They were going to rape her. Good. Susannah gave a silent prayer of thanks, for in order to rape her they had to untie her legs. And now the bearded man knelt at her feet and began to saw at the rope around her ankles, as the man behind her tightened his grip on her arms. The third man joined them, unbuckling his belt and leering in anticipation. The fourth was farther in the shadows to her right. They were all in place. They were all perfectly in place, as if God had aligned them, and she whispered her thanks, and she looked left, across the fire, to signal David with her eyes that she was going to be the victor, not the victim. But – guessing what the men intended – he had turned his head away and, sickened, closed his eyes. He couldn’t take this. He couldn’t bear hearing anyone in pain – but he was going to. He was going to hear her screaming in agony. In just a moment it would come, screams, screams, excruciating screams, over and over and over, till her voice was gone, till her mind was gone. He tried to brace himself, but he knew it was no use, and the first one hadn’t even started on her yet. Any second – any second now.
But it was not a scream.
Susannah looked down at the man on one knee before her as he sawed at the rope around her ankles, his head bent over his task. Silently she counted down the seconds, and the instant the last rope frayed and broke she kicked him under the chin as hard as she could, snapping his head back so far the neck cracked and he dropped like a stone. Simultaneously she banged her head backwards, straight into the throat of the man who held her, and his grip loosened as he gasped in pain.
Quickly her left fist shot out in front of her then sped back, her elbow ramming into his rib cage. And the choreography was perfect, the execution flawless, as he screeched and doubled over, and all she had to do was reach her left hand behind her and push his leg out from under him as she bent lower and slammed him over her back directly into the third man, who was springing forward as if on cue.
A flash to her right: the one who had been further in the shadows was drawing his sword as he ran towards her. And now she thanked the first man for stealing her weapon, for here it lay in the scabbard he had buckled around his waist, and she was still bent, directly over him, and she drew the hilt.
Now. Now it was time for the rage, and she opened the sluice and let it flood forth, filling her mind, lashing and crashing in waves, and her eyes shone red as she whipped the sword into the air, and there was that familiar, beloved, exquisite sharp ring as it blocked the attack. Sparks flew. And the man was frightened out of his wits, shaking as he parried, horrified at the fury, the ferocity, the strength of this woman who struck at him again and again and again, and his hair stood on end at the unearthly noise she made, the gloating, ghastly, exultant yell of triumph, of joy, of lust for his blood. She was no woman, she was a demon, a hound from hell, a -.
Yes, she was. She was, as she hacked his limbs, and then his screaming head, from his body; she was, as she turned back to the other men and skewered them like hogs; she was, as she reversed her hilt in her hand and raised her arms and thrust her sword downward into the bearded man, through his belly, his back bone, and down into the earth below, and she released it, the hilt shivering briefly as cool air replaced the heat of her hand.
It was over.
“It must be due to those peculiar eyes.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“His eyes – one’s pale blue, almost silver, and the other’s dark brown. “
“Sounds hideous.”
“I suppose it should be. Could be. On someone else maybe it would be.
But on him it’s just… Believe me, you won’t be able to stop staring at him. And you know what they say…” Lady Beatrice’s voice trailed off seductively, and Lady Theresa leaned closer.
“What? What do they say?”
“That he’s the best. That he’s a Master. A master at making love.”
“Dear God,” Theresa breathed. She was unmarried, a virgin, and really oughtn’t to be listening to this sort of thing. But the whole court was buzzing, gossip about the Earl of Brixton rampant, wild, careening through the castle like a runaway horse and cart. She had only arrived a few hours ago, and was already fascinated by this man she had yet to lay eyes on. A master at making love! “Tell me more.”
Lady Beatrice shifted importantly in her seat. “Well, as soon as you meet him – I mean, if you even stop to exchange pleasantries in a hallway – you’ll feel it. It’s as if he were a lodestone, and women tiny slivers of iron.”
“Oooh!” Theresa couldn’t wait, and broke her stare at Beatrice’s face to quickly scan the crowd below their table. He should be easy to spot – taller than any man at court but the king, someone had told her, and with a handsome head of golden blond hair.
“I don’t see him.”
“Oh, he may not show tonight. He leaves tomorrow morning on the Queen’s pilgrimage – and is doubtless practicing his craft in bed right now with some lucky woman. He only arrived last Tuesday, you know – and women lined up at his door ever since.”
“Beatrice!”
“Margaret told me. She was with him for two nights straight – more than any of the others.”
“Margaret? Lady Margaret?!”?
Beatrice nodded, her eyes satisfied slits.
“But she would never commit adultery! I know there are others… but surely not her! She’s a pious woman – I mean truly pious. She’d never break one of the commandments! I can’t believe she could have been seduced – even by a one so charming as he.”
“But that’s just the point!” Beatrice hissed, bending nearer Theresa’s ear. “God knows he’s the most attractive man who’s ever been at court – I’m fifty-two, and can’t think of anyone I’ve ever seen who’s better looking. That smile… Holy Mary! But it isn’t even that – or his wealth, though I heard his lands to the south are vast and rich, and he has numerous estates – more wealth than the king!”
“Can that be?!”
“Yes, but it’s none of those things that make women like Margaret risk everything to get into his bed.” Here Beatrice leaned away and coughed slightly as two gorgeously attired noblewomen passed, the stiff, gem-encrusted hems of their gowns scraping the floor behind them. Theresa busied herself with a quick sip of wine, then swiftly replaced the goblet to become all ears as Beatrice once again leaned closer.
“He’s a master at making love – Margaret said she could hardly believe it herself, but he has such skill…”
Theresa could feel herself growing flushed, and nervously plucked at the netting of seed pearls on her headdress, so absorbed that she no longer felt it digging into her left ear. “What – what do you mean?”
“He knows women. All women. Knows exactly how to please…” She lowered her voice to a husky rasp. “Margaret said he knew her body better than she knew it herself. And he taught her things… things she’d never heard of, never even dreamed of.”
“Sweet Jesu…”
“Yes. I’ve never seen her like this before and I’ve known her since she was eight years old. She thinks of nothing else now but seeing him again. The horrible thing is -” another discreet cough as the Duke of Defries moved heavily past, fat face red and perspiring. There were too many people in the room – too many candles. Theresa could feel herself beginning to sweat.
“… the horrible thing is, she went up to his room last night, and was standing at his door, ready to knock, when she heard the voice of another woman inside.”
“Oh no!”
“Oh yes! And this woman was crying ‘David David David’ – over and over. I mean, Margaret said this woman was practically screaming with passion, out of her mind with pleasure!”
Theresa smothered a moan. “What did Lady Margaret do?”
“What could she do? She said she nearly screamed herself, but she was somehow able to get back to her room before anyone saw her. And poor thing, she’s been in such a state ever since. All she can think about, talk about, is making love with him again – though there’s little chance, since he has someone new almost every night. But she’s a complete wreck, can’t eat, can’t sleep, everything. You know.”
Theresa didn’t know, but she nodded. She was a virgin, awaiting her father’s finalization of her betrothal to the Marquis of Hartford, and she had no knowledge of the kind of sexual pleasure of which Beatrice was referring, nor the agony of its lack. But she could imagine…