by M Palmeri
“The common early response to the torture is as you see,” Rose continued clinically, “to fight the pain of suspension—it tears so at the wrists and shoulders, even across the chest and belly—burning, tingling like a million needles—some victims report it goes right down between their legs. They try to use their legs for support and fail, either because they are suspended from actual nails or tied so that the ropes cut into their ankles without giving significant relief. And they begin what is known as the Dance of the Cross.”
Ruth’s body bucked and writhed on the frame, twisting and bowing, thrusting and grinding.
“It is almost like the cross is fucking her,” Rose put it bluntly after several long minutes of the display. “The pumping of the legs and hips has been known to drive some women to actual orgasm. Assuming they can tolerate the pain.”
Rose paused, took a sip of wine, then wiped her hands and got up from her seat. She walked over to stand close in front of her victim, but just out of reach (Ruth, in fact, seemed to try to arch her body outward to make contact, but Rose let her fail).
“Of course, depending on how she is suspended, she becomes very vulnerable to intimate attack…” A light fingertip teased a breast, circled a nipple, traced down the taught belly, stopping short of the girl’s sex. Her hips bucked frantically—she moaned madly through her wooden gag. Whimpering. Crying.
Rose produced a thin crop from somewhere, and with her wicked grin, began to slap at Ruth’s sex every time she thrust her hips forward. Her breasts and ass got the lash when her hips folded back. Rose thus conducted Ruth’s dance for several more minutes, then gave her a merciful pause to continue her narrative.
“The victim starts to become delirious, numb, to succumb to the agony in mere minutes—she may already be weakened by prior torture, or subject to concurrent horrors. Favorites of historical practice included piercing the flesh with barbed spears, or tearing at the flesh with sharp claw-like rakes. If the victim is a woman, a thick stake, sometimes studded with nails, is secured up inside of her so that she may impale and tear herself as she struggles.
“In time, she will begin to suffocate. Her chest will no longer be able to contract—she can breathe in, but not out—but this takes a period of hours, perhaps days. If the victim’s legs are immobilized, death may come faster because of poor circulation—the blood stagnates, becomes toxic. Breaking the legs accelerates the process, as well as the suffocation.”
Her victim’s contortions were already beginning to decrease, her cries now a shallow, hoarse whining. Ruth’s body was slick with sweat, and barely responded when Rose ran her hands over her belly, her breasts. She only came back to some form of alertness when Rose’s hand slid up between her legs. Rose purred, obviously finding her victim properly wet.
“My darling Ruth, she volunteered eagerly for this, as soon as she’d heard it described. She has Sophia’s attraction to pain—perhaps more so—yet I think she is beyond what she expected. Let us not be without mercy…”
The three attendants took their cues, seizing Ruth by her legs and around her waist they hoisted her, relieving some of her tensions, and simultaneously began attacking her hungrily with mouths and fingers. Ruth came back to life and began to roar on the cross, near-delirious. Rose smiled.
“I digress…” she considered, returning to her seat while Ruth’s torment continued distractingly in the background. “We were telling a tale, after all:
“The cross that awaited the bandits’ victim was rough-made of rope-bound timber, far into the lush wood, off any traveled path. She was stripped and hoisted onto the device, though spared nails in favor of hemp, and hung only so high that she could still use her toes on the mossy earth for some relief, at least once her arms had stretched out enough to let her reach the ground. Her captors let her dance on the bark for a time while they built a fire and made camp. Then they beset upon her like dear Ruth—though perhaps with less kindness (after all, the woods are ideal for providing a natural selection of whips and switches). They used her as they wished until well into the night, and then cut her down only when she was senseless.
“When she came to herself again she was alone, naked in the forest by the dying fire. A small bag of coin had been left for her trouble, and she was grateful for it. She never saw her attackers faces once throughout her ordeal, for throughout her time on the cross she had been blindfolded, and from the time she was taken at her cottage until being hung up, the bandits always wore masks—masks, like their master’s, of the most theatrical type. Masks of animals. One a black cat, one a golden lion, and one a violet-feathered owl.”
Ella had gotten up at that point, reached behind a tapestry into an alcove and recovered something. On the table before Marie, she laid the masks just described—though not exactly: there was the cat and the lion, but the third mask was that of a red fox.
Marie found herself to be sitting numb and unable to speak, hands dead in her lap, even before she saw the masks. Her father’s tale of robbery—the ill fate that had led to her subsequent “servitude”—came flooding back to her. He had claimed he had been robbed by animal-masked bandits. At sword-point.
She made her eyes look up at Richard. His eyes seemed to be holding back a flood of conflict, but his face stayed resolutely stoic.
“We have had eyes on you longer than you know,” Rose told her coolly. “Your confidant—the ‘widow’ who owns the bakery in your village—came to us herself as a young maid in distress, and left after many years with our blessing to find her own way in the world. She told us of your… situation. Your misery. And your hopes and dreams.”
“And the youth who began delivering flour,” Ella added just as Marie could no longer deny the revelation that was chilling her to the core. And to confirm it, Ella stood, stripped out of her dress to reveal a peasant’s breeches and boots underneath, then pulled on a plain tunic and tied her hair up under a boy’s cap.
“And the pale young dandy who arranged for your father to meet with us,” Rose drove it home (though didn’t bother to demonstrate).
Ella—still disguised as a lad—then produced something else from the alcove and gave it to Richard, and he reached across and placed it heavily on the table before Marie. It was a brocade bag. From the metallic clatter within, she could tell it was full of coins.
“This is the money that your father wanted from me so badly,” Richard told her coldly. “This is what he thought was lost to him—his debt to me, which you paid for him. Tell him that he may keep every coin—he owes me nothing in return.”
Then Ella produced another brocade bag, which Richard set next to the first.
“This bag is yours—it is equal to the amount I am giving your father. You may give it to him, or you may keep some or all of it for yourself, to make whatever life you wish out in the world. It is well earned and more.”
She thought she could see tears threatening in his eyes, but then her own vision was already blurring. She could feel them break free and run down her face, dripping on the table top. She was shaking. Her fists balled tight in her lap. Her stomach threatened to heave. She could not move, could not speak. And she did not know what to feel.
Richard seemed like he was about to say something else—a profession of love, at least an apology—but he bit it back and stood up.
“There is a carriage waiting at your disposal,” he told her gently but coldly. “You may leave whenever you wish. I release you.”
He turned from her and walked swiftly out of the Hall. Ella—who could not look Marie in the eye—followed him. Rose only grinned—but it was a different kind of grin, like she was waiting, daring Marie to do something. And when Marie did not move or speak—only cried silently, two bags of gold in front of her—Rose let out a muffled grunt that sounded like disappointment, and left the table as well, leaving only Marie.
Behind her, oblivious to all of this, Ruth screamed her orgasm on the cross, echoing through the hall like a death-cry.
Chapter Twe
nty-Four: The Merchant’s Faithful Daughter Part II: The Blue Lady
Marie did not sleep that night. She sat on Richard’s bed in her new gown, left alone, until the sun rose. The bags of gold sat on the floor at her feet where she had dropped them—she had not even bothered to examine their contents.
Her eyes had long-since dried, and she found that she felt nothing, felt hollow. She has spent the night listening to the castle’s usual songs of distant echoing passions, but like Ruth’s cries as the backdrop to her shocking heartbreak, the human music felt alien—she could not even remember what it was that made a person make such sounds. She felt she could barely remember her own name.
But in daylight there came the sound of horses, waiting out in the Bailey, and she remembered the promise of a carriage.
She put on her boots, took up her mother’s cloak and the bags of gold for her father, and left Richard’s room and down the stairs and out of the castle Keep without a single look back. If anyone was watching her go, they stayed out of sight—she did not cross paths with even a serving maid.
Even getting into the coach, she did not meet eyes with anyone, did not even look at her driver (perhaps just a glance, looking for Claire’s red hair and not finding it—funny she should think of Claire). Without order, the unknown driver set the carriage in motion.
Marie did not look outside the coach’s cab all the way out of the castle and down the hill.
She finally slept somewhere through the middle of her ride. When she awoke, it was dark, yet a simple meal of bread and sausage had been in brought to her with candlelight, and she had been wrapped in a plush blanket. The carriage had stopped somewhere for the night.
She let herself out for no other reason than to relieve herself. The air was chill enough to fog her breath and sting at her face—she pulled the cloak’s hood closer around her cheeks. Beside the coach, a slight figure was tending a small campfire, back to her. Marie slipped away without drawing attention.
They were in a forest, and Marie could see they had just pulled off the narrow trail they were taking—apparently avoiding the main road. It looked much like the horse path she had taken with Claire on her one disastrous hunt. She thought of Claire then: her last time with her, three of them in Richard’s bed, just holding each other. Before they revealed their deception, the cruel manipulation that had made her give herself to them. And before they set had her free, with only sacks of coins in exchange for all she had given them.
And she did feel anger. Anger and deep pain. But what seemed to sting her the most was not the multi-layered lie used to take her, but how suddenly and easily they—no, he—had dismissed her. She was so sure that he had not just been using her as a toy, that she had shared something much deeper than physical passion with him. But in the end, he only said “I release you.” And that was that.
She stumbled in the brush on her return to the coach, enough to alert her apparently sole caretaker, who jumped with unexpected nervousness, only to relax when Marie stepped into the firelight.
“Oh… It’s you, milady. I…” Marie recognized Leanna underneath her boy’s costume. “Do you need anything, mistress?”
“No, thank you,” Marie shook her head. “And I am by no means your mistress.”
“Apologies, miss,” Leanna stammered shyly, wringing her small hands. “You see, I was dismissed—by the Count and the ladies—as well. They gave me coin and clothes and asked that I take you home. After that, I… Well… I was hoping I might come with you, be in your service. You were always kind.”
Marie smiled at her. “Quite a turn for both of us,” she considered, some humor and warmth finally cutting through her pain. She took the girl’s hand. “Considering what we’ve been through together… I doubt I’ll have need of a servant. A friend, though—especially now—would be very welcome.”
Leanna smiled.
“Yes, miss. I’d like that very much.”
“Come, then,” Marie told her, picking the girl’s makeshift bedroll up off the ground. “No need for you to sleep outside tonight.” She pulled Leanna toward the coach, but the girl hesitated.
“A truth, miss,” Leanna confessed shyly. “I have no special taste for… I mean… our, uh…”
“Nor I,” Marie reassured her. “Despite the things I’ve been involved in, I do have a definite preference for men. Truly. Though I doubt I will ever meet another like the Count…” Her voice trailed away, but her mind finished the thought: But I fear I will find all others lacking.
Marie was alone and the carriage already moving when she awoke the next morning. By noon, she could see the familiar fields, and her town beyond. She declined Leanna’s offer to stop for lunch, at once eager to be home and more than somewhat dreading how she might be received.
But she hardly recognized her father’s estate when they arrived.
The grounds were well kept—improved, even—and there were flowers. And servants, who greeted them formally as Leanna stopped the carriage in the newly graveled drive just before her father’s door.
Leanna—still playing the role of the driver—opened the carriage and helped Marie step down. And Marie looked all the part of a noble lady in the gown she had been given.
“Marie! My darling girl!” Her father sang as he flew out through the doors that had been opened for him, and took Marie up in his arms. They shared a tight embrace. Then he held her back at arm’s length to appraise her, beaming with pride.
“The Count sent word you would be coming,” he told her merrily. “His letter said that the Countess herself had been grooming you for court, that you had even caught the eye of the Duke’s son. My lovely girl… I can barely recognize you!”
His announcement caught her off guard only for a moment—she had become too accustomed to Rose’s games, her manipulative storytelling. She could only wonder what devious outcome Rose had considered in telling the tale.
“Come inside, my dear. Your driver can tend your horses in the carriage-house.”
Marie turned back only to get a wink from Leanna, who seemed content to continue to play her role.
“I have had some recent fortune myself,” her father began, and Marie could already see more evidence of it: the house had been repaired and redecorated. And there were more servants. “Quite good fortune, in fact. You must come and see your stepmother.”
Elsbeth was seated in the parlor, as usual dressed more finely than the occasion should warrant. But now, to Marie, she seemed older, less regal. Marie could see that she was just a bitter, empty woman—a woman who did not know passion, not even with such a faithful, patient and giving husband as her father.
“Marie,” Elsbeth tried to be polite, but could not fully hide her uncomfortable surprise. “You look beautiful, dear girl. The Countess has worked wonders—I did hear the rumors of your fortune…” Her tone cut with bitterness under its sweet, civil syrup. “I assume that means you won’t be staying?”
Marie actually considered the option right then and there. The house seemed so different—or was it just her? So much had changed. Perhaps she should move on, find herself a new place in this world. (Was she not a new person, in so many ways?) Perhaps she could even play along with Rose’s apparent hint to visit the Duke and his son. She looked at her father, who only beamed at her proudly. She thought of the bag of gold she carried in her traveling purse (the second left secure in her coach in Leanna’s care), but did not want to present him such a gift under the eyes of his greedy, hateful wife.
“Father…” she began to lead him.
“A pity you missed your step-sisters,” he rolled on. “But surely word travels at Court, so you know.” But he did catch the blank look Marie was giving him, and gave her a puzzled one in return. “Oh, no… You haven’t heard, then? I can’t imagine… I… Well… Your…”
“My daughters have married,” Elsbeth took his announcement as her personal pride. “And married well. I am surprised you did not hear. Perhaps you don’t travel in all of the good Cou
ntess’ circles after all.”
“All three,” her father took his tale back. “Can you imagine? Suitors—wealthy young gentlemen all—and all within a few weeks. I almost expected they would continue arriving, one after the other even after the girls were long gone, they all came so close behind each other. And they offered such good faith—each one giving generous gifts of gold and land—for the parents from their own. A gift from family to family—not a bride price, surely not…”
Marie could see Elsbeth fume politely at the suggestion her daughters had simply been purchased by wealthy young men.
“Recommended by the Count himself,” Elsbeth defended.
“And rich enough to buy us out of debt and more,” Stephan added with more than a little satisfaction. “Indeed, I have a ship sailing with today’s tide, bound for the Orient. Another, I expect, has already made it around the Horn. Two ships! Can you believe…?”
Marie again felt the weight of the gold she carried.
“The Count himself told them of my fair daughters,” Elsbeth gloated, “so smitten with them was he when he visited… Lovely young men. So refined. Sir Robert—hair so black and skin so fair—I almost mistook him for the Baron Roland, the Count’s son—he came asking after Danielle. They were married in the Duke’s own chapel. Then there was Elias, a cousin of the Baron’s wife—a strapping blonde lad, who took his fancy to Vivianna. Then finally came Clement, a captain in the Duke’s own guard, with such haunting pale eyes and hair like copper glowing in a brazier, for Angelina’s hand…”
