacking her viciously on the rump. ‘Cost me a week's wages, you did, sneaking out like that. Know what the sergeant said?' He mimicked his commanding officer. ‘“What kind of a guard are you, when you let a slip of a girl get past you?”‘ His voice became self-pitying. ‘Then he docked my pay to “teach me a lesson”.' Jane closed her ears to the string of curses that followed.

His companion grinned at him over her head. ‘That little black-haired whore won't be so welcoming this week then, if you can't pay her. Poor Dickon. I'll think about you going without when I'm buried between her plump thighs.'

‘Seems to me her ladyship here should make it up to me,' grumbled Dickon. Jane shuddered as his hand fumbled beneath her skirts and thrust its way upwards. He prodded crudely at her sex, seeking entrance, and his breath came heavy in his throat.

‘Who's to know?' he panted, fingering her excitedly until, despite herself, her juices began to flow. ‘There's only us here. We could take turns.'

‘Fair enough,' agreed his companion. ‘If you fancy singing soprano, that is. Old One-Eye'll have your balls on a plate if you so much as lay a finger on his doxy - let alone anything else!'

Dickon's hand withdrew abruptly. Jane breathed a sigh of relief, then squealed as he hit her bottom again, harder this time as he took his disappointment out on her. She stumbled as they reached the top of the steps and would have fallen if the other one hadn't hauled her to her feet, almost wrenching her arm from its socket in the process.

‘In there, bitch, and I hope he leaves you to rot,' muttered Dickon as he shoved her into the small room, sending her flat on her face. The door banged shut and she was alone.

Sitting up and rubbing her shoulder gingerly, she looked around. The room was circular and completely empty. There wasn't even a pallet to sit on.

Light fell from an arrow-slit in the wall. Getting shakily to her feet, she walked over to it, then sighed. It was too high to look out from, even when she stood on tiptoe. Grimacing at the pain from her fall, she limped over to the wall opposite the door and sat down on the cold stone floor, with her back to it. She would give no one the advantage of taking her by surprise.

It soon became apparent no one was going to. The thin shaft of light from the arrow-slit had crept all the way across the floor, but time had crawled past so slowly she had lost track of how long she had been in there. Self-pity made her feel sad. She was hungry, and so cold that her teeth chattered. Perhaps Sir Edmund did intend to forget all about her?

The sound of footsteps on the steps made her freeze. Was it Sir Edmund, come to gloat at her downfall? Using the wall to brace herself, she got stiffly to her feet and stared defiantly at the slowly opening door.

She sagged with relief as the guard entered, clutching half a loaf of bread and a large jug of what was obviously water. Without a word he laid it at the door and walked out again. She went across and examined her meagre fare. At least the bread was fresh and free of weevils and, thankfully, it hadn't been Dickon who brought it. He would probably have spat in the water, or worse, on his journey to the little room. Still, she didn't know if more would be forthcoming, and she would have to make it last. There were no facilities in the room, though, so the empty jug would have to serve a more basic purpose. She was damned if she was going to squat in the corner and piss like one of Sir Edmund's bitches.