The Chatelaine

by Emily Gilbride

Part 3

11

 

Holding her skirt clear of her knees, free at last, she ran down the steps, across the garden, and through the forest, till she came to the secret hiding-place by the Brook, where she always used to leave her shoes and dress. But now she had no shoes or dress, only the smock, and she could hardly take that off yet, much as she would like to. Only when she reached the River did she pull the smock over her head and hide it and slip straight from under the overhanging branches into the cool, clear water.

At once she felt better. She plunged down among the streaming water-weed and darting fishes, laughing at them, pitying them for not being so happy, so joyful as she was. She glided along through the shadowy depths until she could swim no further then rose exultantly to the surface and laughed aloud as she gulped in the sweet evening air. The sun was setting, its golden red light bouncing along the rippling surface of the river straight to her. Gaily she sang as she swam this way and that, dancing in the water. Then she stopped and looked around her, and stayed still, part of the forest in the silence of nightfall.

Suddenly she saw him. Her knight. He was sitting quietly on the bank watching her, and while just his presence made her blood race and her head spin, the expression on his face did more. It caused her heart to squeeze up into an aching ball in her breast, and tears to spring to her eyes; for never had she seen or conceived of such adoration, such idolatry, on the face of any man.

She found herself swimming slowly towards him. She stopped and gazed up into his eyes, unaware that she too was worshipping.

He said not a word. She swam closer, moving gracefully, silently, towards the bank.

Then he moved. The spell was broken, and the blissful sense of freedom she had known a moment earlier surged back through her body. She blew him a tender kiss, leapt and pirouetted with a cry of happiness, then dived down into the water, ankles stretching, toes pointing, and so out of sight.

He sat waiting, marvelling, comparing her pure unconscious joy to that of the wild woodland chorus which heralds each dawn. Could he ever hope to be so unreserved, so spontaneous?

Of course not. He was a man – and a knight and a prince, not a woman or wild creature, driven solely by instinct and emotion.

Yet, he could admire.

In silence he watched for her, imagining himself waiting until the grey light of dawn spread over the forest and along the river. But after a few minutes, with a splash and a laugh, she reappeared just below him and smiled up at him, love in its innocence written on her face and in her eyes.

'Kiss me,' she said, shyly, 'for I must go.'

She leant her head backwards, her hair, now wet and heavy, falling clear of her small white shoulders, and pushed her lips up towards him.

He lay down on the bank, gently held the tops of her arms and kissed first both those small, cold, firm shoulders, then her neck and her throat, and finally, holding her head up with one hand on each little ear, took the inviting lips, kissing her long and tenderly, enjoying the sweet freshness of her tongue and her teeth, the soft fullness of her lips, until, frightened, she broke away.

He gazed at her.

The wet glass beads around her neck sparkled as she moved slightly in the water and he caught the flash of her eyes as she turned into the moonlight. 'I love you,' he murmured, 'but I will not keep you. I fear I could not. Farewell ... '

He got up to go. A lump rose to her throat. She couldn't speak. She watched him walk away. Suddenly, 'I love you too!' she cried. He turned and smiled. She blew him another kiss, then he was gone.

Slowly, she swam across the river, dressed, and made her way back through the forest.

 

And Modred wondered as he mounted his horse and gave it a flick of the whip whether perhaps it was true that he was too kind, too courteous – in a word, too romantic; and whether perhaps Agravaine was right when he said what they should really do was set a trap for her and take her back to the palace and simply enjoy her … But no, not yet.

 

 

 

 

12

 

Sir Hugue needed to be on the road again. He needed adventure. He needed to escape from his betrothed, the Lady Ornuma, with whom he felt obliged, now, to observe the formalities, and her two nubile daughters, with whom he supposed he would always be obliged to observe the formalities.

He felt very sorry for himself.

He needed his mother.

He needed a damsel in distress.

The only damsel in distress he'd seen for ages was his son.

He felt even sorrier for himself.

If that boy were even half a boy, he, Sir Hugue, would not be having to marry that domineering reverend-mother manquιe. What did she think he was? One of their damned emasculated priests? She was still beautiful, he had to admit. And that was half the trouble – no longer feeling free to fuck her: but once they were married she would find out no one was going to make a Cinderella of him. He'd put her away in a nunnery first.

At least she wasn't a witch.

Which made him think, as he set out that fine spring morning, of two other females he proposed to steer well clear of during this particular peregrination. One was Dame Melisande. It had taken him months to recover from that second visit. The other was the water nymph, whose name escaped him. Indeed, he had only the vaguest memories of her, but he felt there was a lot more he should remember.

So he headed east, towards the Saxon Sea. There was always something happening along that coast to take a man's mind off his troubles.

Sure enough, no sooner had he emerged from the wood and glimpsed the grey-green ocean over the bramble bushes which massed like a barricade along the top of the cliffs, than a much-scratched damsel in a torn gown came crawling out and sobbed, 'Sir Knight, you have been sent in answer to my prayers!'

Sir Hugue looked her over. He was quite fussy about the damsels he agreed to champion. This one had been sent in answer to his prayers: she was gorgeous.

He leant down a leather-clad hand and pulled her up onto his lap.

She gazed into his eyes, awed. She was buxom rather than sylph-like, yet she had flown up through the air as though she weighed no more than a spiralling leaf. 'Oh, sir,' she breathed. She wiggled her bottom and settled herself more comfortably.

Sir Hugue then experienced that great drawback of the steel codpiece – an erection in a confined space, cock bent double. Some – Sir Lancelot for one – looked on it as a penance. Like wearing a hair-shirt. Sir Hugue did not. To him, suffering was something other people did. Or better still, something he did to other people.

'Quick, girl!' He pushed her off, not even looking where she hit the ground, then slid down and landed beside her. He would have landed on top of her if she hadn't been quick.

'Get this stuff off me!' he roared – then groaned.

'What? But – '

'Do as I say! It's you! It's breaking!'

'Me? But – oh, you mean your …'

Deftly, she undid and removed his armour, his leathers and his linen underwear.

His lance stood tall and proud. Now, she gazed at that in awe.

With a great sigh of relief, he vowed from now on always to wear his quick-release mail. It might not offer such good protection as traditional armour, but it didn't make a prisoner of one, either.

She leant over and gave the tip of it a gentle kiss – then touched it with the tip of her very pink tongue.

Again he sighed, this time with pleasure. He should spend more time (his whole life, why not?) on the road. There was just no comparison … Though before that bitch had forced him to get rid of Tess, things hadn't been so bad. Ah … He closed his eyes and remembered Tess's lips, Tess's tongue … He would have to find out where she'd got to. It couldn't be far away. Come to think of it, she'd probably been expecting him to … He would, oh, indeed he would, the moment he got back.

But this one was good: she had swivelled round, was on his chest facing his feet, with her knees one each side of him. She leant forward, and her hands came back towards him; they flicked her tattered skirt up over her back, revealing one of the most perfectly rounded rumps, and little round shit-holes and smooth hairless pussies that Sir Hugue had ever come face to face with.

But she needed help. He stretched his arms down beside her, put his great hands over her ears and forced her head, her mouth, down, and lifted his hips, pushed up into her, felt her throat give and his cock slide happily in, all the way.

Oh, she was excellent. She must have had a lot of practice – and with a big man like himself.

Now he pushed his tongue out – right out – watched it grow. He was the only man he knew whose tongue also swelled and stiffened. When he talked about it with other knights, they looked at him as if he was a freak. The women didn't think so. He licked up and down between her cheeks, heard her squeal with pleasure, then poked it into her bottom hole.

 

'Now,' he said, when he'd filled her with his seed at both ends, 'you've answered my prayers. Let me hear yours.'

'Oh, Sir Knight, I …' She licked her lips, swallowed, laughed, swallowed again. 'Oh, Sir knight … I've never …'

'Don't tell me you've never!'

'Oh, not that! I didn't mean – I meant I've never known a man who came so much. So much …' She gazed at him in awe again. 'Even Sir MaldeFoix – '

'Sir Maldefoix? Who is – ?'

'The gentle knight who owns Castle du-Nez.'

'And what is this gentle knight to you?'

'He is the gentle knight who holds captive in his dungeons my sisters and all the other damsels. It was from there I fled three days since and – '

'I see. And these sisters: they – ah – look like you?'

'Oh, no, Sir Knight. They are beautiful.'

Ah ha. 'Help me on with this armour.'

 

Upon the cliff overlooking the Saxon Sea and the long jutting promontory known as le Nez, stood the castle of Sir Maldefoix du Nez.

As Sir Hugue approached, the no-longer distressed damsel ensconced on his lap and his lance suitably erect – she had not replaced the iron codpiece when she armed him for the coming bout – he saw the great gate open and a knight ride out clad all in silver green, the colour of sage, the colour of the sea. Even the charger, quite as big and powerful as his own, had been dyed to make it look like a creature of the sea.

Sir Hugue laughed, secure in his brown-and-black, the colour of the wulboar, the colours of a man.

'Ho, there, gentle knight!' he roared, as he rode closer. 'Prepare to defend yourself or release to me now this fair lady's fairer sisters whom you hold captive in defiance of the laws of chivalry and this brave land.'

The damsel looked at him. 'Hold on,' she said.

He looked back at her scratched and grubby face, the gorgeous bruised lips, the hazel eyes. 'Don't tell me now that you are the fairest of them all.'

'I'm not. His wife, Lady Lenore, is the fairest of them all.'

Ah ha. Then he remembered the last time he had got involved with a married woman and how nearly it had been the end of him. 'I don't do wives.'

'Then, apart from her, I am the fairest of them all.'

'But you said they were beautiful!'

'They are.'

'Not like you, you said.'

'Beautiful, but not like me. Yes.'

'And the other damsels?'

'The Walton Hundred.'

'Hundred?' He suddenly felt faint.

'Nothing special, most of them. The pick of their villages and hamlets, offered as tribute.'

Protection. Arthur did not approve. He, Sir Hugue, though, liked the idea. Perhaps he should stay here, sire a hundred bastards. Surely one of them would take after him, be a man.

He pushed her off.

Knowing him now, she had been expecting it, and landed lightly, laughing. 'Sir Hugue, take this.' She tore a strip from her already tattered gown, leaving one shoulder and breast bare.

He looked down, and took it, lance erect again instantly. 'Follow me,' he said. 'I don't want to have to come back for you. When it is over, you will ride in with me as my lady.'

 

They were almost equally matched. When they came together, the crash of their meeting and falling echoed around the countryside. Dazed, they levered themselves to their knees, then up onto their feet, drew their great swords and staggered towards each other.

For a while, Sir Hugue thought he was the stronger, that it would all be over in a matter of moments. But as the moments passed, he began to wonder. Then he took a mighty blow to the head that came out of the blue and left him reeling, and he realised he was in for a long fight – if he was lucky.

After an hour – two hours? – he no longer knew – he realised too that he was slowing down. Slowing down unnaturally. There was magic here! Sea magic! He could hear the sea churning and pounding in his ears, his legs felt as though he was wading through the sea, his arms as though at each stroke he had to lift them up out of the sea. He could not win. The man was a sea-god. Or the spawn of a sea-goddess.

Soon he was on his knees. Sword still in his hand, still fighting, but unable now even to breathe, drowning even as he fought, and knowing that at any second the death blow would fall and his head would be struck from his body and go rolling off the edge of the cliff, bouncing on the rocks below … That must hurt so …

Then suddenly a hand appeared before his eyes, a small hand, a female hand. How did that hand come to be inside his helmet? He shook his head violently – and nearly passed out. When his head stopped spinning, the hand was still there and was under his chin, was raising him, lifting him as if he were a child, up, up out of the weight of the sea, and he was free of it and looked and saw the great sword swing towards him. He parried it with his suddenly feather-light shield, thrusting it and the arm that held it aside and bringing the pommel of his own sword across in a downward blow that struck the side of the other knight's head with all the force he would have needed to use if he had still been heaving against the weight of the sea.

He watched him fall, saw him lie there. Dead. Or unconscious.

The damsel came running over. 'Oh, Sir Hugue! I thought for a while – I feared – '

Oh, so did I, girl, so did I … He wasn't going to tell her that. But perhaps she knew. Had it been her who …? 'Was it you who helped me at the end there?' he gasped.

'Me? Oh no! I know no witchcraft.'

'I thought perhaps – as I was wearing your colours …'

She smiled, gloriously.

'Oh, Sir Hugue. You really think that in itself is magic enough?'

'Is he dead?'

She knelt beside the supine knight, tried to open his visor. It was jammed. She put her ear to it. 'He's breathing.'

Sir Hugue sighed. He was wearing her token. It was up to her.

'You want his head, damsel?'

She did, yes. It was in her eyes.

'To strike off his head, now, will bring you no honour, will it, Sir Hugue?'

He said nothing. She knew.

'Oh, let us leave him here, as he is,' she said, 'in the hands of his two goddesses, the Lady of the Sky and the Lady of the Sea. Let them decide. But be on your guard, Sir Knight. Oh, and look: your horse is injured. You'll have to ride Sir Maldefoix's charger.'

He looked, and as he looked it caught his eye, tried to come to him, limping along on three legs.

He shook his head. Not that, no.

'Come, I will help you walk,' she said. She placed herself between them, his horse's rein in her left hand. 'Lean here on my shoulder, Sir Hugue.'

'The other shoulder. Or shall I bare you this side too?'

She laughed. 'The other shoulder then. Leave me some modesty.'

And so Sir Hugue entered the Castle du-Nez.

The silver-green charger sniffed at the body on the ground and followed them.

 

 

 

 

 

13

 

That morning was very hot. Cinderella did her grandmother's washing, standing dreamily in the shade with her hands in the big tub, wishing the day over and the hour come when she could give herself up once more to the caress of the cool waters that ran through the enchanted forest. Tonight she would let him take her in his arms, kiss her once more as he had when first they met; but oh, she must be so careful! Her mood changed, and her grandmother found her weeping again, big tears dripping slowly, one by one, into the tub as she worked.

She told her, brusquely, to stop being silly, and sent her to work in the herb garden, and after an hour there she felt better and decided to clean the courtyard by the old lady's door. The flagstones were encrusted with mud and bird-droppings. She had to scrub and scrub, then scrub again, each little bit. Her skirt hindered her, so she tied a piece of twine round her waist and caught it up out of the way, but this left her legs bare and unprotected, and soon her knees were quite raw.

Meanwhile, her grandmother had been into the village – she thought it better not to send Cinderella until she was used to being dressed as a girl again – and when she returned she saw her down on her poor knees scrubbing away at the flagstones. She stopped and watched for a moment, unnoticed, thinking what a very sweet child she had become (Little Fleur had been rather spoilt) then smiled to herself and thought 'Well, I mustn't start spoiling her!' and stepped past her with only a 'That's nice, dear – no, no, don't stop!' and went on up to her boudoir.

After another hour, Cinderella had finished. She was tired and she was hungry. But what had her grandmother meant when she said "Don't stop"? Should she go on? Scrub round the corner and along the flagstone path? She didn't want to be disobedient and make her grandmother angry with her as well.

Then the door opened, and the old Lady came out again.

'I wasn't going to stop, Grandmother, really I wasn't! I was just wondering what you would like me to scrub next.'

'I think you've done more than enough scrubbing for one morning, my dear. I can't remember when this courtyard looked so clean. You go and tell Cook I said to give you lunch. No, perhaps not. I mustn't interfere. Not openly. But you go to the kitchen and see what happens. Just, you know, look hungry.' She laughed. 'Run along now.'

 

She must have looked very hungry, for as soon as Cook saw her she said, 'You could do with a nice big bowl of my chicken soup, Cinderella. The family are here, but I doubt if they'll want the soup, apart from the master – not all this, anyway. Well, come here. And a chunk of bread, still warm from the oven. There.' But as the girl held out eager hands, Cook looked at her again and seemed to change her mind. 'No, on second thoughts, not all that, not now you're a girl. Who wants a fat girl?'

Betsy, polishing the serving dishes, looked round and laughed as Cook tipped most of the soup back into the pan.

'There, that's quite enough for you.'

Cinderella took the bowl. It was almost empty. 'Who wants a fat boy?' she thought, but she didn't dare say so. She was still swollen and sore from yesterday's thrashing.

She listened to Cook and Betsy gossiping about the new mistress. She wondered if her grandmother had been pleased with the courtyard, or if she'd really been cross that Cinderella had stopped when she'd quite specifically told her not to stop, and had just been saying that to be kind. She had been cross when she found her crying over the washing. Oh, why was she so stupid? Why could she never please anybody, never do anything right?

Cook and Betsy were laughing over something Eliza had said.

Her mind went to the ring, and she began to wonder about the young knight in the forest: who he was, where he came from; why she had been so unkind to him the night before. Why, why, why.

With tears trickling down her cheeks again, she realised she was standing there holding an empty bowl. She noticed some other dirty dishes, so she took them all into the scullery and did the washing up. When she had finished, she went back outside and sat down on the ground by the door in the afternoon sunshine, and fell asleep. And dreamed that she was in his arms.

 

Later, her ring on her finger, she made her way slowly through the woods. She had slept late and still felt tired. When she got to the river it was pitch dark. Clouds had blown up and she couldn't find her special bush. Deciding it didn't matter, she slipped out of her smock where she was and left it lying on the bank. She walked beside the stream a little way, then sat down gingerly on the cool grass, her chin resting lightly on her knees, and gazed out over the black water, listening.

She was about to plunge in when she sensed something behind her and glanced round. She could see nothing. She waited, her arms wrapped round her legs, clasping them tightly to her chest. Then she heard his voice, soft, like a prayer.

'Where are you, little beauty? I feel you near ... Please, speak.'

She heard herself say: 'I am here.'

He drew closer, saw her, and throwing his cape back off his shoulders, knelt down beside her, touching – oh so lightly, so tenderly – her shoulder, her cheek, her hair. It was as though he was afraid he had imagined her, she thought, had dreamed her, as she so often dreamed him. He tilted his head and kissed her lips, which parted, wantingly, and what had been tentative, tender, became passionate and demanding, and suddenly she realised she was lying on her back in the grass. Frantic, she tore free and flung herself into the river.

He cursed himself for his impatience. Ah, she was like a wild creature, to be tamed, not trapped, that must learn to trust before it can give of itself. And yet she was no nymph of the river: tonight in his arms she had felt warm, dry, womanly. He had adored the cold, metallic smoothness of the moonlit nymph, but she was far more than that. She was flesh and blood, soft flesh and hot, pulsing blood ...

Once more he waited, watching, wondering, until he heard a small splash, and saw her looking up at him, her arms resting on the bank.

'Forgive me,' he said.

She stretched up, and taking his hand, pulled him down towards her. She wanted to take him in her arms and tell him how much she loved him, hold his head to her breast ... but she had no breast. Oh, what was the use?

She held his hand in both of hers. It was so long and wide and strong, yet tender, she knew, and sensitive. She carried it to her lips. 'I love you,' she murmured. 'I love you so much, but – '

'Don't!' he begged. 'Not now. I will do anything you say. Promise anything.'

In silence, she groped for a possibility, for a glimmer of hope, while he ran the fingers of his other hand over her lips, her cheeks, her forehead, her eyes, infinitely tender.

'My body ... Never touch my body. Or look at it.'

'My darling – '

'Treat me as a lady, with courtesy and deference,' she pleaded, 'as though I were dressed in fine clothes and – '

'Please, my darling. I – '

'Not as a village girl that … that you meet naked in the forest each night to chase and play with, then laugh about next day with your elegant friends!' She was weeping. 'For I assure you I am not!'

He stood up. 'I have been ungentle and discourteous, my behaviour, in brief, unpardonable, a disgrace to myself and my – my family. I am bitterly ashamed.' He paused. Was he overdoing it? 'I am unworthy of you.' He paused again.

She gazed up at him in the blackness. Was there such perfection in the world?

'Know that you have my undying devotion and admiration,' he went on, in that so-sad voice she wanted to go on listening to for ever and yet wanted desperately to comfort, to make sound happy again as it had before, 'and that I shall never forgive myself for having insulted you. Rest assured, I shall not return to do so again.'

Then suddenly, she realised what he meant! She flung herself up and out of the water and clung to his legs, crying, 'No! No, I beg you! I am yours, body and soul, for ever! Only do not leave me!'

He gazed down at her there on the grass in the darkness, her arms wrapped round his legs, her ankles and feet still in the water, and her whole lovely body shaking as she sobbed out her love for him. Slowly, he unclasped his cape and spread it over her.

She grew still.

He knelt down before her and after a moment she cupped her face in her hands and looked up at him. He gazed deep into her eyes, glanced at the ring on her finger, then met her eyes again.

'You are still wearing my ring. Will you ... Will you be mine?'

She stared at him, speechless with astonishment and horror.

'I see you can never forgive me for the way I have treated you,' he said stiffly after a moment. 'I understand. Neither can I forgive myself. I had better go.'

He made to rise, but she put out her hand to him. 'Darling,' she whispered, 'darling, I forgive you, a thousand times I forgive you. Spit on me, kick me, but never ask my forgiveness, for I tell you I am yours, to do with as you will. I love you.'

'You will be mine?'

'You cannot understand, my love. But I promise you this: I will wear your ring and be faithful to you alone until the day I die.'

'Then I must be content with that?'

'My own love, you must. And now I have to go. Take your cape.'

'May I?' he asked, lifting it.

'May you what?' she teased, smiling at the pleasure that slowly unveiling her gave him.

'May I kiss you?' he breathed.

'Who am I to say?' She laughed for the first time that evening, and the sound of it thrilled him, as did the movement of her shoulders when he crouched over her and kissed them, then ran his lips over her back, up and down her sides, tickling her and making her wriggle, and so to her bottom, each cheek of which he gently kissed ... then came back and knelt before her again. 'Someone …' he muttered. 'My darling, there are marks ... ridges ... on your beautiful, soft, smooth, round, delicate, priceless bottom.'

She smiled up at him. 'Sometimes I am a naughty girl. And I bruise easily.'

He relaxed. 'You are irresistible.' He kissed her lips, lingeringly, then rose. 'Good night, my love.'

'Good night, my darling.' She blew him a kiss, then lay where she was, watching the darkness where he had been.

Then after a while, she walked along the bank till her foot found her smock, then sped back through the forest as fast as she could in the darkness.

She only realised she still had her smock in her hand when she climbed over the wall and discovered her bottom had no protection at all from the sharp bricks. She winced – then grinned, and jumped down into the garden. She pulled the smock on, combed her hair with her hands, then walked into the kitchen trying to look demure.

Fortunately for her, no one was there.

 

 

 

14

 

'Bring him to my boudoir, Angharad,' ordered Lady Lenore, the consolable widow of the Sire du Nez.

Angharad – so that was her name – had been right. Lady Lenore may be the elder, but she was still the more beautiful.

She snapped her fingers and a servant ran to support him the other side, help him up the stairs.

They took his armour off him, washed the blood off him, smoothed some soothing unguent into his bruises … and let him sleep.

 

When he awoke, Lady Lenore was sitting on the edge of the bed stroking his chest.

For a while, she didn't seem to notice that he had woken.

He let her go on stroking.

Then he grunted and sighed with pleasure.

'What are you going to do with us, Sir Hugue?'

'Do with you?'

'There are many of us. My husband was a collector. But I am the chatelaine of Le Nez.'

'Then I will leave you in peace, my lady. Go. Send me some of the many, that I may choose one.'

'You would subject me to the same shame my husband did?'

He looked at her, confused.

'There is no need for others, Sir Knight. I am here.'

At last, he understood. It was the blow – the many blows – to the head.

'I do not normally sleep with ladies who are married.'

'I am not married. I am a widow.'

'Sir Maldefoix was alive still when we left him.'

'He was?' Her hand ran down over his belly, caressing, exciting.

'May I have a little water, a little food?'

'Afterwards.' Her fingertips lit on his still flaccid cock – which reared up into full erection even faster than it had for the witch – what was her name? Smelly something. This one bore about her the scent of the houri, of Paradise, the rich aroma of the harem. She pulled up her gown, knelt astride him, lowered herself down onto him, rode him gently, then faster, as she would a horse.

Soon, his hips bucked, heaving her up towards the roof of the bed.

 

When he woke again, he was trussed. Servants were lifting him off the bed. They carried him down the stairs, out into the yard, slung him over an old brown nag that staggered under his weight, then recovered and waited patiently.

Sir Hugue did likewise. He had little choice. He wasn't gagged, but who was there worth speaking to?

His head, which reached almost to the ground, was filling with blood. His wound would open again. He doubted if that would matter. Sir Maldefoix must have plans for him which did not include a long and happy life.

He should have dispatched him when he had the chance.

If he ever had another chance …

One of Sir Hugue's few redeeming features – perhaps the only one? – was his ability to laugh at himself.

Sir Maldefoix appeared now, up on his silver-green charger. He took hold of the brown horse's halter and still without a word led it out through the great gate and along the top of the cliff. At one point, where the trees came almost to the edge of the cliff, the path cut through the wood. And among the trees, Sir Hugue asked 'What are you going to do with me?'

'I am going to hang you, sir'

'I spared your life.'

'You did not, however, spare my wife.'

'She – '

'You lie.'

'I …' But what was the point?

'This now is Gallows Hill. When we reach the top, you will see the scaffold. It is well used. I have hanged half the men around here.'

'For – you mean your wife – ?'

'Fool! No, for objecting to me siring their children.'

Ah ha. Sir Hugue, who already exercised le droigt de seigneur in his villages, liked this idea. Why do it only once? Why not keep doing it, siring children in all the cottages and hovels? Including some boys. This Maldefoix was no fool.

'Out of my way, woman!' he heard – then a strangled gasp, and seconds later a thud as Sir Maldefoix – he could see this – landed on the ground. And lay still.

What was happening? Woman, he had said. What woman?

Then a voice – a voice he knew – said 'Sir Hugue. I missed you when you visited the Castle of Damosels.'

Morgan le Fay. Princess Morgana.

He could not have imagined a situation in which she might be good news. This was the situation.

'Your – your highness.'

'What does this gentle knight propose to do with you?'

'To hang me, your highness.'

'And do you feel that he is justified in taking this course of action?'

'No! No, your highness. He accuses me of sleeping with his wife – '

'Did you? By "sleep with" – how quaint! – I assume you mean fuck. Did you? Fuck her?'

'I – I – Yes! But it was her. She …'

'You want to say that she fucked you. Raped you, perhaps. Poor little thing. You, I mean. Alone and defenceless in a world of brutal women.'

'Well, I – I – '

'Were you trussed then as you are now?'

'No. No, I – '

'Then I do believe I should rouse poor Maldefoix and permit him to proceed with this execution.'

'Oh, your highness, I …'

'Yes?'

'I … I could be useful to you?'

'You could? Well, perhaps you could, yes. More useful than Maldefoix. You are a fool and a womaniser, but what man isn't? And you are less so than he is. Also you have the entrιe to Camelot and the court. Yes. You will do my bidding?'

'Yes, yes!'

'If ever you fail to do so, being hanged by Sir Maldefoix will seem like a foretaste of Paradise compared with what I shall do to you.'

'Oh, your highness, I will, I will. There is no need to talk of – '

'We shall see.' She pulled out a knife, cut the cord that bound him.

He jerked and wriggled and fell forward, landing on his poor head yet again.

'Take his armour off. Come on! I haven't got all day.'

She insisted that Sir Hugue don all Maldefoix's things – underwear, leather, the silver-green armour – and put his own ragged underwear (all they had left him) on Maldefoix.

'Now truss him up.'

The other knight was unconscious. Sir Hugue tied his arms and legs, and said: 'Now?'

'Pity to waste a good gallows. Throw him over the brown gelding.'

They went on up to the scaffold at the top of the hill, and there Sir Hugue hanged Sir Maldefoix, and while Sir Maldefoix was still kicking his heels in the wind, Princess Morgana gave her new leige-man his instructions.

'You will proceed from here directly to Beau Regard, in Maldefoix's armour and on Maldefoix's war-horse. There, you will marry La Bel Ornuma as soon as may be.'

'Why?'

'Why?'

'Yes, I mean why on his war-horse and in his – '

'Your horse cannot be ridden, and besides, you are now the Sire du Nez.'

'Lady Lenore said that she was the – '

'Her lord is the lord. You defeated her lord, you fucked her, and after much quaint courtly hesitation (who would ever have suspected you of quaintness?) you finally dispatched said lord to his eternal rest. Ergo: you are her new lord. The sky goddess and the sea goddess who protect the Sire du Nez will go with you.'

'They didn't protect him.'

'Oh yes they did. Till I interfered, and lifted you up out of the sea in which you were floundering and were about to die.'

'You? That was you?' Twice she had saved him. But how did she know so much about him? And why? Why the interest? 'It was already my intention, princess, to return to Beau Regard and, once there, to take to wife La Bel Ornuma, my beloved and betrothed, who awaits me even as we speak, anxious as I am to sire a son to – '

'Not a son! Not under any circumstances! You have a son.' Her anger turned to a mocking smile. 'Of sorts … From Beau Regard, you will proceed to Camelot, which fortunately is close by. As Sir Hugue de Beau Regard. You will not wear the accoutrements of the Sire du Nez. You will tell no one there that you are now the Sire du Nez. That will be our secret. At Camelot, you will make contact with my son, Prince Modred. You will place yourself unreservedly in his service and at his disposal.'

'That is all?'

'You will then – if Prince Modred gives you leave, for from now on you will do his bidding in all things – return to Beau Regard. And to your son.' Again the mocking smile.

'He is to be my heir?'

'No, he is not. When you die – which will be sooner rather than later if you do not please me – your heir, the new chatelaine de Beau Regard, will be La Bel Ornuma's daughter.'

What?

But he kept his mouth closed. He wasn't a complete fool.

Then he said, 'She has two daughters.'

'I know. But no sons.' She glanced at Maldefoix, who was hanging limp and still. 'He's gone … So, Sir Hugue du Nez, at the top of this hill, as high as you can get around here, dedicate yourself to the sky goddess of the Sires du Nez … Well, go on!'

Sir Hugue hated such things. Faced with any kind of solemnity, he felt only embarrassment.

'Gaze up at the sky and say something.'

He gazed up, mumbled 'O Sky Goddess, I dedicate myself to your service.'

There was a pause, then a peal of thunder. Out of a clear sky?

'Did you do that?'

'Me? If I had done it, it would mean nothing. She accepted you. Now go down to the beach, immerse yourself in the sea, and dedicate yourself to the sea goddess of the Sires du Nez. Then – if she accepts you – return to Castle du Nez. Leave Lady Leonor in charge. And take Angharad with you to Camelot. If she is to Prince Modred's taste, make him a gift of her. If she is not, dispose of her. But do not leave her at Beau Regard: she will cause trouble there.'

'Yes, but … ' But she had gone. Vanished.

He sighed – with relief. Morgana was hard work … And now? Did he really need to go down to the sea? He glanced at Maldefoix. Yes, he really needed to go down to the sea – he really needed to do whatever Morgana bade him do. He shook his battered head, trying to clear it, trying to think, and slowly it dawned on him that in return for his life he had sold himself body and soul; that Morgana of all people now owned a Knight of the Round Table.

He looked again at Sir Maldefoix, sometime Sire du Nez: at least he wasn't laughing.

 

 

 

15

 

Cinderella was still trying to look demure when she found herself standing before the mistress the next afternoon.

'Now, Cinderella, listen to me.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'Don't interrupt. I have noticed that you are not only ungrateful and, I imagine, a vain and spiteful little vixen, but – '

'Oh no, ma'am! Please, I am not those things you said!'

'Be silent, girl! I have told you once already not to interrupt me. I shan't tell you again. Now, not only, as I say, are you ungrateful and vain – though I'm sure I can't think why with no breasts and that deformity between your legs – but also, and more importantly perhaps, you are undisciplined and lazy. Cook has been spoiling you. I have looked for you in the kitchen on two separate occasions, only to be told you were "out". I also hear that you have been bothering the old mistress in the tower. Do you not realise that a lady like her finds offensive the clothes and the smell and the doings of an unwanted stable-yard slut like yourself. You hear me?'

'Oh, yes, ma'am.'

'That you disgust her as you disgust my dear daughters and, I must say, you disgust me, though I do try to be charitable.'

She pulled a tiny lace handkerchief from between her ample powdered breasts, held it affectedly to her nose, sniffed, and replaced, it, lingering, fingering, her eyes intent on the face before her, while Cinderella, her attention drawn, marvelled at the sheer bulging tightness, the whiteness, the smoothness, of those milking-time udders, wondering why the nipples didn't come bursting up and out, and whether it hurt very much. And concerned, sympathetic, she looked up again into the lashless green eyes.

'Oh. Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry, ma'am.'

'I have a kind heart – too kind, some would say, but there we are.'

'Oh, indeed you have, ma'am.'

'So, I have decided not to get rid of you, though I am sure I should as you are nothing but trouble. But no: I shall keep you here in the house, as a serving wench. You will work in the kitchen, you will work in the house, keeping things clean, and you will be trained to wait on my daughters and myself as our personal maid. You will have no free time. Well, girl?'

'Oh. Yes. Th-thank you, ma'am.'

'Good. Then we have an agreement. As long as you are industrious and obedient, you will be allowed to remain here as a humble member of this household. But if you do not give satisfaction – and I mean to everyone – you will quickly find yourself with a new master or mistress somewhere very nasty indeed. Do you understand?'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'I want never to catch you idle, from the moment you wake in the morning to the moment you are permitted to sleep at night. Never. You know what they say.'

'Er – no, ma'am.'

'The Devil finds work for idle hands. That is what they say. And do you know what that work is? Ah, shake your head, but you know, you impudent brat. Play not the temptress with proud Lucifer, or one dark night he will emerge from the cellar, or the well, or a shadowy glade in the forest, and he will have come for you!'

She said the last word with such force that Cinderella, who had just started dreaming again (it was the mention of the Forest that did it) jumped to attention as the old sergeant had once taught her. 'Yes, ma'am!'

The woman stared at her, speculatively.

'When you wander off into the forest in the evening (which, by the by, you will never do again) have you not seen, not sensed, the Devil there, with his eye on you? Are you not frightened, out there alone in the dark?'

'Yes, ma'am – I mean, no ma'am. That is – ' (the first thing that came into her head) 'does he ride a horse, ma'am?'

'A horse? You've seen someone on a horse?'

'Er – yes, ma'am. Sometimes, ma'am.'

'When he is Lucifer, the Star of the Morning, he rides a white stallion decked with gold, and wears a pale cloak, but when he is Satan, Prince of Darkness, his stallion is gleaming black and he comes booted and spurred, wearing black velvet trimmed with silver. Some say that he is always masked, others not ... but 'tis said that he is very beautiful ...' She noticed that Cinderella was listening entranced, and snapped: 'Enough of this foolish talk! Go and get a thrashing, at once! And come straight back!'

'Yes, ma'am.'

Her heart sinking, though she had known it was coming, she curtsied and left the room.

 

Ten minutes later, she was back, trying desperately to stand still and not jump up and down screaming with her hands on her bottom.

'Ah. That wiped the smile off your face.'

'Y-y- '

'So now perhaps you will stop interrupting and start paying attention, and answer me properly when I ask you a question. Do you like wearing that smock?'

'Y-y-y-yes, ma'am.'

'Do boys or girls wear smocks?'

'G-girls, ma'am.'

'Then you are a girl.'

She hesitated, frightened of saying the wrong thing. Then, 'Y-yes, a g-girl, ma'am.'

'But an ugly, deformed one.'

'Yes, ma'am,' she sobbed.

'Stop snivelling, and put your hands down at your sides! ... Right. Who is your father?'

'The m-m-master, ma'am.'

Jumping to her feet, the woman slapped Cinderella's face, then slapped it again, and again and again, screaming 'Don't lie to me!', until, crying uncontrollably, the girl turned away from her and bent over, covering her head with her arms.

Then she sat back down and watched her for a moment.

'Preposterous. Quite preposterous. Stand up properly, girl! Look at me! Put your hands down! ... The master never had a daughter. Well, did he?'

'Wh-what, ma'am? I – I'm sorry, I – '

'I asked you whether the master ever had a daughter. Other, that is, than his two beautiful new step-daughters, whom he adores, and thinks of as his own children. Well? Did he?'

'No, ma'am.'

'The he is not your father, is he, girl.'

'N-no, ma'am. I – I'm sorry, ma'am.' She was crying uncontrollably. 'I d-didn't underst-stand, ma'am.'

'If you don't stop that disgusting noise instantly, I will send you back to Cook ... That's better ... Now, where were we? Oh yes. The master your father. If ever you make such a ridiculous claim again, I'll have you whipped through the streets of the city as a common impostor ... Now. Who is your father?'

'Please, ma'am, I don't know, ma'am,' she sobbed.

'And your mother?'

'She - I don't know, ma'am.'

'Well, who cares? Whoever she was, she's dead.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'And you are an orphan.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'Never forget that.' She stared at the girl for a moment, noting with satisfaction the way her cheeks were swelling and turning blue. 'What are you?'

'I – I am an orphan, ma'am.'

'What is your place here?'

'I am – am …'

'You are a homeless young trull whom we kindly allow to live in our kitchen, and have arranged to train as a maid, in order to keep her off the streets and out of mischief.'

'Yes, ma'am. Th-thank you, ma'am.'

'You can thank me by working hard and remembering your place. What is your name?'

'Cinderella, ma'aam.'

'Have you no other name, or names?'

'Er – n-no, ma'am.'

'All right. You may go.'

'Yes, ma'am. I will try to be good, ma'am,' she sobbed, then curtsied and went.

The mistress remained where she was, smiling to herself. That was all right, she thought. It had been a very good idea to put the stupid child in a dress. In just a couple of months everyone had come to think of her as a girl. Perhaps later, when she had been licked into shape, she could have a maid's uniform, and a bedroom in the servants' quarters, but not yet. If they were hard on her for the first six months, or year perhaps, she would make a very good maid, docile, eager to please, thrilled with any luxury such as a straw pallet in a tiny room of her own; and, of course, completely unpaid, absolutely reliable, and permanent, because totally dependent.

But things must get worse before they got better.

She followed the girl down to the kitchen and saw her out in the yard washing her face under the cold water from the pump, then pulling her skirt up at the back and wetting her bottom with handfulls of water. She was unlucky, though. At that moment one of the stable-boys approached, and the mistress saw her embarrassment as he cracked some lewd joke then passed on.

She shouted, 'Cinderella! Come here at once!'

The girl came running, water dripping from her hands and her bruised face.

'Why aren't you working, girl?'

'I'm sorry, ma'am. I was just going to – '

'No, you weren't, you were out there acting the bitch on heat again.' She looked round the kitchen, then into the scullery. 'Go and wash those pots and pans. And move when I tell you to do something!'

Cinderella fled to do as she was bid, seizing a black pot from the floor by the range as she passed.

The mistress turned to the cook. 'Make her work, Cook. Scrubbing pots, scrubbing floors, scrubbing clothes. And keep her well beaten. The harder you treat her, the better I shall be pleased.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'I want her brought to heel. She will continue to sleep here on the floor, and wear any old ragged smock that no one else wants. However, you will not give her meals: she can feed off the scraps until I see that she is earning her keep.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

The mistress gazed at the cook. The cook held her gaze.

'I shall expect to see a vast improvement in her whole bearing and attitude. Within weeks.'

'Oh, you will, ma'am, you can depend on that.'

The mistress swept out, and Cook sat down to ponder and absorb the latest developments.

  

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