Darlene’s hand slid over the belly, down, into the black bed of hair. Then her slender fingers held David’s prick; they were moving, ever so softly, over the smooth brown flesh. When they found the uncovered head of the penis, David seemed to jerk backward, but then stopped. When he did, Darlene continued. Her delicate long fingers began to tickle him. She said, “David, this is not your prick, do you know that? It is duke’s prick. The duke can make a present of your dick to the Countess of Northcote, do you know that?”
His voice was husky; he said slowly, “Yes, all right.”
Once, briefly, Darlene’s lips pressed to David’s chest. Then, she turned away from him and walked back and sat down. For a moment, no one moved. Then Darlene rose and walked toward the door, still nude to the waist, as though she had not noticed.
Hannah heard in Charles’s voice a suppressed fury. He stared at David, his face rigid. He said, “I challenge you to the cock fight.”
Immediately, another of the boys said, “And if he is defeated, I challenge you.”
And another said, “And if he is defeated, I challenge you.”
David’s smile seemed amused. Still standing naked, he said, “I have seen cock fights. I did not know that men imitated roosters. But I accept.”
When the others rose to leave, Hannah didn’t move, at first. She was looking at David, who bent, now, to pick up his clothes. Finally, when the last of the others was at the door, Hannah rose quickly. At the door, she glanced back and David was watching her. He seemed to smile at her, didn’t he?
Chapter 18
“It Is About the Moral Heart of England”
The man’s body coiled, lifting the axe high. Then he swung his shoulders through a smooth arc, driving the heavy blade into the oak precisely where he had aimed. A big chip flew. He was massive, the sweat-soaked white shirt with it sleeves rolled clung to broad shoulders, and his bare forearms were thick, but he knew to let the weight of the axe and his aim do most of the work. And to keep the axe sharp; that was essential.
He straightened up, now, pausing. It was summer in North Wales, the sun hot. He wanted to fell the fine, towering oak today, but he had the rest of the afternoon. Before dinner, he would see it sway, rock, and go accelerating in a rush of branches to crash resoundingly on the forest floor where he had planned. He was over 60, now, and had been cutting oaks and elms and beeches for decades, cutting them for exercise, for—well, fun, or satisfaction. He did not need the work or the wood. He was prime minister of the United Kingdom, in and out of office for decades, fighting wars—or fighting to prevent them—battering budgets into balance—winning and losing—but always getting better with the axe.
“Prime Minister…” The man who approached had been sitting with three others at decent remove from flying chips—and to give the prime minsiter some illusion of privacy. No shirtsleeves for him; he wore a brown suit, vest, and suspenders, and sweated heavily under the sun. The prime minister could not have had a hobby like collecting stamps, could he? Indoors, cool in the recesses of the mansion? But wherever the prime minister chose to go, including beneath the summer sun in a clearing in the woods, his job was to guard him.
When the prime minister turned to him, he gestured up the path that led back to the house. The massive, bearded face with the eyes that lanced righteousness, interrogation, now turned. The face actually registered surprise. It had been reported that once, as he chopped wood, a royal messenger had hastened up. The prime minister had opened the message, glanced at it, and passed it to a woman standing next to him. Then, he had picked up the axe, again, but before he swung, had said only: “significant.” It was from the Queen, directing him to form a new government.
But the extremely heavy-set man who came down the path, one hand lifted in greeting, was First Lord of the Admiralty. And he came alone. And, astoundingly, he came unannounced. The prime minister rested on his axe handle and waited. What new war for the kingdom was hurrying down that path? He had ended wars in Africa; he had fought brilliantly to reduce military expenditures; he had infuriated many by refusing to build the Royal Navy faster when there was no money in the budget to do so.
His gaze seemed to release flashes of warning to slow the man’s progress. He thought: now I shall be told—again—that there is no option but war and that there is no time to lose. He was ready, for that.
“Prime Minister,” said the man as his hand came out. He was puffing. Not enough exercise, too much port. No axe for him. The man was saying, “First, I beg pardon for coming unannounced.”
The prime minister’s nod was almost imperceptible. “And then, for bothering your holiday.” The man looked at the deep, precisely cut notch in the huge tree and smiled. He shook his head, “A giant!” And he added, “To be felled by another giant.”
It sounded very bad. The news—or request—the man brought must be calculated to dismay or why this unaccustomed flattery? The prime minister waited. When the man still did not speak, he said, “A long way, First Lord. You will stay to dinner and the night, at least. But he added, gloomily, “Unless we are to rush back to London before dinner.”
“No,” said the man. “It is not…” He hesitated, then said, glancing at the men around the clearing, “I have come so far, and begged leave to walk down here alone, to find you, because I wish a private word.” He added, “A very private word.”
The massive head nodded. He said to the head of his security, “John, the men may take refreshment at the house. You yourself may sit in the pavilion house up the path. You can watch the path and I shall be able to call.”
The man hesitated. Always sending them away, when their job was to stay. The prime minister’s eyes fixed him and he said, with emphasis, “I shall be able to call you.”
The man cast a quick, half-accusing glance at the First Lord of the Admiralty, bowed, waved to his men, and led them up the path toward the house. “It is not war,” said the man. “All goes exceedingly well, even as you have wished. I come about…” He paused, shook his head as though hardly believing what he was about to say. “It is about the moral heart of England. I might say, ‘the soul.’”
“Perhaps then your journey should have been to Canterbury or Westminster.” The legendary wit, the fire that flared out to sear opponents in the House of Commons, was not entirely extinguished even here in the woodland clearing.
The man tried to smile. “No, sir. You are the head of the queen’s government and this perhaps concerns not only her majesty but…” again the hesitation. “But the very class itself most prepared and fitted—so we have believed—to govern the realm.” He raised his eyes to the prime minister’s as though to gauge the impact of this. He could see none.
The prime minister said, quite patiently, “Perhaps you should get to specifics, First Lord.”
“A scandal that may embrace the duke, some number of the 300 families, I not know who in our government, if any—and that if known would blacken…” He glanced down, frowning, as though weighing, again, the words he had so carefully rehearsed. He decided to use them: “would coat with filth the ruling class and, I fear, the royal family itself.”
He added hastily, “Not the queen. I do not mean Her Majesty, but…” He shrugged, “Her brother and that is the royal family.”
The prime minister wanted this to go away, not because he would refuse to face any needful situation, but because this was no doubt a tale of dalliance, infidelity, scandalous country weekends such as had hidden in the shabby closets of the realm for…well, for centuries. Nothing was new. It was a family affair, let the family, as ever, rein-in its own stallions and mares in heat—and suffer for it, if it came to that…
Now, he said, “We are so busy, First Lord, with what is important in the realm, and what it is our duty to do, that we seem not to realize what happens on weekends—or daily, I would imagine—that is shameful, pernicious to the reputation so essential for trust of the common people…” His eyes seemed to bombard the first lord with fire and s
hot as he added, “and not our concern, for which we may be grateful.”
The first lord must make himself unmistakably specific, he realized, and time might be running out. The prime minister had picked up his axe and turned to the afflicted oak. So he said: “On reliable and specific report, which is credible to me, the duke has built and inhabited a great brothel in the south of England where he has imprisoned young men and women who are trained to perform for him, on a stage, completely disrobed, sexually explicit acts of every kind, including such things as…” He now had delivered, word for word, the shock that he had planned and knew would be necessary to command the prime minister’s attention. “Such things as rape, canings, and what one hears of with utter incredulity…”
The prime minister’s axe bit deep into the white wood and a massive chip flew almost 10 feet. Then, he turned, lifted the axe, sunk its blade in a nearby stump, and turned to the first lord. He gestured at the simple chairs that had been vacated by the security team. “Let us sit, then.” He gave a long sigh, shaking his head, and began “Of all…”
The first lord was alarmed, thoroughly alarmed. Who ever had seen such signs of emotion from the prime minister—unless, of course, for the benefit of parliament, or the voters, where the great rhetorician employed every resource of face and hand and voice?
More than an hour passed. The first lord was grateful to see the sun had reached the tops of the trees. The prime minister’s head of security had come down the path four times, each time to be reassured by a wave of the prime minister’s big hand. Now, the prime minister leaned on the chair’s arm, facing the first lord, and asked: “And there is no way the duke can be warned, privately warned, from this… business?”
“Perhaps if the evidence in hand is damning and cannot be denied—as anonymous reports and hearsay can be denied—and the messenger excoriated for rumor-mongering.” He added very quickly, “reports entirely credible to me, prime minister—confirmed—but whose source cannot be identified.”
“Then identify it, sir.”
“I cannot.”
“It is unknown?”
“It is reported by an unimpeachable source who yet will not in turn reveal his source of the information. Will not.”
The prime minister lowered his head. “You know of my concern for the women who are forced into degradation.”
The first lord nodded enthusiastically. He had been about to refer to it—obliquely. The prime minister, decades ago when a new and junior minister to parliament, had walked the East End of London—at night, alone—and spoken to the fallen women of their plight. He had offered assistance. It was said he had a book of names. Nor did he make an attempt to keep his efforts secret; indeed, he became famous for it. And no scheme by his political opponents to launch campaigns of whispering and innuendo had succeeded. Though officially denied by the police, there were private estimates that 80,000 women in London made their living this way—many as near slaves. The prime minister, from the beginning and to this day, insisted that their plight be a matter not for public resignation and continued private abuse but for the reform efforts that had earned him the affectionate name, “Grand Old Man”—a man of the people.
The prime minister continued, “And therefore it is not indifference to the plight of these women…”
“And men,” insisted the first lord.
He nodded. “and the loathsome evil of this…” He shook his head. “Not lack of concern. But by your own account, no rumor, no whisper, of this thing ever has circulated in public—and certainly not to my ears, which hear much they are not supposed to hear. The risk of a scandal that would touch the queen and ruin great names and reputations seems small.” He looked up into the first lord’s eyes. “By your own account, sir.”
“But this, in England, in the royal family!”
“And so much else that is urgent and lamentable that our government must address, and always with too little time. There are thousands in East London, today, in much the plight of the duke’s—well, you say ‘prisoners—”
“Prisoners for life!”
“But my point, First Lord, my point, please.”
“If the great war that threatens in Europe—not now, but coming, perhaps…”
“It must not come!”
“But the highest concern of our government must be to ask how and when it might… You are first to acknowledge this.”
The prime minister sighed. “Go on. We must reach some decision, you know.”
“If that war should come—and it is but one contingency among many, but of greatest concern—then England may not survive without allies. America…” He paused. The prime minister only waited. “and if this country should be revealed at such a time as dissolute at its heart, its moral heart, as old in corruption and licentiousness at every level, an empire gone…”
“Oh, enough!”
“Then what a fine argument and bitter rhetoric will the opponents of such an alliance make of that revelation? What will be said in the pulpits and the press and among the powerful in government, finance? They will say: Let old and hollow empires go the way of all such empires in history.”
The prime minister rose abruptly and his look was terrible. “That will not be said of the finest, most productive, most cultured, and responsible—responsible!—nation on this Earth!”
The first lord had become dogged. “It should not be said, to say it would be shameful, but it will be said, the argument will be made—among many others, of course—and it will ring true, sir, if this scandal becomes the talk and delight of the whole world.”
For yet another half hour the conversation went on, the sun now below the tree tops and shade creeping across the clearing. It was a painful half-hour for the first lord, and he trembled, but he knew things he could not in honor reveal even to the prime minister, so he slogged on. It ended when the prime minister rose, walked over to the forest giant he had hoped to fell, today, but now would not, and took up the axe. He swung at the tree, harder than even he had intended. He swung again, and again. The blows were fierce.
The first lord waited. He could do no more.
Then the prime minister turned, still holding the axe, as though he might attack the first lord himself, and said, “Thomas…”
His given name! The first lord held his breath.
“Get the information we must have. Get it, however, you must! Get what I need to put before the duke…” He frowned. “Even Her Majesty, and I will end this thing as best I can. But get me proof, or I can do nothing.”
“I have set in motion already what is needed to secure such evidence, Prime Minister. I will have it within the month, I expect.”
The prime minister gazed at him. How the makings of catastrophe seemed to spout and grow, silently and stealthily, and then bloom before his eyes. “Bring it to me.”
He called loudly and the head of security came down the trail at a run. He said, “Send down the others, then take the first lord to be refreshed, to rest, and to ready himself for dinner. He will be our guest tonight. Tell Catherine.”
“But…”
“I will work a bit longer on this tree. No monster can be brought down without persistence.”
And he took up his axe.
Chapter 19
“Don’t Give Up”
How had she persuaded herself that David paid special attention to her? She was one of a dozen women—no, more, counting the instructresses—who were both beautiful—if she was—and unreservedly on display.
He seemed to adjust as quickly as had Hannah. Yes, he panted, then gasped, through his first days; she wondered how a man could lose such sweat! And he plopped down wearily at the bell. When the longed-for final bells chimed, he turned, head bowed, and plodded toward the dressing room. But he fit. Why did that disappoint Hannah? Should he fight? Where did that get you?
Strolling in the gardens, she asked Darlene. She broached it off-handedly, an item of gossip, first chatting about other things, then remarking
, “I would have thought that boy, David, would be tough to break-in. Look how he took care of Charles.”
Darlene was not a chum of Hannah’s, or anyone’s; she cultivated the reserve, the degree of separation, of a leader, but that seemed to mean letting others know what they must. She said, “Charles will kick his balls, for him.”
“What? How will he?”
“The cock fight,” said Darlene. “In two days, the far garden just before dusk.”
“But what is it?” Hannah was alarmed.
“You’ll see, if you wish,” said Darlene, “it’s exciting—but not for the men in the fight, maybe.”
“But he hit Charles just once and Charles went down!”
“This has special rules and Charles is the champion. David, I am sure, has never imagined this sort of thing.”
Hannah hit on a tactic for the conversation. She said: “I suppose you are right. He didn’t resist anything in the first few days—as Myra did. He became one of us.”
Darlene bent to pick an especially brilliant peony. “No, you saw him only when they brought him to great hall. He already had had three nights with the guards.”
Hannah barely suppressed a gasp. “He can’t have! Three nights! I saw nothing.”
“You know that they can’t mark you.”
“Then what…?”
“I don’t know. Who would tell me? He doesn’t talk. But they have ways of whipping you, slowly—not the flogger—that are agony but don’t break the skin. Besides,” she said, smiling, “the boys have their little sac of treasure. Do you know?”
Hannah nodded. It was monstrous! She hated this place and everything about it. She had watched her brother, just nine, go balancing along a fence rail, calling “look, Hannah, look!” and, at that moment, slipping, falling straight down, one leg on either side of the fence rail. And Hannah had understood, right then, about “the little sac of treasure.” She had managed to remove, ever-so-gingerly, the trousers of the screaming, weeping, red-faced boy and look. There seemed nothing wrong, but for more than half-an-hour he could not be stopped screaming and clutching himself. And for several days he limped like an old man, legs spraddled. What could the guards not do to a young man like David, tied, helpless!
The Price of Hannah Blake Page 13
