Lady Vengeance Read online

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  The day was drawing to a close when the young girl arrived at the Black Goose. She walked across the courtyard, the low sun breaking through the clouds long enough to glint on the copper tints of her hair, which hung down over the shoulders of her green cloak. Her wooden pattens clattered loudly on the uneven cobbles of the yard as she made her way to a small black-painted door some distance from the main entrance of the inn. As she approached, the door swung open and the landlord stepped out from the dark interior.

  ‘Good day to you, Bradgate!’ she greeted him cheerfully and with a confidence far in advance of her years. ‘How is Mistress Bradgate today?’

  ‘She – she’s very much better, Miss Nell,’ stammered the man, looking surprised, ‘I did not look to see you here today.’

  ‘Mama promised to deliver a restorative to your wife, so I have come with it.’

  ‘That is very kind of you, Miss Nell, I’m sure, and if you’ll but give it to me, I shall see to it that Mrs Bradgate takes some this very day, and I shall tell her you called –’

  ‘You will do nothing of the sort!’ laughed the young lady, holding her basket closer, ‘I shall tell her so myself, and see the new baby. You need not look so anxious, Bradgate, for I distinctly remember the midwife telling me there can be no harm in a woman having visitors when she is lying in.’

  ‘Perhaps another time, then, Miss Nell, for I feel sure we shall have some rain soon-‘

  ‘Nonsense, the clouds are dispersing now, and we shall have a clear evening, I have no doubt, but if you are concerned that I shall overtire your wife, I promise you I shall not stay above ten minutes.’ She walked past him and into the dark shadow of the house, leaving the landlord to cast another anxious glance at the inn before following her inside.

  Upstairs in the main guest-chamber, the five gentlemen were finishing their repast. The table was littered with empty dishes and an impressive array of bottles spilled over on to the windowsill and mantelshelf, while the diners themselves sprawled in their chairs, swords and coats discarded, waistcoats unbuttoned to display the finest lawn shirts. The exception was the bishop, who sat thoughtfully at the table, his cheeks faintly tinged with colour, but his air of nervousness still much in evidence.

  He drained his glass and rose from his chair, saying with a forced brightness: ‘Well gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I believe I shall be on my way. The clearing sky gives me hope that it will be possible to make good time tonight -–I will just step out and order my coach –’

  Lord Thurleigh stretched out one elegant leg and barred his path.

  ‘No, no, Furminger. We could not hear of such a thing,’ he purred. ‘This is, after all, your room, I believe. You hired it for the night, did you not? ‘Twould be such a pity to waste it.’

  Julian Poyntz rolled a bleary eye at the bishop.

  ‘If I could find myself a willing petticoat I’d not waste it!’ he said with a coarse laugh. ‘Better than sharing a bed with Rowsell, at all events!’

  ‘By God, Poyntz, do you view everything through the hole in your prick?’ demanded Boreland, ‘Can you not forget women for one night?’

  ‘He may have the room with my compliments,’ Furminger assured them all earnestly. ‘As all our planning has come to nought I believe I might as well be away, for one cannot say how long this fine weather will hold, and the roads could become impassable overnight if we should have a heavy storm – ‘

  ‘You’ll stay!’ snarled Boreland, his large frame swaying unsteadily as he came across the room to tower over the bishop. ‘You were as keen as any of us to be free of that usurper, especially when there was a chance of glory! Well, tonight we are going to put this little set-back behind us and make merry, are we not, sirs?’

  George Rowsell grunted as he refilled the glasses with an unsteady hand.

  ‘Aye. As merry as grigs,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Thank God the brandy’s tolerable, for ‘tis the only amusement this place has to offer.’ He muttered an oath as the brandy slopped onto the table. ‘Light’s so bad I can scarce see,’ he complained.

  ‘Admit it, Rowsell, you’ve caught a fox,’ laughed Poyntz. ‘There’s light enough for a while yet.’

  ‘I may well be half-sprung, but I’m in no wise incapable of filling a glass,’ retorted Rowsell, offended by the allegation that he was drunk. ‘Since Bradgate is now come to light the candles, I think that proves my point.’

  The landlord smiled in a perfunctory manner and after he had performed his task he set to gathering up the dishes that were scattered over the table.

  ‘I thought you said there were no women at the inn, Bradgate,’ remarked Poyntz, looking out of the window.

  The landlord looked up, startled.

  ‘Nor are there, sir, saving my wife and sister.’

  ‘Then what is that I see in your courtyard, an apparition?’

  Bradgate swallowed nervously and came slowly to the window.

  ‘Oh, that – that is just one of the village children. On some errand, I daresay.’

  The marquis had been sitting quietly beside the fire, lost in his own thoughts behind an impassive countenance but the landlord’s obvious agitation caught his attention and he stirred himself sufficiently to rise and look out into the courtyard. There below was a girlish figure wrapped in a sage-green cloak, bending to stroke the inn’s black cat as it rubbed around her ankles. My lord’s lips drew back into a thin, cruel smile.

  ‘You wanted some distraction, Rowsell. It seems you are in luck. Fetch her up here, Bradgate.’

  The innkeeper paled.

  ‘My lord – she is the daughter of a respectable family – her father is a very learned gentleman –’

  His lordship remained unmoved.

  ‘I have a score to settle with that young lady. Send her up.’

  ‘But sir, she is just a child –’

  ‘Do as you are bid!’ snarled the marquis, his hard grey eyes snapping, ‘Unless, of course, you have forgotten who owns this land. Perhaps you would like to find yourself another hostelry tomorrow….’

  White with fear, the landlord hurried away, to return moments later with the young girl at his side. Her hood was thrown back to reveal her glorious head of thick, red-brown tresses, framing a face alight with innocent curiosity. She gazed about her with puzzled interest until her eyes reached the marquis, who had resumed his seat, and a faint blush tinged her soft cheek.

  ‘Leave the child with us.’

  After the briefest hesitation, Bradgate withdrew silently, leaving the girl standing alone by the door, clutching her basket. A large, bearded man came unsteadily towards her, rubbing his chin with one powerful hand.

  ‘Well, here’s a treasure,’ leered Boreland, his tone slurred. He stationed himself by the door, ‘Who would have thought to discover such a piece of perfection in this out of the way spot.’

  ‘I – I expect you wish me to apologise for my incivility today, my lord.’ She spoke directly to Lord Thurleigh, her soft, well-modulated tones holding no hint of fear.

  ‘Oh, more than that, my dear.’

  ‘I am sorry, sir, I do not understand you.’

  ‘We want the pleasure of your company for a little while,’ explained Boreland, taking the basket from her and dropping it into one corner. Ignoring her protests he untied her cloak and tossed it after the basket. ‘Come, sit with us and have a glass of wine.’

  The girl allowed herself to be guided to the table, where a brimming glass of burgundy was pressed into her hand.

  ‘I – I cannot stay,’ she began, a faint tremor in her voice, I am expected at home -’

  ‘All in good time, my dear,’ Rowsell drew his chair closer, ‘tell me your name.’

  ‘Elinor Burchard, sir. Of Rock Cottage.’

  ‘And how old are you, Elinor Burchard of Rock Cottage?’

  ‘Just sixteen, sir.’

  ‘Fair sixteen,’ he murmured, eyeing her appreciatively. ‘Drink you wine, my dear,’ He pushed t
he glass a little closer to her lips while his other hand slipped around her back. ‘You must be very warm with your kerchief wrapped so tightly about you,’ he murmured, tugging at the knot.

  It came free almost immediately and he pulled the muslin from her shoulders, revealing the low bodice of her gown, leaving the snowy frill of her shift just visible, with the soft white skin above.

  ‘A comely lass, and already well-formed,’ remarked Poyntz, running his eyes over the shapely figure that was now exposed.

  ‘I want to go home!’ cried Elinor, jumping up. The wine from her glass spilled over as she set it down upon the table. She turned her green eyes pleadingly towards the bishop, who was still sitting silently at one side. ‘Sir,’ she beseeched him, ‘I see you are a man of God – pray tell them to let me go!’

  Bishop Furminger’s pale blue eyes shifted uneasily towards the marquis, but there was no compassion in that cruel, thin face.

  ‘Alas, my child, the bishop is unable to help you. His influence here is – minimal. In fact, I am the one you should appeal to. You know who I am?’

  ‘Yes my lord. You are Lord Thurleigh, Lord Lieutenant of this county.’

  ‘Then why do you not ask me for leave to go?’

  Hesitantly Elinor stepped towards him. He watched her approach, his face impassive.

  ‘Kneel!’

  After a slight pause, she sank to her knees, her head bowed. My lord reached out a hand and, cupping her chin, he tilted her face up towards him. Thurleigh noted the flawless skin, the fresh, innocent face with its straight little nose and soft inviting lips. She reminded him of his Margaret, when she had first become his bride – indeed, even the eyes were very nearly the same colour. The thought did not please him and he pushed it away, but already he felt the first stirring of desire. He looked into the girl’s sea-green eyes: they were full of apprehension and wet with unshed tears.

  ‘Please, my lord, I want to go home,’ her voice caught on a sob.

  The anger that had been growing within him throughout the day boiled over; first the prince’s retreat had put an end to his hopes, and now the girl dared to try her woman’s tricks upon him! Weeping was one of Margaret’s favourite weapons, she used it frequently to get her own way. Realizing his own weakness enraged him still further. Something of his anger showed itself in his countenance and with a small cry Elinor scrambled up and ran to the door, only to find it was locked. Boreland held up the key.

  ‘No escape that way, my pretty, at least not before you have earned it!’

  She banged upon the heavy door with her small fists.

  ‘Help!’ she cried, ‘Bradgate, help me. Let me out!’

  The marquis laughed softly, his anger under control now, ice-cold and pitiless.

  ‘There’s little hope for you from that quarter, young lady. Our host knows better than to cross me.’

  She turned again to face her captors, her back pressed against the unyielding door. Boreland stepped up and laid one large powerful hand upon her shoulder.

  ‘Now then, gentlemen! Who shall be the first to take their pleasure?’

  Chapter Two

  Wherein tragedy follows dishonour

  Julian Poyntz stepped forward, his chubby face flushed with wine and excitement.

  ‘For Gad, ‘tis an age since I had a virgin,’ he muttered, reaching out one hand to run his short, stubby fingers along the top edge of her bodice.

  She recoiled from his touch and turned aside, only to find another man beside her.

  ‘I cannot recall ever having one!’ laughed George Rowsell. ‘There’s no need to be afraid, chuck, only behave yourself and you will soon be free to go. Oh, but you have spilled your wine over your petticoat. Let me help you remove it.’

  Slowly he unlaced the strings at her breast while Boreland held her arms to her sides to prevent resistance. The stiffened bodice came away and Rowsell tossed it aside, followed by the heavy skirts and the quilted petticoat. She felt another pair of hands around her waist untying the strings that secured the pockets beneath her gown. Then, as she stood in only her lawn shift, the hands explored her body. Boreland released his grip on her arms and moved his large hands up to push the shift from her white shoulders, revealing the small, firm breasts. Watching from one side, Poyntz ran his tongue around his dry lips.

  ‘Let me take her,’ he muttered hoarsely, stepping forward.

  Overcome by fear, Elinor whimpered as hasty fingers drew off her final covering, leaving her naked. With Boreland holding her arms again she could not even cover herself, but merely bowed her head, allowing her hair to fall over her face, the thick tresses covering her breasts. At this point Bishop Furminger jumped to his feet.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he cried shrilly, ‘this has gone far enough –’

  ‘Hold your tongue,’ snapped Boreland contemptuously. ‘You have done nothing but whine like a whipped cur since you arrived.’ He grinned suddenly, ‘Don’t worry, Furminger, you can take your turn with the rest of us.’

  ‘I want no part of this!’

  ‘Growing squeamish, Bishop?’ jeered Poyntz.

  ‘Perhaps you would object less if we could find you a pretty young man for your amusement,’ drawled the marquis, enjoying the bishop’s discomfiture, but as the clergyman could not be drawn to say more, my lord refilled his glass, then rose and carried it over to the girl.

  ‘Perhaps, ma’am, you would care for another drink.’ He held the glass to her lips.

  The blood red wine ran down her white body as she struggled against her tormentors, and as the marquis stepped away she spat at him in one final, desperate gesture of defiance. Thurleigh’s face darkened at the insult and he spoke with a deadly calm.

  ‘Take her to the bed.’

  Boreland swept her up and bore her to the large canopied bed, tossing her down upon the coverlet. At a signal from Lord Thurleigh he reluctantly withdrew and the marquis drew the hangings across one side of the bed, screening himself and the girl from the others. Unhurriedly he started to undress.

  ‘Now Elinor. You are a sensible girl. You know you cannot quit this room until I give you leave to do so.’

  ‘Oh sir, if you have a daughter, pray consider if you would wish her to suffer in this manner!’ She raised herself up on one elbow, her face blotched with tears.

  My lord knelt upon the bed, still clad in his shirt and breeches. There were no candles at that end of the room but even in the gloom she saw once again the cold hatred in his face, and instinctively drew away.

  ‘I have no daughter, thus such arguments are wasted upon me.’ His eyes ran over her body and he added softly, ‘but I did have a young bride, a long time ago, who looked very much as you do now…’

  ‘Then for her sake, don’t hurt me, sir! Pray let me go!’

  The marquis laughed bitterly. ‘For her sake -! No, by God. ‘Tis for her sake you are here!’

  His fingers traced the red wine that had spilled down over her body. There were no tears now: the girl lay rigid, waiting her fate – only the green eyes burned in the white face, their terror evident even in the near-darkness.

  ‘No-’ Elinor suddenly came to life, struggling to free herself. Reason had forsaken her, and she fought wildly, her fingers tearing at his lace cravat as she tried in vain to keep him away. At first he laughed, enjoying what he knew to be an unequal struggle, but at last, tired of the game, he struck her hard across the face. With a cry she fell back and he knelt above her, breathing hard, his desire fuelled by her spirited defence. But mixed with the desire was another, less pleasurable sensation. The ulcers and open sores in his groin were so painful he knew they would prevent his taking the girl, even as he looked down at her he felt his lust receding and disgust at the thought of his own pox-ridden member caused him to pull away. He gathered up his clothes and with a last look at the semi-conscious figure on the bed he walked away to the fire to finish dressing.

  ‘Are you done already, my lord?’ Boreland’s ribald laughter did not improve his
humour. ‘I had expected to be broaching another bottle before we saw you again!’

  The marquis gave a thin smile.

  ‘A virgin may give you brief comfort, Boreland, but one needs a woman for true pleasure.’ He glanced at the men around the fire, deciding which one would be least likely to notice his failure. ‘Rowsell, why don’t you try your luck with our little prize?’

  The young man looked at him blankly while his wine sodden brain tried to make sense of the words. He rose unsteadily to his feet.

  ‘Aye, my lord, I will!’

  He found the girl motionless upon the bed, her eyes closed and her lips moving silently as if in prayer. The sight of her pale body excited him and he fumbled with the buttons of his breeches. Not waiting to remove his clothes he straddled her, anxious to relieve the urgency of his desire. She lay unprotesting as he thrust into her, pushing and grunting as he spent his passion, then he collapsed beside her, breathing heavily. The effort had sobered him a little and he looked at the still form beside him. He found her lack of response unnerving and was not sorry to return to the cheerful fireside with his comrades.

  Elinor did not move. She was oblivious to the chill air, her numbed brain conscious only of a wish that she might die, and soon.

  Julian Poyntz followed Rowsell. He hesitated when he looked at the pale face, the half-closed eyes red-rimmed from crying. His glance strayed to the coverlet, where even in the gloom a dark stain proclaimed her lost virginity. The marquis approached, bearing a lighted candle. His cold eyes took in the scene in an instant.

  ‘What ails you, Julian, losing your nerve?’ he taunted the young man. ‘I have brought you a light, that you may see what you are about.’

  There was more coarse laughter from the others.

  ‘Aye, I’ve long wondered about your manhood, Poyntz,’ Boreland called out loudly. ‘Perhaps you should become better acquainted with our dear bishop.’

  ‘Now there’s a thought,’ murmured Thurleigh, laughing softly as he returned to the fire.