Wages of Sin (10 page)

‘For what you are about to receive, may the Lord make you truly grateful.' She smiled, raising her arm. ‘And now we shall begin.'

Jane closed her eyes, clenching her muscles against the blow about to fall.

But it never came.

The sound of hasty footsteps broke the spell. Frantic hands beat a tattoo on the study door. ‘Reverend Mother, Reverend Mother,' called a voice. Mother Ursula's arm fell and she tossed the rod on to a chair before opening the door a crack.

‘How dare you disturb me while I am at prayer?' she demanded.

‘I am sorry, Reverend Mother,' came a breathless voice. ‘But it is Father Peter and his company. They have arrived already.'

‘What?' gasped Mother Ursula. ‘But he is not due until tomorrow afternoon.' She regained her composure. ‘Take them to the guest rooms and offer them refreshment,' she ordered. ‘I shall be there immediately.'

As soon as the door was safely closed she whirled round. ‘Do not think you have escaped,' she hissed at Jane. ‘Your punishment is merely postponed. This will give you time to reflect upon what is to come.' She turned to the others. ‘Release her and take her away. I must go and greet Father Peter.'

Back in her cell, Jane offered up a prayer of thanks. It was a sign from heaven. Father Peter's timely arrival had saved her - and he would save her again. Safe in the confessional she would tell him everything.

She smiled with relief. Mother Ursula's perverted reign of terror was about to come to an end.

 

 

 

Next morning Jane hurried to the refectory, eager to see her saviour in the flesh. The early morning hum of conversation was subdued, in deference to the visitor and his entourage. Slipping unobtrusively into her place, she bent her head as Father Peter stood to say grace. A reverential hush fell and his deep voice echoed round the silent room as he intoned the blessing. Once he was seated again Jane lifted her spoon and surreptitiously examined him from the corner of her eye.

He was tall and lean, his plain black robe distinguished only by the richness of the cloth. As he sat at the high table his silver hair caught the sun from the stained glass window, creating a nimbus of light around his head, enhancing the almost saintly impression given by the narrow face and high cheekbones of a confirmed ascetic. Long fingers toyed with a morsel of white bread as if their owner was above mere mortal appetites. He sipped sparingly from a goblet of heavily watered wine.

She breathed a sigh of relief. He was everything she had imagined him to be. This was no complacent priest to tolerate sin in return for a rich table and comfortable life. This was a soldier of the Church Militant who would take up arms on her behalf, against Mother Ursula's hidden wickedness.

Her gaze drifted to his companions and a pang of uneasiness ran through her. The contrast between them was unsettling. The monk on his left was shovelling food into his mouth as if his very life depended on it, washing each greedy mouthful down with copious amounts of unwatered wine. His ruddy complexion, bulging belly and the stains on the front of his habit suggested that this self-indulgence was nothing new. As she watched a belch escaped his greasy lips and he grinned and wiped his soiled fingers down his robe before reaching again for his goblet. Jane's mouth twisted in a moue of distaste.

The one on his right was even worse. A parody of his master, he was scrawny where his superior was lean, and whereas Father Peter's thin face suggested aristocratic good breeding, his companion had the narrow skull and darting eyes of a rodent. His thin lips parted to reveal pointed teeth and Jane was unpleasantly reminded of a weasel or a ferret. She shivered. He was like some cheapjack imitation of his master - but she reminded herself that Father Peter was a priest, subject to the rules of the church, and as such, had no say in the choice of his companions. It was hardly his fault they were so repulsive.

She suppressed a smile. Despite Father Peter's unprepossessing companions, Mother Ursula fluttered round all three, dancing attendance on them as if they were the Holy Trinity itself. A wave of triumph lifted her spirits further. The Reverend Mother could dimple and defer as much as she liked, but once Father Peter knew the magnitude of her sins, no amount of cozening smiles would save her from retribution.

 

Jane's duties took her to the still room that morning, for which she was grateful. The air was heavily perfumed by the bunches of herbs hanging to dry, and there was something intensely satisfying about pulverising them to dust beneath her pestle - as if she was grinding Mother Ursula's smirking face. It was a chance to escape into a more ordered world, away from the hidden depravity lurking at the centre of the convent. Woundwort for cuts. Marigold for bruises. Poppies for sleep and to soothe pain. Each with its place and function.

She looked at the serried ranks of flasks and jars filled with unguents and tinctures, and sighed. Even here there was a dark side. Too generous a dose of poppy syrup could ease, not to sleep, but to death. Instead of aiding a failing heart, foxglove could force it to bursting point and still it forever. Pennyroyal could cleanse a womb of an unwilling burden. For a moment a vision of Mother Ursula raising a goblet, freighted with death, to her lips flashed through Jane's mind and she was horrified by her own wickedness. She sighed again. Yet another sin to confess.

A timid tap at the door interrupted her gloomy thoughts. She opened it to find an anxious woman, clutching a grey-faced child in her thin arms. A yawning cut gaped from the boy's knee to his ankle and the stench of decay hit Jane like a blow. Her own troubles were forgotten as she cleansed and stitched the wound, the child too listless even to protest.

By the time the woman had departed, thanking her profusely, there were others demanding her attention. As she busied herself about their ailments she blessed her mother and old Alice for schooling her so well. She smiled wryly. Not only could she prepare lavender water and pot pourri like a lady, she could cut and bind as well as any hard-swearing field surgeon. And a good job, too. What would these people do if there were no convent here to minister to their ills?

She was late for the midday meal, earning herself a glare from Mother Ursula. Hurriedly she bowed her head for Father Peter's blessing, then reached hungrily for the food. Her hard work in the still room had given her a fierce appetite. But her hand was stayed by Mother Ursula's next words.

‘Father Peter will hear confession this afternoon,' she announced, ‘so that we may celebrate High Mass this evening.'

Jane's heart began to pound as she stood after the meal to help clear the refectory table. Her chance had come at last. Lost in her thoughts, she barely noticed the sting of the lye soap on her split and coarsened hands as she scrubbed and cleaned the greasy pile of pots and pans - another unpleasant duty forced on her by Mother Ursula. When at last they were finished and the cook grudgingly gave her permission to leave, she hurried to the pump in the yard, sluiced the smell of the kitchens from her skin and tried to tidy herself the best she could. But disappointment washed over her when she reached the chapel. It seemed as if every nun in the convent was there before her. Chattering like magpies, they sat waiting for their turn to confess. With a sigh she crept into the back of the chapel and knelt out of sight behind a pillar, to wait until they had gone.

She must have fallen asleep, because when she came to the chapel was empty and the shadows were creeping across the grey stone floor. She groaned. Had exhaustion and stupidity cheated her of her one opportunity? But then she saw the red curtains of the confessional part and the tall figure of Father Peter emerge. She wasn't too late after all! Leaping to her feet, she hurried up the aisle towards him.

‘I'm sorry, Father,' she panted. ‘Have I missed confession?' Her eyes mutely implored him to say no.

He smiled, and again she was reminded of a saint from her mother's Book of Hours. ‘Of course not,' he said kindly. ‘God always has time for His children. Come.' He replaced the stole around his neck and parted the curtains for her to enter, then took his place again.

‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,' she whispered. ‘It is three months since my last confession.' She crossed herself and bowed her head, as she began the litany of her petty failings. Pride. Vanity. Unkindness. When she paused for breath, his voice interrupted.

‘
Ego te absolve
,' he said. ‘Three Hail Marys. Now, go your way and sin no more, my child.'

‘No! No, Father!' she gasped, panic-stricken that he would leave her with her soul only half unburdened. ‘Those are only venial sins. There's more.' A sob caught in her throat. ‘Much, much more.'

She bit her lip and a tear trickled down her cheek as it all spilt out. Ralph's death and his father's outrageous proposal that she wed him instead. Her dalliance with sweet Robin and the bitter aftermath of her stepfather's abuse. The scene in the stable on her journey to the convent. Mother Ursula's beatings and the perverted attentions of Sister Michael. Like poison from an infection it all poured out in a stream of vileness - even her passing thought about Mother Ursula's murder.

She could hear Father Peter's sharp intake of breath and his breathing becoming heavier with shock and disbelief. At last she fell silent and the question she had been dreading finally came.

‘And did you enjoy any of this wickedness, my child?' he asked softly. ‘Did their male members pleasure you? And when Sister Michael thrust the candle into your privy place, did it engender the sin of lustfulness in your loins?'

Her cheeks flushed scarlet and she hung her head in shame as she remembered the evil feelings that had flooded her body. Even the thought of it sent an unwelcome heat stirring between her thighs and she shifted uncomfortably on the hard seat of the confessional. ‘Yes, Father,' she whispered.

‘Have you entertained lewd thoughts since, my daughter?' he asked, his breath coming faster with outrage. ‘Has the devil tempted you into the sin of Onan? Touching yourself intimately while you imagine some mighty organ thrusting into you?'

‘Yes, Father,' she muttered, her voice barely audible.

She heard him groan in dismay and, even with the wall of the confessional between them, felt him shudder with revulsion. There was a pause as his breath slowed and he composed himself again.

‘The matter of Mother Ursula is a grave one, my child,' he said. ‘You must leave it with me to deal with.' His voice became serious. ‘As for your own sins, they too must be expiated. You will fast for the rest of the day and spend the night on your knees in the chapel, praying for forgiveness.
Ego te absolve
,' he repeated and, at his words, she felt the burden of sin falling from her shoulders.

 

At mealtime she drank only water and, when mass began, she watched Father Peter adoringly. When he placed the host to her lips her heart soared with relief and thankfulness. As the last pure note of the choir sank away and the nuns began to file out, she concealed herself in the shadows, to begin her night of prayer.

As she knelt, head bowed, the light gradually died from the windows, leaving only the flickering altar candles and the vigil light burning redly. Darkness crept slowly from the corners and, despite herself, she remembered the last time she had been here, stretched naked on the altar like some pagan sacrifice. She shivered and shook her head to dislodge the unsettling memory. The silence suddenly became oppressive and she became uncomfortably aware that she was totally alone.

The sound of quiet footsteps made her leap to her feet and whirl round in fear, then she sagged with relief. ‘Father Peter!' she gasped. ‘You frightened me.' She smiled at him. How kind he was to give up his own sleep to accompany her in her vigil.

There was no answering smile. His eyes glittered in the candlelight as his eyes wandered over her body in the thin shift. His lips twisted in a strange expression of lust and contempt and horror ran through her. It was as if he had removed the mask of saintliness to reveal a hungry beast beneath. Unconsciously, she began to back away.

A high-pitched giggle stopped her in her tracks and her eyes darted frantically round the dark chapel to find its source. The weaselly monk stepped from the shadows, sharp teeth gleaming in a predatory grin. Behind him stood his fat companion. His tongue flicked out to lick his thick greasy lips, and Jane shuddered.

For a moment she stood as frozen as a startled doe, then fear lent wings to her feet. Ducking the restraining arm Father Peter held out to stop her, she fled down the aisle towards the open door. If only she could reach it in time she would be safe!

Freedom was almost within her grasp when Mother Ursula stepped out and pushed the heavy door shut, turning the iron key in the lock. She leaned against it, smiling in triumph at the terrified girl. Jane halted, her eyes searching frantically for another escape.

There was none. As she stared into Mother Ursula's cold eyes hands gripped her and she was hauled backwards towards the altar rails, her heels trailing helplessly. Once there she was jolted upright in front of Father Peter. Smiling, her reached out and ripped her shift from neck to hem, revealing the quivering body beneath. He took in the pert breasts, the soft curve of belly and hip and the smooth white thighs, then his expression became almost vicious as his elegant fingers explored her body, twisting her nipples until she gasped, then thrusting their way between her tightly clenched thighs.