The Enchantress (Book 1 of The Enchantress Saga)

by Thorne, Nicola

  But there was no humour in Analee’s eyes now, only tiredness and a kind of despair as she returned Nelly’s gaze.

  ‘I was so tired after doing the grates, I thought I would faint. I had to come here for some rest.’

  Nelly tugged anxiously at her arm.

  ‘Oh come down, I beg you, Analee. She knows you are missing and has gone to look for her birch.’

  ‘I will not be birched,’ Analee said standing up and straightening her skirts. ‘I will birch her.’

  Nelly clutched at Analee’s arm dragging her towards the door. ‘Oh Analee, pray do not vex Mrs Ardoine. Say you are sorry and ...’

  ‘Nelly, I am going to quit this place!’ Analee hissed before they were out of the door. ‘I cannot stand it. I am the most menial of servants, hated by Mrs Ardoine. I must go and find my baby! The thought of her whereabouts haunts me. Maybe she and Reyora were captured by the soldiers. I am going to cross the border into Scotland and find where they may be now.’

  ‘They will not have taken a woman and a baby. They ...’ Nelly avoided Analee’s eyes.

  ‘They did not kill them,’ Analee whispered, ‘they were not there...’

  ‘No of course not. They fled. They must have gone south, back to Penrith ...’

  ‘Then I will go to Penrith ...’

  Analee and Nelly were tumbling down the narrow dark staircase that led to the servant’s quarters whispering as they went, but when they came to the large stone kitchen which was full of bustle, steam and smoke they fell silent. The awful Mrs Ardoine was standing by the stairs, her arms akimbo, a thick bundle of fine twigs clasped in one hand which she beat against her ample hips. Although she was a large, comely woman who looked as though she might at one time have been a beauty, many years of hard work and disappointment, the loss of all her children in childbirth or infancy, had soured her and she wore a cruel expression on her thin twisted lips.

  ‘Now do we have the servants skulking upstairs away from their duties!’ Mrs Ardoine roared so loudly that it penetrated the clamour of the kitchen and a few who scurried about stopped in their tracks to listen and observe. ‘Put up your skirts girl and bend over that chair.’ Mrs Ardoine pointed authoritatively. ‘I will administer to thee such a sound thrashing that your buttocks will be raw like rumpsteak! And I care not who sees thee,’ she said gesturing towards the male servants who stood gawping hopefully.

  Mrs Ardoine seized Analee by the shoulder, her eyes glistening with malice, and threw her across the room. Analee fell heavily but, before the termagant had time to advance on her to administer further humiliation, she nimbly sprang up and faced her persecutor.

  ‘You lay the canes on me and I will thrash you six times as bad even though you kill me for it!’

  Mrs Ardoine faltered in her steps, observing the way Analee’s lips curled showing her fine white teeth bared in a snar, so that she had the look of a fierce beast. That blaze in her eyes, the heaving of her breast convinced the housekeeper that the gypsy meant what she said, but it infuriated her the more and she raised her birch to bring it across Analee’s face when her arm was arrested in mid air and the birch roughly wrested from her hand.

  McNeath stood towering over her, a foul curse on his lips.

  ‘Damn you to hell woman! Would you mark the face of someone who is enjoying his lordship’s favours? A small price I’d give for your continued existence here if that were the case.’

  McNeath threw the birch on the floor and gestured to Analee who was still staring with some surprise at her saviour, while Nelly gazed with adoring eyes at their liberator for she had no doubts that her turn would have come to bare her buttocks to Mrs Ardoine’s birch.

  ‘His lordship ...’

  Mrs Ardoine stepped back, her face white with terror.

  ‘Exactly. His lordship has pleasured this young woman all night and wishes her to serve his breakfast. Now do you understand you old faggot? A mark on her face and I dread to think of his lordship’s wrath ... Analee! Smart now to the pantry where one of the footmen is preparing a tray for his lordship who will take his breakfast in his bedroom. You are to follow the footman and serve him yourself. Do you understand?’

  There was no misunderstanding McNeath’s leer or the chagrin on the face of Mrs Ardoine. Analee tossed her head and pushed past the housekeeper giving her a little nudge as she did so as if to say ‘so there.’

  McNeath was looking at Nelly, noting the becoming bloom to her face caused by the heat of the kitchen. She did not have the figure or the presence of her friend, but what she lacked in physical attributes maybe she would make up for in enthusiasm? Besides, her waif-like appearance appealed to him. He winked at her.

  ‘Maybe I should follow my master’s path, if you understand me?’ Nelly pretended not to and raised an enquiring eyebrow.

  ‘Forge a furrow for myself,’ McNeath looked at her meaningfully.

  Nelly blushed and looked away, her heart beating furiously. Could this handsome, vigorous McNeath possibly desire her? He was almost as tall as his master but fair with a red face and sandy hair, fierce blue eyes and ginger whiskers that covered almost all the lower part of his face.

  ‘I will see thee later,’ McNeath whispered to her. ‘Meanwhile keep out of the way of the dragon and I will see that my master is properly served his breakfast.’

  McNeath hurried after Analee and the footman who were already climbing the several staircases to his lordship’s rooms. The footman carried a large tray and Analee a smaller one with a pot of coffee and the claret that his lordship sometimes took with his breakfast chops. McNeath ran up behind her and put a hand under her skirts and, from her position on the stair above him, she administered a vigorous sideways kick and hissed, ‘If thy master knew thy foul hands had laid hold of me he would cut thy throat!’

  McNeath and his master had often shared a woman, but only in the harsh conditions of war when they were few and far between. Sometimes the whole garrison had had to make do with merely one or two poor wenches, but his lordship always had them first, when they were fresh and untainted by the other men. His lordship was very particular about cleanliness and had quaint ideas like that. However, McNeath did not think that this was one of the occasions when his lordship would be passing the wench on. Something both about Analee’s manner and the enthusiasm with which the Falcon had called for her so soon after waking made him think his master was unusually struck.

  The Falcon was sitting in a chair by the huge fire that roared up the chimney. He wore a scarlet silk morning gown tied round the waist with a black silk sash, the long loose sleeves rolled back at the wrists. His long bare legs were stretched out before him. He looked up as the procession entered and put down a volume he was reading, carefully marking the place before he did. It was nearly noon and the sun streamed into his room lighting up the rich carpet and the folds of the carelessly tossed back sheets. Analee glanced at the bed on which she and her master had tumbled so freely that night and then she looked over at him and caught his eye. His lordship was thinking exactly the same thing.

  The footman placed the tray carefully on the table by his lordship’s side and bade Analee place the coffee pot and bottle of wine by it. McNeath hovered about, stoked the fire and put on another log.

  ‘Thank you, McNeath,’ the Falcon nodded and waved a hand. ‘The gentlemen may leave us. This woman here will serve me very well.’

  His lordship smiled and the men withdrew as Analee took the covers from the dishes, marvelling at what one man was offered for breakfast. The smells assailed her nostrils and reminded her that she had nothing but some dry bread and water, having declined stale ale.

  ‘Well, wench?’

  His lordship leaned back easily in his chair raising his arms above his head and stretching.

  ‘Did you sleep well, my lord?’

  ‘Eventually, yes. Thanks to you.’

  ‘Steak and chops, my lord?’

  ‘Both,’ said his lordship, ‘and pour me some claret. You have
given me a fine appetite, Analee. I like you very well.’

  Analee filled his lordship’s plate and laid it before him, shaking the damask napkin and placing it on his lap. He trapped her hand and held it but Analee swayed. The smell of the food was too enticing, it reminded her of the pain that always gnawed inside her belly.

  His lordship threw down his napkin and stood up taking her by the shoulder.

  ‘Why, girl what is it? Are you with child that you are nearly fainting?’

  ‘No, no, my lord. You are the first man I have lain with for many a long day. I am tired, my lord, and ...’

  ‘And Analee?’

  The Falcon tipped her chin and looked into her eyes and she saw there, to her surprise, an expression of tenderness, almost concern.

  ‘I am frightened, my lord. I was nearly thrashed.’

  ‘Thrashed!’ The Falcon roared, ‘and by whom? In my house! Here sit down girl and tell me.’

  His lordship led her to the sofa and laid her along it so that her body was propped up by cushions. Then he sat beside her.

  ‘I dare not tell you, my lord. I feel I must go from here.’

  ‘Tell me. I command it!’

  Analee bit her lips but knew she must obey. Those knowing green eyes, that stern, scowling brow, daunted her. Really he was the most fearsome man she had ever met in her life.

  ‘Mrs Ardoine, your housekeeper, sir. I was away from my duties and it vexed her. I was tired, sir. I have much to do in the house, the grates to clean and all the fires to lay, and the floors to scrub, and with your lordship’s need of me last night ...’

  Analee leaned her head back and closed her eyes. This was really like heaven. But it would not last, lying back on silk cushions, the hands of a Marquess – no not just a Marquess, but the Falcon, the scourge of the Jacobites – protectively about her, his warm breath on her cheeks. She opened her eyes and saw that his face was very close to hers.

  ‘You poor girl. We do not understand do we? We lords and masters know not what goes on in our own houses. Are servants often whipped, I wonder? I suppose they are. I never thought. And was I cruel to you last night? Did my ardour make me too harsh? Believe me I did not mean it. ‘Twas my passion got the better of me. I have thought of you a lot, Analee. I dreamt about you and your face haunted me as soon as I woke so I sent for you. And you scrub and clean the black grates – my poor little Analee.’ His lordship held up her hand and looked at it.

  ‘Yes, I see your skin is rough and red, and you have such fine long fingers, Analee; they are those of a lady not a servant. Tell me about yourself. Come,’ he reached for a hand and drew her down beside him. He put a log on the fire and they watched it catch and flare up. She shivered and he looked protectively at her and reached for his gown which he wrapped about her shoulders.

  ‘My lord is most attentive. But your breakfast will grow cold, sir.’

  ‘Who cares?’ Lord Falconer put both arms around her. ‘I am warmed by your love, my belly filled by desire for you. I am anxious only to know you better. Can you blame me?’

  ‘Blame you, sir? Could a servant have the temerity to judge her master?’

  ‘Ah now you do tease me ... witch’, the Falcon murmured making the loving bond formed by his arms about her even tighter.

  ***

  Later, the hour for breakfast long past, dinner for Lord Falconer and Analee was served with some surprise but without comment by the footman who, several hours before, had brought up the breakfast which, untouched as it was, he now removed. Now, composed and dressed, Analee sat by the fire and his lordship, also washed, dressed and shaved, strode up and down the room, a glass of sherry in his hand.

  Neither McNeath nor the footman betrayed by so much as a flicker of the eye that they thought there was anything untoward in his lordship dining with a servant who, only that morning had been blackening the grate and nearly had her backside scorched by Mrs Ardoine into the bargain. To McNeath it was quite unique to see his lordship so enamoured by a common passing wench as to do her the honour of dining with her in his bedroom! This privilege was usually reserved for fine ladies, sometimes the wives of fellow officers whose husbands were absent on manoeuvres. Not only this, but the Falcon was doing her every honour, bowing to her as he assisted her to her place at table, and insisting that she was served before himself.

  And what a feast it was to delight the palate of nobleman and gypsy alike – partridge, roast venison, beef, lean succulent hams, quails’ eggs, quinces, tarts and jellies. Dish after dish was laid before them in lavish profusion, and different wines were poured in crystal goblets by an under footman called in to help.

  Here was Analee, dining with a lord and waited on deferentially by three servants to each of whom she smiled and nodded graciously as they served her, watched carefully by the Falcon.

  At the end of dinner he signified that they should be left alone after McNeath had lit his pipe and placed a decanter of brandy by his side. Outside it was dark, the snow had started to fall again and a thin piercing wind howled round the great house.

  Analee belched and gazed at his lordship, noting how seldom his eyes had left her face. The Falcon smiled.

  ‘Analee, ladies do not break wind in public.’

  ‘I am no lady, my lord.’

  The Falcon leaned back and twirled his quizzing glass, thoughtfully drawing at the same time on his pipe. He wore a powdered periwig over his dark hair and whereas before he had looked awesome and distinguished now he looked aloof and aristocratic as well. He wore a suit of dark blue silk, and a cravat made of snowy Bruges lace gleamed at his neck. On the little finger of his left hand was a huge ring of solid gold engraved with the family crest – a solitary falcon

  ‘You were going to tell me about yourself, Analee,’ his lordship twiddled the gold signet ring on his finger, ‘how you come to have an air of such breeding and refinement yet call yourself a common gypsy. True, you make love like a whore, but it is to my taste.’

  ‘I enjoy it, sir.’

  ‘I can see that you do.’

  ‘As to my origins, I know not, my lord. I am dark skinned like my people. My mother’s family came from beyond the seas, I think they call it Transylvania. My father ...’ She lowered her head. ‘I know naught about my father.’

  ‘Ah,’ his lordship leaned forward. ‘I wager he was no gypsy, then. Maybe a little peccadillo on your mother’s part, eh?’

  ‘My mother died when I was born, sir. I know no more; naught about my father, little about her. But I am a true gypsy, Lord Falconer. I am not a lady.’

  ‘Maybe I will make you one,’ the Falcon said thoughtfully. ‘I can see you gracing my salons in London, Analee, clothed in fine silks and satins and bedecked with jewels. How now girl ... why look away?’

  Analee had turned her head sharply to one side, avoiding his gaze. When she looked at him again her eyes glinted.

  ‘Do not mock me, my lord. I am a gypsy. A scullery maid in your home. Have your pleasure with me, do as you will; but do not jest. When your lordship is tired of me you will do what you have done with other women ... maybe given them a sovereign and told them to be off. Besides, Lord Falconer, I am not made for finery, silks and satins. I am a wandering girl, a vagabond.’

  Analee looked up to see a shadow pass over the floor and his lordship, the great bulk of him, stood by her side.

  ‘I do not mock you, Analee. Is it false to say that I am in love? Can it happen in so short a time? Is it possible?’

  ‘With me, my lord?’

  ‘With whom else? I have seen no other woman in the last two days and with you I am besotted, Analee. You are no common gypsy, no whore. No ordinary woman at all. With you I have enjoyed love such as I have seldom known before and I believe it was the same with you too, was it not?’

  Analee met the Falcon’s gaze and nodded. Yes it was the same with her, like no man before, not even Brent, not even her first love. Even now to look upon his lordship filled her with no ordinary emotion –
not mere lust, not love, yet ... Fascination was perhaps the word.

  ‘I will make you my mistress, Analee and take you to London when the war is over. You will be a woman of importance, live in a fine house. I will set you up properly and see you well married in the end. I do not mistreat those I have loved.’

  ‘Oh, my lord ...’

  The Falcon leaned over to her twisting the ring on his little finger. His lips brushed her cheek and she felt herself trembling. He drew her up and stood facing her, towering over her, tall as she was. Then he put a glass into her hand brimming over with wine and took one from the table for himself. He raised his glass.

  ‘To us.’

  The Falcon drank and Analee drank but to what she knew not. A house in London, satins and brocades. Was this what she wanted? She looked over to the window but the curtains were drawn. Outside in the thick snow the foxes would be prowling, the squirrels asleep in their burrows. Somewhere there would be gypsies sleeping in caves, in sheltered ditches. Somewhere there would be Reyora and her baby, her Morella. Analee turned and looked at the proud form of the Falcon as he gazed at her, his glass still raised. She shook her head.

  ‘It cannot be, my lord. I cannot see myself in silks and satins, shoes even ... the mistress of a nobleman.’

  ‘People will honour you, Analee. It will be no shame.’

  ‘It is not the shame. I cannot do it. I belong in the wild.’

  Lord Falconer fell to his knees and seized Analee’s slender hand.

  ‘Analee, I am making a passionate declaration of love! I want you. I will have you! You will be my mistress and I your humble slave. We will have such a time together Analee ... so much loving...’

  He drew her hand to his lips and kissed it, then he put his arm round her waist and drew her to him kissing her tenderly on the mouth. She felt something slip into her hand and her fingers closed over the heavy solid gold ring he had worn on his little finger. She opened her palm and gazed at it. There it lay ... big, much too big for her, gleaming dully, the outline of the Falcon, sturdy and proud, with the obdurate expression on its face that she also observed on her lord’s.