It serves to inspire his devotee to further effort.
‘È delizioso,’ she murmurs.
Henry’s head has grown light, so that he can hardly register the movements of the women either side. There are kisses upon his shoulders, and playful pinching, the nipping of impatient teeth, and fingers stroking…
A great squeeze upon his buttocks makes his cock leap again, deep inside the woman’s mouth. She hums with pleasure, and cups the weight of his testicles in her hands.
‘Lo voglio,’ whines the woman to his left.
She raises her skirts, pressing the smooth flesh of her inner thigh to him, straddling his leg. Petticoats pushed aside, she is naked beneath, her hot cunt rubbing above his knee.
‘Il mio bel uomo inglese,’she sighs, and her lips close upon his nipple.
The night swims as Henry becomes lost, his cock achingly hard, his skin warmed by silken mouths and cooled by the night air.
Belly, rod and scrotum, they feed on him, greedy consummations, sucking, biting. Where one leaves off another takes her place. Breath sweet and hot, demanding.
He pulses to satisfaction, a willing slave to their fingers and insistent mouths. Then, brought to fullness again, they guide him to lie upon the dewy grass, untying his hands briefly, only to secure them again, above his head.
They take turns to straddle him, to draw him inside their velvet lips.
‘Mio Dio!’ cries the first, as her own delight overtakes her.
‘Cazzo a me!’ exclaims the second, clenching his girth with contractions of pleasure.
‘Mi trafiggono!’ sighs the last, as she grinds her longing upon his length.
Henry is moving away from his past, towards something else, unknown, and unchartered.
While he breathes, there are certain things he cannot help but yearn for.
Blood
It’s past midnight when Cecile wakes, her pulse quickened by her dreams.
She has imagined herself a bride, in a gown of white silk, wearing a tiara of pearls and sparkling gems. The ring is upon her finger and she the mistress of the castle. Except that her groom does not lead her to the comforts of his bed, but straight from the chapel, down the dank steps, to the obscurity of the crypt.
Her husband’s clasp upon her wrist is firm, dragging her to the manacles, in the deepest shadows of that foul place.
‘And, now, my Contessa,’ says the voice both seductive and cruel, ‘How shall we spend our wedding night?’
Strong hands rend the virginal bridal silk, until her pale body quivers before him, exposed. Her arms, outstretched, ache from the constraint of their imprisonment, as she submits to his desire.
* * *
Waking with a start, Cecile is relieved to find her covers warm about her, rather than the oppressive chill of the crypt.
She rises to open the shutters and unlatch her window, looking out at the dark sky and sea. The waves churn below, at their height upon the rocks, and the breeze brings the faintest sound of keening. A night-bird flaps past with a baleful screech.
She cannot yet return to her bed, fearful of what her mind may next conjure. Cecile unlocks her door, telling herself that she must escape the confines of her chamber. She lights the wick of her candle and considers descending, to breathe the freshness of the garden.
What then moves her to venture to the end of the corridor, and continue, to the wing where Lorenzo’s apartments are located? Does some inner voice urge her to seek out what she knows is forbidden?
If I’m discovered, I’ll pretend that I’m sleepwalking, she decides. The door to his solitary tower looks like any other and opens easily. There is no squeak from its hinges. Nothing to betray her.
She climbs the stairs, one foot in front of the other, until she reaches a door. It’s ajar, so why shouldn’t she look inside?
It’s a well-furnished room, the floor covered in fine rugs, and thick drapes at the window. The room is dominated by a bed. His bed. A bed that rises high from the ground, away from the cool air about her feet. Its canopy is hung with a heavy swathe of amber fabric, while purple velvet curtains, embroidered in gold and secured by thick cord, adorn each corner post. They aren’t yet closed, for there is no head upon the pillow, despite the late hour.
Cecile looks back, the way she has come. What if he were to appear, and find her? A shiver catches through her spine. Fear, and something else…
Her feet should take her away from this place but she allows them to lead her upwards, through another two rotations of the curving stair.
There is another door. Another room. This time, locked.
A chill draught descends upon her, and the far-off murmuring of the sea. There must be a window open above.
She presses her ear to the door. Are there voices? Muttering? From within the room, or from the wood itself?
Cecile pushes away, her back finding the cold stone of the opposite wall, and flinching at the touch of it.
It’s as if the castle were a living thing, the air drawn through its passages like breath.
She hurries away, down the stairs again.
No more madness, she resolves.
But, as she passes the bedchamber, there is a tug inside her chest.
Would not the key to that door be in his room?
Entering once more, she sets her candle upon the nightstand and opens the drawer. Nothing there but papers. On top is a small box. Her heart races for a moment, but it contains only cigars.
Where else to look?
There are several wardrobes, filled with suits and hats, drawers of gloves and cravats. She cannot possibly search them all, and time is passing. Has she returned with the intention of being discovered, and caught in wrongdoing? Her heart races at her remembrance of the manner in which the Conte punished Vittoria.
And then she sees it.
A key, upon a ribbon, hanging in plain sight, from the centre of the canopy above the bed.
It takes but a moment and she has climbed up, her fingers reaching for what she seeks.
* * *
Cecile opens the door only a little; enough to admit her entry, closing it immediately behind. It’s extraordinarily dark and her candle is burning low. There’s a chest in the corner, a chair, horse tack and riding switches on the wall. The room is being used for storage, perhaps.
A strange place to keep them, she thinks. And how peculiar for such a place to be locked. There’s nothing here of interest.
To one side is a table, upon which several wooden objects are arranged. Most are bulbous at one end, sometimes both. Some are subtly curved in shape, others are straight. She picks one up. Smooth, polished, and heavier than she imagined, made of oak, or walnut. It sits well in her palm. Her fingers close about it, naturally.
The Conte is well-travelled. Tribal items from Africa, or totems. She has read of such things.
Cecile rests upon the chair for a moment, heavily padded, and upholstered in a dark, velvet fabric. How unusual its shape is, with slender, golden-gilded arms, protruding upwards. Perhaps for invalids, Cecile muses, that they might grasp these and pull themselves upright. And there is a little platform beneath, perhaps to aid in mounting the chair. Like climbing upon one’s horse, Cecile decides, endeavouring to understand the design. Although why there should be a significant hole in the seat, she cannot imagine. No wonder that it’s been put away, for it would make a most peculiar addition to the drawing room.
Cecile has a vague memory of having seen something similar in the book in the library; the one that Lucrezia closed before she could look properly.
Behind the door is some strange contraption, with cogs and wheels. She turns its handle and a chain link moves noisily. A most peculiar device, and she cannot begin to imagine what use it serves. Perhaps no use at all, since it has been relegated to this out-of-the-way location.
What had she expected to find?
It’s all rather disappointing.
At the far end of the room is a picture.
&n
bsp; Some out-of-favour relative, thinks Cecile, relegated to this forgotten storeroom.
As she draws close, she sees that it’s no di Cavour depicted, but a woman from the Orient.
A souvenir from the Far East, of course, where Lorenzo has travelled.
Cecile raises her candle.
The background is filled with Oriental script, and there is the lady’s face, upturned, a little octopus sitting beside her ear. A peculiar choice, thinks Cecile. She’s used to seeing dogs and horses in paintings, birds and cats, on occasion.
The octopus is whispering something to her. How fascinating are the Chinese; or is this Japanese?
She moves the candle across, and her hand begins to shake.
For the lady is quite naked, and there is a delicate tentacle wrapped about her nipple. Another, thicker, encompasses her thigh. Several curl around her arms. One drapes possessively across her stomach. Between her open legs is the head of a terrifyingly huge octopus, its beak lowered, as if to devour her. And yet the woman appears not to struggle, or be in distress.
Cecile cannot help but look, and look again. So many tentacles. Caressing. Constricting. Engulfing her.
Her eyes return to the horse tack, except that she sees, now, that it’s no such thing. This metal and leather was never intended to bridle a mare, and while several of the switches are, undoubtedly, horse whips, some are not. Their handles are too short, and their tails too long, and thick, stained crimson-dark.
She looks again at the chair, and at the mangle, and recalls her brief glimpse at the book in the library. Figures, half-clothed, contorted awkwardly.
It’s too strange. There’s something here she cannot comprehend, and yet she knows. Her imagination places her over the end of the chair, bending, the Conte raising her gown with the tip of a switch, her face burning with shame as his hand finds her bare flesh.
* * *
She locks the door, hurries down, and climbs up to replace the key upon its ribbon. The mattress creaks under her feet, threatening to topple her.
Looking down at Lorenzo’s bed, her chest constricts. This is where he sleeps, beneath the soft coverlet. She sees her own head on the pillow, and he above, his body pressing heavy, and his tongue teasing. Tentacle-like, reaching to find her, leaving a wet trail on her skin.
Her legs are weak, as she descends from the bed.
If she were discovered by him, in her intrusion… She moves swiftly to the door.
Cecile’s footsteps are light upon the wooden floor, darting to avoid the places where she knows it squeaks. She reaches her door and her fingers find the handle, but her heart is hammering so rapidly that she fears it will rupture.
She must calm herself. A tonic is needed. A strong drink. Isn’t that what’s recommended?
Henry has never permitted her to take spirits. A little wine, or a glass of sherry, only. In the library, there are decanters. Brandy, perhaps. Doctors give it to calm the nerves.
The clock chimes one as she crosses the hall, lit by pale moonlight through tall windows.
Passing the shelves of books, she moves directly to the table upon which the crystal decanters are kept, unstoppers the first and sniffs. The liquid is pungent, reminding her of smoking bonfires and aniseed. She pours a little into a glass and raises it to her lips. It burns, and makes her splutter, but the warmth is quickly inside her. There is comfort in it, despite the vile taste.
A little more, and she shall be calmed enough to return to her bed.
With the glass emptied, she rubs at the rim with her nightdress and replaces it upon the tray.
Her pulse is steadier now and her eyes roam upwards, to the ceiling, where fleeing women run, mouths agape, in terror, and in warning, pursued by the beasts of Zeus’ seductions.
She pauses to look upon the ancient volumes, touching the old leather.
One is embossed with a golden serpent, coiled through the spine. Its small, bronze clasp opens easily, loose on its hinges. Efficacious and Undetectable Poisons. The book is dirty, inside and out, with the grease of many fingers. It falls open at ‘Ridding the Body of Unwanted Pregnancy’. The ink is smudged, as if from something spilled.
Cecile snaps it closed. She has no desire to think on such things.
The monsters of ancient mythology, carved into the shelves, look down on her, eyes sharp and mouths sneering. The whole room, she might imagine, is mocking her. She does not belong here. There are secrets in these books, as well as within these ancient walls, and the castle’s many rooms; they are best left undisturbed.
As she turns to leave, there is a shift in the shadows. Someone is approaching, carrying their own small source of light.
There is just time for Cecile to blow out her candle, and hide behind the curtains.
With a firm footstep, the person crosses the room, striking a match to ignite the oil lamp upon the desk.
She hears the pouring of liquid from the decanter, and a grunt of satisfaction. The tumbler is refilled and knocked back once more, and a third time, the glass landing heavily.
‘Cagna di coraggio. La farò pagare!’
Cecile has no need to peek from her hiding place and no desire to do so. She knows this cursing voice. The thought of Lorenzo discovering her twists a coil of fear in her stomach.
After he has left, she creeps out. The decanter is almost drained.
The lamp’s flame remains lit and, in its pool of light, Cecile sees the glass, the very one from which she drank. Bloody fingerprints are upon it. Something dark has dripped across the rug.
It is not only the gentleman on the pale horse who comes for us in our bed in the ripeness of old age. The villainous may lend a hand, delivering souls into the rider’s embrace. Poison, blade or the quiet dispatch of the pillow on a sleeping face: the tools of those doing amateur business for the Reaper.
Violence is apt to dwell just as readily in the sedate parlour or over the cooking of a mutton leg as on the battlefield. Newspaper columns long and short catalogue grisly misdeeds of the everyday. She knows violence exists beyond the flights of fancy in her novels, and that poison lurks in human veins, as potent as any administered into a pie-crust or pot of tea.
With shaking hand, she lifts the lamp, and makes her way back, through the darkness.
Temptation
In the days that pass, Cecile is plagued by memories and strange images. Though his manner is always polite, the Conte’s courtesy appears but outward show. When he smiles, she feels the points of his teeth upon her skin. Cecile wonders what it would be like, to submit to those teeth.
Strange that she sees so little of him during the day.
‘Like all nocturnal creatures, he prefers the cool of his tower rooms,’ explains Lucrezia. ‘Or his library. The sun doesn’t agree with him.’
Each evening, dishes arrive at the table, and Cecile’s mouth opens to each delicious sensation: succulent crab and lobster, rich Ossobuco, served with risotto alla Milanese, ricotta-stuffed cannelloni, and zesty lemon gremolata. There are meringues and panna cotta, topped with sweet raspberries, creamy zabaglione and tiny apricot pastries.
As they dine, the Conte asks about her London suitors. Shyly, she admits there are none. About her desire for children. She cannot answer. Does she ride, and hunt to hounds? Has she ever suffered weakness of constitution, or serious illness. Does she enjoy travel? Could she live in Italy, perhaps…?
‘Have done with it and present Lady McCaulay with a ring,’ exclaims Agatha at last. ‘Although it would be courteous to approach her brother before you enquire any further as to Cecile’s readiness for marriage.’
Lucrezia drinks more wine than is good for her, and blazes silently.
The mirror over the mantel, in the dining room, reflects the flicker of the chandelier, small points of light, quivering in that cavernous room, with its pomegranate-red walls.
Is Lorenzo her Hades, her dark temptation?
Her mind wanders, from the dining room, out, through the chill corridors, to subte
rranean places; down to the damp, dark dungeon. She feels again the weight of a metal cuff about her wrist and cool hands touching where she longs to be touched. A face; impassive, imperious, close to hers.
Beneath the covers, she listens to the far-off rush of the waves and the rattle of the windows. Sometimes, she hears a distant wail, but it’s only the rising wind, she tells herself. Then her dreams take her, and she tosses on her own inner sea, lost in thoughts disturbing and arousing.
* * *
It is long past the hour when she should be sleeping but, tonight, Cecile is awake, reading to the last stub of her candle. Jane Eyre has called to her, as if the answer to something lies within those pages. So many secrets and half-concealed truths.
Page after page, her fingers turn, though her eyes are sleepy. When she hears footsteps run past her room, she looks up. Again, there is the sound of running feet but, this time, they do not pass by.
There is a long scratch at the door, as of a fingernail drawn slowly across the wood.
‘Who’s there?’ Cecile’s voice trembles.
There’s no answer, but for the further clawing of the oak, and a splintered laugh. The footsteps run again. Then quiet.
Could it be the phantom of the White Contessa, roaming the castle to mutter her curses?
Surely not!
Cecile dons dressing gown and slippers. Dare she venture into the corridor, to see who terrorizes her? She’s afraid, but will not be intimidated. She’ll unbolt the door, and, no matter what she sees, she shall stand firm and confront this creature of the night, be it real or a thing from her imagination.
The cool night-breath of the corridor slides past her cheek, threatening her candle’s meagre illumination. Little enough light, but sufficient to see that a door is ajar. One she knows is usually locked. In her idle hours, she has tried almost all of the doors in this wing of the castle. They lead into bedrooms, and a linen cupboard, a room for bathing, a storage place. This door belongs to one of the towers, leading to the rooftop ramparts: forbidden to her, for its crumbling stairs, and its hidden dangers.
Italian Sonata: Noire - Volume Two Page 10
