Luxuria

by E. H. Schutz

  LUXURIA

  Copyright 2013 E.H. Schutz

  All Rights Reserved

  The following is a work of historical fiction. Resemblance to persons living or dead, events, or organisations is either a coincidence or based in history while remaining otherwise fictitious.

  This narrative, and the parts which shall follow, would not exist without the collective contributions of the members of the AJWC. Mere words cannot describe how indebted I am to everyone who assisted with this project. I am particularly thankful for the patience of The Battleaxe, The Terminator, and The Ornithologist. I therefore dedicate the following literary effort to them.

  One

  Helena, Lady Wiltshire, touched her forehead to the cool Chillmark limestone of the cramped tunnel in which she stood. For days, she had utterly failed at clearing her mind of the images that haunted her, and her failure continued now. It would simply not do; she could hardly enter the presence of the Almighty with such lustful thoughts in her mind. Naturally, the very attempt of banishing the thought brought back with a vengeance the warm, flushed feeling, the sensation of simultaneous hypersensitivity and detachment the Tisbury blacksmith’s lips, arms, and hands had wrought upon her body and mind. She pressed herself fully against the rough wall in a desperate attempt to replace the heady heat with a chill sobriety—a state of mind far more conducive to prayer.

  At first, the contact with the wall only exacerbated the sensation. For a few moments, she could actually feel the blacksmith against her, firmly pinning her against the stone wall as they kissed. Finally, her skin achieved a temperate equilibrium with the limestone, and she took a deep breath as she stepped through the oaken door to her cloister, pulling her veil over her hair as she did so. After opening a window, she knelt before the low wooden box which doubled as a simple altar. As she said her self-imposed Ave Marias., she carefully kept her eyes focused on the outline left upon the wall by a long-missing crucifix.

  There were no priests in Wiltshire; neither were there any in Dorset—nor had there been in some time. The few who had been in the area during the reign of Queen Mary fled upon the accession of Queen Elizabeth. Therefore, in an irony she never failed to appreciate, Helena found herself forced to set her own penance, pray her own prayers, and recall her own Scripture. She felt sure that the apostate Luther laughed at her from his place in Hell as she was compelled to do what he promoted, not because she or anyone in England had ever agreed with him, but because of that damnable King Henry.

  Helena paused in her prayers and inhaled deeply. At this point, she could not be sure whether it was King Henry or the Tisbury blacksmith she had to blame for her extreme lapses in concentration. Though, she realised, were it not for King Henry, she would have never come across the Tisbury blacksmith anywhere other than in Tisbury, and then only at Mass. Her husband would approve of her dislike of Henry, though he would never approve of her Catholicism, or of the minor—she chuckled to herself—issue of the blacksmith. Protestant though he was, the Earl held a low opinion of Henry VIII—and of all of the Tudors—as his entire family had supported the Yorks throughout the struggles of the previous century.

  The Earl of Wiltshire practised Protestantism due to philosophy, not politics, and Queen Elizabeth’s attempts to pacify the Catholic factions in the country without destroying them were the sources of many of his dinner-time rants. He would always begin conversationally, and then devolve into calm, measured tirades—always delivered with a perfect, gentlemanly tone in his voice, but still tirades nonetheless—about how the Papists would be the end of the country, and how the Queen had not the faintest idea what she was doing.

  Helena had always found ranting at dinner-time rather distasteful, even if the ranter did so in a voice most calm. His Protestantism she could tolerate, but his zealotry remained a neverending source of discomfort and fear for her. The low, nearly monotonous voice he adopted when he was truly angry only served to aggravate her fear. Should he discover that she did not find herself of the same mind as he, the consequences would be dire, indeed. As such, Helena considered herself fortunate that, in the first year of her marriage, she had stumbled across the small space at the end of the cramped passage behind the hidden door on the third floor of the house. Not being able to pray without fear of being found out had been driving her to distraction. Of course, now, instead, she was driven to distraction by the memory of the blacksmith’s strong hands caressing her hips and wrapping round her back, the faint smell of heated iron, and the feel of soft lips on her own.

  She closed her eyes and began again. “Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu…”

  The air stirred and Helena lost her breath as a low voice joined her from the right, murmuring the prayer.

  “Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae.”

  Helena paused and made to begin again, but the prayer caught in her throat as her heart fluttered against her ribs. Completing her prayers now truly tested her piety as she fought to stop herself looking away from the shadow of the cross on the wall. As the rich alto of the voice washed over her, she felt the benediction and the damnation, and silently cursed herself as she stumbled over the words. How could it be that the harmony created by their voices made her feel closer to God even while the contemplation of her lustful thoughts would surely drive her from His presence for all eternity?

  She at last finished the prayers she had set for herself. Then, slowly, Helena turned and gazed into the green eyes of the woman who had led her so willingly into temptation. Silence pervaded the small space as the women stared at each other, still on their knees; the only sound came from outside where a barn swallow chirped in the eaves. Finally, the blacksmith took Helena’s slender hand in her own and opened her mouth to speak. Helena’s breath hitched at the gentle touch, and she spoke first.

  “Do not even begin to consider apologising to me, Katharine. I shan’t have it.”

  “But Milady…”

  “Helena.” She kept her voice level, even as the blacksmith’s touch sent tingles up her arm.

  “Helena. It was I who was the aggressor, and I who sullied your honour by taking liberties which are not accorded me—”

  “My dear Katharine.” Helena smiled and smoothed away slightly singed blonde hair from the blacksmith’s face. “Did you rehearse this speech for long? Surely our friendship is of sufficient history for you to know better than to do that, or to even think the sentiment your speech expresses?”

  Katharine had the grace to look mildly abashed, though she cocked her head to the side as consternation turned her eyes from green to grey. The hair dislodged itself again and came to rest against her right cheek. “Helena, I don’t—”

  Helena brought an end to whatever denial Katharine planned to issue when she swiftly closed the distance between them and pressed their lips together. Katharine resisted briefly and tried to pull away, but Helena used all the strength she could muster to hold her. The surprised blacksmith’s lips softened against her own, parting to allow her to taste the sweetness she had been imagining for days. Helena wound her fingers in the long, blonde hair and inhaled deeply, savouring the warm hints of iron and soot which had haunted her every waking moment since the first time she had touched Katharine. At last, she pulled back with a parting nip at Katharine’s bottom lip and peered up at the dazed woman.

  “Delicate and fine lady though I am, I do know my own mind and my own body, and I am quite sure that I can be as aggressive as any woman who swings a hammer for a living, strong and worldly though you may be. Do you disagree?”

  If she disagreed, Katharine did not have the opportunity to express it. Helena pivoted her hips and bent Katharine backward over the low makeshift altar. Helena felt Katharine’s rapid breathing ag
ainst her as she pressed down upon her and recaptured her lips. She ran her hands along the blacksmith’s arms, revelling in the contrast of firm muscles beneath soft skin. Intoxicated with the knowledge that she had a woman with twice her strength in her sway, she pinned Katharine beneath her though Katharine gave no indication of an inclination to move. A soft moan escaped her lips when Helena pulled away once more, and Katharine looked up at her, pleading.

  “Don’t stop,” she whispered. “I couldn’t bear it.”

  Helena kissed Katharine again in answer, trailing from her mouth to her flushed cheeks, and finally down to the tender skin of her neck where Helena could feel Katharine’s pulse beating wildly. Helena nibbled gently, sending Katharine’s body arching upwards into her. The sensation of Katharine’s chest rising to meet her own awakened a new hunger in Helena, and she returned to the blacksmith’s mouth with increased fervour. Katharine’s arms wrapped hesitantly round Helena’s waist, prompting Helena to growl. Helena took a calloused hand and placed it over her breast, pressing into it as the blacksmith moaned and bent her knees, trying to get purchase on the stone floor to press her hips further into Helena’s.

  The heel of Katharine’s boot came down on the hem of Helena’s dress, which resisted momentarily before it ripped all the way to the waist. Her attempt at an apology was stopped by Helena’s fingers tangling in her hair and pulling their faces together. Abandoning her apology, Katharine took advantage of her new access to Helena and slid her trouser-clad thigh between now bare legs, coming to a stop only when Helena trapped Katharine’s thigh between her own. They both groaned at the new contact, and Helena hastily began to untie the laces of Katharine’s bodice, giving her access to the smooth, pale skin of her abdomen. She was working at untying Katharine’s trousers when the smith distracted her by pushing her thigh higher until it could go no further. Helena buried her face in Katharine’s neck and groaned at the sensation, which left her short of breath.

  The clatter of horses’ hooves on the cobbled courtyard below floated up and through the open window, followed by the voices of several servants and the Earl of Wiltshire. Helena’s eyes opened wide in panic, and the bliss she had been experiencing shrank into a solid feeling of dread in the bottom of her stomach. It did not take Katharine long to notice that Helena was no longer returning her kisses.

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  Helena shook her head. “Listen.”

  Katharine raised her head and her eyes grew wide. “Your husband?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Do not panic just yet, but let us put ourselves right, and perhaps it would be best if you made haste for the wood.”

  Katharine stood up and quickly pulled her shirt down over her head. “Your dress is ripped.”

  “I will change before I see him. It is of no consequence.”

  Katharine finished retying the waist of her trousers, smoothed her hair as much as it ever was, and made for the small, stone-faced door from whence she had come.

  “Katharine.”

  At the sound of Helena’s voice, she turned back, halfway through the door.

  “May I see you tomorrow? In the wood?”

  “Why in the wood? Have you ever been?”

  “No, but if you are there awaiting me, I shan’t get lost. And I would like to see you in the sun.”

  Katharine softened. “Make your way into the tunnel once you hear the church bells toll for two.”

  “I shall. Be careful, my dear.”

  “And you as well, Milady.”

  Before Helena could object to the appellation, Katharine was gone, and the stone door appeared as if it had only ever been a wall. Helena sagged against the wall opposite. Short of breath, she closed her eyes in an effort to regain her equilibrium. On unsteady legs, she made her way out of the chapel and into the passage. She was beginning to understand the appeal of being a sinner.

  Two

  The next morning, a Thursday, dawned in a dark, howling gale. The wind blew fiercely across the moor, taking grasses, branches, and soil with it. As the wind whistled round the corners of the manor, the dormers rattled, and the kitchen fire went out four times from the pull in the flue, nearly closed though it was. Helena fretted her way through breakfast, worrying that she would not be able to meet Katharine. To her consternation, her husband noticed her nervous state. Robert decisively dropped the letter he had been reading on the table and set a knife upon it. Small breezes eddied through the dining room, lifting the edges of any papers in their path. He straightened up, leaned back slightly in his chair, and peered at Helena.

  “My dear girl, whatever is the matter with you?” Helena wished she had the fortitude to inform him that she hated hearing that name drop from his lips more than she hated Katharine calling her “Milady.” She could think of a host of epithets which she would find less galling. Despite their thirty year age difference, the fact remained that she was hardly a girl. However, the manners which had been impressed upon her by her mother won over her irritation, and she opted for a neutral response.

  “Sorry?”

  “You have been in a dither all through breakfast.”

  “I am sorry, dearest. I do suppose it is the wind. It is rather a dreadful blow.” Of all times for him to notice her or how she might be feeling, it had to be now?

  The Earl turned to look out of a window. “Quite right. It does howl, rather, does it not?”

  “Yes. I have never experienced such a blow here.”

  The Earl smiled. “Well, fear not, dear girl. This house has stood for centuries, and a bit of a blow will surely not change that today.” He returned to his letters without further comment.

  Helena smiled, nodded, and attempted to focus on her needlework. If Robert thought she were disturbed by some ridiculous fear of the weather blowing the house down rather than guessing the truth—the probable upset of her plans—so much the better. She made a few careful stitches on the linen she had stretched over her embroidery frame the night before. In retrospect, she ought have sketched her design on a bit of paper before beginning, but when she had taken up the frame she had not been thinking quite clearly. Now she found that the shield which she had vaguely intended to stitch was coming out looking far more like an anvil.

  Helena sighed inwardly and began pulling out stitches. How had that happened? Upon inspection, she had simply turned the curve of the shield inward too sharply. It certainly did not look like an anvil, and to think it did was a ridiculous notion. She thought to herself, You really must keep your head about you, Helena.

  “Sorry?”

  Helena’s head jerked up, and she met the perplexed eyes of her husband. “Sorry?”

  “You sighed and then muttered something I could not hear.”

  “Oh. I do apologise. I was just thinking to myself and must have spoken aloud instead.”

  Robert eyed her. “Ought I call for a doctor? You appear unwell.”

  “Oh. No. Please, dearest. I think I might just go for a walk through the house. It may calm my nerves.”

  Without awaiting a response, she stood from the table and strode quickly from the dining room, clutching her embroidery frame to her chest. Upon reaching a corner where she could be assured of relative privacy, she slumped against the wall in a most ungainly fashion. In less than a day’s time, she had gone from only thinking of Katharine when alone, which was both often and bad enough, to having the woman consume nearly her every waking thought irrelevant of the circumstance.

  Helena inhaled deeply, pushed herself off of the wall, and continued down the draughty corridor as her skirts whipped about her legs. She found herself most pleased that the servants had at last taken to heart her requests to leave the third floor be during the day. She had never gotten used to the level of attention which Robert’s servants lavished upon her. Her family was of the lesser gentry, but their resources were spent more on help for the land than for the house. Upon her arrival at Tisbury Abbey, she had bee
n most shocked at the level of attention she received and had to nearly beg them to allow her the level of autonomy to which she had previously been accustomed, directly countermanding her mother’s instructions to be quiet and not bother the order of the house.

  Now, as she made her way through the deserted corridor, she was glad to have insisted on her way in this particular matter, the odd looks the servants still gave her notwithstanding. The solitude, combined with the steady sound of the rain on the panes, brought her thoughts back to some semblance of order. As she entered her room, though, thoughts of herself and Katharine cascaded back into her consciousness.

  One might well make the argument that she and Katharine had met at the pleasure of King Henry. After being married to Robert, Helena often found herself wandering the halls and corridors of her new home; getting herself lost and finding her way back helped stave off her homesickness. Within days, Robert had made it clear that he had married because it was expected of him and because he required a hostess. Why he had chosen her, Helena still did not understand, but she suspected that her mother must have made her sound quite pious in order to appeal to the Earl. His life, as he had told her in their first and only conversation on the matter, was devoted to purifying the Church. Helena appreciated and respected his devotion to righteousness even as his definition of righteousness opposed hers. She also appreciated that he apparently had little need of her company.

  The initial relief of spending most of her time alone quickly turned to a feeling of desolation as her natural introversion gave way to isolation. It was one thing to spend most of her time alone, which she had done since she was a child, and yet another to spend all of her time alone, even in the presence of her husband. A few weeks after her wedding, she collapsed against a wall in the third floor corridor in despair at the life of abject loneliness to which her mother had sentenced her, and to her great surprise, the wall moved under her weight. She jumped back, peering behind the wall, or rather, it appeared, door. A passage receded into near darkness.