Deliver us from Evil (52 page)

I
could - but
I
choose not to.' The Marquise suddenly pulled away her shawl to reveal the low-cut gown beneath, and her withered, shrunken breasts. 'My flesh, alas, is not as ripe as it once was. But
I
trust you will agree -
I
can still tease a prick.'

indeed, Madame, you can.' Robert gazed at her a moment more, then bowed and turned away, indeed you can.'

He might almost have told the Marquise, he decided later, had she not shown him her dried-grape dugs. He glanced across at Milady where she lay in the boat, and gently, through her cloak, kissed her perfect breasts; then began to confide in her instead. For he had suddenly been struck, he told her, as they had climbed up together from the river to the Marquise's house, by the memory of how he had done the same thing many years before - of how he had climbed through Mr Aubrey's garden in Broadchalke, up towards his house. And at the same moment as he had recalled this, Robert went on, he had also remembered something else - something which in Deptford had remained just a haze. Mr Aubrey opening a book. Pages written in a meaningless script. And a dim memory of Mr Aubrey's boast - that the book had once belonged to Dr Dee.

'Son of a whore, God damn you, can you tell

A
peerless peer the readiest way to Hell?
...

The readiest way to Hell? Come quick
...'

The Earl of Rochester, 'To the Postboy'

R

obert and Milady left the next night, and travelled hard along the dusty road to Salisbury. They had no difficulty in entering the city, for they discovered that the King had long since grown bored and left for Oxford, taking all his court with him. Nor, it soon appeared, was he alone in having uprooted himself; for on their arrival in Broadchalke, they discovered Mr Aubrey's house empty, and were informed by a servant that he was abroad on his travels.

'Travels?' Robert asked, in a fury of disappointment. 'Travels where?'

The servant shrugged. 'Anywhere. Everywhere. For he is researching for his books, and in such a mood he is never to be found.'

Robert stared about him in frustration. The shelves, he noticed, had been emptied. He asked the man where all the books had gone.

'They have been packed away and sent to London, for Mr Aubrey is seeking to sell this place. His fortunes have lately been much reduced.'

'Where in London?'

The servant shrugged disinterestedly: he didn't know. Milady took Robert's arm; then she stared at the servant, whose face at once turned pale. His eyes bulged; he staggered, and had to lean against a table to support himself. 'You understand, then?' Milady murmured at
last. 'You will have him contact us as soon as he returns?' The man nodded dumbly.

'Good,' Milady purred. She paused, then slipped a coin out from her purse. 'He may write to us in Oxford,' she nodded, dropping the coin on to the floor. 'To Robert Lovelace; address - the Court.'

They travelled to Oxford in the hope of discovering Lord Rochester there. 'For it were best,' Milady said, 'since he is the Pasha's chosen heir, that we tell him of our search for Mr Aubrey's book. Who else is there, who might have the power to read it? And indeed Lord Rochester will need to, if he is to journey to Woodton and yet have hope of a return.' She said this as they rode along the track beside Stonehenge; and both she and Robert glanced towards the trees. But nothing stirred beyond them, and they quickened their pace and left the scene behind.

Arrived in Oxford, they discovered that Lord Rochester had indeed returned from the fleet, and was now the toast and talk of the Court. For as Savile explained to Robert one evening, his friend had grown a thousand times more dissolute than he had been before the war; and yet before the war, he had already been a most notorious rake. 'And so it is,' Savile belched, 'that the courtiers say that though the Dutch be dull, yet they are the midwives to wit. For the more intemperate Lord Rochester becomes, the more his blood is inflamed; and the more his blood is inflamed, the more his wit seems to grow. It is my favourite sport at present to make my Lord drunk, purely for the pleasure of seeing how wild he can become, and what riots he will lead.'

Robert smiled; for he doubted it was wine which served to fuel Lord Rochester's humours. And Lord Rochester himself, when they met, confirmed his suspicions readily enough. 'Blood!' he proclaimed, it is the finest pleasure known to spirit or flesh. And yet, Lovelace, see . . .' He raised up his glass; then stroked his crotch, it is the property of this most exquisite of delights, that it does not diminish but serves to fuel all other pleasures too.
I
had grown afraid, before our visit to Amsterdam, that my appetites had been forever sated; and yet now they are restored to me, and they are more violent and ravenous than they ever were before.'

'Overjoyed for you, my Lord - overjoyed,
I
am sure.'

Lord Rochester narrowed his eyes. 'What, Lovelace,' he murmured, 'not jealous,
I
hope?'

I
would never be jealous of you, my Lord - for
I
have some knowledge of what you must soon confront.'

'Yes,' said Lord Rochester with a sudden iciness. 'Naturally you do.' He rose to his feet abruptly, and called to the servant for his cloak. While it was fastened he continued silent, then glanced again, as though in passing, at Robert. 'You will inform me when this man, this Mr Aubrey, is found?'

'Naturally, my Lord.'

'Very good.' Lord Rochester crossed to the door, then paused again. 'Oh - and Lovelace - in the meantime - it were best you kept yourself away from me.'

indeed?' Robert stared at him in startled anger. 'For what reason, may
I
ask?'

Lord Rochester yawned. 'Because you remind me of matters other than my pleasures.
I
have not had my sensations restored to me, to have them blunted by your gallows talk.' He paused a moment more, daring Robert to challenge him; and indeed, without thinking, Robert half-drew his sword. But Rochester only smiled, and shook his head; and Robert, flushing, dropped the blade back in its sheath. He continued frozen for several minutes after Lord Rochester had gone; then tried in vain all that night to drown his fury with drink.

Milady, when he told her later, did not seem surprised. 'For this quickening of sensations is common to us all, when we first develop our yearning for blood - all the world seems made for our pleasure. And yet it does not persist.' She paused; and Robert saw, gazing into her eyes, a sudden bleakness, like that of the passing of the years, borne upon time as desert sands are borne on winds. He kissed her on her cheek, and smiled to see it bloom a sudden crimson. She glanced round at him, then lowered her eyes. 'Do as Lord Rochester has ordered you,' she murmured. 'For as
I
have said - his present humour will not endure for long.' She sighed, and reached for a goblet of wine; she drained it in a single, disinterested gulp, then dropped it on the floor and stared at Robert once again. With her finger, she traced the curve of his lips. 'For the time will soon come,' she whispered, 'when his pleasures are as rare, and therefore prized, as mine are now. And then he, like me, sweet Lovelace, will be yours.'

Robert smiled at her, and kissed her hand; and for a moment almost believed her compliment. Of course, in his heart he knew that Milady's nature was unchanged, that she was far too deadly and wondrous to be anyone's - that a wolf, however docile, must always be a wolf; and indeed that same night, as he pretended to sleep, he heard her rise and slip into the streets. But he was not surprised now, as he had been before, that she desired to prey alone; for he could see how it had become her most pleasing fantasy - that she was a mortal like himself, that she did not drink blood, that she was not compelled to kill. And Robert, as he sought to share in the pretence, found that it came easily; for it brought back life to the faded ghosts of memory - to that lost world of friendship he had once shared with Emily. He had not understood before, he realised, how achingly he had missed it; but now, as it returned . . . now he understood. It surprised him, his joy: that Milady, who had once been his almost-mother, was now his almost-sister, his almost-Emily, instead.

Almost - because at the same time, she was becoming something more. It did not require poetry now to instruct Robert in the nature of love; yet the sense of surprise was almost as great as when he had first read Ovid, and closed his eyes, and found that he was dreaming of kissing Emily's lips. Almost-sister - and something more; and Robert felt again, as he had done all those years before, the delicious thrill of guilt that someone so close should seem so suddenly tantalising, so infinite and strange. He realised how coarse his pleasures must have grown, that it should surprise him how desire might seem more pleasurable than climax in some whore - as though his yearning were suddenly too precious to be fulfilled; even, he thought, to be spoken of at all. For although Milady, like him, appeared perfectly aware of their new game, she too seemed unwilling to acknowledge its existence, so that not even the rules of their courtship were defined, but evolved instead unacknowledged and unsaid, in response to the silent patterns of their love, which now teased and delighted Robert's every thought. For although the pleasures they gave him were delicate, yet they were also unexpectedly, painfully rich: the scent of perfume on Milady's arm; the way a curl might break free and fall across her cheek; laughter, then a sudden silent meeting of their eyes. And it was under such influences that Robert found all else fading from his mind: the weight of despair, and foreboding, and dread; and he began to imagine it might never return.

Then, one night, he received an urgent message from Milady, asking him to come to her. They met beneath the Oxford stars; and as he kissed her, he felt her lips part and her tongue touch his. But she broke away again suddenly, and gazed down at the ground; and Robert laughed to see her looking so coy, as though she were some virtuous innocent. He reached after her; but she pushed him away; then pulled out a letter from between her breasts. She smoothed it out. 'Mr Aubrey,' she said, 'has written at last. He is travelling to London. He has given us here - see, Lovelace - his address.'

Robert took the letter and inspected it. 'Why,' he exclaimed, 'what a goose-chase we have had! He is staying on the Strand.'

Milady nodded. 'And so we must discover Lord Rochester, and leave for London at once.' She took the letter back, then turned and began to hurry away. Robert followed her: he seized her arm; he tried to kiss her again. But again she broke away and, as she looked round, Robert saw that her eyes were aflame like sun on ice. 'You surprise me, sir,' she hissed,
I
had thought your resolution stronger, than to permit you at such a moment to think only of your prick, as though you were no better than some rutting dog.' She turned again, and ran along the road; and as Robert recovered from his shock, and began to pursue her, he saw her pass through the doorway of a tavern and disappear.

Following her through the door, he caught a glimpse of her across a crowded, smoke-thick room, being led up a stairway by a nervous-looking maid. Robert pushed his way through the crowds, then ran up the stairs; and on the landing at the top he saw the maid unlock a door. Her hand was shaking; and as the door swung open, she cowered back. Milady brushed past her; and Robert, following, saw Lord Rochester on a bed entwined with four naked, red-daubed whores. There were empty bottles scattered everywhere, and Robert saw that their rims were caked with dry blood. Lord Rochester was laughing violently; he reached for a further bottle by his side, then slowly poured its contents over each pair of breasts, so that they gleamed with blood as though made sleek with crimson oil. 'Faster,' Lord Rochester gasped suddenly, 'faster!' His eyes began to roll, his fingers to clench and, reaching for one of the girls, he gripped her so tightly that she started to scream, and Robert saw blood, yet more blood, trickling down her arms, seeping out from under Lord Rochester's fingernails. He too was screaming now as he pulled the girl down closer; he began to suck and lick greedily at the blood on her breasts. Then he reached for another bottle, and drained it in one gulp; his whole body bucked - it writhed and thrashed, then at last lay spent. The girls too lay utterly still; and the silence was sticky with the scent of sweat and blood.

'Get out’
Milady screamed suddenly. 'Get out!' The whores stirred and rose lazily; but as they met Milady's stare, their expressions were bled white and, reaching for their dresses, they stumbled from the room. Milady crossed to Lord Rochester; she tossed him his shirt. 'You too, my Lord. We have urgent business ahead.'

Lord Rochester raised an eyebrow, but otherwise did not stir. 'You forget, Milady -
I
am no longer a mortal, to be bent to your will.'

'A letter from Mr Aubrey has arrived.'

Not a flicker of interest crossed Lord Rochester's face. 'Indeed,' he continued, as though not having heard her at all, 'it is
I
who am properly your master now.' He met her stare; and Robert saw how Milady's face seemed suddenly to freeze. Lord Rochester smiled cruelly. 'You have interrupted me, Milady, in the course of my pleasures. You have sent my whores away.
I
might rightfully bid you to serve me in their place. Might
I
not, Milady? Might
I
not make you be my whore? You have had practice enough, of that
I
am certain.'