Honsl’s head came up sharply, eyes wide with surprise. He was no more surprised than Buttercup herself. Grisls of the age of Mother Marple and in that stage of decrepitude were commonly supposed to be neither interested in sex nor capable of instigating it, since no one in such a state of decay would be able to withstand combat.
Unless – Mouse shrieked at her – unless such an old hen had starved an opponent into terminal weakness, as this one had planned to do.
If that had been the plan, it went sadly awry for Mother Marple. Buttercup dropped her robe and emerged from the cage in one giant leap, in full possession of her faculties, of gleaming spurs, of a dripping fang, and of hands still red from breakfast.
The old witch, as Honsl called her, might have been a worthy opponent at one time. The old movements were all there, though weakly and unsatisfactorily executed. At one point, she so far forgot herself as to screech, though Buttercup, intent upon the battle, hardly heard it. All that raw meat had had its effect. Though she admitted to herself that it was unmaidenly to do so, Buttercup was drawing out the battle in order to maximize its erotic effect upon Honsl. Egg maturation or not, she felt she had been celibate long enough! As she fought, she thought of Honsl, of his arousal, of the expression on his pretty face when she turned to him at last, triumphant, spurs dripping, fang flirtatiously extended.
He would greet her with welcoming, tremulous expectation, she thought as she finally tired of the play and pierced Mother Marple’s throat with a nicely judged side slash.
She turned to the chained male, flushed with anticipation.
Staring at her across the carcass of Mother Marple with his usual constipated expression, Honsl held the ankle chain out toward Buttercup. He showed no signs of arousal whatsoever. He showed no signs of interest.
There was a lengthy and uncomfortable silence, broken when he said, finally, in a rather self-conscious whine, ‘She would have been most awfully disappointed, wouldn’t she?’
She would have been? thought Buttercup.
‘I don’t know why it is,’ he went on plaintively, ‘that Grisls always assume males like being – well, you know – wanted in that way. Sought after. Lots of them don’t. I never have. It’s just not all that amusing.’ He held out the ankle chain once more, obviously expecting her to find the key and let him loose.
She could not stop herself. Later, she could not recall that she had even tried. She nipped him firmly, rather more than a love bite, and glared at him as she snarled, ‘Not all that amusing, indeed!’
The faithful dog came out of the underbrush to sniff at Honsl a time or two, raising his hind leg at the paralyzed figure in a gesture unfamiliar to Buttercup. She wondered what it signified as the creature left his erstwhile master and came bounding toward her. He smelled no better than he had at first, rather worse, in fact, but she saw the animal through clearer eyes. Clever, clever boy. Nice dog. Large enough to be useful in many ways – to carry baggage, or even to ride upon if one chose.
With the sun moving toward noon, it would be easy for her to find her way back to the road. She left Honsl where he was, striking off through the forest in the direction Mother Marple had indicated on the night they had arrived, Whurfle in close pursuit. She thought that in future she would pay more attention to where she was going. She thought she would find a way to show gratitude to the dog. She thought that when she grew weary, she might ride upon him. She hoped she would reach the nearest village well before dark.
‘Whurfle is a clever animal, true,’ said a voice in her head. ‘But you wouldn’t really want to spend the night out on a dog like this.’
CHAPTER SIX
By sundown, Buttercup reached the village of Rivvelford. She thought that perhaps it should be called a town, inasmuch as it was the seat of government for the surrounding area and had not one but two excellent inns. Whatever one might choose to call it, she was glad to reach it. Though she had not suffered malnutrition under Mother Marple’s care, she had suffered emotional exhaustion and wanted nothing more than a quiet room, a warm bath, cooked food, and escape, however temporarily, from dog. She stabled him appropriately though he howled dismally after her as she left him to the tender care of the stable boy and the enjoyment of a large dish of bones and table scraps. She drew the line at sharing quarters with anything that smelled quite so much like wet winter-wear. The stable boys seemed to find Whurfle irresistible, which was congruent with thoughts she had already expressed about the essential triviality of the male mind.
She had brought with her from Thrumm House a quantity of coin, sufficient, she had estimated, for a journey much longer than the one contemplated, so there was no problem in obtaining a pleasant dinner of baked moorhen, fresh vegetables, and a wine of the area which, while young, had a certain foolhardy insouciance which she found intriguing. Mr Thrumm had been quite a connoisseur of wines, and some of his snobbish delight seemed to have rubbed off on her. Well, she thought (Mouse thought) after all, if one must travel, one might as well travel with enjoyments appropriate to one’s station. One was, after all, a daughter of the Royal House, Van Hoost or not. Not that she intended to say anything about that.
The inn specialized in elaborate confections, but she had smelled enough marple bread recently to make anything sweet seem abhorrent. She contented herself with the wine, sitting late in the dining room as she watched the fire flicker low and the moon peer through the mullioned window over the branches of the sorbish grove. It was while she was so pleasantly occupied that she overheard the conversation of a group of males at a nearby table who, warmed overmuch by spiritous indulgence, had so far forgotten themselves as to become loud.
One was exhorting to another to attend a ‘revival’ which was to be held in the village square on the following evening at which time the populace would be addressed by a traveling preacher. Though it was unclear what was to be revived, Buttercup had never heard a preacher and was curious enough to spend an additional day in Rivvelford. She was, at this point, only two days journey from the Palace and did not want to arrive too early.
‘Early to bed and early to rise,’ said a hectoring voice from inside. ‘Get a head start to make you wise. Better early than never!’ Buttercup, as was her habit, ignored it. The days spent at Mother Marple’s had already delayed her. Surely one or two days more would not matter.
On the following evening, Buttercup, soberly clad in her quiet robe, joined a crowd made up almost entirely of males with only three of four constabulary Nurseys standing about looking bored. Besides herself, there were not half a dozen robed Grisls in the square. Of unrobed Grisls there were none, as the presence of such a one would have been provocative, inappropriate, and uncivil. In good time the preacher was introduced: Sensalee, a young, slim, serious-looking male, not unlike Sneeth in general appearance and demeanor though far, far better looking. He was well spoken and made an excellent impression upon the crowd.
That impression, so far as the Grisls were concerned, was quickly dissipated when they began to understand what he had to say. He was speaking for a cause he called ‘Male Rights,’ by which they understood him to mean that he wished males to be allowed Grisl privileges or, conversely, that he wished Grisl privileges in connection with males to be curtailed. Most of his remarks were concerned with his disapproval of the Grisl habit of what he called ‘casual sex.’
Casual indeed, scowled Buttercup beneath her robe. It seemed ridiculous that a matter so urgent could be called ‘casual’ by anyone!
The preacher, however, called it casual again and again, spoke of the male being a mere ‘plaything,’ and went on at painful length about the pathetic fortunes of males ‘casually used’ by Grisls and then ‘casually’ disposed of. By which he meant, if Buttercup understood what he was attempting to say, that males should not be left precisely as she had left Honsl. Or, as she had also left Fribberle and Thrumm, Sneeth, two Ribbles, a gardener’s boy, and seven suitors. That is, in some remote or infrequented place to be found or not, as
chance dictated.
Buttercup felt that she had never heard quite such unmitigated rubbish. Even Sneeth had never uttered such blather. If males were casually disposed of, it is because they were not pleasing to the Grisl involved. This taught them and others to be more pleasing in future, and in doing so they achieved the epitome of masculine virtue and charm. No male worth displaying for would want anything more than to be regarded with that indulgent delight of which the romantic ardor of a satisfied Grisl is capable. Males were most delightful when they knew their place and did not attempt to leave it. So the books in the root cellar had said, and so Buttercup thought as well.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ said the internal voice. ‘Really, Buttercup. You’re getting involved!’
Buttercup didn’t listen. The preacher, unconscious of the effect his words were having upon her, went on to say that males ought to be allowed careers in the constabulary, opportunities as administrators, even, heaven help the Queendom, consideration as rulers. Buttercup noted that she was not the only Grisl fighting down laughter. Poor little males. So silly and misguided. She was torn from her amusement, however, when she looked at the face and stance of the preacher once more. He was lean, sweet in an unprepossessing way. Almost delicate. Virginal. Was it really his fault he had been led into the pernicious philosophy he avowed? Perhaps no one had taken the time or trouble to talk with him. It was likely that no Grisl had taken the time or trouble to tell him why his reasoning was so far astray from reality and natural law. She felt almost ashamed for her sex. Well, though it had not been done before, certainly it could be done now.
Several Grisls were murmuring dangerously. Others approached the constabulary Nurseys. There was a confabulatory mutter and the Nurseys strode throughout the crowd, loudly demanding that the meeting be brought to an end before arrests for sedition and disloyalty to the crown were brought against those in the assembly. The preacher stood with bowed head, shaking it again and again in pitiful dismay. Buttercup almost wept for him.
‘Please…’ begged the internal voice.
‘Shut up,’ Buttercup told herself.
When he left, she followed him to the quiet district where he was evidently lodged. He entered an inn and sat down in the common room. She approached him and asked, as gently as possible, if she might speak with him. He responded modestly, with a pretty air of confusion, and the two of them chatted in a general way about the town and his audience for the evening. He explained that he went from place to place speaking for his ‘cause,’ living on donations. He also confessed, in a slightly elevated manner, that he had been hatched at the Palace and was of the Royal line – as though that were of any consideration where males were concerned. She did not chide him for this little conceit. He seemed to set so much store by his ‘Royal’ pretensions that it would have seemed discourteous to attack them.
They talked thus for over an hour, Buttercup listening as he conveyed his winsome dreams and desires, his simple opinions about the world and the nature of things. She was moved to murmur sympathetically from time to time, reaching to stroke his hand where it lay on the table. At this, he blushed, casting his eyes downward to peer at her through the fringing lashes. She found this adorable.
‘I shouldn’t say this,’ he murmured. ‘But I must. If all Grisls were like you, we wouldn’t feel as we do about being males. You are so sympathetic, so strong. You understand so much of what I’m trying to say.’
Buttercup dropped the hood of her robe and preened, only so much as was acceptable in a public place. If she had learned nothing else in the custody of Mr Thrumm, she had learned what acceptable behavior was. Under the table she touched his leg with the side of her spur, sliding it sensuously along his calf. He blushed again, murmuring, ‘I wonder if I might have a little wine.’
Might he have a little wine! The sweet creature, obviously inexperienced, obviously attracted to Buttercup, not quite knowing how to handle the experience. Display and challenge were not the only way of sex among Grisls. There were tenderer styles of wooing. If the truth were known, Buttercup was almost as inexperienced as he, but her wide reading in the root cellar had prepared her for moments such as this – or so she fondly assumed. Her blood warmed to think of it. This was no pasty Honsl with chilled and torpid blood. This was a male she could respect, one whose every word showed him to be of impeccable judgment and discrimination.
‘You even look different from most of them,’ he said with acute perception. ‘Your face is more refined, somehow. You don’t pant at one and insist on pawing all the time.’
Buttercup removed her hand from his in order to summon the waiter. Examining the wine card with care, she ordered a light Themsafel, delicate and unobtrusive, but lingering on the palate like the aftertaste of love. Or so Mr Thrumm’s dictionary of wine had said. Buttercup explained this to Sensalee in a manner which was, unfortunately, rather pedantic. Occasionally, she felt, one had to sacrifice the affectionate tone in order to maintain an authoritative position. They drank, savoring the vintage, which seemed to Buttercup to have an odd, almost acrid taste beneath its unequaled fragrance.
Sensalee sighed.
‘What is it?’ Buttercup asked.
‘It’s just that – oh, I don’t know how to say it…’
She encouraged him.
‘You’re so … perceptive. You make me feel so protected. All that … you know, the male-rights thing, it seems so unnecessary when I’m with you.’
Gently Buttercup suggested that perhaps he would like to remain with her for some indeterminate time. She saw a suspicious glint in the corners of his eyes as he hastily excused himself to go to the little males’ room. She leaned back in her chair, feeling expansive and pleased. The room was warm, comfortable. Her little companion was proving more than amenable to her suggestions and hopes. The room was warm, comfortable, and the ceiling swam above her. The room was warm…
When she awoke, she was under the table. A nagging voice somewhere was saying, ‘…tried to tell you, but no, you had to go chasing after … after whatever you call it. Honestly, Buttercup, young or not, you have absolutely no sense…’
The common room was quite empty and there was no sign of Sensalee. Her clothing was somewhat disarranged, and when she felt for her purse, which contained almost all her coin, she found that it was gone. Back at her own inn she would find a modest sum which she had left with her spare clothing. She tried to clear her head of the wavering vapors in which it swam. Only a few scattered embers gleamed on the hearth. Obviously time had passed. How much? It was difficult to say. Probably several watches of the night.
Nothing was to be gained by sitting stupidly on the floor. She staggered to her feet, realizing for the first time that she had been drugged. In the wine, undoubtedly. By Sensalee, undoubtedly.
She was enraged.
As she staggered from the room, something she had read of the habits and abilities of dogs entered her mind. Propping the inn door ajar, she made her way to her own inn and to the stable where the dog slept, twitching and panting in some dreamed escapade. Returning with him to the inn of misadventure, she directed the animal’s attention to the chair where Sensalee had sat and to the floor. With one of those atrocious ‘harfs,’ the animal sniffed his way out of the inn and down one of the twisting streets of Rivvelford, out of the city, into the wooded lands, and down a well-worn trail to the edge of an encampment centered upon an open area where great steaming cookpots hung above the fire. There, on the lap of an enormous wild Grisl, basking in the warmth of her embrace, was Sensalee.
‘You’re a dear marvel you are,’ the huge Grisl said. ‘A veritable marvel, Sensy my sweet. It never fails, do it? A little preachering, and some silly Grisl or other must see to your enlightenment. Well, this one that came after you this time was better gilded than most, I’ll say that.’ She clinked coin, Buttercup’s coin, with one hand while stroking Sensalee with the other. He quivered, actually quivered with delight.
‘Ooh, Grendy, you�
�re so mistressful,’ he cooed. ‘Your hands just send shivers all up and down me, I swear they do.’
Behind the screening bushes, Buttercup seethed with nauseated fury. The male didn’t even sound like Sensalee. He oozed with sycophantic smarm. Buttercup prepared herself for challenge.
‘She’ll kill you,’ said her internal voice calmly. ‘She’ll kill you quite easily. You’ll never get to the capital. You’ll never fight in the arena. One more Van Hoost idiot down the drain!’
The voice was even more infuriating than Sensalee’s presence.
‘I wonder,’ the huge Grisl went on, ‘whether there is any more gilt where this came from? You might go back, tomorrow say, and tell her you were set on by thieves? Make up some other tale? Ah, well, it would stretch luck a bit.’
‘It would,’ agreed Sensalee as he patted the pendulous cheek of the Grisl. ‘It really would, Grendy. It was touch and go as it was. The innkeeper wanted half, you know. I had to hide how much there really was and give him only a little.’
Everything in Buttercup screamed ‘Challenge!’ except for a nagging voice which went on and on and on…
‘She outweighs you three to one. She outreaches you by your arm’s length. Remember what Sneeth used to say. “Outweighed may be outplayed, but outreached is unbreeched.” She’s huge, Buttercup, absolutely huge. Which means, of course, that you will do whatever is most stupid and childish. You’ve forgotten the Palace. You’ve forgotten the Old Queen!’
‘Smiss,’ whispered Buttercup. It was the dirtiest word she knew, naming an act she could not even conceive of committing, but she said it several more times. ‘Smiss, smiss, smiss.’ Reason should have told her this could happen, but reason had never described a Grisl like this to her. Huge. Implacable. Probably almost impossible to defeat. What if the Heiress Presumptive at the Palace was like this…
The Sheri S. Tepper eBook Collection Page 45
