Mercy of the Moon

by Jennifer Taylor

  Before dawn today, he had watched her sleep, a small smile playing at her lips, black hair spread over the pillow. He woke her again, embraced her warmth, the comfort of her arms, her yielding softness. For a short time after they found their pleasure, he fell asleep, enough to taunt him. Life could be like this, if only he was not plagued so. And knew then, watching her breathe, it could never be as he wanted.

  At first, he had thought perhaps it had gone from him, that finding someone he could not live without would quiet the pounding, the relentless buzzing and beating and cacophony that drummed inside, the pumping of the blood, the throbbing in his veins, the crawling, the crawling like a centipede on every inch of skin, if he could only reach inside himself to silence it. It seemed she has not healed him after all.

  So he would drink the summer down, drink it down to warm him.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Accompanied by Joannie’s husband, Maggie checked on young Betty, who seemed to be healing nicely, then entered the Siren Inn, anxious to hear what Ian had learned from Jonas. She appraised Lena of the situation.

  “I am sorry for this, Liebchen.” Lena put her work-roughened hand over hers. “But I am sure that all will be well.”

  Maggie smiled at the familiar words. Her friend set a bowl of chowder and a thick hunk of brown bread in front of her. “You have much to do, but you must keep your strength up.”

  Her cheery demeanor and hearty food did much to quiet the restless anxiety that roiled around in her belly.

  “Our Sabine ate a bowl of chowder I had brought to her a while ago. She felt strong enough to get out of bed for a bit.”

  That was good news indeed. “Thank you for the chowder, my friend.” Maggie stood and brushed the crumbs from her apron. “I will check on Sabine. Have you seen Ian?”

  There was hardly anyone about at this hour, except a pair of sailors, intent on playing a game of chance.

  “No, I have not seen him.”

  “He should have been here by now. We were going to talk to Sabine again.”

  What could be taking him so long? Of all times for him to be missing...she headed upstairs. Lena was right. Sabine was a resilient girl and showed every sign she would heal properly. Before long, she headed back, accompanied by Joannie’s husband, to Sarah’s cottage, anxious to relieve Joannie and hoping Ian had returned there, merely forgetful they had made plans to talk to Sabine.

  She sent Joannie and her husband home, and the afternoon dragged by as she tended to Sarah and tried to keep poor Ruthie busy cooking and playing with a top Ian had given her. Where was her husband?

  Samuel returned, dusty and tired from the road. He rushed over to Sarah, who sat in the rocking chair, feet up on a stool. “How is she?”

  “As you can see, much the same. I dosed her up again, just to be safe.”

  “I have some news. The constable there said that two women, who seemed healthy enough to him, had died during childbirth during the time Phillip White practiced there.”

  Maggie handed him some ale and a bowl of soup. He sat down, attacking it with relish.

  “I’m going to look for Ian.” She made sure her head was covered, to help hide her identity.

  “Be careful, Maggie.”

  “Do not worry, Samuel.”

  He frowned. “Where has the man disappeared to?”

  She avoided his eyes. “Well, I...”

  “What is it, Maggie? Has he treated you ill?”

  “No, I just do not know where he is,” she admitted. “He never met me at the Siren Inn, and I have not seen him since.”

  He glowered, fists clenched. “I knew it. I knew he was lacking.”

  “Samuel! You mustn’t jump to conclusions.”

  Quite uncharacteristically, he embraced her.

  ****

  She bent her head and strode through a lowering fog, the echoes of ships’ bells accompanying her. She searched the path to the Shipwreck Hotel and made sure her hood was up. Upon arriving, she found Ian standing amidst a group of laughing people, singing an extremely bawdy song, with great arm and leg movements. She was in no mood for this raucous environment. Sarah’s life was at stake. What could he be thinking? Meanwhile, her husband’s performance had his admirers clapping and hollering, stamping their feet.

  The owner’s wife passed by with a tray of drinks in her hand and shook her head. “He is our entertainer tonight.”

  She elbowed her way through the crowd and grasped his arm. “Ian.”

  He stopped mid-song and took her in his arms, swinging her around amidst hoots and catcalls. “My beloved! You’ve come to join me!”

  “I’ve come to take you home,” she yelled above the uproar.

  “Oh now!” Someone in the crowd called out. “The bride wants her groom home, does she? Miss Maggie is making up for lost time! Take her home, Pierce! Pull out that giant pestle of yours. Give her what she needs!” The men called out drunkenly.

  To his credit, Ian did not delay but put his arm around her and swept out of the inn. The fog crawled at their feet, and their footsteps echoed as they made their way home. He could not keep still but continued his crooning, occasionally stopping to laugh and nod his head.

  She shook his arm. “What is the matter with you? You disappear for hours with no word of where you’d gone. You promised you would help my family.” As she spoke the words, saying them aloud gave them credence, and thoughts of her father came unwillingly and made her voice harsher than intended.

  He looked at her with such self-reproach she swallowed anger with effort.

  “Oh Maggie. I am sorry. I thought it would help.”

  “Help what?”

  He ignored her question, murmuring, “Forgive me. My intention was to help, and—oh Maggie. All I want to do is love you.” He stopped and kissed her with slow and lingering tenderness.

  “Enough about that right now.” She urged him on and down the street, and as they walked along the Strand, she switched to his other arm to guard him from the edge of the water, so crooked was his gait. How much drink had he consumed? The moon’s reflection on the water revealed a half-moon, milky white and innocent.

  As if in answer to her unspoken question he said, “I got Jonas drunk and questioned him about the night I found Sarah. He did admit he was there to pull her teeth and more, that he was readying her corpse for Edward Carter to take her to London to sell.”

  She nodded.

  “And best of all, he has agreed to confess to the magistrate, tomorrow morning. If he does not remember, I will remind him.”

  A sense of relief washed over her, that he had a purpose to his trip and been successful. He hadn’t gone there just to fill his belly with drink. Still, his demeanor was alarming. He vaguely reminded her of a puppet, as if he had no control over his movements. Is this what excessive drink did to him?

  “Jonas said he’d been plagued with dreams of the snake woman, Ixchel, and her promise to make him pay for his crimes, in most horrible and bloody detail. I told him that confessing was the only way to rid himself of her.”

  She nodded.

  “And if I had a tad too much to drink, it was worth the cost, wasn’t it?”

  He had indeed done good work today, but she would not tell him so. They were that much closer to being able to present a case against Edward Carter. Especially when Jonas confessed.

  “I can speak of this no longer, Maggie. Can we not put our minds on other things and forget our troubles for a little while?”

  “But Sarah...” How could he act as if nothing were wrong?

  “Maggie, we can do nothing until morning.”

  It was true. Sarah was safely home with Samuel. Nothing bad was happening at this moment. Why not take what comfort they could from each other?

  As soon as she latched the cottage door and lit the candles and the fire, Ian began removing his clothes. He stood in his breeches, swaying slightly, powerful chest bare and bathed in candlelight. His upper arms bulged with sinew, raised in a str
etch above his head, loose breeches sliding down over his hips, the trail of hair from his navel to the hair at the base of his member. His eyes stripped her of her clothing, and she felt his need like her own heartbeat. She removed her clothing slowly, forcing him to wait as she had waited all those long hours, not knowing where he’d gone.

  Once upstairs she pushed him against the wall. Their tongues met thrust for thrust, deep waves of warmth coursing through her. She removed his breeches and skimmed her hand up his muscled legs, his hands grasped her hair. She wrapped her lips around his member and grasped with the other hand the weight of his stones. Need swelled within her. She trailed her lips up his body, followed by her hands, sliding up the length of his body.

  He lifted her to the bed. “Ah, Maggie, such joy you give me, and I do not deserve it.” He kissed her, hands possessing her so every inch of her throbbed with need, his lips upon her nipples, hands demanding response, seeking her flesh to sing. She raised her hips to invite him in, and he thrust into her. If she could only keep him within her, like this, she would know him, all of him.

  He grasped her face. “Maggie, you have given me my life here within you, where I have found peace for a time. I long to be inside of you, like this, always.” He swelled within her again and thrust with agonizing slowness.

  “I do not deserve you, but I love you, do you hear?” He kissed her, his lips bruising hers.

  “Don’t say that. You have given me life, Ian.” She responded in kind, anger and bewilderment bruising his lips as well. She searched his eyes, tightened around him, to keep him to her, to keep him safe, so she might always feel those waves of pleasure and his essence pulsing within. She lay within the shelter of his chest, arms on his to hold him there.

  Long before dawn, she awoke to an empty bed and thought she heard the soft plucking of a lute and Ian’s rusty voice trailing alongside it. But he was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Hours later, Maggie set her shoulders back, determined to go about the day as if Ian had never left. Her mind approved of this strategy, but the body had other ideas. It still hummed with the memory of their coupling. She had felt his desperation, and her body had responded. Why then had he left? Had he already tired of her? No, she would not spend the day in doubt. There was much to be done and she would do it, as always. But how could he leave when they needed him so?

  As she drank her tea, she received a summons to the Siren Inn by a young lad she didn’t recognize. He said there was something wrong with the foreign girl.

  She did not see Lena upon her arrival and went straight upstairs. “Sabine, good afternoon, my dear. It’s Miss Maggie. I have...”

  She opened the door. A fist smashed into her face, and she fell backward into the hallway. Edward Carter grabbed her by the shoulders and dragged her into the room, shutting the door.

  “You stupid bitch,” he said. “You could not keep that ugly yap of yours shut.” He let go suddenly, and she staggered, blinking her eyes to clear the red mist. Sabine cowered in the bed, a bloody knife in her hand, and Jonas was doubled over, his hand covering his side, blood seeping from beneath it. Another man Maggie had not seen before, rough-looking, big, grabbed hold of Jonas so Carter could hit him in the stomach.

  “You imbecile! Henson here said he had overheard you talking to her husband about me, about that night. You’re coming along.”

  “No,” Jonas screamed.

  Carter put a hand over his mouth. “Quiet or I will gut you like a fish, right here.”

  He grabbed Maggie by the arm. “We are going on a journey. Come along with me, or I will hurt the little slut.” He motioned to Henson, and the man yanked Sabine out of the bed, wresting the dripping knife from her hand. Thank God Lena had the babe.

  “You cannot move her,” she screamed. “She is not well, thanks to you. It will kill her.”

  “Then you had better prevent that, midwife.” Carter laughed, slapping her face.

  Where were they going? Carter would not be able to get them downstairs without discovery. She could call for help but not when he pointed a knife at Sabine.

  Carter went over to the other side of the room and felt for something in the paneling. There was a click, and a panel opened up, wide enough to admit one person at a time. She had forgotten the stories told about the secret staircase, where many men had escaped the wrath of the Reformation. Carter held a knife to her throat and a candle dangerously close to her head and commanded she begin her descent. She made her way carefully down the narrow stairway, holding onto the cold stone walls for balance.

  Sabine’s moans echoed in the cold darkness. They stopped at a narrow landing, and she felt the heat from the fireplace on the other side of the stone wall. They climbed down another passage, into a network of underground caves used by smugglers for centuries. The stories were true then, she thought hazily.

  Henson muttered an epithet as Sabine whimpered and slid to the floor.

  Carter said, “What are waiting for, you big oaf? Pick her up then.”

  Sabine had fainted or God forbid, worse.

  “If you have killed her, you monster, it will be on your head,” Maggie yelled, white hot pain igniting in her jaw where Carter had hit her.

  The monster must have big hands, she thought absently, for her entire face felt swollen. No matter. How to keep them alive? She had given her knife to Sabine, the one she normally kept on her person, and the other one was in her bag, dropped in the room. She could only pray and try to keep her wits about her.

  By the time her bad foot became so stiff with cold she could barely move it, they came to a heavy iron door. Edward Carter strode ahead, leaving her for a moment to knock upon the door. Sabine’s keeper answered it, his head heavily bandaged.

  “I have the other,” he said.

  Who else had been taken? Her heart beat in her throat as they walked down a long passage. Was Sabine still alive? Torches ensconced in the stones revealed water seeping down the walls. They turned the corner into a corridor of barred cells. In the darkness a man screamed, guttural and primal.

  Edward Carter opened a cell at the end of the row and shoved her in, followed by Sabine and Jonas.

  “No,” Jonas screamed. “I helped you, didn’t I?”

  Carter ignored him and instructed the man carrying Sabine to put her on the ground.

  Without another word, the three men left the cell and locked it.

  As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw her, in the corner.

  “Sarah.”

  She lay slumped and shaking against the wall, opening her eyes when Maggie touched her.

  “Maggie,” she croaked. “I’m sorry. I could not stop their voices, telling me I must seek vengeance. Ruthie returned to take the baby over to Joannie’s so I might sleep uninterrupted, and I ventured out. That man with the bandaged head grabbed me and brought me here.”

  “Are you hurt?” She rubbed Sarah’s hands with her own to warm them.

  “No,” she whispered. “Just bleeding and so tired, Maggie.”

  “We are going to be fine,” she said, not believing it. “I must tend to Sabine now.”

  She lay sprawled on the floor, unconscious. Straining her eyes in the dim, flickering light of the sconces in the passageway, she lifted Sabine’s skirts and felt the blood seeping out in a slow steady stream. She would not live if left like this. There was little she could do for the girl, except for one thing, but it was too risky and it might kill her. She had none of her midwife materials, no medicines, nothing. Would she watch the poor girl die, and Sarah as well? No.

  She could not think clearly with Jonas’ caterwauling. “Jonas, stop your noise and help me take Sabine over to Sarah. They must keep each other warm. And give me your coat. Jonas!”

  He obeyed, and they put the two women together so they might share body heat. Between her cloak and Jonas’ ragged one, they were at least covered. Sarah had rallied enough to wrap her arms around Sabine. The girl stirred, and Sarah crooned to her.r />
  All she could do, Maggie determined, was to keep moving, tend to Sarah and Sabine. And pray.

  They had disappeared without a trace, and no one but those monsters knew where they had gone. Had they left them there to die? Where was Ian?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Ian cursed himself for he could not control the memories that crashed in his head like cymbals, and the rest of the music within him could not help but join in the cacophony. He staggered out of town through the Landgate; it towered over him; ancient and judgmental and shadowed him to the outskirts of town. He had a bottle and a hope it might serve to silence that which plagued his mind, those melodies ever present, growing in volume and intensity, their piercing harmonies on the edge of darkness. The bottle was the last chance of stilling them so he could return to Maggie. But in his current state he could help no one.

  Damn Phillip White, for he had once seen him at his very worst, and reminded him he could not hide his wreckage from her any longer. He must leave. He wandered along the shore, hoping the water lapping and the sea birds crying would calm him, but how could they when not even the heart and soul of Maggie could do so? He had so hoped she would be his savior, but he was wrong. He threw the bottle into the river. It would not serve him. And he had felt the remedy within his grasp, if only he had more time.

  Eventually, Ian walked amongst the salt flats toward the Channel and watched a ship head to sea. There had he escaped before and could remain forever anonymous, moving from sea to province to sea again, always moving, and the music trailed him, padding behind like a predator in the soft marshland and sinking a claw into him with a song of sorrow and stark need, and he gave himself up to it.

  He looked out at the water and glimpsed the mermaids, their shining heads and coy eyes enticing him further on as they bobbed in the whitecaps so he could hear their song. He felt it, the rise and fall of his soul as their keening harmony buoyed him up, as he joined them in the whitecaps. The music so exceedingly sweet, his head swirling with it, his soul rising and falling with it as the piercing melody resounded within him.