by Claire Cray
I tried to stay relaxed when he laid his palm over the dark bruise at my waist where a boot had hit me.
But it was hard not to react when his hand skimmed past the bruise, running slowly up my side and over my chest to come down the other side of my waist. It grazed over my navel, the heel of his palm traveling the dip between my hipbones, then continued back up the side again to make the same slow, caressing circle.
I kept my eyes fixed on the ceiling, telling myself it was surely part of his healing methods. But the third time his hand passed over my chest, grazing my nipples lightly, I felt a tingling there and the mortification of realizing that the traitorous bastards were getting tight and stiff from the contact. It couldn’t be helped, could it? What with the way he was tickling over them like that! “Is this something to do with, erm, circulation, sir?” I asked awkwardly.
“You are familiar with the concept of circulation?” Before his hand could make another round over my chest, he withdrew it and reached for the wooden bowl.
“Well, yes. I have a rudimentary knowledge.”
A warm poultice was laid over my ribs. It smelled of spearmint and something less sharp. “You have quite a vocabulary for a young man condemned to servitude.”
I cleared my throat, not sure how to reply. Something about the trace of his touch reminded me of a particularly scintillating morning with Miss Molly Wrigs a couple weeks before – and Lord, that was all shades of wrong! That wasn’t the sort of memory that was meant to be associated with an old man’s hands. I almost squirmed with discomfort, and tried to make things a bit more mundane. “It’s kind of you to treat my injuries, sir. What’s that in the poultice? Mint?”
“Yes. Spearmint, and arnica.” I felt another poultice on my skin, this one just inside and above my left hipbone. That blow had hurt mightily. “Have you Indian blood, William?” His hand rested on my hip for a moment, squeezed gently, and began moving down my left thigh.
Was I injured there? I couldn’t remember. My heart was beating in my ears. Oh, right. A club had hit me just above the knee. I was feeling a little lightheaded. The poultices were tingling now. His hand moved over my knee and then back up towards my hip, his fingertips trailing up the inside of my thigh before moving around and back down again. He made another slow circle, the same ritual he’d done before. Circulation. Circulation, I repeated to myself.
Had he asked me a question? Indian blood… “Yes,” I said cautiously, for I never knew what a person would think of that, although judging from the charms he was at least a bit sympathetic. “One quarter. My grandmother was Seneca, on my mother’s side.”
“I see.” His fingertips grazed the edge of the patch of hair between my legs, then left for the wooden bowl. A moment later another poultice rested on my thigh.
My blood was racing. “What do you put in your poultices, sir?” I asked suddenly, trying to distract myself. My cheeks felt hot.
He reached to lift the corner of the first warm pack. “It all depends.” The sleeve of his robe brushed between my thighs. I tensed, pressing my hands into the mattress and then relaxing them by force of will. He checked the second poultice and the long sleeve again trailed up over my most sensitive parts.
To my complete horror, I felt my body stir in response.
“Master Merrick,” I blurted. “I’d like to stand up.”
“Wait.” He was gently prodding a bruise at my chest now, near my right nipple, which was still hard as a stone.
“Sir, I don’t feel well at all. Perhaps I…” I made to sit, and was pressed back onto the bed by a hand at the center of my chest. My pulse was beating furiously. I started to make another desperate plea, but it was choked off when I felt his hand cupping my rising sex. I went completely still, staring up at the ceiling with wide eyes.
“It’s perfectly normal, William,” he said quietly. “A mere matter of circulation.” Slowly, he took his hand away. “Let the poultices work.”
I could say nothing. The throbbing between my legs increased, and I knew if I looked down I’d see the evidence of my inexplicable arousal standing stiff and eager over my stomach. My cheeks were on fire.
“Did you have plans for yourself before this mischief?” Merrick asked after a spell.
Now small talk? What in the God damned hell was this devil up to? After a hard swallow and a few beats, I said, in a voice so hushed it sounded nothing like mine, “I deal in books. Or did. I intended to own a book shop one day.”
“That’s a fine profession,” he murmured. I couldn’t help noting again how much smoother his voice was than before. The gravel was gone, replaced by dark velvet.
Oh, I was all out of sorts. “Thank you, sir.”
He began to take the poultices off in silence. After the last, he pulled my nightshirt down. I felt the linen hanging on my stubborn erection and truly wanted to die.
“I have a few appointments coming,” Merrick said. “Rest.”
“Is this where I sleep, sir?”
His slow nod didn’t surprise me. I’d shared plenty of beds with men. It wasn’t an uncommon arrangement, and it was preferable to being on the floor with the vermin. At least the bed was big enough for two to sleep with space.
“Goodnight, William.”
“Goodnight, Master Merrick. Many thanks.”
I lay awake for a good while, first dealing with my mortification. I’d feared a lecherous old man, and it turned out the only lewd behavior was my own! What in God’s name was that about? Had I really gotten randy being touched by an old shrouded spook?
Circulation, I told myself fiercely. A mere matter of circulation.
I was lucky he was calm. He could just as easily have reacted with disgust.
Yes, all in all, I supposed I was very lucky indeed. Instead of a prison, I was bathed and mended in a nice clean bed in a fragrant room with a hospitable old man who was going to teach me a trade that, as a matter of fact, had always been of some interest to me. For God’s sake, William. Make the best of it.
I could only hope this strange start could be forgotten.
Chapter 3
My first week passed with unexpected ease.
Instead of the menial labor most apprentices performed in their first months, I was surprised by an altogether educational array of tasks. Each day, after I’d had a simple breakfast of milk and toast with tea, Merrick instructed me to take a walk through the surrounding woods. I carried a small blade with me in order to collect a handful of samples on each excursion – sometimes he gave me a description I was to match, and other times he simply told me to pick something I had never noticed before. Upon my return he would tell me about the plant in his low, serious voice, and I would repeat it back to him. For the rest of the day, he set me to work bundling herbs, separating leaves from stems, washing and arranging jars and bottles, and doing chores about the house as he concocted tinctures and teas from mysterious, intricate recipes.
Though I had not chosen this path for myself, and was still sorry to have had my own trade go up in smoke, it was clear that I had stumbled into a learning program of surprising quality. Merrick was a patient and devoted instructor who seemed committed to teaching me as much as I would learn.
And he allowed me full access to his astonishing collection of books. I was shocked when I finally got a look at them. He had dozens upon dozens of tomes, many of them hand-scripted volumes dating to medieval times! The subjects they covered were diverse, and many were written in other languages. It was an extraordinary pleasure to behold, and I examined each of them tenderly, critiquing and pricing them in my mind.
I quickly got used to his strange appearance – though I couldn’t help but occasionally wonder what was beneath those layers of cloth.
But Merrick was unfailingly calm and well-mannered, deeply knowledgeable, and gentle in his corrections. To my surprise, I found myself feeling quite fond of him. His strange garb faded beside his dignified and gallant manner, and I was in awe of both his intellect and his etique
tte. And, well, there was that book collection. How could I have disliked a man with a library like that?
Most of his business took place through order and delivery to the nearby villages. An awkward and surly young man named Joseph came by each day near lunchtime on a scraggly horse to deliver messages and payments to Merrick and to receive a number of packages for transport back to the nearest villages.
But every couple of days, customers arrived at night. Many of them were young women, and it wasn’t difficult to guess what they were after. I marveled at their boldness, and at Merrick’s – especially when the woman’s condition was owed not to a lecherous employer or neighbor, but to her own husband. He was always calm and firm with them, giving them their instructions with no condemning remarks.
I noticed something very curious in these interactions between Merrick and his visitors. In their presence, his gravelly voice became more hoarse and pronounced, and his movements slower and stiffer. I wondered why he would put on such airs. With me alone, especially in the evening, his voice was velvety-smooth and his movements were nothing short of graceful. I sometimes found myself watching intently as he performed regular tasks, such as grinding and mixing, or even just turning the pages of one of his books. There was a fluid elegance to each motion that was strangely mesmerizing. At times it seemed there must be a young man beneath the layers that hid him, for no old man could possibly have such grace. After a while, I even started to think his robes looked less gloomy, and more – I knew it was strange – exotic.
There was something else, too. Merrick rarely took off his gloves, instead asking for my assistance when he had to perform a wet or messy task with his concoctions. But once, he peeled one off to perform some kind of delicate procedure on a root – and I was surprised to see a strong, smooth hand with not a wrinkle or age spot in sight. It was the hand of an artist, large and sure, with long, slim fingers and fine, silky skin.
He probably used one of his special salves to keep his hands soft and firm, I guessed. There was no doubt he was a masterful healer – the morning after he applied those poultices to my bruises, they had completely disappeared.
Merrick always sent me to bed first, while he stayed up late into the night. He kept dark hours, taking his dinner after I had retired and his breakfast before I woke up. I had surprisingly little trouble sleeping, though I always woke when he laid his weight beside me on the bed. He slept silently, and I never noticed him moving during the night.
All told, things weren’t bad. I even got to send a letter to my mum. My heart ached when I thought how I’d never be able to repay her for what she’d done to keep me out of shackles, but I hoped she’d be pleased to know my current situation – for she had always told me we had nature in our blood, trapped in the city though we were.
And then, everything changed.
Chapter 4
One evening, while trimming leaves from a tough, unruly mess of ivy with a sharp blade, I let my mind wander. And then, so suddenly I did not feel the pain, I had a disastrous slip.
Merrick was at my side in an instant, grabbing me by the wrist with an iron grip and then clamping his other hand upon the gash that had cleaved the thin skin between my thumb and index finger and sliced down toward my wrist. “Come,” he said calmly.
I hissed at the pressure, my stomach turning. I had cut to the bone! He pulled me sit at the table, placed a pad of cloth on the cut and instructed me to hold it tightly there. I heard him behind me mixing something in a hurry, and then he sat beside me. He pinched my index finger and asked if I could feel it.
“No,” I muttered, feeling sick to my stomach. God, I had crippled myself. Damn it all! Was I doomed to destroy my life and self before I turned nineteen?
My blood was soaking through the cloth quickly. It must have soaked Merrick’s gloves, too, for he had peeled them off and was now using his smooth bare hands to take a wet mass of herbs from the bowl he’d brought over. “Let go,” he murmured.
I couldn’t stand to look as I did so. My eyes were on the stove as I felt the cool lump hit my hand, and then I clenched my teeth and let out a cry of pain.
“Bear it,” he said in his calm, quiet voice, and told me to hold the poultice there as he left the table again.
Gripping the table with my good hand, I heard a string of profanities leaving my lips as the pain seared through my palm and even up my wrist. My eyes were squeezed shut, and I only opened them when I caught a whiff of medicinal-smelling smoke. Merrick had lit a small pile of herbs in a stone dish and brought my injured hand over it. To my relief, the pain faded quickly. I watched the smoke curl about my hand and fingers, and then cringed apprehensively when Merrick began to peel the poultice from my hand.
My mind went blank, then.
My hand was stained a little with blood, but there was no injury there.
Not a cut.
Not a scratch.
Not a trace.
I held it before my face, wide-eyed. A full minute passed, and I could not summon a word.
“Be more careful,” Merrick said quietly, and rose from the table.
The day passed without another word between us. At nine o’clock, Merrick told me to retire.
I lay on my back, staring up at the charms above the bed as I sifted uneasily through my increasingly paranoid thoughts.
The old man had charmed me, and I’d had no complaints about it. He’d charmed me enough that I hadn’t thought much on the peculiarities. But it was clear now that something unnatural was afoot.
First, there was the healing. The bruises were one thing – certainly, it had been surprising to see they’d vanished that next morning, but I’d been able to dismiss it easily enough. Sometimes bruises faded faster than expected.
But this gash on my hand was something else entirely. I’d seen the injury myself, a cut straight to the bone! I’d felt the damage. And now my hand felt, and looked, better than it had before!
Then there were Merrick’s own hands. How were they so youthful? Merrick was a master healer who’d been in practice on his own for forty years. That placed him around sixty at the very least! He appeared much older due to the creaky movements he put on display for visitors, and the age-roughened voice he dropped when we were alone. So what of those firm, silky hands? What of the graceful, easy movements he consistently displayed when no one but me was around?
And how about Weather, the horse? The fine black mare did exactly as Merrick wished. It was never tied, but never failed to be around when Merrick wanted. This was where my thoughts took a darker turn. For didn’t all witches supposedly have animal familiars?
Not that I believed in witches! But…What of the baffling healing abilities? What of the charms and trinkets? The mysterious resins burning? What of my own lack of suspicions up to now? Had I already been bewitched? Was that the real purpose of those strange caresses the first night I’d arrived? Had those poultices been nothing more than pretense for a binding ritual?
Oh, perhaps my mother was right – I read too many books! My imagination was running wild. And so far from the city, with all this strangeness, all this time to think and no one to talk to, it was getting hard to tell fantasy from reality.
I was still wide awake when Merrick came in for the night. I squinted in the dark, straining to see as he sauntered into the room and removed his outer robe. It was no use. The room was black as coal.
What was under that hood and veil? As he lay down beside me, I was suddenly consumed with the question. I needed a clue, something to help me understand what I was involved in, who Merrick was.
As I was considering how I might catch a glimpse of him in this perpetually dark room, perhaps by rising in the middle of the night and lighting a candle, Merrick stunned me again by reaching over and placing his hand upon mine.
I froze.
“Your hand feels in good condition?”
“Yes, sir,” I whispered.
“Good.” He kept his hand upon mine, and not merely that – his
thumb began to stroke the sensitive skin of my palm where the gash had been.
“Are you a magician, sir?” I asked, my throat dry.
“I am an apothecary,” he said peacefully.
I didn’t believe him. But as he seemed unbothered by the question, I felt somewhat emboldened to continue. “How old are you, Master Merrick?”
“I am seventy-seven.”
I blinked up at the ceiling, though the room was pitch-black. “How is that possible, sir?” I asked weakly. “Your hands seem quite young, and you move without trouble…”
“Have you other questions, William?”
Why not answer that one, first? I swallowed. “Why do you never remove your hood?”
“I have learned it is best not to challenge expectations if one wishes to live peacefully.”
I thought about this for a moment. “What expectations would be challenged?”
Merrick was silent, and then the bed creaked and shifted. I felt him moving closer, until he was leaning over me. In the dark, I only knew it from the heat of his body and the weight of his hand beside my shoulder.
“I’m pleased to have you as my apprentice, William,” he murmured. “You are nothing like what I had feared when I put in the request to the courts. I never expected such a well-mannered and educated young man. I suspect you are one of a kind, and I would hate for anything to disrupt this arrangement.”
“Anything like what?” I whispered, and stiffened when I felt him take my hand and bring it towards himself.
He flattened my palm against his chest and pressed it there. “I had not intended to reveal these things so soon after making your acquaintance. But I hope you understand I had little choice today, when you nearly crippled yourself.”
I could not fathom why he was holding my hand to his heart, much less come up with a coherent reply. “I thank you, sir,” I managed, still unable to speak above a whisper. “Your skill with herbs is startling indeed.” His chest was firm and solid beneath my palm. Seventy-seven? I did not believe it. It occurred to me that my reaction was being tested. I swallowed. “I am likewise pleased to be your apprentice, Master Merrick. I…I shudder at the thought of what other fate might have befallen me. You have been kind and generous with me and I don’t intend to disappoint you. I do not…I cannot go elsewhere, and I do not wish to.” As I said and meant these words, Merrick began to guide my hand over the thin linen of his nightshirt, down his chest and over the rippled muscles of his abdomen.
