Part 2

A few weeks later, when the last beam had been hammered into place and the great towering edifice finished, she was proved right. The villagers watched, open-mouthed as cartload after cartload of provisions began to rumble along the street and up the muddy track towards the castle.

Lynet had never seen so much food and drink in her life. Carts piled high with great wheels of cheese. Enormous barrels of ale. Hundreds of bottles of wine, all wrapped in straw to stop them clinking together. Huge wains full of grain. A seemingly endless supply.

Next came several great carts carrying furniture. There was less of that, but it was impressive nonetheless: long folding trestles neatly stacked and tied down, with rows of benches to go with them. Even more impressive was what were obviously Lord Ranulf’s own things: an enormous carved chair and several less ornate ones, together with a heavy table; pile upon pile of what might have been tapestries but which could not be seen because they were wrapped in sacking to protect them, and last and most impressive of all, a huge bed. Lynet stared at this last in awe. It looked as if it could accommodate her entire family!

Finally, bringing up the rear, came a cart containing enough kitchen wares to supply the entire village: huge cauldrons, spits long enough to hold an entire pig, pots and pans and ladles and platters and serving trays. In the midst of this clanking cargo sat a grotesquely fat man, squawking in outrage at every bump.

‘Looks as if he likes his meat,’ grinned Walter. ‘Must be the cook.’ The cart jolted again and the man let out a stream of high-pitched invective in some incomprehensible language. When Walter burst out laughing he glared at him and spat over the side of the cart – which only made Walter laugh the more. ‘Let’s hope he don’t do that when he’s cooking,’ he spluttered. ‘Otherwise I wouldn’t fancy eating at Lord Ranulf’s table.’

As the cart clattered away up the track he wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes. ‘Ah well,’ he said regretfully, ‘that’s the entertainment over and done with. It looks as if that’s the last of them now.’

‘No, I’m sure I can hear something else coming,’ said Lynet. ‘Listen. I can hear voices.’ Her brow furrowed in concentration. ‘It sounds like… like… singing.’

She was right. Above the distant rumbling of cartwheels there was definitely the sound of raucous voices raised in song. As it grew closer and Lynet managed to make out a few of the words, she turned scarlet.

As the last cart rolled into the village all conversation stopped. If these were provisions, they were provisions of a different kind. The cart was brightly painted, decorated with ragged ribbons – and of full of women. And what women, too! Dressed in gaudy, low-cut gowns, skirts bunched up on their thighs and legs sprawled akimbo they were singing at the tops of their voices and passing a bottle back and forth.

There was a low growl of disapproval from the watchers.

‘What’s a strumpet, mother?’ asked young Walter innocently, as he overheard a muttered comment from one of their neighbours.

‘None of you business, my lad,’ snapped Blythe. ‘It’s time we were home.’ Despite his squawks of outrage at being removed from all the fun, she grabbed his arm and hustled him back up the street.

At the sight of the villagers’ disapproving faces, the women stopped singing. The tallest, breasts spilling over the top of her bodice, staggered to her feet and stood there swaying, one hand on her hip and the other holding the bottle. ‘What you think you’re looking at?’ she demanded drunkenly. ‘Think you’re too good for the likes of us, do you? Well, you’re not. So that for you and your poxy little village!’ Lifting her arm she flung the bottle at the crowd.

It shattered at their feet and she giggled, good humour restored. Focussing with difficulty on Peter Attwood’s slack-jawed face she gave him a lewd wink. ‘Bet you’d like to see more, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?’ she purred. ‘So here’s a free peep.’ Still giggling she tugged down her bodice and her bosom popped out, bouncing and jiggling with the movement of the cart. There was a scandalised gasp from the crowd as she leaned forward, cupping her breasts. Grinning lasciviously she thrust them upwards, stroking the nipples with her thumbs and running her tongue round her painted lips.

‘Don’t you wish you were doing this, my lovely?’ she taunted. ‘That’d soon put a bit of life back into your withered old stick.’

She might have gone further, but the cart hit a rut in the road and she lost her balance, and still cackling gleefully she fell backwards on top of the other girls. There was a chorus of drunken shrieks as she clawed her way upright, and as the cart jolted past she and the other occupants leaned over the sides, waving and catcalling. It finally vanished out of sight and the singing began again, louder and more defiant than ever, until it slowly faded away into the distance.

It was Eda who finally broke the stunned silence that followed. ‘Well, I never,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what the world’s coming to. Trollops the lot of ’em!’ She shook her head in disgust. ‘I’ve seen many’s a thing, but I never thought I’d live to see the day a cartload of bad women drove through this village.’ Still muttering under her breath she hobbled off, her departure the signal for the rest of the crowd to break up. In twos and threes they drifted away, still chattering excitedly over the events they’d just witnessed.

Lynet bit her lip to hide her amusement as Peter Attwood’s wife stalked off, nose in the air, while he trailed behind her still protesting his innocence. ‘’T’weren’t my fault she picked on me,’ he complained. ‘I never asked her to.’

‘Maybe not,’ she snorted, ‘but that didn’t stop you looking your fill, did it? If you’d gawped any harder your eyes would have fallen out of that thick head of yourn.’ She stopped so suddenly he almost fell over her. ‘Well you mark my words, my lad: if I so much as catch you sniffing round her skirts you’ll find yourself sleeping with the pigs, where you belong.’

Back home, young Walter was still pestering his mother. ‘But I want to know what strumpets are,’ he persisted.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, give over boy,’ snapped Blythe, rolling her eyes. ‘They’re just camp followers. They go wherever there’s soldiers. Make a bit of money by doing their washing and cooking, that sort of thing.’

‘Is that all,’ said young Walter, losing interest.

‘Yes, it is,’ said his father. ‘Now you can make yourself useful for a change and keep me company to the fields. The thistles are knee high thanks to the work we’ve been doing on that damned castle.’

Once they’d gone Lynet told her mother of the excitement she’d missed. ‘And you should have seen Peter Attwood’s face when his wife was scolding him,’ said Lynet gleefully. ‘I wager he won’t dare look near any woman for the next month, let alone them.’

‘And you can keep away as well,’ said her mother. ‘I don’t want you anywhere near the likes of them.’

‘Why would I go near them?’ asked Lynet ingenuously, despite the fact that she’d been planning exactly that. It would be easy enough to find out where they were encamped and to observe them from a safe distance.

‘You needn’t put on that face for me,’ said Blythe. ‘It won’t work. I’m not as soft as your father. I know exactly what you’re like. As curious as a cat.’ She looked sternly at her daughter. ‘I want you to promise me you won’t.’

‘Won’t what?’ said Lynet, wide-eyed with innocence.

‘Don’t play games with me, young lady,’ said Blythe, thin-lipped with annoyance. ‘You know exactly what I mean. Promise me you won’t go anywhere near those bad women.’

Lynet rolled her eyes and heaved an exaggerated sigh. ‘Oh, all right then,’ she muttered, ‘I promise.’

But her fingers were crossed behind her back!

The first opportunity she got, she was off. Making the excuse of collecting more wood, she made her way surreptitiously towards the soldiers’ encampment. As she expected, the women had set up their tattered tent close by, but much to her disappointment, she discovered her father had been right.

The taller girl was not there, but one of the other women was stirring a huge cauldron of what smelt like broth, while another was stitching a rent in a pair of stained linen under-braies, while their owner sat nearby, chatting amiably as his mending was done. This almost domestic scene was a far cry from the lurid picture painted by her imagination. Apart from their gaudy clothes they could have been perfectly ordinary women going about their daily tasks.

She watched a little longer, but all that happened was that two more men-at-arms wandered up and exchanged a copper for a bowl of broth. There was a little banter, but that was it. Lynet had seen more excitement at a village meeting!

With a shrug she gave up and set off back towards the village, and was almost there when she realised she hadn’t gathered any firewood. Tutting in annoyance she retraced her steps into the woods, her gaze fixed on the ground in search of fallen branches that had been missed by others involved in the same task. In fact, she became so engrossed in her hunt that she almost stumbled upon them.

It was the voices that stopped her. Male voices, followed by a throaty female laugh. She laid down her armful of firewood and tiptoed towards where the sound was coming from, careful not to step on any twigs and alert whoever was making it. Hidden in the bushes, she parted the leaves and peered into a small clearing, and the scene before her made her bite her lip to stop herself gasping in shock.

The woman from the waggon was sitting on a fallen tree trunk, with her skirts up to her waist, her legs spread and her bodice pulled down to reveal her bulging breasts. On either side of her sat a soldier. One had his thick tongue halfway down her throat while his hand worked between her legs, his fingers ploughing in and out of her exposed cunny, while the other played with her tits. He was sucking and tonguing one of her swollen nipples, while he squeezed and pinched the other until she whimpered with either pain or pleasure.

Their braies were at their ankles and the woman was gripping a cock in each hand, stroking and kneading the thick shafts. Lynet bit back a snort of hysterical laughter. They were standing to attention indeed!

As she stood, unable to tear her gaze away, the soldier on the left groaned and pulled his mouth away. ‘On your knees and suck it, bitch,’ he said thickly.

Obediently, the woman slid from the tree trunk until she was kneeling between his parted legs. Lynet watched in fascinated disgust as she took his swollen prick and began to flick the engorged purple head with her tongue, before allowing it to plunge between her wet, red lips. He groaned with pleasure as she began to suck, her head bobbing up and down as his cock slid in and out of her mouth.

His mate watched for a few moments, grinning as he played with his own member, pulling and tugging it until the bulbous tip was so swollen Lynet thought it might explode. Then he flung himself down behind the woman and hauled her fallen skirts up again to reveal her plump white bottom.

Gripping her hips he hauled her up until she was on all fours and forced her legs wider. Even from where she was standing, Lynet could see the thick lips of her vulva as he parted them to reveal the glistening pink inside. Taking his stout cock in one hand, he held them apart with the other and forced himself inside her.

His hairy buttocks clenched and unclenched as he rammed himself in and out, his shaft glistening as it withdrew, only to thrust deeper. The woman’s breasts bounced and jiggled and her head bobbed in time to each stroke, as one cock plunged into her and she sucked off the other.

Finally the one behind her gave one last mighty thrust and went rigid as he spent his seed. The seated one took a few seconds more, then his hips jerked and he too threw back his head and groaned in release.

Now it was over and done with the woman was all business again. Ignoring the men she got to her feet, shook out her skirts, tucked her breasts away and checked her small leather purse to see that the coins she’d been paid were still safe.

As she looked up from picking grass from her skirts, her hard eyes met Lynet’s horrified ones. Grinning, she licked the last few pearls of seed from her scarlet lips and winked lewdly.

Starting away like a frightened hare Lynet whirled, grabbed up her firewood and fled.

‘About time too,’ said Blythe. ‘The time you took, I was beginning to think you’d got lost in the woods.’ She peered more closely at Lynet. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘Your cheeks are very flushed.’ Reaching out, she laid a cool hand on Lynet’s forehead and her face twisted in anxiety. ‘I fear you are running a fever.’

‘Do not fuss so,’ said Lynet, shaking off her mother’s unwelcome attentions. ‘I’m just hot from carrying the wood. I do not have a fever.’

Or if she did, it was a fever in the blood. She could not shake the images of what she’d witnessed from her head, and they left her in a turmoil. Disgust warred with desire and the hot stirring in her loins shamed her. What would it be like to sell your body? To give yourself to whoever had the price in their purse, no matter how repulsive? She shuddered. Thank God, she would never have to find out.

‘I knew it!’ cried Blythe. ‘You are shivering now. You are sickening. Get out of those sweaty clothes and go and lie down in my bed. I will mix you a decoction before it gets any worse.’

Despite her protests, Lynet found herself bundled through to her parent’s room and forced into bed. Ten minutes later her mother reappeared with a foul-tasting remedy, and stood over her until she’d drunk the last drop.

‘There,’ she said, taking back the empty beaker. ‘Whatever it is, that will sweat it out of you.’ She pulled up the coverlet and tucked it tenderly around Lynet. ‘Now try and sleep. I’ll make sure young Walter does not disturb you.’ She left, closing the door quietly behind her.

It was not long before the medicine began to take effect. A wave of heat washed over Lynet and even the weight of the thin cover became unbearable. She tossed it off and spread her arms and legs, desperately trying to find some patch of coolness. Even in the darkened room her pale body seemed to glisten beneath its coating of sweat.

With the heat came the images. She was back in the woods, but this time she was the one kneeling between the soldier’s legs and taking his rigid cock in her mouth. She was the one spreading her legs to be taken from behind. She was the one being ravished by two men at once.

With a groan she ran one hand over the flat plain of her damp belly to the throbbing place between her thighs, while the other toyed with her hardening nipples. Parting the lips of her sex she slipped two fingers inside herself, feeling them engulfed in her own hot wetness. Her thumb gently teased the hard bud of her clitoris and she began to move her fingers in and out, slowly at first, then faster and faster as she imagined the unknown man’s hard prick ramming into her.

Her breath came in ragged gasps and her hips jerked as she came in a wave of sensations, then sagged back against the sweat-sodden bed. As her breathing slowed again shame welled up inside her. She pulled the cover back up and huddled beneath it. What decent woman would have such thoughts, or behave the way she had? She was no better than the trollop she’d spied on!

A horrible thought struck her. Would she have to confess what she’d just done to Father Oswald? What would she say? She groaned inwardly. She would never be able to look him in the eye again if she did. No, she could never tell anyone. It would just have to stay a stain on her immortal soul.

Her troubled thoughts were interrupted by the door opening again. ‘Are you awake, my love?’ whispered Blythe.

‘Yes, mother,’ she said.

‘How are you feeling now?’

‘Much better, thank you.’

Her mother laid her hand on her forehead again. ‘Praise be to God, the fever has broken,’ she cried, but guilt made Lynet irritable.

‘I told you, I never had one,’ she protested. ‘I’m fine.’ She regarded her mother sulkily. ‘Now may I get up or do I have to lie here forever?’

‘As you please,’ said Blythe, hurt. ‘I’ll leave you to get dressed again. Dinner will be ready soon.’

Remorse was added to guilt, so swinging her legs out of bed Lynet stood up and gave her mother an impulsive hug. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said softly. ‘I’m an ungrateful wretch. Thank you for your kindness.’

‘And I probably fuss too much,’ sighed Blythe, ‘but when you’ve already lost two children to the fever, it makes you careful of the ones you have left.’ She shook Lynet gently. ‘Now get dressed again. Your father and young Walter will be back from the fields soon, and no doubt as hungry as a pair of hunters. You can sit and talk to me while I prepare their dinner.’

As they talked the conversation turned naturally to Lynet’s wedding. ‘Now that work on the castle has finished we can get on with things at last,’ said Blythe. She sighed. ‘But there is so much still to do. There is the harvest to be brought in at the end of this month. I have not finished weaving the cover for your marriage bed, and we have not even begun embroidering your gown yet.’ She shook her head. ‘Not to mention preparing your wedding feast.’

‘Do not fret so,’ said Lynet. ‘Edric is so smitten with my charms I am quite sure he would take me in my shift, without an article to my name.’

‘As if your father and I would allow that,’ said Blythe, scandalised at the very suggestion. ‘Good God, girl! We have a position to uphold in the village and your marriage portion must reflect that. Do you think we would send you to your husband empty-handed?’

‘It was a jest, mother,’ sighed Lynet. ‘I know you wouldn’t.’

‘A very poor jest,’ sniffed Blythe. ‘You mark my words; if your father and I have anything to do with it you will go to your marriage as well if not better set-up than any girl in this village.’

Thankfully the arrival of the two Walters put paid to any further recriminations, and in the bustle of serving dinner the subject was dropped.

Not for long though. True to her word, Blythe began the preparations the very next day. Walter was sent off to Father Oswald to settle the day of the wedding. John Woodward, the village carpenter, was commissioned to build a table, two settles and the marriage bed, and the whole of the next two weeks were devoted to finishing the weaving of the cover. Lynet thought she would go either blind, or mad with boredom.

When that was done Blythe turned her attention to embroidering Lynet’s gown. Made of the finest wool and dyed a soft violet, with a band of green at collar, cuff and hem, it would have been pretty enough already, but that was not good enough for Blythe. Beneath her nimble fingers a veritable garden of flowers grew until it covered the skirts and bodice.

Coerced into helping, Lynet added her contribution in the shape of droplets of blood where she stabbed her fingers, until finally her mother rolled her eyes in exasperation and gave up.

‘Enough,’ she said, confiscating the needle before Lynet could do any more damage. ‘At this rate you will be married in red instead of violet! Go and…’ she racked her brains for some constructive errand to send her daughter on, ‘…see how Master Brewster is getting on with the batch of ale he’s making for your marriage feast.’

Grateful for any excuse, no matter how feeble, Lynet took to her heels before her mother could change her mind. Naturally, Master Brewster was coping perfectly well without any supervision from her, but he was a cheerful man and always glad of a little company, and when she left he presented her with a bottle of his best mead as a marriage gift. ‘For your wedding night,’ he said, nudging her with a beefy elbow.

‘Thank you,’ said Lynet, turning scarlet as he added a saucy wink to underline his meaning. ‘That is very kind of you.’

‘Not half as kind as your new husband will be, I warrant,’ he chuckled, as she tucked the bottle under her arm and made good her escape.

She peeked into the sawyer’s on her way home to admire her new furniture. He was just putting the finishing touches to the carving on the bed and she was subjected to yet another bawdy comment as to its future use – until his wife bustled in.

‘That’ll be quite enough of that, John Woodward,’ she scolded. ‘Look at the poor girl. You have her blushing with your vulgar talk.’ She turned to Lynet. ‘Come along with me, my dear. I have a pair of fine feather pillows for your wedding gift.’ She smiled proudly. ‘I stuffed them myself, with down plucked from my own geese.’

A coarse jest about ‘stuffing and plucking’ earned Master Woodward another scowl and a swift clout from his wife, but he was still grinning as Lynet finally left, carrying the two pillows with the bottle of mead tucked between them for safekeeping.

Her mother was delighted by them. ‘Your first wedding gifts,’ she said, misty-eyed, then she wiped away a sentimental tear and her usual practicality took over. ‘I shall put them in our room where they’ll be safe,’ she said, taking them from Lynet’s arms. ‘No doubt they will be the first of many.’

She was right. Friends and neighbours, bearing gifts ranging from a carved bone needle-case to a fine cupboard, began to drop in daily. Blythe was in her element, showing off the rapidly mounting array.

Edric’s father’s gift outweighed them all, though. His own father having died the previous spring, he had presented the young couple with his old house. It was small compared to Lynet’s own home, but it had been newly furbished over the two months since work on the castle had ceased, and was all they would need to start their wedded life.

When all her new goods and chattels had been brought in and arranged, Lynet looked round with satisfaction. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she smiled. ‘To think all this is ours. It’s beautiful.’

‘See that you keep it so,’ said Blythe, busily giving the new table a final polish and stepping back to admire her handiwork. ‘I want no daughter of mine branded a slattern.’

A brief pang of apprehension smote Lynet. In two days’ time she would be a wife, with all the responsibilities that entailed. There would be no more climbing trees or light-hearted roving the woods. She would be tied to this little house from dawn to dusk: cooking, washing, cleaning. Was she ready to be so trammelled with responsibility?

Edric’s face came into her mind and apprehension was replaced by anticipation. Of course she was. As man and wife they would face what life brought together.

Her marriage day dawned bright and clear. Barely able to sleep with excitement the night before, Lynet was awake before the morning light had fully brightened the sky. For a few moments she lay, listening to the sounds of the sleeping household, then she rose from her pallet, threw on her old dress and grabbed a drying cloth. Quietly opening the door she tiptoed out into the silent world.

The dew was still on the grass as she left the village behind, and as soon as she was out of earshot she let out an exultant laugh and took to her heels, running through the woods towards the deep pool beyond the ford. Her last act of frivolity before respectability claimed her.

By the time she got there she had a stitch in her side. Panting, she flung herself down on the damp grass until she regained her breath. It was beautiful. The birds, startled into silence by her wild race, had begun to sing again; clumps of marsh marigolds hung their heavy orange heads over the bank, and the early light through the trees dappled the still surface of the water. It was as if she were alone on the first day of Creation.

Getting to her feet she let her gown fall from her shoulders and stood there, naked as Eve before the Fall, enjoying the feel of the cool air against her hot skin – then stepped out of the entangling folds of cloth and made her way carefully down the bank.

The first touch of the water made her flinch. Her skin rose in goose pimples and her nipples hardened, but she gritted her teeth and waded further in. It rose slowly about her thighs, and she shivered as it reached her private parts, invading them with cold fingers. When it reached her ribcage she took one final step and threw herself forward, giving herself completely to its icy embrace.

Gasping and shuddering she rose to the surface again, tossing her head to throw her wet hair back from her face. She swam a few yards, splashing and threshing, then stood up and scrubbed herself briskly all over.

By the time she had finished washing her hair her body had acclimatised to the chill. Her ablutions over, she relaxed, rolled over onto her back and allowed the water to cradle her, gently sculling herself along with small movements of her hand as she gazed dreamily up at the pale sky.

The rosy tips of her breasts rose from the water like small islands. With her long limbs shimmering an eerie greenish-white below the surface and her hair fanned out around her, she looked like an Undine: an enchanting water nymph conjured up by the last magic of the dying summer.

Suddenly her dreamy reverie was broken by the sound of a muffled cough.

Startled, she kicked herself upright, her feet feeling for the smooth stones of the river bottom. What was that? Was someone watching her as she bathed? She scanned the bank, expecting to see someone peering at her from the between the leaves. One of Lord Ranulf’s men, perhaps.

But there was nothing. Nothing at all.

Her tensed muscles relaxed and she took a deep breath. Of course there was no one there. Who else would be out this early in the morning? The noise had been made by some deer coming to drink at the pool and frightened off by her presence; that was all.

She glanced up at the sky. Still, it was later than she had imagined and it was time she was gone. Swimming to the bank she pulled herself out and stood in the weak sunlight for a few moments. Water streamed off her body, and as she leaned forward to wring out her hair her breasts swayed, tiny droplets caught the light and for a brief moment it seemed as if they were tipped with rainbows.

She stood up and the illusion was gone. Picking up the drying cloth she scrubbed her skin until it glowed, threw on her gown and set off for home.

When she arrived the house was in turmoil. Her mother grabbed her and shook her. ‘Good God, girl, we thought you’d run away!’ she said crossly. ‘Where have you been?’

‘I only went to the river to wash myself,’ said Lynet, pulling herself free.

‘You might at least have told us first,’ her mother scolded.

‘But you were still asleep,’ protested Lynet. ‘I thought I’d be back before you woke.’

‘Well, you’re here now,’ said Blythe, dismissing the subject. ‘Let us get your hair dried and you into your wedding finery.’ She glared at her husband and son. ‘You two, get dressed now and then get out from under my feet. There’s work to be done.’

‘What work?’ Walter protested. ‘The marriage feast is already laid out at the Thane’s hall. What more is there to do?’

‘I have my daughter to get ready for her wedding, that’s what,’ snapped Blythe. ‘Now do as you’re told.’

Muttering, they retired to the sleeping room, reappearing a little later looking thoroughly uncomfortable in their best clothes. Blythe broke off from combing Lynet’s hair and surveyed them critically, then dipping the comb into the water jug she attacked each of them in turn until their hair was plastered smoothly against their scalps. ‘You’ll do,’ she said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. ‘Now be off with you. Sit outside – and keep yourselves clean.’

Once they had gone she turned her attention back to Lynet, teasing the snarls and tangles from her hair until it hung smoothly to her waist in a gleaming waterfall. That done, she helped Lynet into her finest linen undershift and slid her marriage gown over her head, shaking out the skirts so that the embroidery showed to best effect. The final touch was a circlet of wild flowers, which she placed carefully on Lynet’s golden head.

Tears sprang to her eyes as she regarded her daughter. ‘You are beautiful, my love,’ she whispered. ‘And may you be as blessed in your marriage as I have been in mine.’ She and Lynet hugged, then Blythe blew her nose on a scrap of cloth and became brisk again.

‘Come now,’ she said, ‘we must not keep your bridegroom waiting.’ Picking up the bunch of wheat ears and late flowers, which Lynet was to carry, she handed it over, smoothed her daughter’s skirts one last time and threw open the door.

‘At last,’ said Walter, getting to his feet. ‘Poor Edric will be thinking his bride has run away.’ He kissed Lynet and held out his arm. ‘Though when he sees you, I am sure he will feel his wait has been well worth it.’

‘You are pretty,’ said young Walter in unflattering surprise, then giggled as his sister made as if to hit him with her flowers – resulting in a scolding for them both from a scandalised Blythe.

Hiding her own smile, Lynet composed herself and took her father’s arm. Young Walter and Blythe fell in behind them and together the little family set off for the church.

As they did so the rest of the villagers, also wearing their best, gradually joined the little procession, and by the time the merry throng passed through the lych-gate the air was loud with laughter and conversation.

As they passed from the bright sunshine into the cool dimness of the church, the chatter ceased and a solemn hush fell. Lynet swallowed, feeling suddenly nervous, and Walter patted her hand reassuringly.

Edric was standing before the altar, and as he turned a ray of sunshine from the glass window caught him in a halo of light. He smiled at her and her nervousness vanished. This was the man she would spend the rest of her life with – and she rejoiced in it.

The rest of the ceremony was a blur. As Father Oswald recited the ancient words and they repeated the vows that bound them together till death, she was aware only of Edric’s hand holding hers and the tender expression on his face.

When it was all over they walked back into the sunshine, man and wife, and were immediately surrounded by well-wishers eager to kiss the bride and clap the bridegroom on the back.

Solemnities past, the high spirits that had been subdued throughout the ceremony rose again. It was time for celebration, and as they made their way towards the Thane’s hall there was much laughter and many ribald jests at the expense of the newly wedded pair.

The clamour was stilled at the sight of the wedding feast, to be replaced by low murmurs of appreciation. Blythe had surpassed herself. The trestle tables groaned beneath the weight of pies and meats and cakes. There were huge wheels of cheese, piles of loaves, and in the corner stood several casks of ale, waiting to be broached.

‘I bid you welcome, friends,’ said Walter, beaming round. ‘Come fill your cups and join me in a toast. To the health and prosperity of my daughter…’ he winked at Edric, ‘…and her fine new husband.’

They needed no second telling. Plates were soon heaped high, brimming beakers raised, and the piles of food considerably reduced. And as the level in the ale barrels fell, the noise rose. When all had eaten their fill the tables were pulled to the side, the fiddles brought out and the dancing began. Edric led Lynet onto the floor and soon everyone who was neither halt nor lame had joined in.

‘Do you think we can creep away unnoticed?’ whispered Edric, a few hours later.

Lynet eyed the oblivious dancers and grinned. ‘We can but try,’ she whispered back. ‘But wait just a moment. I still have to fetch the jug of mead Master Brewster gave us for our wedding night. It’s hidden behind the ale barrels.’ She darted off and returned a few moments later, holding it triumphantly aloft – which was a mistake.

‘Trying to sneak away, eh?’ shouted Peter Attewood, his face red with drink and dancing. ‘We can’t have that.’ He clapped his hands and grinned gleefully around the assembly. ‘Come on, folks, let’s give ’em a send-off they’ll never forget!’

Lynet and Edric looked at one another in mock consternation – and took to their heels with the entire village in pursuit. Holding hands and laughing they stumbled out of the hall, then stopped short in horror.

His figure a monstrous silhouette against the newly risen harvest moon, Lord Ranulf le Ferrier was waiting for them! Unaware of what had happened the rest of the villagers streamed out of the Thane’s Hall behind Edric and Lynet, then halted too, the laughter dying on their lips. Some had seized torches from the walls and in the weak light they could see that Lord Ranulf was not alone. Behind him stood twenty men-at-arms, their faces impassive. The flickering flames of the torches glinted coldly off their weapons and chain mail.

As the villagers stood, muttering uneasily, Father Oswald pushed his way to the front. ‘Good evening, my lord, how kind of you to grace our humble celebrations,’ he said, forcing a smile. ‘May we offer you a glass of ale to toast the happy couple?’

Lord Ranulf gave a bark of laughter. ‘Forget the niceties, priest. I do not come for ale. I come to collect my dues.’

Walter pushed Father Oswald aside and glared defiantly up at his lord, arms folded. ‘What dues?’ he demanded. ‘We have given you the sweat off our backs to build your castle. We have given you your share of the fruit of our labours in the field. The year’s debt is paid. We owe you nothing.’

Lord Ranulf looked down at him as if he were a dog turd he was scraping off his boot. ‘I think not,’ he said. ‘This is the wench’s wedding night, is it not?’

Confused, Walter nodded. ‘Aye, it is,’ he said in bewilderment. ‘But what of it?’

‘In that case I claim my droit du seigneur,’ said Lord Ranulf, with an unpleasant smile. ‘My jus primae noctis.’ At the sound of the foreign words there was a mutter of incomprehension, but Lord Ranulf ignored it and nodded at Father Oswald. ‘Latin is one of the tools of your trade, priest. Perhaps you can explain to this rabble what it means.’

Father Oswald’s lips tightened in disapproval. ‘It is a right more honoured in the leaving than in the taking,’ he said. ‘No God-fearing man would dare come between those whom the church has joined together in holy matrimony.’

‘Don’t waste your breath, priest!’ sneered Lord Ranulf. ‘I ceased to fear God a long time ago.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I take what I am entitled to, and to the devil with anyone who tries to stand between me and what is mine.’

‘For God’s sake, man, don’t just stand there bandying words,’ said Walter, gripping Father Oswald’s arm. ‘What is he talking about?’

‘The jus primae noctis,’ said Father Oswald heavily. ‘It says the Lord of the Manor may exercise his right to claim the bride of any of his vassals on her wedding night.’

At those words the bottle of mead slipped from Lynet’s nerveless fingers and shattered on a stone. An icy hand gripped her bowels and she huddled closer to Edric for warmth. He could not mean it. Surely this was some kind of evil jest?

If it was he was not laughing. Instead he nodded to his men. ‘Take her!’ he ordered.

It was too much for Walter, and forgetting his place in his fury he made at his tormentor with his fists clenched. But two men-at-arms stepped forward and barred his way with their crossed pikes. As he stood, fuming impotently, Lord Ranulf leaned on his pommel, grinning.

It was a mistake. While Ranulf’s attention was on Walter, Edric seized his chance, and pushing Lynet aside he pulled the knife from his belt and threw himself at the man with a cry of fury, only Lord Ranulf’s battle-honed instincts saving him. One minute he was slouched over his horse’s neck, the next he was upright and wheeling round to protect the vulnerable artery in his thigh. He urged his stallion forward, leaned down and smote his attacker full in the chest with an ironclad fist, sending him sprawling on the ground. Before Edric could rise another soldier stepped forward and the point of a spear was pressing against the delicate skin of his neck.

‘Brave but foolish,’ said Lord Ranulf, smiling down at him. ‘I shall have the wench whether you are alive or dead. It makes no odds to me.’

‘You’d better kill me now then,’ choked Edric. ‘Or I shall kill you, no matter how long it takes.’

‘Fair enough,’ shrugged Lord Ranulf. ‘The choice is yours.’ At a nod from his master the soldier leaned on the spear and a bead of blood, black in the torchlight, appeared at the base of Edric’s throat.

‘Noooo!’ shrieked Lynet, and pushing aside the restraining hands of friends and family she flung herself, not at Lord Ranulf’s feet, but at the spearsman. So furious and unexpected was her attack that she managed to unbalance him, then threw herself protectively over Edric.

Cradling his head she glared defiantly up at Lord Ranulf. ‘Bastard!’ she spat. ‘You will never—’

Her words ended in a squawk. The spearsman, infuriated by his public humiliation at the hands of some slip of a girl, hauled her off Edric and threw her to the ground several feet away. His spear back at Edric’s throat he looked towards his master. ‘Shall I finish him now, my lord?’ he asked eagerly.

Lord Ranulf was about to nod his assent, when Lynet’s voice stopped him. She was on her knees, swaying, and she had Edric’s fallen dagger in her hand, its point pressed beneath the full curve of her left breast.

‘Kill him and you may take your rights upon my corpse,’ she said in a deadly voice. ‘If he dies, then so do I.’

‘And if I spare him?’ asked Lord Ranulf, in tones of amused interest. He’d expected tears and protests, but not this. This Saxon peasant girl had far more spirit than he’d imagined, and the evening was proving vastly more entertaining than he’d expected. ‘What then?’

‘I will go with you and do whatever you wish,’ she promised.

There was a cry of anguished protest from Edric, but Lynet quelled him with a glance. ‘What does it matter how he uses my body?’ she said. ‘My soul belongs to you.’ She smiled, despite her trembling lips. ‘He does not matter. Once this night is over and done with we will be together for the rest of our lives.’

She turned back and stared coolly up at Lord Ranulf. ‘So, my lord, how does this end?’ She smiled icily as she quoted his own words back at him. ‘The choice is yours.’

‘You drive a hard bargain, wench,’ he said with a grin. ‘But I prefer a live body to a dead one between my sheets. We have a deal.’

The dagger remained, pointing unwaveringly at her heart. ‘How do I know I can trust you?’ she said.

‘You have my word upon it,’ he promised. ‘Come with me now and your precious husband may go to his marriage bed alone but alive.’ He leered wolfishly. ‘Please me tonight and I may even give you a morning gift for your pains.’

‘Keep your gifts,’ she said. ‘The only thing I want from you is my husband’s life.’

‘Granted,’ he said, nodding at the spearsman to withdraw. The man gave him a sullen glance and did as he was bid, but not before he had drawn his foot back and given Edric a vicious kick in the head. Edric groaned, then his eyes rolled and his body sagged into unconsciousness.

Lynet gasped in horror and the dagger jerked in her hand, its point piercing her gown and the soft white skin beneath, but she didn’t even notice, her eyes fixed on Father Oswald as he hurried forward and knelt beside Edric. She held her breath as the priest checked his senseless form for signs of life, then sighed with relief as he nodded his head.

‘’Tis naught worse than a knot on the temple,’ he said. ‘He will be fine come morning.’

‘Take him away,’ ordered Lord Ranulf, and as he watched Walter and Edric’s father, helped by two of the others, lifted his limp body and carried it back inside the Thane’s Hall. When they had disappeared inside he turned back to Lynet.

‘Time for your part of the bargain, girl,’ he said. ‘Or do I send one of my men in to finish him off?’

‘I too gave my word,’ she said with dignity. ‘I shall not break it now.’ Laying down the dagger she got to her feet and walked towards him. His horse snorted and pranced, but she stood her ground, unflinching as she regarded him with contempt. ‘Do with me as you will.’

‘Oh, I shall,’ he promised, reaching down. ‘You may be sure of that.’ She had expected him to help her into the saddle, but his next actions took her by surprise. Catching her by the scruff of the neck he hauled her up, kicking and struggling, then flung her face down across his pommel like a sack of grain, the air knocked from her lungs so hard she could not even shriek her outrage.

There was a rumble of approval from his men as he flipped up her skirts, then raised his mailed hand and brought it down hard on the tempting target of her bare buttocks. Despite herself tears of misery and shame leaked from her eyes as he tore the last shreds of her hard-won dignity from her.

The villagers gazed at him in impotent silence as he wheeled his stallion round and lifted his hand in mocking salute. ‘It’s been a pleasure,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid I must bid you adieu.’ He sneered lecherously. ‘I have… how shall I put it…? more pressing matters to attend to.’

Still laughing he dug his spurs into his horse’s flanks. The beast reared, pawed the air, then as its hooves hit the ground again launched straight into a gallop. Lynet was tossed about like a rag doll. Her stomach roiled and she prayed she would be spared the ultimate humiliation of spewing out its contents.

Although the castle was barely a mile away, the journey seemed interminable. The lights of the village were left behind and Lynet soon lost track of place and time. It felt as if she’d been lurching through the sickening darkness forever.

Eventually the horse slowed, first to a canter, then a walk and she could tell from the hollow echo of its hooves that they were crossing the wooden bridge over the moat that separated the bailey from the motte. The stallion snorted as it laboured up the steep incline towards the castle itself. Lynet felt sick again, this time from fear. The journey, no matter how appalling, was better than what lay at the end of it.

Those inside had obviously been awaiting their master’s return, because Lord Ranulf had barely pulled his stallion to a halt before Lynet heard the heavy oak doors being dragged open and the sound of scurrying feet. Lights from torches illuminated the darkness, making Lynet blink. She felt Lord Ranulf slide from his horse and then she was hauled off it, as unceremoniously as she’d been hauled on. Her legs trembled and another wave of dizziness washed over her, forcing her to cling to him rather than fall. When it passed she dropped her hands, raised her head and stared defiantly at the men who surrounded her.

They were studying her with equal interest – so much so that the groom, holding Lord Ranulf’s horse, received a buffet round the ear for his curiosity. ‘Be about your business, rogue,’ snarled Ranulf. ‘And make sure you dry him down before you cover him.’ Chastened, he led the horse off into the darkness, back to the stables down in the bailey, rubbing his ear surreptitiously as he went. The rest of the servants took the hint and dispersed about their work before their master’s ire could descend on them as well, leaving only two men behind. Their faces were familiar, and as Lynet looked more closely she recognised them as those who had accompanied Lord Ranulf the first day he’d ridden into the village.

‘So this is the wench,’ drawled the first, looking her over. His sleek brown hair gleamed in the torchlight and his pointed face and narrow forehead reminded her of a stoat. He smiled, revealing sharp white teeth, which only compounded the similarity. ‘I can’t say I admire your taste.’

‘No doubt you’d prefer her little brother, Giles,’ guffawed the second, elbowing him in the ribs, his face flushed with drink and lust as he eyed Lynet lecherously. ‘Though speaking for myself, I wouldn’t mind a turn at her once you’ve finished, Ranulf.’

Hiding her fear beneath a mask of contempt, Lynet cast him a look of utter disdain, gathered what little moisture she could from her dry mouth, and spat at his feet. ‘I wouldn’t sleep with you if you were the last man on earth,’ she snarled, but her words merely amused him more.

‘Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart,’ he grinned. ‘Sleep is the last thing I have in mind.’ He winked at Ranulf. ‘You’ve got your work cut out tonight, cousin. This one’s a vixen.’

‘And smells like one too,’ said Giles, wrinkling his nose fastidiously. ‘Do these Saxon peasants never wash?’

This comment stung Lynet more than Simon’s lewd ones. She suddenly became aware that her hair was tangled, her wedding gown was stained with horse sweat and her body was rank with the perspiration of anger and fear. Her mouth set. Good. Perhaps it would put the bastard off.

It didn’t.

‘Fear not, Giles, get those foul-smelling clothes off her and she’ll scrub up nicely,’ chuckled Lord Ranulf. ‘I can vouch for that.’

She stared at his grinning face. How could he know? Then her mouth opened in shock as her mind flew back to her morning dip in the river. She could have sworn then that someone was watching her – and she’d been right! The filthy knave had been spying on her as she bathed!

‘Anyway, why in the name of God are we standing here debating?’ he went on, ignoring her look of outrage. ‘Let us get inside. My belly thinks my throat is cut, and I’ll need some sustenance for this night’s work.’

He gave Lynet a mocking bow. ‘I bid you welcome to my humble abode, my lady. Come, let me lead you in.’ In a horrible parody of her wedding ceremony he took her arm in a vicelike grip and marched her through the oak doors, with Giles and Simon following behind.

If he hadn’t been hurrying her along she would have stopped short on the threshold, stunned by the sight before her. The place was enormous! She had always thought the Thane’s house, which could hold the entire village at a pinch, was big, but there was no comparison. It could have fitted into the great hall six times over. Even with the torches flaring in their sconces and a fire burning in the huge hearth in the centre, the roof soared into darkness.

As her eyes adjusted she could make out more. At first glance the hall had seemed empty, but now she saw that the trestle tables had been folded against the walls, and that what she’d thought were shadows were actually sleeping men.

But even there she was wrong. Most of them were still awake. As Lord Ranulf dragged her towards the end of the hall she could see the glint of light on the eyes that followed their progress, and hear their muttered comments and muffled sniggers. Her glance fell on one, whose fist was working busily beneath his blanket, and she turned her head hastily away.

As they reached the far end Lynet realised that what she was looking at wasn’t the outside wall of the castle, but an inside one, which partitioned a section off from the main hall to give a modicum of privacy. Pushing open another heavy door Lord Ranulf hustled her inside.

It was brighter here, and under different circumstances Lynet would have been fascinated. But as it was she barely took in the rich tapestries or the table set with meat and drink. All she could see was the huge bed; the one that seemed to dominate the room, the one she’d watched being carted through the village.

She swallowed convulsively.

The one upon which Lord Ranulf would soon ravish her unwilling body!

She was startled back to the present by the sound of another voice. With difficulty she dragged her gaze from the bed and turned towards the speaker, and for one brief moment she thought the night’s events had driven her mad. There was no one there! Just one more pocket of darkness in a roomful of shadows.

She suppressed a yelp of fear as the darkness rose and moved towards her, then sighed with relief as it came close enough for her to make out the pale oval of a face. It was no unquiet spirit after all, simply Lord Ranulf’s own priest, Father Anslem. His black robes had masked his presence so effectively it seemed as if he’d appeared from nowhere, and she was not the only one to be startled.

‘Hell’s teeth, man,’ said Lord Ranulf testily. ‘I thought you were a ghost. What in God’s name were you doing there?’

‘Praying, my lord,’ Father Anslem said smoothly. ‘What else?’

Lord Ranulf gave a bark of laughter. ‘Plotting, more like.’

‘Me, my lord?’ said Father Anslem, with dignity. ‘I am a man of God. An official of our Holy Mother Church.’

As he spoke a brief glimmer of hope flickered in Lynet’s breast. Father Oswald had protested against the wickedness of Lord Ranulf’s intentions. Perhaps this priest would too.

But her heart sank at Lord Ranulf’s next words. ‘“Man of God”, my arse!’ he scoffed. ‘You were the youngest son. Where else could you go but the church? Besides,’ he went on, ‘those holy robes of yours never stopped you drinking and whoring with the best of us. What about that fat, dark-haired slut in Normandy? You were “father” to her brat all right.’

‘A lusty wench, indeed,’ said Anslem, with an answering grin. ‘Ten times a week she spread herself for me.’ He gave a lecherous wink. ‘Now that’s what I call tithing to the church.’

Lynet shuddered as the others joined in his lewd laughter. How could she possibly have thought this man would stand up for her? At close quarters she could see the marks of dissipation on his face: the slack red lips, the broken veins that stood as testament to his fondness for strong drink. His greed for food showed too. Even his black robes – rich and silken, unlike Father Oswald’s coarse homespun – could not disguise the paunch that lay beneath.

He must have felt the weight of her gaze upon him, because he stopped laughing and turned towards her. She schooled her features into blankness as he moved closer. His eyes crawled over her, lingering on the curves of her hips and breasts – then she gasped in shock as he reached out with pale, slug-like fingers and cupped her left breast, weighing it in his clammy palm. She jerked away, but not before he’d flicked her nipple painfully with his thumb.

‘Bastard!’ she hissed from between clenched teeth. ‘Call yourself a priest? I hope you die and rot in hell!’

He lifted his hand to strike her, but before the blow could fall Lord Ranulf caught his wrist. ‘Enough,’ he ordered. ‘How dare you lay a finger on her?’

Lynet looked at her unlikely saviour in surprise. Perhaps he was kinder than she’d thought, but his next words disabused her of this romantic notion.

‘She is mine,’ he snapped. ‘I have no wish to bed her with your mark upon her – and if there is any beating to be done I shall do it myself.’

Anslem wrenched his arm away, rubbing his wrist and glaring at Ranulf as he muttered curses under his breath. Ranulf grinned at him, good humour restored. ‘God’s truth, Anslem,’ he said wryly, ‘you have a foul tongue for a priest. I hope you don’t speak like that in front of the nuns; they would die of shock.’

Despite himself, Anslem grinned back. ‘You’d be surprised,’ he said. ‘There’s one or two of them not averse to kissing the Holy Relic.’ He cupped his balls and jerked his hips obscenely, bringing another eruption of bawdy laughter.

‘That’s better,’ said Ranulf, clapping him on the back. ‘Let’s not fall out over a wench, eh?’ He looked at his cousins. ‘Come, let us have supper and a glass of wine before I go to my labours.’

As they went towards the laden table he turned back to Lynet. ‘Don’t just stand there gawping, girl,’ he ordered. ‘Go and wash the stink off yourself before you get between the sheets.’ When she did not move he heaved a sigh of exasperation, and gripping her by the shoulders he turned her in the direction of the bed and pushed her towards it, helping her on her way with a stinging slap on the backside. As she stumbled forward he jerked a curtain across behind her, cutting her off, thankfully, from the rest of the room. At least she would not have to undress beneath the gloating eyes of his companions.

Unfortunately it cut her off from the light, too. A solitary candle guttered beside the bed, and by its dim flicker she found a bucket of cold water in the corner and ladled some of it into a washbasin.

Slowly she stripped off her ruined wedding gown and her stained linen undershift, tears stinging her eyes as she remembered how joyously she had donned them that morning. It wasn’t fair. She should be lying in her marriage bed entwined in the loving arms of her new husband, not here, preparing herself for the unwelcome embraces of a brutal stranger.

She shivered and thrust the thought firmly away. As she had told Edric, it was only one night, that was all. Tomorrow she would go back to him and her family and carry on as if it had never happened.

Picking up the washcloth she dipped it in the cold water and shivered again as she sponged her trembling body. Once she was done she dried herself quickly and slid between the sheets. The candle flared, then guttered out, leaving her lying rigidly in the darkness, dreading the moment when Lord Ranulf came to claim his dues.

When he did not her taut muscles gradually relaxed, as warmth slowly crept back through her. The events of the day had taken their toll and the low murmur of voices beyond the curtain lulled her into drowsiness. Despite her fears exhaustion gradually overcame her, her eyelids drooped and she fell into an uneasy slumber.

The sound of heavy footfalls woke her, and for a few brief, blissful moments she thought herself safely at home in her own bed. Then cold reality crashed home and she realised where she was. Her eyes flew open in terror. The curtain was pulled back and Lord Ranulf stood there, holding a torch. He thrust it into a sconce and stood at the foot of the bed, leering down at her.

‘I trust I have not kept you waiting too long, my lady,’ he said mockingly. ‘Rest assured I shall soon make up for lost time.’ He pulled off his red silk gown and dropped it to the floor, his undershirt and leggings following until he stood naked before her.

He jerked back the sheet, Lynet cringed and tried to cover herself, but he reached down and wrenched her arms above her head, holding her wrists in one hand. He feasted his eyes on her smooth body, gloating over her full, rosy-tipped breasts and the sweet curve of hip and thigh.

She stared up at him in horrified fascination. Edric was fair and slender. Lord Ranulf, by comparison, looked as if his mother had mated with some dark beast. Father Oswald had claimed that ‘le ferrier’ was the conquerors’ word for ‘blacksmith’, and looking at him now she could well believe it. His body was stout and strong, his shoulders seeming even broader unclothed.

She bit her lip to keep back a gasp of shock. The blade that had marred the left side of his face had done more damage. Even the coarse black hair that covered his chest in a matted pelt was not enough to conceal the line of livid scar tissue beneath. She mentally cursed the man who dealt the blow. Why had he not killed the bastard and had done with it?

Against her will her eyes strayed lower, following the thin line of hair that trailed down over his stomach – then she gasped again. Even partly aroused his manhood was huge!

‘Like what you see, do you girl?’ he goaded, the idea obviously exciting him, for beneath her horrified gaze his cock swelled until fully erect, spearing from his groin like a weapon. She closed her eyes in terror; he would split her in two!

The bed sank beneath his weight as he lowered himself beside her, releasing her wrists. Whimpering she squirmed away, but he seized her by the upper arms and dragged her back. Revulsion washed through her as his lean, hairy body pressed against hers, his cock digging into her belly, his chest squashing her tender breasts so that she could hardly breathe. Panic overcame her and she struggled desperately, trying to break free of his grip.

It was useless, her frantic writhing merely rousing him further. Holding her easily with one hand he forced her head up with the other and kissed her. His tongue pushed between her lips and she gagged at the taste of sour wine on his breath, then jerking her head back she sank her teeth into his lower lip. He recoiled with a curse and let her go, and panting she scrambled away from him, exhilarated by her sudden freedom.

But it was short-lived. With a bellow of rage he grabbed her hair and jerked her back so abruptly that she fell on the bed again, her legs sprawling. She glared up at him, breasts heaving as he knelt over her. His eyes glinted and he sneered down at her, his teeth stained with his own blood.

‘So, the vixen bites, does she?’ he hissed. ‘Well, there’s only one way to tame a wild beast.’ His expression became savage. ‘By the time I’ve finished with you, you’ll come crawling to lick my hand.’

‘Never!’ she spat, then yelped as he flipped her over onto her stomach. For a few seconds he savoured the view of her plump, white bottom – then raised his hand and swept it down hard.

Lynet’s buttocks quivered beneath the blow. Her pale smooth flesh turned even whiter as the blood was forced out, then reddened as it rushed back again. For a brief, merciful moment sheer disbelief rendered her numb, then the pain hit her like another blow. It took her breath away and her mouth opened in a soundless ‘O’ of shock.

Lord Ranulf smiled at the sight of his hand perfectly imprinted on the creamy skin. With studied cruelty he waited just long enough for Lynet to hope he’d done, before sweeping his hand down again, the sound of flesh smacking flesh echoing round the room.

This time Lynet found her breath. The blow, so fresh upon the last one, sent a wave of excruciating pain through her and she panted and bit her lip to try and stop herself from crying aloud. But at the third and fourth blows she gave up all pretence of self-control and shrieked in agony. ‘Please, no more,’ she begged, but Ranulf continued to beat her until she was reduced to a sobbing, whimpering heap. Her bottom felt afire, pain pulsing through her – but worse was still to come.

To her horror each throb of pain seemed to bring an answering throb of pleasure from the secret place between her thighs, until she could no longer tell the difference between agony and desire. Her whole body felt exquisitely sensitive, and with a groan she buried her face deeper in the pillow to hide her shameful response – to no use. Even that was denied her, for he flipped her over onto her back with disdainful ease.

Her pale body was flushed now; tiny beads of sweat coating her delicate skin. Her nipples were erect; the ice maiden had gone and in her place was a vanquished, submissive female.

He leaned over and took one swollen nipple in his mouth, running his tongue back and forth over it while he cupped her other breast in his hand, Lynet moaning and trembling beneath his touch. Grinning wolfishly his hand strayed lower, down over the hollow of her belly and the plump mound of her pudenda. She made one last attempt at resistance, pressing her legs together to deny him access, but a warning slap on her flank made her think again, and with a sigh she surrendered to the sensations pulsing through her.

His fingers stroked her inner thigh and she whimpered again, this time with pleasure as he parted the lips of her sex and pushed his middle finger between them. To her shame she was hot and wet. He slid another two fingers inside her, thrusting vigorously until she groaned and squirmed, rubbing against him. He rolled on top of her, a sturdy leg pushing her thighs even further apart until she lay helpless and open beneath him.

His cock was like an iron bar and she could feel it against her, demanding entry. Gripping it he rubbed the swollen head against the soft entrance to her body, until it was slick with her own juices, then with one stab of his buttocks he penetrated her.

For a moment she froze in agony as the tip of his weapon pierced her like a lance. Then he withdrew and thrust again and she sobbed and stiffened as she felt the full length of him sink into her, filling her completely; impaling her.

With exquisite slowness he withdrew and pushed. She sobbed again, this time with pleasure as he continued to thrust, his lips curved in a cruel smile as he watched the rigid length of his cock sliding in and out of her. Against her will she found herself responding. She was afire with lust now, her hips rising to meet each thrust with one of her own, drawing him deeper inside her, her head rolling on the pillow.

It was too much for him and panting he fell on her, crushing her beneath his weight, his hips jerking as he thrust. She wound her legs around his waist to urge him on. He groaned, his face grimacing in pleasure, and she shrieked her own release as she felt his cock jerk and his hot seed splatter inside her.

He collapsed on her, his penis wilting, and when he’d calmed his breathing he rolled aside and was asleep in seconds.

Lynet laid beside him, motionless in the darkness, his wetness cooling on her thighs. Tears of shame and humiliation meandered down her cheeks. This was her wedding night! How could she have betrayed Edric so?

Edging as far away from Lord Ranulf’s sleeping body as possible, she curled into a ball and sobbed herself to sleep.

It was still dark when she woke again, to hot breath against her throat and the feel of a hand groping her breasts, while another plundered between her thighs. She whimpered and tried to roll away, then gasped as cruel fingers pinched her nipple, sending a shock of pain through her ravaged body.

‘Lie still, dammit,’ ordered Lord Ranulf in irritation. ‘Have you not learnt your lesson yet? Must I beat that pretty arse of yours again?’

Lynet froze. Her bottom still ached, even the touch of the sheet making her wince, so the very thought of another spanking made her fearful. Still, there was more than one way to defy him. If he wanted compliance, then compliance he would have. Do as he would she’d lie as still and unmoving as the dead, and see how he liked her obedience then!

‘That’s better,’ he said as she stopped struggling and went limp. His hands ceased their groping and she felt his weight shift in the bed. There was the sound of a tinder being struck and she blinked as he lit a fresh candle, and by its dim light he pulled back the sheet and gloated over the naked girl before him.

Her golden hair was spread in a tangled mass across the pillow and the flickering candlelight revealed her body in tantalising glimpses: the proud breasts, the sweet curve of belly and hip; the enticing shadow between her thighs.

He cupped her breasts in both hands, the budding nubs of her nipples against his palms as he fondled her, then his leer vanished as she continued to lie like a corpse beneath his touch. Irritated, he persevered with his attentions, continuing to caress her, his fingers stroking her nipples until they rose and hardened. One hand strayed lower, parting the lips of her sex and seeking the bud of her clitoris, teasing it until it too swelled. Her breathing quickened and the colour in her cheeks rose, but her eyes stayed closed and her body remained unmoving.

His expression hardened. If pleasure would not move her, then perhaps she would like a little more pain. Turning his attention back to her breasts he pinched her nipples viciously, but she did not even flinch.

So that was the way she intended to play it, was it? Did she really think she could defeat him, Lord Ranulf le Ferrier? The thought of beating her again crossed his mind, but he dismissed it. He did not wish to damage her, and there was more than one way to kill a cat than choking it with butter.

As the minutes stretched and nothing happened, Lynet’s mind raced behind her fluttering eyelids. What did he intend to do to her now?

She soon found out. She yelped in shock as he seized her by the ankles, hauled her to the foot of the bed and pulled her legs apart. Then she gasped as he knelt and dipped his head between her thighs, his tongue parting the lips of her sex and burrowing between them. She tried to remain still, but as the tip of his tongue flicked tantalisingly at the hard nub of her clitoris her treacherous body responded. He smiled in triumph as she moistened, and he tasted the sweet juices of her vulva. As he continued to lap at her he slid his fingers inside her again, moving them in time with his probing tongue.

It was too much. Against her will her hips began to writhe. Panting, she pushed herself against him, her fingers clawing the covers as the wonderful sensations coursing through her mounted until she could bear it no longer, and with a shriek of pleasure she found her release.

But he had not done with her yet. Getting to his feet, his lips glistening with the sweet taste of her, he flipped her over onto her front and gripped her hips, and then pulling her into a kneeling position he sank his erection inside her. As her clutching wetness engulfed him it took all his self-control not to spend immediately.

For a long moment he remained immobile, gathering himself, then he began to move, slowly and deliberately, pulling out as far as possible before thrusting deep back inside her.

Lynet whimpered in a mixture of delight and despair as she felt the rigid length of him filling her completely. She slipped a hand between her thighs and groaned as she felt his hard shaft sliding in and out. At her touch he began to move faster and faster. His heavy balls swung against her and her breasts jounced at every thrust, until finally she felt him jerk and shudder. She threw back her head and sobbed as he exploded inside her, triggering her own climax with his.