by Ashe Barker
Piers returns his attention to me. “I see. In that case, madam, perhaps you would be so good as to remove the shirt.”
“But…” It is on the tip of my tongue to protest that they do not both need to see the evidence. I bite back the words. It will do no good since it is clear that neither man intends to leave. Even so, I balk at being nude in front of the pair of them.
My husband’s normally relaxed features take on a sterner edge. “We will strip you in any case for your switching, since we will require you to be naked for that. Please do not make it necessary for me to summon guards to aid you in disrobing.” Ralf’s tone has hardened and I know the outcome is inevitable.
Resigned to what is to come, I stand, reach for the hem of my garment, and pull it up over my head.
Both men gaze at my breasts and I resist the almost overpowering urge to cover them. Instead, I remain still, my own gaze fixed on a point on the far wall, close to the ceiling. Ralf steps forward, cups my right breast in his hand and lifts it. He is gentle, his palm warm on my flesh.
“Her skin is unblemished. I consider that proof enough.”
“Aye,” agrees Piers. “It would seem we owe you an apology, little maid. Our actions have caused you considerable inconvenience.”
Somewhat of an understatement in my view but I remain silent.
“And placed all of us in a difficult situation,” adds Ralf, “not least in the matter of our so-called marriage.”
“At least the wench called a halt to proceedings before your blessed union could be consummated,” observes his brother dryly. “You will be able to obtain an annulment without undue difficulty.”
An annulment? I suppose I knew this outcome to be inevitable but the bald statement saddens me. My marriage was tenuous, at best, based on falsehood and misunderstanding but it was still curiously precious to me while it lasted, the culmination of a child’s idealistic dream.
“Aye, that will be best. I will send a courier to the priest who performed the ceremony summoning him here. It would be better to resolve the matter with no undue fuss. Few enough people are aware of the marriage, indeed none outside our own immediate circle, so the damage will be minimal.” Ralf smiles at me. “You will find yourself able to marry another should the occasion arise.”
I sincerely doubt any such opportunity will come my way, nor would I wish to marry again. My marriage was a sham but it was the only union I have ever desired, however far-fetched the fantasy.
Piers continues. “You will be free to go as soon as your punishment here is concluded. You will no doubt desire to return to Wellesworth, in which case, we will provide you with an escort.”
“I… I see.” The matter of my switching had momentarily slipped my mind. I clench my buttocks in dread anticipation of the assault to come.
Piers marches over to the table to pick up a slender branch of wood which must have been left there in readiness for this moment. The protruding twigs have been torn away to leave a smooth, even surface. He slices the switch through the air, causing a loud whistle to pierce the tense silence within the solar. I wince. This is going to hurt terribly.
“Given the circumstances, I am minded to reduce the girl’s punishment accordingly. The lass was, after all, defending her honour. Fifteen strokes rather than thirty. Would you agree that seems fair?” Piers addresses his words to Ralf, one eyebrow lifted in inquiry.
“I have no objection to that.” My not-quite husband tilts his chin at me. “Do you understand why you are being punished, Linnet?”
“Yes, sir.” I see no point now in delaying matters. “It is because I attacked you and injured you.”
“Indeed. We accept that the fault was not entirely yours. Far from it in fact. But your reaction was extreme and unwarranted and you damn near killed me with that dagger of yours. I lost a lot of blood and lay ill with a fever for a week. The matter cannot go unpunished.”
“No, sir.” It is true that I bitterly regret my actions and it is with relief that I note the reduction in my punishment. “I am sorry.”
“I do believe you. Now, please bend over the table, Linnet.”
My legs are shaking as I step forward. This will soon be over, I tell myself. I will survive. They do not intend to injure me. I repeat that mantra as I lean on the heavy, solid table.
A hand between my shoulder blades presses me forward. It is Piers. Ralf has moved around to the opposite side of the table and is reaching to take my hands.
“Rest on the table. I will hold your hands. Do not be afraid, you will not fall.”
It is not the fear of falling which so dismays me but I find the touch of his hands on mine comforting even so.
“If I think you need us to stop for a few moments, I will tell Piers that. So, I need you to look at me whilst this is happening, in order that I will know how you are coping. Do you understand, Linnet?”
“Please, just do it. Be quick, I beg you.” I can hear the tremor in my voice and I know I am close to tears. I am terrified of the pain to come.
The strong palm still resting between my shoulder blades offers a reassuring pat, then is dragged down my back to caress my bottom. It is as though Piers is selecting his spot, exploring my vulnerable buttocks to find the softest, the most sensitive places. Despite my fears, the sensation is not unpleasant. In different circumstances I would enjoy his touch, if he were not quite so stern.
“I would invite you to count, Linnet, but I suspect you will soon lose concentration. Ralf, would you do it?”
“Of course.” He squeezes my fingers. “Open your eyes, little one. Look at me.”
I had not even realised my eyes were screwed up tight shut but I obey. He offers me a slight half smile, before a sudden whistle heralds the first stroke across my unprotected bottom.
“Aagh!” I cannot contain my scream. My derrière is aflame. A white-hot trail of pure agony blisters my skin.
“One,” announces Ralf.
I writhe and twist, desperate to escape the next stroke but Ralf holds me in place. The switch whistles through the air again and again. Each time I let out a shriek of pain, but neither man relents. Ralf tightens his grip, stretching me further across the table so my feet can barely touch the floor.
“Five,” he intones. “Six. Seven.”
I am sobbing, my screams subsiding to a despairing, continuous wailing. Still the punishment continues, Piers dropping stroke after stroke across my bottom and the backs of my thighs. The searing pain is awful but the ominous sound of the switch flying through the air is, if anything, even worse. I am pinned in place, I cannot move. Nothing I can do or say will stop this until they are satisfied my punishment is concluded and I know I cannot bear it. My head blurs, the image of Ralf shimmering before my eyes.
“Ten. Hold there.” Ralf’s voice is sharp, his command obeyed. The onslaught pauses.
“Linnet, open your eyes, sweetling.” Ralf’s tone is gentle now. He lets go of one of my hands to cup my jaw. “Look at me, little one.”
It is a struggle but I obey. His face is close to mine, his expression one of concern. “Only five to go. You can do this.”
I shake my head. “No, I…”
“Here, take a few sips.” Piers places a goblet beside my free hand. The wine inside is sweet, refreshing. I manage to swallow a little, then let out a sharp cry as Piers lays his hand on my sore bottom and presses hard.
“The stripes are vivid but your skin is not broken, nor will it be. You will have no lasting scars from this, little maid. Let us press on, I am sure you are as anxious as we are to be done with this.” As he speaks to me he massages my throbbing buttocks, his touch firm. My flesh is burning but despite the discomfort, I do not want him to stop. He does though and waits, expectant, demanding my compliance.
It is enough. I submit.
With a groan of surrender, I allow my head to drop onto the flat table top. “Please, just finish and let me go.”
The sound o
f the switch is less menacing now, perhaps because I have endured the pain and survived it. I am still surviving, still inching my stubborn way to the end of this ordeal.
“Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.”
I hold my breath as the switch snakes through the air for the last time, landing full across both my thighs. It is the hardest stroke yet and brings me up onto my toes with an agonised wail. Then, it is over. Footsteps, a clatter as Piers drops his implement onto the floor beside the settle. He returns to stand behind me. I make no move to get up off the table, though Ralf is no longer holding me there. Instead he has moved to take up position beside his brother and together they survey the damage to my punished bottom.
“Nice arse, Linnet,” observes Piers. “I thought so before but your posterior is truly breath-taking now that it bears the stripes of our discipline. Such a pity you will not be remaining here at Egremont.”
“I am not entirely convinced I should be permitting you to ogle my wife’s delectable body,” puts in Ralf, “although under the circumstances, I daresay my claim is somewhat tenuous.”
“It is, brother, sadly. Do you not have a missive to pen to send to our accommodating priest?”
“I do.” His footsteps cross the room. “I will send for parchment and a pen and ink. Linnet, would you like to return to Wellesworth with the courier’s party? We can detail sufficient men to ensure safe passage for you.”
Hands under my shoulders ease me from the table and back into a standing position. I am astonished to find my legs actually support me, though every instinct of mine is urging me to curl up into a ball and hide.
I hurt but it is more than that. I feel crushed, demoralised, achingly sad. Unbidden, my tears start again. I brush them aside, embarrassed but the flow has started and will not stop. With a muttered oath Piers scoops me up and carries me back to the settle where he sits and arranges me on his lap. My sore bottom presses against the soft woollen fabric of his breeches but I do not mind that too much. I curl up at last, bury my face in his leather tunic, and weep.
There are voices, murmuring, low. Men talking. Ralf has returned. The scratching of nib on parchment, drafting the letter which will effectively end my liaison with the St. John brothers, however ill-fated that may have been. I am clutching a handful of Piers’ tunic in my fist and I cling on tighter, as though I can simply refuse to let go. I cannot let them send me away. I cannot.
“You do not have to. You can stay if you wish.” It is Ralf now who speaks to me, answering my unspoken pleas.
“I did not intend… I am sorry.”
“We know. All that is over, in the past. We will not speak of it again. You are free to leave.”
No, no, no! I do not want to go. Please do not make me go. I claw at Piers’ chest as though my efforts would enable me to crawl right inside him to find a safe haven, a place where I can never be found.
Ralf’s voice soothes me, offering reassurance. “You can stay here, little one, if you choose to. We will find a place for you at Egremont.”
I want to be your wife. I wish I could be your lady. It is all I ever wanted. The crazy, conflicting notions ricochet around in my head. I am confused, lost, bereft.
More masculine murmurs, more whispered discussion. They are talking about me, planning my fate, readying me to be sent away. I cannot bear it, not again.
Piers stands, still cradling me in his arms. He crosses the room, carries me through a door which closes behind us with a resounding thud. The voices continue, low, urgent.
Softness surrounds me and warmth. I am laid on my side, a blanket drawn up around me. My hair is swept back from my face, the gesture tender, caring.
“Sleep, little maid. We will talk later when you are recovered.” More footsteps, then silence. I am alone in the darkness. Within seconds, I am asleep.
* * *
When I awaken, it is to bright sunshine. I open my eyes, startled. It has been weeks since I saw the sun. I roll onto my back, shielding my eyes, only to let out a hiss of pain as I put my weight on my tender bottom. The events of the last few hours come crashing back into my consciousness.
Ralf lives; I am not a murderess. Neither am I a wife, or I soon shall not be. The earl of Egremont and his brother, Sir Piers, believe my story, at last. The consequence of that happy circumstance is that my marriage is to be dissolved and I will be returned to my former life as lady’s maid to the countess of Wellesworth—if she will have me, of course.
I roll onto my side to reflect on my current precarious situation. My life is no longer in imminent danger but without doubt, my comfortable position playing the harp to Lady Eleanor is at an end. She will never believe my story and I have the distinct impression the St. John brothers will be reluctant to disclose their part in this affair.
Another thought occurs to me. I suppose now they will revert to their earlier strategy, that of abducting the reluctant Wellesworth bride and forcing the issue of marriage. Should I warn her ladyship of their likely intent? Will they allow me to? They assured me I was free to leave at once but perhaps, if they do intend to pursue their previous course, they may have reflected on that promise and found it to be less than politic.
Perversely, I do hope so. I find myself in no particular hurry to depart.
I sit up, taking care not to rest my weight on my poor, smarting derrière. It is much less painful than I imagined it might be but I suspect I will struggle to sit in comfort for several days yet. I am still nude, so I clutch the blankets to my chest even though there is no one else present. I look around me, taking in my surroundings.
I am in a bedchamber, a fine one; certainly this room rivals that of Lady Eleanor at Wellesworth. For reasons I cannot fathom, I can only conclude that I have been deposited in Sir Ralf’s bed and now occupy the earl’s private quarters.
As if summoned by my thoughts, the door opens and Sir Ralf enters. His brother accompanies him. I tighten my grip on the bedding covering my modesty, though I know that they might easily command me to bare my breasts again. I will do so. I have no choice.
They are both dressed for riding, either they have just arrived back or are about to leave. Are they going so soon to seize the genuine Lady Eleanor?
“You are awake then. How do you feel this morning, Linnet?” Ralf approaches and flings himself onto the mattress to stretch out alongside me. He grins at me, his smile infectious. I feel less vulnerable now that at least one of them is no longer towering over me.
“I am quite well, sir. Thank you.”
“I am losing my touch then. Perhaps I need to thrash you again in order to leave a more lasting impression.”
I look up sharply but find Piers is grinning, too. He lounges against the post at the foot of the bed, watching my reaction with interest.
“Must you scare her?” Ralf’s tone is indignant.
“I will endeavour not to. My apologies, little maid. I was but teasing you.”
“I… that is all right. I just…”
“We have to hunt this morning and must leave in few minutes but we need to talk to you, if you are sufficiently recovered from your ordeal last night.” Ralf sits up, regarding me anxiously.
“Of course, sir. I, I want to talk with you, too.”
“Very well. What is it you want to discuss?”
“I need to apologise, my lord. I am most sincerely sorry for what I did, for the injury I caused you.”
“Your apology is accepted, Linnet. We need make no further reference to the matter.”
“You said that but—”
He places a finger across my lips. “There is no but. It is done. We look to the future now.”
“You want me to leave?”
“We expect you to want to leave. That is not the same thing.”
“I do not understand.”
Piers straightens. “Last night you were very distressed and with good reason. You said some things which surprised us and which we now wish to discuss with y
ou. Do you recall any of it?”
“I remember the switching.”
“I daresay. And after that?”
“I remember you held me. You were very kind. I was…”
“You told me you wanted to be my wife. Or perhaps you meant Ralf. You also said you did not wish to leave Egremont. Do you recall any of this?”
I nod. At least, I remember thinking those things. I must have spoken them out loud in my near delirious state. The burning flush rises from somewhere in the region of my chest, creeps up my neck and across my cheeks. I am mortally embarrassed.
Sir Piers is unrelenting in his questions. “Are those remarks which you would still wish to make now that you are feeling somewhat less—traumatised? I trust you do feel more yourself now.”
“I do, sir, thank you. And, I am sorry for the inappropriate remarks I made, I do not know what I was thinking…”
“Neither do we. We intend to find out though.” Ralf is still beside me, his casual pose deceptive. He reaches for my face and cups my chin, tipping my face up to meet his gaze. “Do not hide from us, Linnet. Do not evade our questions with more apologies, more excuses. Piers asked you a simple question. You will answer, please.”
“I… I am not sure…”
Piers chooses to interrupt, reminding me of the nub of the matter. “Do you still wish to be my bride? Or Ralf’s? Is it your wish to return to Wellesworth or would you prefer to remain here, with us?”
“I cannot. It is impossible.”
“What is impossible? Certainly it is possible for you to remain here. Whilst neither of us has need of a lady’s maid, we could without doubt find something that would suit your talents.”
“I cannot be your wife. I am just plain Linnet Routh, a common serf who managed to rise to the station of lady’s maid serving a countess. I used to work in the kitchens here.”
“Here? I do not recall seeing you before that night in Lady Eleanor’s chamber.” Piers looks sceptical and oddly unperturbed at my lowly origins.
“It was a long time ago, sir. Ten years. I was but a child. My grandmother was your cook until she died after a fall down the stairs.”
