The other stared moodily at her sister. ‘Give me leave to pity them,’ she said. She leaned over and kissed her rose-petal lips softly. ‘Until we meet again.’ Then she was gone.
The white one did not react to the kiss, nor stir one feather of her cool purity. She was not of the kind to be moved by such things. She lingered a little time in the cell, motionless. When she had gone, only their mingled sweet scents remained as a witness to Father Gregory’s passing.
The Fairest of Them All
I MADE THE decision to bring my new stepdaughter under my wing the day before her father left to join the King at Stirling, when she arrived late and in disarray for his farewell banquet. It was not as if this was the first time she had displayed her rebellion, nor was it that her father took any real offence upon this occasion – his indifference to the behaviour of his youngest child was common knowledge in the household and I, the bride of a single summer, was perhaps the only one still surprised by it – yet it was the moment when I decided that his contemptuous disregard of the girl could not be matched with my own. I was not even old enough to have borne the child in my own belly yet, if anyone was to take her in hand, it would have to be myself, the loathed stepmother.
It was a windy autumn night, the draughts finding their way into that high stone hall making the flames dance in the sconces. But the company was loud and cheerful, almost everyone there looking forward to their sojourn in the royal court, to a break from the routine and isolation of life on the farm or within the dark and cold walls of the castle. The lairds of four glens, all subordinate to my lord Aillen, were there with their men ready to form his entourage. The presence of so many strange men, loud and boastful, was making the serving women flirtatious and nervous, and the hall echoed with laughter and shrieks.
Ursilla made her appearance during the second remove, stalking up the length of the Great Hall before every guest and member of the house, to the high table where we sat, and with us her vacant place. I was seated upon my husband Aillen’s right side, scarred Connor his eldest son across him from me, black-bearded Donald the younger son (a year less upon this earth than myself) on my own dexter side. It must have taken some little courage for Ursilla to face us as she did, that I grant her. The whole hall fell silent as she approached, nobody daring to laugh, but every wary gaze upon her. Her dark hair was unbound and speckled with straw, her bodice loosened so that her girlish breasts all but peeped from behind it, her face flushed, her lips swollen, her eyes bright and defiant. If she had been carried into our presence impaled on a servant’s knob she could not have announced herself more clearly or disgracefully. She tossed her head back as she met her father’s gaze.
Aillen, deep in conversation with Connor upon the subject of stag-hunting, barely spared her a glance. ‘You’re late,’ he snapped. ‘Sit yourself down, girl.’ His knife stabbed into the roast and gilded pigeon on the trencher before him. Ursilla visibly stiffened.
Donald was sneering openly at his sister, Connor more restrained but his eyes bright with a contemptuous interest that I found subtly disturbing. None of them looked shocked or ashamed, as they should have been even in front of such minor nobility that we guested that night.
I put my hand upon Aillen’s (which was upon my knee at the time) and pressed it. ‘It seems to me Ursilla is not properly dressed for her father’s table,’ I said, my voice cold. ‘Perhaps it would be better if she were to return to her room and repair her attire.’
‘Hm,’ Aillen grunted, his attention returning to his food. ‘As you wish. Well: you heard your mother, girl.’ He gestured with his knife at the doorway. That did it – Ursilla shot me a look of pure venom before picking up her skirts and hurrying from the hall. He glanced at her retreating form and added in a low voice to me, ‘She is a sluttish one, that girl. Let her stew in her own company.’
As might be predicted, Ursilla did not reappear at all for the meal.
That night, alone with my husband in his chamber, I broached the subject of Ursilla once more as I kneeled in the centre of the bed, leaning over his broad shoulders from behind to run my fingers through the crisp black curls of hair upon his chest. He was built like a bull, that man, and I counted myself fortunate to have married him – not that anyone counted him unlucky to have found me, a wealthy and still beautiful young widow, for his second wife.
‘Ursilla is a whorish wench, like her mother,’ he pronounced as he pulled off his boots. ‘Unmanageable – and unmarriageable. I have never cared for her or for what she does. While I’m away, you’ll have the keeping of her, but don’t expect much joy of that. If you can find her a husband you will have my blessings; if she falls down the well, it is no loss to me.’
I kissed him upon his strong neck, caressing his chest with my nails, feeling him shiver. ‘She is a pretty lass,’ I said. ‘It seems a pity and a waste.’
‘She is her mother’s daughter,’ said he shortly.
I knew the story of Aillen’s first wife, caught in adultery and executed for it – beheaded, as befitted a noblewoman. Aillen, I imagined, had never been certain that Ursilla was of his own getting and had taken out his bitterness on the child ever since, though God knows she looked like him – pale of skin, dark of hair and eye, with black arched eyebrows.
‘Well,’ I murmured, seeking beneath Aillen’s belt, ‘let us see what her new mother can do.’ And I left it at that, for the time.
In the morning Aillen’s company departed, his sons riding at his either side, the clan banner fluttering and snapping overhead. With my husband and the other lairds went the greater part of the household: soldiers and freemen and servants all seething and churning in a clatter of hooves and carriage-wheels, the dogs barking, the harness jingling, geese and ducks squawking from their baskets, everyone confused and distracted and impatient. The barley harvest was safely in and only a small proportion of our people were to remain at the castle; serfs to tend the livestock, a body of servants mostly my own brought from Berwick, and a skeleton guard to defend us in the extraordinary event that we should come under attack. This last, however, was to be commanded by Callum, a man in whom Aillen placed absolute trust – and besides, my husband had been at peace with all his neighbours for nearly ten years. There was little to be feared over the coming winter except tedium and loneliness.
Aillen kissed me farewell, leaning from his roan stallion to press me against his bristling beard and hot lips. ‘I will bring you back a bolt of silk from the royal court!’ he promised.
Then he raised his hand in signal to his followers and rode forwards, disappearing through the palisade gate. I was left to gather my skirts and pick my way back across the dung-spattered yard to the stone tower-house. I was glad to get out of the damp Highland wind, though it was certainly no warmer within the walls. I contemplated the prospect of a winter without Aillen to warm my bed with real regret.
After giving orders for the serving of dinner, that night, I retired to my own chambers. Ursilla had made no appearance to wish her father a safe journey and I meant to deal with her at once. Once I had ascertained her whereabouts, I sent Janet, my maidservant, to fetch the straying girl.
She was ushered into my presence – Janet had one large and warning hand on her elbow – within a few minutes, this time at least in a reasonable state of dress. She paid me no curtsey but glared around the room suspiciously, her gaze at last settling in open insolence upon where I sat in my sewing chair. I suppose it was the first time she had ever been in these chambers – they had fallen into disuse over many years – but she would have seen nothing but the bed, tapestries and furniture proper to the lady of a house; except for the great bronze-framed mirror, all my more personal belongings were shut securely in the room beyond.
What she saw when she looked at me, I can guess – the cold, dark figure of the temptress who had enchanted her father, her straight body unsoftened by childbirth, her face unlined by the years proper to a second wife, her eyes the black, ungodly pools of a harlot.
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I let her stand. Her eyes met mine with undisguised hostility, but she dropped her gaze soon enough. I saw her making the sign against the evil eye with her right hand that hung against her skirt.
‘You did not come to wish your father farewell,’ I said.
‘I had lost a shoe,’ she replied sulkily. ‘I could not come out.’
I raised an eyebrow disapprovingly. ‘Don’t lie to me, Ursilla,’ I said. ‘You were in the scullery with your bubs out, letting the cook’s boy have a good feel of them.’
She pouted, her eyes flashing. ‘What’s it to you, then?’ she demanded; ‘You’re not my mother.’ I could hear the consternation in her voice, the unvoiced thought: How did she know?
‘No,’ I agreed. ‘But I am your father’s wife, and I have charge here until he returns. This is my household, Ursilla, and I have the authority over you – and I do not permit you to act in this way.’
She stared at the floor. ‘My father doesn’t care what I do,’ she said.
I sighed a little. ‘Maybe not, but I do. I see a fair young woman acting like a slut from the pigsty, and it offends me. I see a maid under my roof without honour or hope, and it hurts me.’
‘And I,’ replied she staring me in the eye, ‘see a whore and a witch.’
Did she, now?
‘You see a woman who gets what she wants,’ I amended in an even tone. Her abuse did not rile me overmuch. I had expected worse. ‘Because, unlike you, Ursilla, I know what I need and I know how to achieve it, and I have the self-discipline not to waste my energies on anything else. Unlike you.’
I leaned back in my chair.
‘Look at the way you act, Ursilla. Is this really what you want? You said yourself your father does not care – not if you opened your legs to every man in Scotland. So why are you behaving this way? It is not as if you can be enjoying yourself, surely – I know who you have been lying with: the kennel-lad, the scullery-boy, a shepherd, a servant from the farm. Are they really such splendid stallions? Such fine and exciting lovers? I notice that you have never slept with any them more than once.’
Her soft young mouth was twisted tightly now.
‘For example,’ I continued mercilessly, ‘I notice that you have granted your favours to some of the soldiers. Fearchar, I believe, and Thomas. Very young, both of them, and neither very comely.’ Callow lads who couldn’t believe their luck and wouldn’t think of turning down the perfumed, pretty daughter of a laird, I could have added. ‘And I wonder why you don’t set your sights on a man like Callum, who might be worthy of you, and certainly is more likely to be worth the game.’
Ursilla tossed back her head, but she had blushed to the roots of her hair. Oh, Ursilla, I thought, though I let a silent pause creep into the room; you really rather like Callum, don’t you? He is handsome and brave, and older than you – and perhaps wise enough to turn you down. You couldn’t bear that, could you?
‘You are disgracing yourself,’ I said wearily. ‘No one else. You are selling yourself short. Do you understand me, Ursilla? I am not worried for your father’s honour or mine, but for your own.’
She looked at me, her breasts rising and falling sharply behind her bodice in a charmingly distracting manner. The colour stood high in her cheeks. ‘I don’t have to listen to you,’ she said.
‘You lack discipline, Ursilla,’ I said. ‘Discipline and self-respect. No one will honour you if you do not honour yourself.’
‘You are a witch and a whore,’ she repeated, starting to back off. ‘You ensorcelled my father and I am not listening to you!’
The insult twisted my patience, already overspun. No lady in the land would listen to such accusations from her underling. I nodded to Janet, standing behind her. Janet had been my personal maidservant for a very long time and knew all my requirements. She was also a very strong and capable woman. As I stood to my feet, she grabbed Ursilla’s arms from behind, before the rebellious girl had even noticed her proximity.
The young woman squealed with shock.
‘You are acting like a child, Ursilla,’ I said disapprovingly. ‘A child who has never been taught what not to do. If you cannot discipline yourself, then others must do it for you. Janet, put her over the bed.’
Ursilla fought and shrieked – even tried to bite – but Janet threw her easily across the furs of my counterpane and pinned her there, face down, weight on her shoulders so that she could get no purchase to rise. I moved round to stand behind her and waited until she raised her head to take a breath.
‘If you act like a child, you will be treated like one,’ I said, my voice stern. I slipped a red satin slipper from my foot and threw her skirts up to expose her legs and bottom. She gasped and tried to kick out, but her legs only flailed helplessly and I kneeled beside them over the bed, out of their way but well within reach of her rising and falling arse.
She was beautiful. So pale, so fragile-looking that it took my breath away and almost shook my resolve. Her buttocks were perfect round globes that rose over the dark ravine of her sex like guardian hills, smooth and pearly as snow-covered winter peaks. Her satiny skin was so fine that I could trace the blue veins running under it. When she wriggled, glimpses of pink flesh appeared and disappeared among the lush dark hair that she could not hide. I laid a hand upon her left cheek and felt it spasm, the muscle rising under my hand to firm the rich flesh. She felt cool to the touch.
I began my task. The slipper descended with a stinging slap across the heart-shaped bottom, dividing the pain equally between each globe. Ursilla squealed, but only the first time. As the sharp blows came down she swallowed her outrage and merely moaned in her throat. She had plenty of pride, that girl, and would not scream under my punishment. Her back was rigid and she jerked with every blow, but she ceased her wild struggles. Her flawless buttocks began to glow a rosy red where my shoe struck. I paused in my blows to touch the flushed skin and was satisfied to feel that it was warm now under my fingers.
Ursilla moaned softly again as my hand stroked her swollen cheeks. That noise, wrenched out of something other than pain, made my heart turn over. Janet, flushed too, glanced up at me in surprise.
I recommenced the punishment, holding my breath, alternating each spank with the feather-light caress of my fingertips. She grew very still, her legs still thrust out stiffly but making no attempt now to wriggle or evade the slap. Indeed, she seemed to be holding her arse up high, as if to receive the blows better. Each impact made her buttocks quiver, her breath sigh out of her taut throat.
I tried an experimental tickle of the dark-furred pudenda peeking from between her thighs and found them as hot and swollen as her bum-cheeks. The touch made her part her rigid legs slightly, as if to afford me a better view of her shame. Her cleft was moist and aromatic, the tissues fat with stimulation. I thought I had never seen anything so beautiful as that sight; her coynt like a split fig framed by the white-and-rose mounds of her buttocks. Skin as white as snow, hair as black as coal and lips swollen red with blood.
I felt a terrible heat in my own flesh.
I could not resist the temptation to reach out for a fur pelisse that lay across the foot of the bed. It was a wrap that I wore about my shoulders when I ventured out of doors, sewn from the white fur of winter hares. The contrast of the pure white and the raven-black fur was heart-stopping. I folded the wrap in my hand and rubbed it against Ursilla’s plump mound, trailing it up to her stinging, glorious cheeks and back again. She twitched and gasped. I almost forgot that the spanking was to continue, so absorbed did I become in the silken path of the fur gliding across her skin – almost, but not quite. I alternated the rich caresses of my fur-clad left hand with judicious, stinging slaps from the slipper in my right; enough to keep her on edge, tremulous and anticipatory of each blow. The white fur became damp as it soaked up the rapidly-increasing flow of juices from her sex, and then it began to stick together in little moist locks; much more and it would be unwearable. Ursilla was writhing now with a slow, r
olling motion that matched and enhanced the unbearable soft touch of the pelisse, her secret innermost flesh distended and gaping, the smell of her desire like a perfume filling my head and drowning my senses.
I judged the moment and covered her mound with a firm and writhing grasp, almost entering her with the white pelt, as she threw her straining thighs wide and pushed down on my hand. She shuddered and shook, the flesh of her arse dancing, the heat of her body setting my whole arm afire. I am not sure I did not join in her incoherent gasps.
When she had ceased to sob, I pulled her skirt down and signalled Janet to release her. The girl did not look at me; she simply slid to the side of the bed and crouched at my feet, panting. I struggled to regain my composure, stroked her dark head once and then dismissed her gently, sending her back to her room. She slipped wordlessly from my chamber, her face crimson.
As soon as Ursilla had gone I sent Janet away, too, wanting to be alone. I had not anticipated such a fierce reaction to the punishment from my stepdaughter, nor from myself. Once alone, I confess that my first action was to sink my face into the wet and defiled fur.
It was nearly two days before I had occasion to discipline Ursilla again. In fact, she did her best to avoid me, although I maintained an eye on her in my own way. In the meantime I was kept more than busy by the many tasks that befall the lady of a household: overseeing the kitchens, visiting those who were sick and prescribing my own herbal remedies for their ailments, inspecting the produce as it was brought in from the fields, receiving petitions from tenants and dependants – a hundred and one duties to fill the damp, overcast days and cold nights. I decided that the understeward seemed to be tolerably honest in his book-keeping, but that I should inspect his accounts at midwinter in order to be sure. I sent an order to Carlisle for barrels of good French wine for the cellar and more spices for the kitchen. And I embarked on my plan to transform the Great Hall, sending men up on long ladders to knock the encrusted pigeon-nests from the rafters and ordering the old rushes – greasy, half-rotted and stinking – cleared from the flagstones so that they might be scrubbed before fresh herbs were strewn.
Cruel Enchantment Page 10
