Wages of Sin (20 page)

The view hulloo distracted her. On the edge of the woods stood a stag, its antlers gleaming in the sun. As the sound of the horn shattered the morning, it gave one startled glance and bounded off. The hounds raised their heads as one and set off baying, the men and horses in hot pursuit.

She felt her own mount tense beneath her, desperate to join the race, but she dragged on the reins, holding it back. Thoughtfully she watched as the hunt disappeared, leaving her behind in the clearing.

She was alone for the first time in months. No Mother Ursula. No Sir Edmund. No servants poking and prying and watching her every move. Her thoughts raced. If she fled now it would be at least two hours before they noticed she was gone. She could dig up her hidden treasures and be long away before they even noticed she was missing.

But what about her bargain with Sir Edmund? If she fled now it would be rendered null and void. Her hard-won property would revert to him and the local peasants would be left with nothing - to starve or ail without help or comfort.

Self-preservation won over conscience. What were they to her? And she had tried her best - she could hardly be blamed if she could not bear to carry on. She was no holy martyr, she was only an eighteen-year-old girl.

Guiltily, she dragged on the reins and pulled her horse round in the opposite direction from the one Sir Edmund and his men had taken. Taking a deep breath, she prepared to spur her mount to freedom, then paused as the bushes nearby rustled and two figures stepped out.

‘Mistress,' called a low voice. Jane stared as an ill-dressed woman hurried towards her, tugging her child behind her. She stopped, bobbed a curtsy and stood looking up at Jane, her hands nervously twisting her ragged apron.

‘Yes,' snapped Jane as each moment lessened her chances of escape, ‘what is it, my good woman? Make haste. I have no time to tarry in idle chat.'

‘I am sorry to detain you, mistress,' the woman said humbly. ‘I only wished to thank you.'

‘Thank me? Thank me for what?'

‘My son's life,' she replied, her expression suddenly alive with happiness. For a moment Jane could see the carefree girl beneath the careworn face. The woman drew her reluctant son from behind her skirts and thrust him forward for Jane's inspection. He stood staring up at her, wide-eyed, one grubby finger stuck in his mouth. ‘See?' the woman said eagerly. ‘Thanks to you his leg has healed and scarce left a limp.'

It all came back to her now. This was the woman who had brought her bleeding child to the convent, what seemed a lifetime ago. She cast a professional eye over the skinny leg. The scar was still red and inflamed, but there was none of the oozing yellow pus or blackening flesh that anyone skilled in tending the wounded knew and dreaded. She smiled down at the woman.

‘The scar will always remain,' she said, ‘but it will fade a little with time. As for the limp, it will go as the child grows and his legs strengthen.' Provided of course he got enough to eat and did not fall prey to the myriad ills that lay in wait for rich and poor alike.

Seizing the hem of Jane's skirt, the woman brought it to her lips and kissed it reverently. ‘A thousand blessings, my lady,' she said fervently. ‘I will remember you in my prayers. God must have sent you to me in my hour of need.' With one last grateful glance, she scooped up her son and fled back the way she had come.

Jane stared after her in despair. Why had the woman turned up now, just as she was on the verge of fleeing herself? Without her skill and knowledge that child would be mouldering in a pauper's grave by now, and how many more like him were there who would die if there was no convent to rely on? She heaved a bitter sigh. There was no way she could leave now.

Wearily, she wheeled her horse round in the direction of the hunt and spurred its flanks. No doubt she would meet Sir Edmund and his men as they returned.

She had almost reached the rise over which they had disappeared when the sound of pounding hooves filled the air. She stared in surprise as they galloped over the ridge to meet her. How odd. She would have expected them to be miles away by this time. Had they run the stag down so soon? She looked, but there was no bloodied carcass. Had it escaped, and if so, why had they not followed it?

Sir Edmund drew up beside her, his horse's sides heaving with exertion. He leaned on the pommel, regarding her, his face inscrutable. ‘What? Still here, madam? We thought we had lost you.'

She scanned his face, trying to read his expression, her skin prickling. Then horrified realisation dawned on her and her mouth dropped open. ‘Oh,' she gasped and a hand flew to her lips. ‘You... you planned this all, didn't you?' She shook her head in a vain attempt to rid herself of the knowledge of his treachery. ‘I was
supposed
to run, wasn't I?' she said softly. She waited for his denial, but the truth was written on his face. ‘“A fine day for the hunt” you said,' she went on remorselessly. ‘But it wasn't a deer you had in mind, was it? I was to be the quarry!'

She closed her eyes, seeing everything. Her panic-stricken flight. The hounds baying after her. Sir Edmund and his henchmen in hot pursuit, urging each other on as they hunted her down. And what of when they caught her? The vision of the carcass of a deer, lying gutted on the ground, sprang into her mind and she shuddered. Her fate would have been worse. She stared from one hard face to the other. With the bloodlust on them they would have torn the clothes from her back and fallen on her like snarling animals, fighting amongst themselves to possess her.

She swayed and would have fallen had Sir Edmund not caught her arm. His touch was enough to revive her. Revulsion surged and she snatched her arm away.

‘Don't touch me, you bastard!' she snarled. ‘You make me sick to my very stomach.' Her lips twisted in contempt. ‘I am truly sorry to have disappointed you. How inconsiderate of me to have spoilt your sport.'

He shrugged. ‘No matter, madam. I am sure I shall think of some other entertainment.' He grinned unrepentantly and something inside her snapped.

Her fingers hooked into claws, she dashed forward and, before he could stop her, she dragged them down the side of his face. Her nails caught the twisted scar on his cheek, tearing through the puckered skin as if it were paper. Blood welled up and ran in freshets down his face, dripping from his chin and staining the front of his leather jerkin. She stared in fright at what she had done.

He did not even flinch. Only his face changed. It became deathly white, the scar standing out angrily. His expression changed to one of furious rage, twice as terrifying because it was kept under such iron control. His blue eye flashed coldly.

‘The man who gave me this scar died for the privilege, madam,' he said icily. ‘Perhaps by the time I have finished, you will wish you had, too.' He turned to his men. ‘Escort Lady Jane back to the castle. I have business elsewhere.'

The journey back was a miserable one. The little party rode in silence, even Sir Edmund's men seeming subdued. In the courtyard Jane dismounted and, without a backward glance, ran to the relative safety of her chamber.

When hours had passed without Sir Edmund's retribution descending upon her, she eventually ventured out. Tiptoeing along the corridors, she reached the hall. To her great relief it was empty. The servants were obviously at their own meal in the kitchens, because the remains of the last meal still lay scattered on the tables. Glancing nervously over her shoulder, she seized a broken chunk of bread, a lump of cheese and a half-full tankard of ale. Clutching the food she fled to the solar, opened the door and slipped inside.

A fire burnt low in the grate. She poked it into life, laid another log on it and seated herself beside it, grateful for the warmth. Despite the autumn sun spilling through the window she felt chilled to the bone. Fear had stolen her appetite, but she forced herself to eat regardless, and felt stronger once she had.

Dusting the crumbs from her lap, she put the tankard down on the hearth and stared into the flames. What now? She couldn't bear the thought of sitting idle. With nothing to do but brood on what the night might bring she would run mad.

Her embroidery frame stood beside the window seat and she seized on it gratefully. Concentrating on her needle would help to shut out the frightening thoughts that threatened to overwhelm her.

It was easier said than done. No matter how hard she tried, Sir Edmund's face kept coming between her and the work in front of her, his threats echoing in her ears. She gritted her teeth and stabbed the needle viciously into the linen, wishing it was his eye. Ridiculous though it was, this relieved her feelings somewhat and she was finally able to lose herself in the mindless task of stitching.

When she looked up again, she was astonished to see that the sun was sinking behind the horizon and the room was darkening. A tap on the door made her jump. ‘Who is it?' she called nervously, then berated herself for her stupidity. Of course it wasn't Sir Edmund. He wouldn't have bothered knocking. He'd probably have kicked the door down!

‘Iss just me,' called a familiar voice.

‘Martha!' she exclaimed in relief. ‘Come in.'

When nothing happened she put down her silks and hurried across to open the door. It immediately became obvious why Martha hadn't entered. She was almost staggering beneath the weight of a laden tray. Delicious aromas wafted from beneath the covered dishes and Jane's stomach rumbled in response.

‘Shouldn't you be in the kitchens?' she asked. ‘Why didn't you send this with one of the maids?'

‘What? Them empty-headed strumpets?' snorted Martha. ‘By the time they'd finished making sheep's eyes at the men my good food would be stone cold. No, if you wants something doing proper, do it yourself, thass my motto.' She nodded in agreement with herself. ‘Now you sit down like a good girl and get something inside you.'

Obediently Jane seated herself at the table while Martha laid the dishes in front of her. There was bread, kale soup, half a chicken, a bowl of apples - even a dish of marchpane sweetmeats and a dust-covered bottle of wine to go with it. ‘I'll never manage all this,' exclaimed Jane. ‘Why don't you join me?'

Martha looked shocked. ‘Me? Eat with the mistress?' She shook her head. ‘Thass not right. I knows my place.'

Jane smiled to herself at the cook's reaction. In her own way, Martha was far more of a lady than Sir Edmund was a gentleman. The stray thought brought him back to the forefront of her mind. ‘Does Sir Edmund eat in the hall tonight?' she asked casually.

Martha shook her head. ‘There's neither hide nor hair of him,' she said. ‘Not since he rode off after the hunt this morning. And good riddance to bad rubbish, I says. Forever glaring at you with that one ol' eye of his! That ugly face is enough to put any good Christian off their meat.'

Jane could not help but wonder what Sir Edmund had said, had he been present to hear Martha's apt assessment of his looks. Perhaps he had ridden off to tend to his other estates? At that comforting thought, her appetite returned and she ate her meal with gusto as Martha stood by, watching with satisfaction.

‘Thass a good girl,' Martha beamed, stacking the empty plates on the tray. She folded her arms on her ample bosom and looked thoughtfully at Jane. ‘Now you get yourself off early to bed and get a decent night's rest. Put some roses back in your cheeks.' She nodded to the bottle and winked. ‘Thass his lordship's best wine. Another couple of glasses of that and you'll sleep like a baby.'

‘I thank you for your kindness, Martha,' Jane said sincerely. ‘What would I do without you?'

‘Hah!' scoffed Martha, trying to hide her pleasure. ‘You don't need some fat old hen clucking round you. You'm got a stout heart, girl. Supposing you was cast adrift in nothing but your shift, you'd still manage fine.' She picked up the tray. ‘Now, drink your wine by the fire, then off to bed with you.'

Once Martha had gone, Jane took her advice. Belly full, she sat dreamily watching the flames and sipping the sweet red wine. Sir Edmund was safely gone - to hell for all she cared - and she was free from her constant fear. When she caught herself dozing she roused herself, picked up a candle and wended her way to her bedchamber.

There was another fire burning in the grate and the sheets were still cosy from the maid's services with the copper bed-warmer. Yawning, she stripped, slipped on her night rail and slid gratefully between the warm sheets. Pulling them up round her shoulders, she snuggled down and was asleep in moments.

 

‘Wake up, you little bitch!' snarled a familiar voice. The sheets were wrenched from her and Jane was catapulted from her dreams into shocked wakefulness. For a moment she did not know where she was; then it all rushed back. But what was Mother Ursula doing in her bedchamber?

The dying coals illuminated the woman's face in a hellish red glow, the saliva on her teeth glistening like blood. Jane shuddered. Mother Ursula looked like a gargoyle brought to life by some evil spell. She tried to hide her fear.

‘Get out!' she hissed. ‘If Sir Edmund finds out about this you will rue the very day you were born.'

There was a chuckle from the darkness and Jane started, peering into the shadows. One hand flew to her breast as Sir Edmund stepped into the light and bowed. ‘Good evening, madam,' he smiled. ‘As to Mother Ursula, why, she is here at my own invitation.' He raised an eyebrow. ‘Your manners are remiss. Should you not greet her?'