The room into which Sir Francis ushered Richard was in sharp contrast to the shadowy hall; candles flamed in wall sconces, in candelabra and in the great crystal chandelier that centered on a painted ceiling. Glancing upwards, Richard saw what first appeared to be a classical scene typical of those decorating many a contemporary mansion. However, a second and longer look showed him that the godlike Grecian youths were engaged in a Bacchanalian orgy complete with supplicating maidens whose pleas were very obviously going unheeded. The work was detailed enough to bring forth a most embarrassing reaction. Looking away quickly, Richard encountered his host’s eyes and found them full of glee. Had he noticed? Of course he had, Richard thought with some annoyance, and now he realized that some of the furnishings depicted in the painting were duplicated in the room. Among them were couches covered with green damask. These were very long and very wide, designed, Richard guessed, for similar dalliance.
Indicating a nearby divan, Sir Francis said genially, “Sit down, dear boy.” He strolled to a long side board on which were several crystal decanters of wine along with delicate crystal goblets.
Richard, meanwhile, found his couch almost indecently soft, filled, he guessed, with the finest swan’s-down. Everywhere he looked he saw evidence of sybaritic luxury; tables, bearing baskets of beautiful fruit, were inlaid with semiprecious stones. Huge malachite pillars flanked a fireplace in which a roaring fire had been built. There were Roman marbles upon the mantel, and in one corner of the room stood a statue of a well-endowed Apollo carrying a lyre. The other corner was occupied by a companion piece—a young, naked and voluptuous nymph with a roguish smile on her face and a finger against her lips, as if requesting silence. The other hand was upheld in a beckoning gesture.
“Charming, is she not?” Sir Francis remarked. “I call her Phyrne.” He proffered Richard a goblet filled with dark red wine. “I hope you’ll find this to your taste. ’Tis well aged and comes from one of Italy’s finest vineyards.”
“I am sure I will,” Richard murmured, strenuously trying to appear as casual as his host. He feared that he had not quite succeeded in hiding his surprise at finding such voluptuous surroundings beneath an abbey roof. As he accepted the glass, Sir Francis held up another goblet of wine.
“A toast, my dear Reverend Veringer!” he said lightly.
“I am not a reverend,” Richard replied coldly. “As I have explained, all that is behind me now.”
“I remember, dear boy,” Sir Francis nodded, “but I cannot help wondering... does one ever doff the principles learned in childhood and early youth? If I were to direct this toast toward the health of say... Satan, what would your response be?”
Richard regarded him with more than a little disappointment. He had misjudged his host. All of Sir Francis’ aftermentioned reasons for bringing him to Medmenham could be discounted. Despite this man’s avowal of an enlightened atheism that marched with his own, Sir Francis was proving to be an impious fraud. He must be engaged in some manner of devil worship! And undoubtedly the abbey was the headquarters of a Satanic circle. The studied irreverence he had marked in the Trinity pointed to that. There had been similar groups among the undergraduates at the seminary, an adolescent response to a repressive rule. Generally, these did not survive graduation, but some young men, he knew, did continue their adherence to these societies. He knew of several “hell-fire” clubs and thought them both puerile and pathetic. He had deemed Sir Francis too intelligent to concern himself with such arrant nonsense. How could any reasoning individual lend credence to the notion of a personified evil? It was almost as ridiculous as believing that a supreme being guided the destinies of mankind. However, much as he would have enjoyed debating with his host and battering down his beliefs with opinions he had held ever since he had been old enough to reason, he did not want to involve himself in anything that must keep him from Catlin. If paying lip service to a “painted devil” would please the man, he had no objections. Catlin was all that mattered.
He said, “I would be delighted to toast Satan or Beelzebub or Lucifer or the whole hierarchy of demons, if you prefer.”
“Ah.” Sir Francis had seemed tense but now he visibly relaxed. “As I think I told you before, my dear young sir, you are a man after my own heart. To Satan, then!” He clicked glasses with Richard and drank deeply.
“To Satan.” Richard drained his glass.
“And I bid you welcome to Medmenham,” Sir Francis said approvingly. “I am pleased we understand each other. I presume you’ll want to take your bath now?”
“Immediately!” Richard responded enthusiastically.
❖
The bathtub was set in the middle of a large chamber furnished with a huge fourposter bed and a tall mahogany armoire. Richard had been brought to the room by a lightvoiced, soft-footed lad with the beautiful sexless face of an Italian choirboy. He had been clad in the grey livery common to all of Sir Francis’ servants. Helping Richard undress, he had assisted him into the bath. However, an offer to scrub his back had been curtly rejected.
Lying in waters that were pleasantly warm, Richard wondered if pedastry were the order of the day at the abbey, but dismissed that notion as he recalled the paintings. That Sir Francis was both hedonist and Satanist he was willing to believe, but he must be exonerated of what men called the French vice. Certainly he was a strange man and a disappointment, yet at least a question troubling him ever since the previous evening had been resolved. He had wondered why Sir Francis was so eager to forward the course of true love and for a stranger. Undoubtedly, the baronet imagined he had left the church because he had lost his faith in God. Probably he would have been extremely disappointed to learn that the erstwhile Reverend Veringer had no faith to lose and that he had loathed every moment spent in seminary and pulpit! Yet, as he was quick to assure himself, that was just as well. If Sir Francis had not imagined him to be an apostate ripe for devilish mischief, he never would have invited him to Medmenham and Catlin would now be in Ireland. He grimaced. They were taking a damned long time bringing them together, and to think about her as much as he did was intensely frustrating, especially for one who had not held a woman in his arms since Meg deserted him.
“Abstinence, dear Richard, maketh the heart grow fonder.”
Richard started, causing some of the water to spill over the tub’s edge. The whisper in his ears was in his brother’s voice. Fulke had said those words to him when he had deprived him of Christina, and why was he now thinking_of his damned sibling—hopefully damned, he amended, wishing he could believe in such heavenly reprisals.
Banishing Fulke from his mind, he clambered out of the bath. There was a rough towel lying on a chair. Wrapping it around him, he rubbed himself dry. His heart was beginning to pound heavily. It was time—it had to be time for him to join Catlin. He strode to the armoire, expecting to find his second-best suit of clothes, but on peering inside, he found only a long brown cassock which ordinarily would have been made of sackcloth and tied with a rope. This garment was fashioned from heavy silk and belted with a twisted silken cord. On the floor beneath it was a pair of leather sandals. He eyed the costume angrily. He was not going to dress up like some damned mountebank! He strode back to the bed where the boy had laid his black suit only to find it gone.
Additional anger shot through him. He pulled open the door to his room, hastily slamming it as he heard a spurt of girlish giggling in the corridor and remembered belatedly that he could not be the only guest at the abbey. His choice was clear. Either he donned that damned robe or he remained here. Was he to greet Catlin in this Papist attire? The idea was deeply repugnant, but since he had no choice he finally put it on, feeling like a damned fool. As that thought crossed his mind, he smiled unwillingly. Those who did obeisance to the so-called foul fiend could also be called damned—and fools, they undoubtedly were. “I’m in good company,” he muttered, as he slipped his feet into the sandals and knotted the cord tightly around his waist. He was about to open the door wh
en he heard a light knock. A thrill of anticipation went through him. Catlin, at last?
It was not Catlin who waited outside in the hall. It was the boy who had brought him to the chamber. “If your Lordship will be so good as to follow me,” he murmured.
Once more Richard was going down the hall, descending the stairs to another floor and then down the stairs he had mounted upon arrival. Only this time, the same stillness did not prevail. Though no one save his guide was in evidence, he heard muted conversations and, he thought, light feminine laughter. He stared around the entrance hall, seeing several doors. Where did they lead? More specifically, where was he being led?
The boy opened one of the doors and beckoned Richard to follow him. They were in a dimly-lighted corridor; on either side of them were paneled walls similar to those on the upper floors but unadorned by paintings. At the end of the corridor, Richard saw another portal. Reaching it, his guide knocked loudly three times.
Three for the holy trinity, Richard thought amusedly as the door swung slowly open. Though the boy went inside, Richard remained on the threshold staring into a small room, lighted by two candles placed on a long flat table covered by a scarlet cloth and flanked by three chairs. Richard’s eyes shifted to the cloth on which was emblazoned a golden cross. There was, he thought, something strange about that cross, and another look revealed that it was upside down.
Richard immediately recognized another symbol of Sir Francis’ so-called Satanism. A book he had found in the seminary library had contained a description of Satanic practices. The text had been spiced with such adjectives as “horrid,” “abominable” and “evil.” Richard could not see anything abominable or evil about the reversed cross nor, he told himself, would any other enlightened person.
“Enter, my Lord,” someone ordered in deep sepulchral tones.
Richard looked about him but saw no one. Then, a panel behind the table slid slowly open, and three men in cowled robes similar to his own appeared and took the three chairs. Richard concealed a threatening grin as he noted their cowls were up, leaving their features in darkness. The effect was eerie but not as frightening as they evidently hoped. He faced them boldly, saying ironically, “Good evening, good sirs.”
They did not move or speak. Three monkish monoliths, he thought amusedly. Finally, after a long pause, the man on the left said, “Richard Veringer, Lord More, are you present?”
“As you see,” Richard acknowledged.
“Do you know why you are here?” inquired the man on the right.
Richard’s patience was swiftly leaving him, “No. At least, I do not know why I have been summoned to this room.”
“You have been summoned here, Richard Veringer, because we want your word that you’ll reveal nothing of what has or will take place during your stay.” It was the man in the center who had spoken, and Richard recognized Sir Francis Dashwood’s tones.
“You have that,” he replied brusquely. “And indeed you need not have asked.”
“On the contrary, it is important to ask, important, too, that you swear on the head of our Prince Satan, guardian of the Monks of Medmenham, that you will abide by our rules. Will you swear?”
“If I must,” Richard said.
“You must,” the man on the right said solemnly.
“And if you forget your obligations to us,” the man on the left spoke in a deep monotone, “you’ll pay the price and suffer the consequences. Do you understand?”
Richard nodded. The thought of Catlin was in his mind again, or rather it had never left his mind. He had an impulse to tell them all to go to hell, but, under the present circumstances, such an order must prove singularly ineffective.
He said, “I understand.”
“And will swear.”
“Very well,” said the man on the left, “repeat after me. ‘I, Richard Veringer, do solemnly swear to keep faith with those who sit in high places and whose hearts and souls are in thrall to the Prince of Darkness, whom I now recognize as my liege Lord.’”
Richard, repeating the requested oath, wondered what more he must suffer before seeing her. He was really going through hell! He bit down a threatening laugh as he realized that in the eyes of the trio on the dais, he was doing just that! “Is it enough, Brother?” asked the man in the middle.
“It is enough, Brother,” the other two repeated in unison. “Very well, Richard Veringer, Earl of More, you are admitted to our circle and may partake of all the joys therein—for as long as you remain under our roof.”
“I am indeed honored,” Richard said with a touch of sarcasm he could not quite conceal.
“You are, and more than you imagine.” Sir Francis threw back his cowl and clapped his hands. “Ahriman, will you escort my Lord More to the Corridor of Delights?”
The boy who had led Richard into the room moved to his side. “If your Lordship will follow me...” he said softly.
A few minutes later, they returned to the hall, and the servant led him into another passageway. Once more Richard heard that sibilant merriment, muted giggles and beguiling feminine tones merging with the deeper voices of men—men and women together, but where? When his guide held up a candle, Richard saw doors on either side of him. Little grills were set into them, not unlike those in a prison, Richard thought with shock, but it was from them that the voices issued and, he noted, each of the rooms, or rather cells, was lighted. Again he followed the boy called Ahriman down the corridor to a door nearly at its end. Stopping in front of it, he motioned Richard to go inside.
As he entered, he heard a gasp of fright. In the dimness of this darkened chamber, Richard saw a figure huddled on a large bed. The only other furniture in the cell was a night stand on which stood a tall candelabrum. Extending his taper, the boy lit its seven candles and left the room. To Richard’s amazement and subsequent anger, he heard a frightened female voice.
“Oh, help me... help me...”
He whirled. Thanks to the illumination provided by the candles, he finally beheld the beautiful but tear-stained face of Catlin O’Neill. Compunction stirred. She must have been badly frightened, kept here in semidarkness and not knowing why she had been spirited away to this strange place. How, he wondered, could he soothe her fears and put her at her ease. Words sprang to his lips and died as on glancing down, he found that, in common with himself, she as in religious garb—a nun’s habit, complete with coif and veil though neither headdress nor gown hid her charms. Both were fashioned from a gossamer fabric and, again in common with himself, beneath that transparent material she was naked. He flushed, as inadvertently his eyes strayed to her small but perfectly shaped breasts with their rosy nipples inviting his kisses.
“Do... do not look at me,” she whispered and shrank away, pressing her body against a mound of silken pillows. He wondered why she had not reached for the coverlet and saw, then, that her hands and feet were tightly bound.
“Good God,” he exclaimed angrily. “Let me remove those ropes.”
“Do not t-touch me, F-Father...” she began and paused. “B-But you’re no priest nor monk, neither, to be in such a place. Oh, where am I and why was I forced to don this unholy garb? Please, sir, if you have any pity, help me. Get me away from here.”
Her pain and distress were, he decided, real enough. The poor little wench was unused to such unorthodox methods of seduction. He never would have agreed to such proceedings, himself, he thought crossly, beginning to loathe these psuedo-monkish trappings. They could only give rise to horror in a person who had any religious leanings, which she obviously did. Sir Francis was more of a fool than he had believed and he, Richard Veringer, was an even greater fool to have countenanced her kidnapping! If he had realized what it entailed, he most certainly would have refused to lend himself to such a scheme!
“Please, you must let me free you,” he said gently, soothingly. “Those ropes must be hurting you.”
“They are that.” She sounded a shade less frenzied. “My fingers are numb. Could you...
would you help me to get away?” Her beautiful eyes were bloodshot and tears stood in them again.
His annoyance increased. The girl was so frightened, it would be a Herculean task to calm her down. He said soothingly, “Certainly, if that is what you wish, my dear.”
“What I wish?” she repeated incredulously. “Why would I not wish it?”
“Softly, softly,” he murmured, wishing she were not wearing that damned headdress. He would have liked to stroke her hair, but perhaps it was better not to make an overture yet. “Let me undo those knots,” he said.
They were more difficult to untie than he had believed; it took some little time before he could loosen them. As he struggled with the cord, his anger against Sir Francis mounted even higher. Why had he been so hard on the poor girl? Finally, the knots yielded, and he pulled the cords away. “There,” he said triumphantly.
“Oh, I do thank you,” she whispered.
He caught her hands, holding them gently. “Let me rub your wrists and bring the circulation back.”
“No.” She tried to pull away.
“Come, you needn’t be afraid of me,” he murmured. “I’d not harm you, believe me.” Taking her right hand, he pressed a kiss against the palm only to have her utter an outraged squeak and pull it back, slapping him smartly across the face with her other hand. Evidently, forgetting that her feet were still bound, she started up from the bed only to fall heavily upon the floor.
Household Page 5
