Garnetta felt herself lifted gently and borne down a grass pathway. From all sides came the fresh scent of growing herbs. For a moment she was mindful of Karolan’s garden. She opened her eyes and found herself passing along the open archways of the covered walk. The pattern of sunlight and shadow danced on honey-coloured stone. Cloisters. This must be Holy Penitence. She was safe in the House of the Lord. Mutely she sent up a prayer of thanks. Light streamed in through countless unshuttered windows. Those who carried her paused in a chamber, where hangings of red and green worsted divided the space into cubicles.
‘Set her down there,’ said a male voice. As he bent over her, his face floated in and out of focus. She saw a strong, well-made face, one which would have been better set on a soldier than on a monk. Coarse brownish hair, lightly streaked with grey, framed his big features. His gentle voice inspired her confidence. She tried not to cry out in pain as her attendants laid her down on a pallet. The chamber smelt of clean linen. The straw beneath the pallet rustled as she sank onto it.
‘You may leave us now,’ the monk said. ‘Thomas, bring a bowl of vinegar water and soft cloths. I need to wash away this dried blood. Dear Lord, there is so much of it. It is a wonder that she lives.’
‘I have everything here, Stephanis,’ Thomas said, placing the objects on a low wooden chest which stood beside the pallet. ‘Praise be, her eyes are open. Look, her lips are moving. She’s trying to speak.’
Stephanis bent close. ‘What is it, my child?’
‘Garnetta . . . my name . . . Garnetta,’ Garnetta whispered.
‘Well, Garnetta,’ he took her hand, cradling it against the rough fabric of his habit. ‘You are safe now in God’s keeping. I am Brother Stephanis, infirmarer here. This is Thomas, my assistant.’
As Stephanis’s cool hands moved over her skin, gently washing away the blood and filth, Garnetta let herself go limp. For the first time in days she felt at peace. Her broken body would be healed, a soothing balm spread over her soul. ‘My confession . . .’ she murmured, recalling that this was somehow important. It was so difficult to order her thoughts.
‘All in good time, my child,’ Stephanis said. ‘Rest easy now.’
The monks spoke quietly to each other as they examined her wounds. She heard the sharp intake of breath, the note of concern in the younger man’s voice when he said, ‘Someone wanted this woman dead. What could she have done to provoke such ire?’
‘Little or nothing,’ Stephanis said. ‘There are brigands running loose who kill for the hank of bread in a beggar’s bowl and find sport in stripping the habit from a nun.’
‘For shame,’ Thomas said shocked. ‘It’s a miracle that the knife did not cut her more deeply. A wound to the throat ought to bring death.’
Brother Stephanis murmured his assent. ‘It ought to indeed,’ he said, absorbed in examining the wounds on Garnetta’s ribcage. ‘See where the knife went in? And here where the edges of the flesh are torn? A broken bone came out of the skin. She must have fallen and knocked the bone back into place. How extraordinary that it did not puncture a vital organ.’
‘This woman must be under the protection of the saints,’ Thomas said.
‘Hmmm. Then they were remiss in their attentions,’ Stephanis said dryly. ‘Look at the stains on this shift, the pattern of bruising on her buttocks. She was forced into carnal sin before being beaten and stabbed.’
Dimly, Garnetta sensed the younger man’s discomfort. He reddened, averting his eyes as Stephanis examined her body more intimately. His touch was deferential and she did not resist as he parted her legs and examined her privy parts. They washed her clean of caked blood and semen with more of the vinegar and water. Their voices seemed to come from very far away. Garnetta lay listening to them, while the quiet of the monastery seeped over her. Between them the two men managed to roll her onto her side, strip off her soiled shift, and cover her with a clean sheet.
‘Give this to the washer woman. Have them launder and mend it,’ Stephanis said, his tone brisk and business-like. He passed the bunched up shift to Thomas. ‘Well? What are you staring at, lad?’
‘It . . . it is nothing . . .’ he stammered. ‘Just that she is passing fair. Such white skin and slender limbs, like the statue of Our Lady in the chapel. See her feet? They have a blush at the toes. Surely angels have such feet.’
Stephanis cleared his throat. ‘Fair? I suppose she is by some account. Beware, lad. A comely woman is a lure to tempt the faithful into sin. Fleshly beauty is corrupt and belongs to the devil, God sees within. Now stop mooning over her. Save your sheep’s eyes for a village lass. This here’s a lady of breeding.’
‘Yes, Stephanis,’ Thomas said, chastened. ‘I just thought that . . . well, do you not think it remarkable that she found her way to us, all broken and bleeding as she is? It is almost as if God sent her to us.’
‘Hold your tongue!’ Stephanis said. ‘Do you dare to profess a knowledge of the ways of the Almighty?’
‘No,’ Thomas, muttered. ‘I leave that to those who are nearer to God than I. But all the same. Does it not say in the Bible that common men have been visited by angels?’ At Stephanis’s hostile glare he dropped his gaze. ‘Forgive me. My tongue has a will of its own. Will I get you a needle and twine to bring together the edges of the knife wounds?’
‘Not yet. I’ll spread some clean linen with healing salve and cover the cuts for the present.’ Stephanis paused and stroked his chin, a habit of his when thinking. ‘Have a boy run to the house of Mr Geoffrey Wenlock, the medicus who serves as adviser to Holy Penitence. I am in need of his expert opinion.’
Thomas looked sharply at the infirmarer. It was unusual for Stephanis to seek help with diagnosing an ailment. The last time the physician had been called to the monastery had been on the occasion when a knight had fallen from his horse outside the main gate, smashing his hip-bone. Stephanis had no liking for Mr Wenlock who would sweep haughtily into the infirmary, his face alight with self-importance and his robe – with the three fine furs of budge attached to the hem – swirling out and scattering the rushes thence and hence.
‘But do you not remember? Mr Wenlock has left his office in the town and departed for his country manse, there to wait until the pestilence has run its course.’
‘Ah, yes. I had forgotten. We shall have to manage as best we can,’ Stephanis said, a frown creasing his face.
The two men were silent. Unanswered questions hung in the air. Garnetta felt the tension of the older monk and the curiosity of the younger. In the distance, muffled by the thickness of the stone walls, she could hear the bell tolling for Vespers. A feeling of relief seemed to flow towards her from Stephanis. She could tell that the infirmarer wished to be alone with her.
‘Go you now to the misericord and eat your meal, Thomas,’ Stephanis said. ‘You have earned your corrody this day. There is nought more you can do at present. The wounds are clean, quite remarkably so. There is no sign of morbidity. I’ll give the woman a sleeping draught and wait here a space until I’m certain that she is sleeping.’
When Thomas had left the cubicle, Stephanis dragged the wooden chest closer to the settle and lowered himself onto it. Pouring a measure of liquid into a goblet he lifted Garnetta’s head so that he could dribble the potion between her lips. She swallowed painfully, feeling the liquid catch against the raw flesh of her unhealed throat. Stephanis waited patiently until she had drunk all of the draught, then he laid her back on the pallet. Garnetta closed her eyes. Already the soporific fumes were making her feel light-headed, stealing her thoughts.
She expected Stephanis to leave her to sleep, but after a few moments while he waited for the drug to take effect, she felt him lean close. He folded back the sheet, drawing it down until it lay around her hips. The clean air of the chamber was cool on her exposed skin. Stephanis sat looking at her for a long time, his hands pressed together as if in prayer propped under his chin. Her extended senses enabled her to catch the edge of his thoughts. So, Brother Stephanis was not as detached from worldly desires as he would have his young assistant believe. She watched him through the net of her eyelashes.
Stephanis’s lips moved in the words of a prayer. He was trembling slightly. On his face was a strange expression. After another pause, he bent over her. His hands, slender for such a large man, passed over her skin as he examined her wounds again, this time minutely. ‘Remarkable. Quite remarkable,’ he murmured.
Although she longed to sink into the oblivion of sleep, Garnetta fought to stay awake. The fingers that brushed gently against her breast, swooped down to skim along the edge of her jutting hip-bone, were practised in the art of diagnosing and treating ailments, but she knew that this was more, far more, than a medical examination. Opening her eyes a little, she watched him. At first, he kept his head bent, revealing the paleness of the tonsure on his crown. When he looked up, she saw that his face was tight as if he was in pain, his fleshy mouth twisted by an inner distress.
‘Can it be?’ he said softly. ‘An angel, Thomas said. Out of the mouths of simpletons . . .’ Glancing up almost furtively at her face, he found her looking at him. Jumping back as if burnt, he jerked the sheet back up to her chin. Patting her arm awkwardly, he murmured, ‘Sleep now, child. I shall watch over you. On the morrow I’ll decide what is to be done with you.’
Garnetta nodded, amused by the guilt on his face. He had done nothing that his office as infirmarer did not merit, yet his broad face was flushed and sweating, his mouth folded in tightly over his teeth. What a burden is carried by the monks of Holy Penitence, she thought drowsily. It is hard on them to serve a lifetime’s penance for the sins of the world, when it is heavy enough to carry the weight of one’s own sin.
Stephanis went directly from the infirmary to the tiny chapel of Our Lady, deserted at this hour when the monks were having their supper in the refectory. Holy Penitence was a wealthy house, with a number of rich and influential patrons, one of whom had given the money to build the chapel after his safe return from the Holy Land. The walls were of polished shale, as shiny and black as obsidian. Long pointed windows, set with squares of red and white glass, threw lozenges of jewel-coloured light onto the white marble floor.
Stephanis approached the altar, where stood the reliquary holding the fingernail of the Mother of Christ. The statue of the Virgin above it looked down on him with mournful, blue doe-eyes. For a moment he had thought they were grey, dark and with shifting motes of light in their depths. Her face was a white oval, surrounded by a coif and veil. There was no hair visible and, if there were, it would not be close-cropped and as black as sin. Her lips were pale, like the inside of a mussel shell – not red as poppies.
Stephanis shook his head to clear it and shrank before the purity of the icon’s expression. The Virgin was beauty and chastity. Ideal woman, with nothing of skin and bone to put damning thoughts into his head, to make his flesh rise up strongly from his loins and throb in the maddening way it was now. Dropping to his knees, Stephanis gave a groan. Lowering his chin until it brushed against the cold white marble, he crawled forwards. Muttering an Ave through his slitted lips, he stopped directly below the statue and lay face-down, his arms extended outwards in the shape of the cross.
Tears pricked his eyes. All these years he had been safe. No one knew about the perverted desires which raged within him. He had battled manfully, despising himself for his failure to attain the purity of spirit which he sought, resisting the temptation to take one of the child-oblates into his bed, as many a monk did. But he was cursed with a flawed nature. His dreams were filled with images of seething flesh. High round breasts, soft bellies, and that most devilish of temptations the female vulva. Ah, soft and fragrant it was, offering up all manner of earthly delights, tempting him with all its sinful artistry, confounding him with its tainted promise of comfort.
He had hidden his shame well, submerging everything of self beneath his vows of Holy Orders. But now, now, he was discovered, made naked, peeled bare until his very bones glistened with his lewdness. The eyes of the woman in the infirmary were all-wise, all-knowing; young-old in her exquisite face. She was the arbiter of his retribution, he felt it in his blood. She had looked into him and seen the awful taint of desire upon his immortal soul.
No. No. She could not have seen. She was near out of her mind with suffering. And he was her healer, appointed by God to relieve the travail of her sinful body.
His lips moved in the words of the Holy Office, reciting three psalms, a paternoster, meditative verses. Even while he prayed, his flesh grew stiffer, throbbing and pulsing. He pressed himself more closely to the marble, forcing the engorged organ down with the weight of his body. It was no use. The cold did nothing to relieve him. His senses swam, the blood drubbed in his ears.
He looked up at the Virgin, imploring her for help. It seemed to his fevered gaze that the statue moved. Her hands opened her robes to reveal a slender, white body. High breasts, tipped by wanton, cherry teats pointed at him. Her waist dipped down to a rounded belly. Her navel was a cup to drink from. And there, Oh, God in his Heaven, there was the fount of woman’s wickedness. The coynte was small, neatly formed, frosted with silky black hair. As the Virgin parted her legs he saw the sex divide. Plump red lips leered moistly at him. Stephanis screwed his eyes shut, horrified by the visual blasphemy.
Behind his eyelids, the vision of the fecund vulva remained. This was damnation, this was ruin. He must fight. He must be strong enough to face the treachery of his flesh. Trembling he rose to his knees. With shaking hands he untied the rope around his waist. As if he was telling a rosary, he played it through his fingers, knotting it at intervals. Raising the habit about his waist, he uncovered the stem of his flesh. Jutting almost straight up, his staff of Adam was flushed a dark red. The two stones between his legs were hard and shrunk up tight against his body. He gave a groan as his turgid organ jerked and throbbed. It was like a live thing, a separate part of his body, with a will of its own.
He must mortify his flesh. It was only through suffering that man rose above his animal-self. Had not the Holy Saints endured tortures and temptations?
Lord. Look down upon this thy servant. Deal mercifully with this miserable sinner.
Leaning back a little so that his staff stood out from his belly, he brought the knotted rope hard down upon it. The pain stole his breath. For a moment, the cleansing rush of agony brought a welcome relief. Tears welled in his eyes. But with the subsidence of pain, there came a heat and a potent stinging which added to his ardour. His staff twitched, standing out ever more strongly, the red flush of it like a beacon. Again and again he whipped his flesh, sobbing aloud at its refusal to release him from the grip of sensual pleasure.
The Virgin’s pale mouth seemed to curve in a smile of understanding and forgiveness. She was all-seeing, aware of the frailty of men. She alone amongst women was merciful. ‘Holy Mother, help me,’ he moaned as the hot, spiked pleasure bunched in his loins. ‘Take this burden from me.’
He raised his hand to bring the knotted rope down again, convulsing as a tremor of ecstasy passed through him. His body, surged, crested, and broke. The rope slipped from his hand as the waves of an intense climax swamped him. Throwing back his head, he cried out. Gasping for breath, he squeezed his cock tightly, as if he could contain the semen which spurted upwards in a creamy arc and spattered the marble floor of the altar.
Karolan leaned forward in the saddle, his powerful thigh muscles bunching as he clung to Darkus’s heaving sides. Foam clung to the horse’s neck. He could smell the soap-tang of its sweat. Horse and rider were near to exhaustion, but Karolan urged Darkus on. Cresting a hill, Darkus checked his stride, launching himself over the boundary hedge and plunging down the bank that led towards the river. Karolan let the horse have his head. Without pausing in his forward momentum, Darkus launched himself into the mainstream of the swirling water and struck out for the opposite shore.
Karolan laughed with delight at the horse’s fearlessness. The freezing water made his flesh sing as it lapped against him, raising his skin into goose-flesh. But the cold did not quench the flame of Garnetta from his mind.
All of the searching, organized by Romane, had come to nought. He did not need to hear the whispers to know that there was an undercurrent of suspicion amongst the villagers. Loyalties changed quickly enough when incredulity and fear of the unknown set the smell of brimstone wafting into their crofts. Let them think what they like, he thought viciously, in no mood to care for human-cattle with their little lives.
He had given Garnetta the gift of longevity, raising her high above the mass of struggling humanity, and this is how she repaid him. She ought to have fallen at his feet, sobbed out her gratitude. Instead she had turned her face from him. No one had ever left him before. His anger against her was tempered with disappointment, mellowed by his love and fear for her, but still it burned like a hot coal in his breast. The feeling ate at him, the anguish of it seemed too big to be contained within his flesh. Throwing back his head, he let out a roar.
His cry echoed in the still air. Sheep on the hillside massed together for protection. Clouds of birds rose from the trees in alarm. Darkus swivelled his ears, his eyes rolling back in terror as he kicked out at the swirling icy water. Karolan’s shoulders slumped as the rage left him. He spoke softly to the horse, using the voice of power. Darkus, calm now, scrambled up onto the river bank, snorting out water, shaking his head to send drops flying outwards.
Dismounting, Karolan led the palfrey towards a meadow. After scooping much of the water from Darkus’s gleaming skin with his cupped hands and rubbing him down with bunches of grass, he tethered him loosely. Wet and shivering as he was, he lay down under the spreading branches of an ash. In the far distance, he could see his peasants at work in their field strips. The burgeoning crops were as green as emeralds. On other manors the pestilence had robbed the land of its caretakers. Farms and crofts were crumbling into ruin, either through neglect or from the attentions of groups of roving brigands.
Garnetta was out there, wandering in a land made foreign by sickness, suffering, and starvation. Had she found shelter, he wondered. She could be many miles away by now, perhaps having joined a band of pilgrims. Sitting straight-backed, he began to breathe deeply, quietening his mind and putting himself into a light trance. He had tried many times to pick up Garnetta’s mind-trail. He tried again now. After half an hour he gave up. Readjusting his concentration, he focused on the place between his eyes until he felt the area there grow warm. Normally it was easy to call the Fetch into his presence, but he needed an unusual amount of energy to call up the spirit on this occasion.
His brow furrowed as he conjured up an image of the spirit. Ah, he had it now. Deep within the forest, the ragged shadow-form was hovering around a group of men who were in the process of butchering a stolen pig. The animal had been secured by its forelegs to a branch of a tree. The pig’s squeals and efforts to wriggle free were causing great mirth amongst the men who had captured it.
One of the men, called Edwin by the others, took out a knife and thrust it into the side of the pig’s neck. A fountain of blood spurted in all directions. While the men captured the outpouring in a number of receptacles, from a battered helm to a wooden pail, the Fetch wove in and out of them, gibbering with pleasure and bathing in their blood-lust. Unaware of the greedy spirit, the men went about their task. One of them, excited by the noisiness of the animal’s death throes, drew his knife and sank it again and again into the animal’s flank. The others called out encouragement as he carved at the haunch, until the red flesh parted wetly and the hind leg hung free. Shreds of bloody tendon and muscle dangled in the air as the pig contorted. Its uninjured back leg pedalled madly.
Karolan watched with mild disgust as the pig’s squeals grew fainter. It gave a final jerk, then hung still, twitching now and then with muscle reaction. Karolan focused solely on the amorphous shadow of the Fetch, drawing it to him with the power of his will. He felt its reluctance to leave the scene. The light within its form was glowing a sickly red. Its attenuated limbs flexed with pleasure as it imbibed the invisible particles of pain and distress. ‘Come,’ he ordered it.
The air around Karolan thrummed and buzzed as if a thousand bees were about to materialize. He sensed the Fetch’s anger at being summoned. Out of the swirling maelstrom stepped a tall, slender youth. His skin was golden, his hair the colour of ripe corn. Golden eyes and moist lips smiled at Karolan.
‘I’m impressed,’ Karolan said mildly, hiding the shock he felt. The apparition was unexpected. Rarely had the spirit broken through into the world of matter in a solid human shape. It must have fed well indeed.
The Fetch turned to show off the perfection of the form with which it had clothed itself. A well-formed back, deeply indented at the spine, curved down to a pair of taut buttocks. The limbs were muscular, but smooth. The spirit faced him again. Its features were classical. The sculpted lips parted and the tip of a moist tongue appeared.
‘Beautiful am I, Master?’ the Fetch crooned, sliding one hand down to the slim hips and toying with the light-golden pubic fleece before encircling the heavy phallus.
The cock was thick, ridged with veins. It looked potent, out of proportion with the youth’s slender frame. Despite his annoyance with the spirit, Karolan felt a flicker of sexual interest. The Fetch felt it too. It tittered and threw back its head so that the wheaten curls danced. Sunlight gleamed on the gold rings which pierced the youth’s nipples. A metal band encircled the pale column of his neck.
‘A slave, I am, to your pleasure. Serve you, shall I?’ it said, working its hand back and forth along the phallus, smoothing back the tight skin of the glans to reveal the moist tip. At the slitted mouth, a single drop glistened like a pearl or a drop of crystal. ‘What is it you relish?’ The youth’s lips pursed invitingly.
‘Stop that,’ Karolan ground out. Damn the infernal spirit. It knew his tastes too well. ‘I want information.’
The image of the golden youth wavered, the sharp outline of the limbs trembled and the form dissolved on the air, spreading like a spillage of dye into a river. ‘Going. Going. Gone,’ the Fetch said, its voice sonorous with regret. ‘Too, too bad.’
‘Where is Garnetta?’
‘Oh, that one is lost,’ it said airily. ‘Shall we make another, Master?’
‘What do you mean, “lost”? Explain yourself. Did you find her? Tell me all you know. Remember that you are bound to obey me.’
‘I know it, Master,’ the spirit said sulkily, its shadow shape drifting on the air as if borne up by the warm currents. The red within its fabric faded and turned to a sullen brown. There was a long pause before it replied. ‘Followed her into the forest, as you bade me. Searched well. Found no sign. Then found what remained. Fed well, did I. Wild boar, it was. Messy. Naught left to relish, but pain and fear.’
Karolan sprang to his feet. ‘You’re lying. You damned fiend! I would sense it if she were dead. Tell me all, or by Hermes I swear I’ll never again let you lay hands on me. No matter what disgusting pleasures you offer, I’ll resist them. Think of that. No more bargains, no more glimpses into my world!’
The Fetch squawked with rage and fear. ‘Too, too cruel. Deny me? You would not!’
‘I would. And you know it,’ Karolan said flatly.
With a screech the spirit soared up into the branches of the ash. Its shrill, bird-like voice reverberated down through the trunk. Fragments of bark and shredded leaves rained down around him as the Fetch vented its spleen. Karolan sat calmly, his legs crossed at the ankles, waiting for the spirit to calm down. After many minutes, the din ceased and there was silence.
‘Well?’ Karolan said. ‘Do not try my patience further.’
The Fetch materialized, its stringy, shadow-form glowing with a resentful sage-green. ‘I will tell, Master,’ it said in a subdued voice. ‘But a boon I ask.’
‘What is it?’
‘Find whores. Beg you, Master. Then solace I give. Forgive. Forgive.’
‘I’ll decide when I’ve heard you out,’ Karolan said. ‘No promises. So, speak. Tell me that you lied.’
‘Lie, I did. The female went towards the town. When the postern opened at dawn-bell to let out the death-carts, slipped inside did she. Followed her, down the path leading to the river.’
The relief was so great that Karolan felt light-headed. The Fetch’s first words had filled him with alarm. Only the fact that he knew it to be an inveterate liar had stopped him from believing it. The river. That made sense. Garnetta would imagine that she could lose herself in the warren of narrow streets and tumbledown dwellings. ‘We’ll go there,’ he said aloud. ‘I know the area well.’
‘Find whores?’ the Fetch said hopefully, its form vibrating with sickly need. Karolan grinned wolfishly. Why not? He felt like indulging the darker side of his nature. It might distract him for a while. Leaping to his feet, he mounted Darkus. With the Fetch twittering exultantly at his shoulder, he steered the palfrey towards Chatesbrook.
As Karolan lifted the leather curtain and walked into the bawdy house, Jack Spicer called out a greeting. Pushing the half-naked girl he was fondling off his lap, he stood up. The girl pouted with disappointment and flounced across the room, making no move to cover her exposed breasts.
‘Well, well,’ Jack said. ‘Thought you were dead of the plague. I’ve missed your company. I’ll wager the girls have too. Can I do you some service?’
Karolan watched the girl, drawn by her fresh-faced looks and strong, young body. Catching his eye, she smiled appreciatively, sweeping him with a measuring glance. ‘Give me some of that opiate, I favour,’ Karolan said to Jack. ‘You have it?’
Jack nodded. ‘I’ve always got what you want. For the right price.’
Karolan threw him a coin. Jack whistled through his teeth. ‘For that amount, you can have a private show too. Who d’you want? Isabeau or Adeliz? Have both trulls together if you want. Mind if I join you?’
Karolan shrugged. ‘Why not?’ He glanced at the girl who had not taken her eyes off him since he stepped into the room. Her heart-shaped face was surrounded by a tumble of chestnut curls. ‘Bring her too.’
‘Sabina? She’s new here,’ Jack reached for the girl, pulling her close and nuzzling her neck. ‘Sabina’s special, aren’t you, my pretty young one? Costs extra. But she’s worth it.’
Sabina giggled, looking from under lowered lids at Karolan. She arched her back, pushing her breasts towards him. They were large and firm, her big brown nipples as well-defined as copper coins. Karolan imagined sucking those teats, polishing them with his spittle, before sinking into her willing body. Despite the ruin he would make, he was tempted to have her. ‘And how are you special, Sabina?’ he said softly.
She sparkled at him, already dazzled by his beauty as were all the whores. ‘I dance, my lord.’
Karolan threw Jack another coin. ‘Do you? Then dance for me.’
The back room was as he remembered it. Oily smoke from a rush taper spread a pall in the air. The floor rushes smelt stale and clung stickily to his boots. Lounging amongst the greasy cushions were Adeliz and Isabeau. Both were naked. Sweat glistened on their unwashed skin. They were fondling each other in a bored fashion. Adeliz turned an unfocused gaze on him. ‘Ah, the dark lord returns,’ she slurred, ‘Look but don’t touch, eh?’
Karolan emptied the contents of a small glass phial into a cup of ale, amused by Adeliz’s barbed comment. Beneath the contempt, he sensed her fear and the hunger for him which she was trying to suppress. He was tempted to reveal a little of himself to her, to shock her just a little, but the opiate, already warm in his belly, clouded his thoughts. He downed another cup of ale, then another. As Sabina moved into the centre of the room, he sank onto the cushions beside the two women. They pawed at him, but he pushed them away, watching only Sabina.
Jack reached for Isabeau, squeezing her fat breasts and pressing kisses to her dirty neck. She pressed against him, fingers scrabbling at the mat of hair on his broad chest. Karolan settled back, as the whores gave their attention to Jack, dimly aware of the Fetch which was visible to him alone as a lighter shape in the shadows in the corner of the room. He sensed the spirit’s avid excitement as Sabina began to sway, her heavy young breasts lolling back and forth.
Sliding her hands down to her waist, she unhooked the single button of her skirt. It slid to the rushes, leaving her naked but for a wisp of fabric worn as a halter between her thighs. The dance was crude and without grace, but Sabina’s youth lent her an unstudied sensuality. Rotating her hips, she pushed her pubis back and forth. The ribbon of fabric clung to the pouch of her sex, fitting closely to the indentation of the slitted lips.
Reaching between her legs, Sabina gathered up the halter, loosening it so that she could caress herself beneath the fabric. As she swayed and arched her back, she stroked her coynte, spreading the lips of her sex and pushing her fingers inside herself until her moisture seeped out and darkened the fabric. Inflamed by Sabina’s antics, Jack threw Isabeau onto her back and mounted her. Squealing, she clutched at him, her big thighs grasping tight around his back as he plunged into her.
Adeliz crawled close to Karolan. Stretching out her hand, she closed it over his velvet-covered thigh. Her hair smelt greasy. A sour smell rose from her armpits. He did not stop her as she trailed her fingers down to his groin and caressed his tumescence. It was more than he had allowed any of the whores to do before. Adeliz held her breath. He could feel her tension as his flesh pulsed beneath her practised touch. Closing his eyes, he imagined that it was Garnetta who stroked him, who whispered obscenities. He had come here to find forgetfulness in the welter of willing flesh, but instead he thought only of Garnetta – of her sweet smell, her clean taste, the silken feel of her cool skin.
Dashing Adeliz’s hand away, he lurched across the room. Filling another cup he poured in more of the poppy drug, then drained it in a single swallow. When he looked back towards the cushions, he saw that Jack had pulled Adeliz down to lie beside Isabeau and was taking it in turns to push his cock into them both. The Fetch was hovering over them, its shadow form pulsing and undulating, urging them on to greater excesses.
Karolan watched Sabina, who had thrown back her head, absorbed in a private world of sensation. Her fingers stroked and probed as her hips worked wantonly. The swollen sex pouted around the strip of damp fabric, which she was rubbing against herself. Her mouth opened to emit a soft moan. A stab of lust pierced Karolan’s belly. Dizzy now with ale fumes and opiate, he moved forward, fell to his knees before Sabina. Looking down at him, she grinned lewdly. Slowly she removed the halter. Dangling it above his head, she waved it back and forth. The pungent, musky smell drifted down to him. With a soft cry he grabbed her buttocks. Burying his face between her thighs, he delved into her moist red crevice. Sabina shuddered as he pushed his tongue inside her. The girl’s juices were rich as butter in his mouth, the strong smell of her fanned his lust.
He was faintly aware of the Fetch, hovering, gibbering with glee as it enjoyed the potent emanations which resonated on the ether. Spreading itself out on the air, it flowed over Sabina as she shook like an aspen, her eyes turned back in her head.
The spirit’s form pulsed with turgid colour. Sucking greedily at her energy, it crooned, ‘Have her, Master. Drink her death, would I.’
The reedy voice was insistent and the opiate sapped his will to resist it. Karolan was tempted. It took all of his control not to throw the girl onto her back and fuck her mindlessly. Only the fact that she was young and did not deserve to die stopped him. She would be sore for a few days after his attentions, but, this way, would suffer no lasting harm from his caustic saliva.
Sabina gave a series of sharp cries. Her flesh convulsed around his tongue. Karolan dug his fingers into the opulent flesh of her buttocks, one finger sliding into her wet furrow as he absorbed every subtle detail of her climax. He held the girl almost tenderly now, as the after-shocks of her pleasure began to fade. Already her expression was changing to one of consternation as she felt the burning and stinging of all her privy parts.
Swiftly he stood up, led her to the back of the room. He pushed her roughly down onto the stained cushions. ‘Spread your legs,’ he ordered. She did so warily, her eyes popping with fright. Jack was too busy jabbing himself into Adeliz while Isabeau sat on his face to wonder why Karolan emptied the entire contents of a jug of ale over Sabina’s coynte, sluicing her thoroughly both inside and out.
Karolan stood up, swaying. His body still burned for easement. Now that the cold ale had eased her, Sabina reached for him, her painted mouth curving a welcome. Karolan shook his head. The room reeked of sweat and sex. The opiate and ale had combined to make him queasy. He made for the door. A backward glance showed him that Sabina had joined the others on the cushions. Grinning, Jack closed his mouth on her breast. Adeliz surfaced long enough to throw Karolan a glance. In it was longing tinged with disappointment.
‘Too good fer the touch of a whore,’ she slurred. ‘You ever were.’
Outside in the dark alley, he vomited. Hunched over, he waited for the nausea to pass.
‘Fed well. Want more,’ the Fetch said, close to his ear, its perfumed breath warm on his skin. ‘You hunger still. Feel it do I. Desire solace now?’
The ache of frustration surged up within Karolan. Having tasted the singular pleasures of loving Garnetta, his sexual need was more demanding, more difficult to control. Ah, Garnetta. The terror of never finding her again lay against him like a cold sword and brought him to the very verge of hating her.
Reading Karolan’s mood, the Fetch chuckled richly. ‘Is not this suffering a luxury?’ it said huskily in a female voice. Her voice.
Trembling Karolan closed his eyes. He had not the will to resist as a soft mouth brushed against his lips. Her mouth. Fingers moved to the lacing of his tunic. He smelt Garnetta’s perfume, tasted her on his tongue, and did not care that it was an illusion. Fingers brushed gently against his chest, pinching at his nipples until they gathered into hard little peaks.
Sliding down, uncaring of the wet and filth in the alley, he lay flat on his back. Inflamed by the excess of sexual energy it had imbibed, the Fetch was in capricious mood. Soft arms enfolded Karolan, cool firm breasts pressed against his chest. Short hair brushed his cheek. Karolan felt a surge of longing. No – it was not, after all, illusion he craved, but Garnetta herself. And the reality of that was denied him.
‘Make me forget her,’ he groaned, as the desire within him built to an ache.
‘As you wish, Master,’ said the Fetch, squirming with its willingness to please. ‘No more female.’
Karolan’s lips parted to admit entry to an erect phallus. The Fetch chuckled as Karolan began sucking the warm salty tip, welcoming the swollen shaft against the roof of his mouth. He rose up as his hosen were peeled down to his knees. Cleated flesh enclosed his straining organ. With his mouth plundered, his cock buried deeply within hot spirit-flesh, there was nothing but the sensation of spiked pleasure. He felt his legs lifted, folded back until the knees were pressed into his chest. A tongue squirmed inside him, licking around the rim of his anus, teasing, tasting the sweet-bitterness, lubricating him for a harsher entry to come.
The Fetch conjured erotic images to crowd his mind. Karolan saw himself lying with Harun under the shade of palm trees. The hot sun burned down on their heaving bodies. Within him, Harun’s cock laboured towards a climax. The scent of sandalwood and patchouli rose from the dark skin of his Arab lover. Then he was with a woman, as exquisite as she was unique. Her skin was dark also. Her hair fell in skeins of black silk, reaching to her knees. Her soft breasts had a bloom on them like damsons and her coynte was a ripe pouting fig. Ah, he had not thought of her for so long, yet it was she who had led him down the path to ruin.
Nasibia. Harun’s sister. How different would his life had been if he had resisted her? Nasibia – the sound of it like a caress. ‘No. Not her,’ he whispered, freeing his mouth for just long enough to speak.
The memories faded. He grunted as his buttocks were pressed apart. The cock entered his body, stretching him, filling him. Every other sensation became subject to the rhythm of this. His mouth worked on the organ that filled it. Deep within his body, he awoke to a pleasure more urgent yet. Gasping and bucking he spilled his seed.
Then, as he had expected, the Fetch was inside him. The agony of it stitched him to the ground as surely as if iron spikes had been hammered through his limbs. It had never been like this. His eyeballs burned from the inside. His blood, hot and urgent, strained the fabric of his veins. He would not have been surprised to hear them rip. Gritting his teeth, he suffered the onslaught, as the spirit possessed him completely, using him simply as a vessel of containment.
Ripples passed over his skin. Muscles and tendons jerked as if trying to break from their confinement. Every organ ached. It went on and on. Karolan could do nothing but wait it out. In the final seconds before he lost consciousness, he thought how unbearable it would be if the Fetch ever grew strong enough to plunder him without his express permission.
For if that was to happen, it could remain inside him for ever. And there was no telling what mischief it would do in the world of men.