by Bobby Adair
Someone cried out from beyond the cave’s entrance, and all at once the torches withdrew. She heard the bustle of commotion, cries of pain, and shouts of men.
“Come on!” she hissed to William.
The cocoon of shadows would protect them no more. She flexed her elbows and knees as she stood, gripping her knife and clenching her jaw. The time for cowering was over. The time for bravery had arrived. She pulled at her son’s arm. Then she grabbed their bags and slung them on. Before she knew it, they were panting and crawling, heading for the second entrance. They’d have to run and evade the men, but at least they’d be moving.
Her dress bunched up beneath her, and her knees stung from the scraping of skin on stone, but soon, they were at the opening, peering out into a star-filled night. The men had dropped their torches, and light blazed from the ground. Several illuminated figures clashed with swords. She recognized Bray’s form in the fire glow, his face hard and determined. He swung at one of the soldiers, sending the man screaming to the ground. Ella tumbled out into the open, pulled her son from the cave, and started off down the rock-covered slope.
Gravel spit from beneath them, threatening their footing, as if the mountain itself were bent on impeding their escape. Ella held tight to William with one hand. She gripped the knife in the other, dinging it against the rocks and dirt as she rushed down the slope.
“Over here!” one of the soldiers cried.
She and William were out of the pool of light thrown by the torches, and she could barely make out the terrain in the darkness, but she pressed on. She dug her heels into the ground, praying she’d stay on her feet, praying the mountain wouldn’t topple her. But the loose rocks kept shifting.
The rocks beneath her had become a mini-landslide, rolling and tumbling, the roar of stone and gravel drowning out the other sounds around her. Ella tried to find purchase, but she twisted her ankle on a stone. Suddenly, Ella was falling, pitching headfirst down the mountain. She let go of William’s hand so she wouldn’t drag him down with her. She flung her elbows in front of her face as she landed. The impact was hard and sudden, knocking the wind from her stomach and rattling her insides. The bags flew off her shoulders. She continued sliding for several feet, and all of the sudden she was at rest, loose rocks rolling around her. William skidded to a stop nearby.
“Mom! Are you all right?”
“I’m okay,” she managed, through a mouthful of dirt.
“Someone’s coming!” His voice was frantic.
She struggled to get to her feet, but she was lying headfirst on a slope. It was difficult to get traction. William grabbed her arm to help her. She could barely see him in the dark.
“Mom! Hurry!”
She was on one knee, still getting her balance, when a body collided with hers. William’s fingers ripped free. Ella sprawled back to the ground. A man had tackled her. She tried to scream, but her lungs were stripped of air and she could barely breathe.
“Stay still, or I’ll cut you open! I’ll do it in front of the boy!”
She recognized the voice as the man she’d heard outside the cave, the one who’d been interrogating Bray. She writhed and squirmed. It wasn’t until she felt the cold steel of a blade on the back of her neck that she stopped moving.
“That’s better,” he hissed.
She couldn’t see the man’s features, but she sensed an aura of venom around him. It was the same malice she’d felt at the hands of the soldiers in Brighton, the same hateful expectation that bled from a crowd of spectators right before someone got burned. She might’ve escaped Brighton, but she was in less of a position to do so now, in the dirt and on her stomach, weaponless and in the dark.
“Let the boy go,” she tried, but her plea died in the dusty rocks.
A hand grabbed her by the hair. Rather than pulling her to her feet, the soldier dug the blade deeper into her throat. She felt a sting, the wet sensation of blood trickling down her neck.
The soldier turned to William. “Sit on the ground.”
Ella couldn’t see her son, but she heard the crunch of boots on gravel, and assumed he’d complied. No, she wanted to scream, but the knife at her neck had paralyzed her tongue. The soldier let go of her hair, swooped it to the side, and groped with abrasively calloused hands along the back of her neck.
“You’re not infected?” he asked, surprised.
She remained silent. He pushed her face into the dirt, demanding an answer.
“No,” she managed.
“That’s a shame, then. But it won’t change what you’ve done.” His voice was hollow, soulless. He pressed the knife into her again.
This man wasn’t taking her back to Brighton. She could feel it. She would die here on the mountainside. She needed to do something. Anything. She needed more time.
“Do you have children?” she asked, surprised she could still speak. Her body felt useless and tired, as if she’d experienced a dozen deaths already.
“A boy and a girl,” he answered, without hesitation.
“What are their names?”
“Shut up, wench! That is no business of yours!”
“But what if they were threatened? Wouldn’t you do anything to protect them?”
The soldier remained silent.
“Wouldn’t you—?”
“Enough!” the soldier shouted. “You’re a murderess! You killed my cousins!”
The man’s words were like a punch to the stomach. Ella swallowed, certain she was on her last breath. If this was the end, she needed to warn William. She needed to make sure he ran. Before she could speak, she heard William stand up.
“Sit!” the soldier screamed to him.
The boy remained in place.
“Do you hear me? Sit down, you smudged piece of shit!”
“William, run!” Ella screamed.
All at once, she heard the sound of footfalls on the stone, and the heavy pant of her son as he fled down the mountainside. The soldier kept the knife at her neck, but she could feel his hands shaking with rage.
“Go ahead and run, boy! I’ll flay your mother, and then I’ll hunt you down and do the same!”
The footsteps waned into the night. Ella swallowed, picturing her son alone and in the wild. There was no way he’d last out there. But at the moment, anything was preferable to what this man would do to him.
The soldier released his knife and grabbed her clothes to spin her over. Ella complied, if for no other reason than to buy her son time. His hot breath dripped in her face, making her repress a gag.
“Are you taking me to town?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
“What do you think?”
“They’ll want me to burn for what I’ve done.”
“They’ll never know you were found.”
Underneath Rodrigo, she squirmed, testing his weight, but he’d pinned her with his knees. He parted her dress, exposing her chest. Ella screamed.
At least I can’t see his face, she told herself. At least I can’t see what’s coming.
“They’ll have your head on a spike,” she whispered.
“The demons will pick your bones clean, and no one will ever find you.”
Ella bucked with everything she had, slipping her hand free, but the man was ready for her, and he grabbed hold of it, squashing her hope before it had a chance to blossom.
With no other option, Ella began to scream. The noise was high-pitched and piercing, and she hated every second of sound that came out of her mouth. Her scream was cut short by the soldier’s hand. He pressed his dirty palm against her lips, stifling her.
Then he keeled over, gasping for air.
What the—?
Ella pushed again. This time she was able to wriggle free. She heard the clank of the man’s knife as he dropped it on the rocks, and she squirmed out from beneath him, confused. She scrambled clear of his fallen body, listening to the gurgle of his death throes.
A few seconds later, the man was still.
A
shadow emerged in the moonlight. She stared at the shaking form.
“William?” she whispered, her lips trembling.
“Is he dead, Mom?”
Chapter 30: Father Winthrop
Father Winthrop looked the girl up and down as she entered his bedchamber. She closed the door behind her and walked a few paces inside. She did indeed have raven hair, milky skin, icy blue eyes, and large breasts that stirred his interest. And that threadbare dress—immodest even for a girl from The House of Barren Women—pushed her breasts up as though they might spill out.
“You are Fitzgerald?” Winthrop asked.
The girl nodded.
As much as Winthrop wanted to see that dress fall away, he had specific preferences in these matters. He liked when they talked for a while before they shed their clothes. “Feel free to speak, girl.”
“Yes, Father.”
“In these chambers, and nowhere else, you may call me Winthrop. Or if it pleases you, you can come up with some pet name.”
Fitzgerald asked, “Do you have just the one name?”
Winthrop snorted. “I don’t subscribe to this fashion of labeling oneself with two names. If one name is not memorable enough than what good will two do?”
“Yes, Winthrop.”
“Tell me about this name of yours. It is unusual for a girl.”
With her hands clasped lazily in front of her, the girl said, “It was my father’s. He is able to trace his line all the way back to the fifty-seven.”
“I am aware Fitzgerald was one of the first fifty-seven.” Winthrop chastised himself for the harsh way he said it. It always irritated him when it was implied—however slightly—that there was something of The People’s history that he did not know.
“Please forgive me, Father Winthrop.”
“It is nothing. Have you any brothers or sisters?” asked Winthrop.
“I am the only child. I had two older brothers, but they both died during infancy.”
Winthrop watched the fire light dance across Fitzgerald’s pale skin, glimmering in her glossy hair. She was a beauty. “And your father, presumably also Fitzgerald, had the foresight to save the family name for his third child?”
The girl shook her head. “He named each of the boys Fitzgerald, expecting that each would live. When I was born, my mother died of birthing. Knowing he’d have no more children, he passed his name to me.”
“And what does your father do?”
“He cuts wood.”
“Did he remarry?”
“No.” The girl smiled as though she were putting on a mask. “His heart was broken—or so he told me when I was a young girl.”
“Demon, devotion, and seed.” Winthrop shook his head as he said it, thinking of his own grief over Jenny’s death. “The three duties.”
“Slaughter the demons. Be true to The Word. Bring children into the world.” The chant was ingrained into every child and the girl spoke it as automatically as if she’d been sitting in the pew. But her smile passed behind a cloud of thought.
Winthrop guessed what had taken away her smile. “Worry not over your father. He sired three children. He did his duty. Luck is not always with a man, though he’d try to make it so.”
Fitzgerald nodded and the light of her smile shone again.
“Come closer into the light where I can see you better.”
“Yes.” The girl crossed the room and stood in front of Winthrop, close enough that he could reach and touch her with the tips of his fingers, close enough that he could smell her. She smelled clean. He preferred women who bathed.
Winthrop looked at the girl’s skirt, reached out and ran a few fingers down a pleat. “That dress is in a sad state.”
“I don’t often have it on long enough that men notice, Father.”
Winthrop ignored her use of the word Father. “How long have you been in The House of Barren Women?”
“Two years,” she answered.
“Surely your dress is older than that. How could it have become so threadbare in such a short time?”
“Neither my father, nor my husband could afford the cloth for a new dress. This was handed down to me by another.” The girl’s face turned from seductive to hopeful. “Men sometimes show their gratitude with a coin. In time, I’ll be able to buy the cloth for a dress of my own.”
Winthrop’s eyes showed his anger over the veiled request for money and his voice rose to match. “It is the duty and privilege of the barren women to serve the unwed men of the town. The Word says it must be so. Women who cannot have children will be fed and housed. They do not work the field nor do they tend the flocks. They certainly have no children to look after.” Winthrop felt he’d been a little too sharp on that last point. Women’s primary purpose in life was to bear children.
But he didn’t want the girl frightened of him. That would take all the pleasure out of what was going to occur. Dispassionately, he said, “Barren women contribute to social stability by putting their legs in the air. It is an easy life and it is a sin for a barren woman to ask for payment. She should keep in mind that the town has generously provided for all of her needs already.”
Despite Winthrop’s attempt to soften the harshness of his rant, half way through, the girl was nearly in tears. “I beg your forgiveness, Father. I…I was not asking for a gift. I…”
“Speak no more of payments or gifts.” Winthrop turned and watched the fire for a short while, ignoring the girl while his anger faded.
The red embers and sparse yellow flames of last nights fire radiated comfortable warmth onto Winthrop’s face. The warmth reminded him of Jenny. And thoughts of Jenny hurt. He’d let himself get so attached to her through the years. There were so many good memories, but they were all tarnished with the sound of Jenny’s screams, the crunch of her bone, and the vision of her head on a spike.
Damn that Blackthorn and his sadistic fetish for spikes. Could the man’s simple mind imagine no other punishment?
Winthrop’s heart turned soft and it ached. He was afraid he might shame himself by shedding his tears over Jenny while Fitzgerald looked on. Winthrop closed his eyes and tried to make all the hurt go away.
Eventually, the sound of Fitzgerald’s breathing reminded him that she still stood a pace in front of his chair, waiting to do whatever he bade, in order to cleanse Jenny and her haunting scream from his heart.
Winthrop turned to the girl and said, “Remove your dress.”
With a hint of hesitation, Fitzgerald reached around to her back and loosed the lace that held her garment closed. The cloth that stretched tautly over her chest loosened and her breasts fell, but not by much. And that was one of the many reasons Winthrop liked the young girls.
Winthrop watched the girl’s chest rise and fall with each slow breath. The dress didn’t fall away, though. It seemed to drop just a little with each exhalation, letting just enough of the girl’s breasts to show that Winthrop thought he could see the edge of an areola. The girl did have a tantalizing way about her.
He said, “You are beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“How many men have you been with?”
The girl’s face showed a moment of shame before she recaptured her hypnotic smile.
Her shame made Winthrop feel guilty for having asked the question. “I don’t inquire in order to shame you, girl. I merely wish to know that you…ah…have sufficient experience in these matters.”
Fitzgerald looked at the floor. “Please forgive me, Father, I don’t have my numbers.”
“You can’t count?” Winthrop asked, watching her grow more embarrassed.
She held up her fingers. “I can count as high as my fingers but no more. My father is a woodcutter. He has no such knowledge to teach me. I assure you, I will please you.” Feigning a loosening of her dress, the girl put a hand on her breast to keep it from falling further.
Looking at those breasts, Winthrop’s doubts disappeared. “I am sure of it.”
Chapter 31: El
la
Ella stared at the dead soldier William had slain. Through the moonlight, she could see the handle of her knife protruding from the back of the man’s neck. She pulled herself to her feet. Several hundred yards upslope, the faint glow of torches lit the mountain, splashing light on the fallen bodies of the others.
Nothing up there moved.
She approached the soldier her son had killed and grabbed the hilt of her knife. The smell of blood was overbearing, and she covered her mouth to reduce the stench. She steadied herself, then tugged, listening to the sickening sound of metal separating from flesh.
She retrieved the dead soldier’s knife and handed it to William. He took it in silence. Since killing the soldier, he’d hardly spoken a word.
“It’s okay, honey,” she whispered.
William didn’t answer. She grabbed hold of him, squeezing him tight.
“Did I really…? Is he…?”
“It’s over now, William. It wasn’t your fault.”
She stared back up at the flickering torches on the mountainside, trying to determine their next move. The soldiers were dead. And by the looks of it, so was Bray. For a moment, she convinced herself that she didn’t care about the Warden. He’d betrayed their trust. He’d robbed them and left them to die.
But he’d also come back to save them. She felt a shimmer of sorrow.
She started back up the hill, bringing William at her side. After some searching, they were able to locate the bags they’d dropped. Thankfully, the flaps were still closed and the possessions were still inside. But Bray still had her food and her silver.
She walked up the remainder of the hill, approaching the torch-lit scene. With each step, she made out more details of the slain soldiers in the dark. Their mouths hung agape, their eyes stared into the night. Bray lay beside them on his stomach, a blood-soaked sword at his side. His pack still hung on his shoulders.
She crept over to him. Dead or not, he had her possessions. She reached for his bag. His head was turned in the opposite direction; his hair was caked with blood. Without him, they wouldn’t have gotten this far.
