At first, I welcomed his embrace. The firmness of his hold, the confidence of his murmuring voice, which didn’t seek to question or admonish me, but spoke words I’d longed to hear from other lips. Resting my head against his chest, his fingers wove through my hair, untangling my plaits. The action was soothing, pleasing. One hand stroked my arms, while his lips, whispering, whispering, began to travel from my ear to my neck. I could smell ale on his breath and the reek of old wine. Lost between knowing I had to sit up and extract myself from this comfort, but also wanting to allow the moment to last, to surrender to it for just a little longer and let the pain of remembering fade, I hesitated. A voice inside me was shouting “Move,” while another couldn’t summon a coherent thought.
Westel’s tone changed. The words were hard to distinguish at first, I’d drunk so much ale and so very quickly. As they became clearer, I tensed. He spoke of God, of the first woman Eve, and prayed for the salvation of my soul and his. The words were fast, deep, and wild. When he began to beg forgiveness, for what, I was uncertain, common sense prevailed and, though my limbs didn’t want to cooperate, I struggled to extricate myself from his grasp.
He tightened his arms. His hands, at first gentle, clenched firmly. I stiffened.
“Westel. What do you think you’re doing? Let me go.” I pushed against him.
“Sorry, mistress, but God forgive me, I cannot. I’ve waited so patiently for this chance.” Twining his fingers in my hair as if in a caress, he bundled my thick locks at the nape and pulled hard, forcing me to arch backward. Those long, white fingers I’d once admired easily captured my hands in one of his own, caging them.
He laughed, a sinister snarl I’d never heard from him before. I began to flail and whimper as he brought his face closer. Wrenching my head further back, so my neck was strained and the tears so recently stanched fell again, I’d no recourse but to kick. My first attempt missed, but my second met its mark. With a grunt, he doubled over and then with a strength that defied reason, hauled me off the floor by the roots of my hair and bellowed.
Slamming my head against the trough, he released me briefly. Pain exploded in my forehead. Dazed, blood trickled into my eyes as I rolled onto my back and tried to sit up. Before I could, he straddled me. Seizing control of my hands again with one of his, he fumbled at my bodice.
Bright lights danced before my eyes, bands of torment lanced my head, and hot blood sped down my brow. Above me, in the semi-darkness of the brewery, Westel’s angelic face was mottled by light and shadow, his huge eyes reflecting the flame of the candle, and he transformed into something from the abbot’s pulpit, an emissary of hell come to take me.
“Slattern! Whore!” His spittle rained upon me. “Weapon of the devil. You tempt all men, but above all, you seek to first tempt and now refuse me.”
“Westel, nay, please—” The room spun, and Westel merged with it; a huge black wave was about to swallow everything.
“Shut up!” The slap was vicious, loud, my cries muted. “I’m a mere man, too weak to resist. God knows I’ve tried. But I’m flesh and blood and why should I be denied what others are not?”
My breathing was labored, my mind in splinters. Agony rode my will, breaking it into submission.
“God will understand. God will forgive. Like all women, you’re the temptress, Satan’s whore come to seduce mankind.”
His mad sermon continued unabated, slaver flew from his mouth. Tearing my dress, he groped my body through the rent fabric, rubbed his hands, his face, his mouth against me. His eyes were fierce; his entire body trembled. I could feel his excitement as he thrust himself against me like a rutting pig.
Twisting and turning, I struggled, but he was stronger and that leaden wave pulled me under. I mustered a cry.
“Whore.” He struck me across the face again. “Make another sound and I’ll stick you with more than my cock.” He leaned over me. “Like I did Will,” he whispered.
Bright lights danced before my eyes. I shut them but it was as if the stars spun for me alone. “It was you? You hurt Will?” My stomach churned; my mind tried to unravel Westel’s words.
“Hurt him? Nay, you stinking rose, I killed him.” His tongue, a repulsive slug, traced my neck.
Teeth sank into the soft flesh around my nipple. My wail was collected in his hand as he covered my mouth.
“God, oh, my God,” he murmured, his lips suckling, hungry, fevered. Nausea rose, sickness and a terrible fear.
Will, oh, Will . . . What monster had I brought into the house?
I gagged, coughed, and tried to draw air, but it was rancid. Who was this man? Holy Mother, help me. I summoned another cry, this time for Adam, for Tobias, for Leander, the good men in my life. Before I could release it, Westel picked up my skirts and threw them over my head, not caring that he blocked my nose and mouth, only that it dampened my cries. He unlaced his breeches, his knees pinning my legs.
“I gave him a chance, you know.” He spat and thrust moist fingers inside me, grunting. “Will, who sought to tell tales, turn you against me. Will who thought he was so clever, knew what I was about.” He plowed his fingers back and forth. “But he didn’t—not even when he died, when he begged me to tell him, I wouldn’t. None of you knew. Fools. You still don’t.”
Cruel fingers gouged the soft flesh of my thighs. My thoughts spiraled and shattered into fragments. This wasn’t happening, this wasn’t real. I would awake and this would be nothing but a devil-sent dream.
The floor became a vast wheel upon which I was turned and turned, sinking lower and lower, descending into a private hell.
As I felt his manhood against me, hard and slick, I made one last effort to heave him away. With a roar of rage, he grabbed my head in both hands, squeezing it as he might a ball, before dashing it against the floor.
His voice became a rhythmic, brutal accompaniment that pierced the thick fog holding my thoughts captive, my body fast.
“You are the gate of the devil,” he chanted. “The traitor of the tree, the first deserter of Divine Law; you are she who enticed the one whom the devil dare not approach, you broke so easily the image of God, you broke this man; on account of the death you deserved, even the Son of God had to die . . . And now, it’s your turn . . .”
* * *
I was choking.
A stream of liquid poured over my face, my exposed chest. I coughed, turned aside to stop the steady flow; swallowed, tasted ale, rolled, and vomited.
“Sit up, slut.”
Pulled upright roughly and thrown against a hard surface, I lurched to one side before more ale was thrown in my face. I raised my hand weakly. “Please . . .”
Another slap brought me to my senses. The world compressed until it was just a flickering candle and a ream of paper thrust in my face.
“What’s this?” asked Westel, pressing the small book hard into my cheek.
At first, I couldn’t make out what he was compressing against me. When he moved it away and made it dance back and forth, my blurry vision solidified.
“My . . . my ale bible.”
The next blow was so hard, my head snapped around, my nose striking the trough.
“You cunting whore,” he spat in my face. “I know what it is. What’s this?” Through half-closed eyes, I saw his finger stabbing the words. “What language is this?”