Darkwitch Rising by Sara Douglass

To her credit, Noah did not even look strained. Again, she inclined her head, and Weyland began to feel mildly irritated.

He turned his head slightly so he could see Jane. “Noah will need another poultice tonight, Jane. Although not for her back, methinks.”

He smiled as Noah finally reacted. She’d gone paler as he’d spoken, and had shot a look of some concern at Jane.

Weyland wondered what had disturbed Noah the most. His insinuation at mention of the poultice, or the fact that he’d known about the poultice Jane had prepared for Noah the previous night?

I can see much leaning over the balconies of my Idyll, he thought. More than ever you think.

Noah regained her composure quickly. “I am ready for whatever you wish,” she said.

Weyland smiled. I doubt that very much, my lady. “Good,” he said, rising. “Come with me.”

He led her up the stairs, listening to her footfalls behind him.

They were steady, and did not stumble.

If Weyland could hear Noah’s footfalls, then he could feel her presence with every fibre of his being. It was as strong as when he’d felt it that day in Woburn village. A powerful, heady presence that disturbed him in some manner he could not quite define.

He was leading a goddess up the stairs of his house, leading her into whoredom. Who would break first? Noah…or himself?

He took her into the first room on the right at the head of the stairs on the first floor. It was a tiny room, dank and grey. The only furniture it possessed was a narrow bed clothed in creased, waxy sheets as filthy as the room.

“I’m sure you won’t mind the grime,” said Weyland, turning to face Noah.

Finally he was rewarded with a flicker of something in her lovely eyes.

Without thinking, he reached out, and touched her cheek briefly.

“Do you think to train me?” she said.

“I think to try and make you a little more desirable!” he snapped. From her cheek his hand went to her hair, and he pulled out pins, sending her hair tumbling to her shoulders.

She was still defiant, and it infuriated him. He pulled her close, and kissed her, hard and angrily, a contrast to the teasing softness of Woburn.

As abruptly as he had kissed her, he pulled back, keeping one hand clenched in her hair at the nape of her neck.

“A kiss is so intimate, don’t you think?” he said. “More intimate than anything else a man and a woman can do with their bodies. No sweaty, frantic copulation can ever attain the sheer intimacy of a kiss.”

“You’re quite the poet.”

Ah, she was deliberately goading him! He kept his face calm, and then pulled her to him again for yet another kiss.

This one was different from the first. This one was a brother to that he’d given her in Woburn.

This time, he felt her confusion.

Again he kissed her, first on the mouth, then on the neck, and then, his hands drawing back the material of her bodice, on her collarbone.

Finally he lifted his head. “What would hurt you more, Noah? To push you to the bed, and to there copulate with you? Or…to ask you for shelter?”

Her eyes flared in naked panic, and she stiffened in his arms.

Finally he’d managed to disturb her. What was this “shelter”? Why was it so important?

“What would degrade you the greatest, Noah? What would humiliate you more than the other?”

He gave her a moment, a moment in which he could see her struggle for every ounce of self-control she owned, and then he smiled, smooth and easy, and stood back, letting her go.

“Why do you do it?” she said, and Weyland knew she was changing the subject deliberately. “Why degrade Jane and Elizabeth and Frances and gods alone know how many other women in this way? What pleasure can it possibly bring you?”

“Every time I degrade a woman, any woman,” Weyland said, “I degrade you. That’s what makes it so enjoyable, sweeting. That I have the power to take a goddess and turn her into a whore with every woman I force down to that bed beneath the sweating, hungry body of a sailor, or apprentice, or some vicious soldier, angry and violent from the murder he has inflicted in the name of crown or country.”

She was about to reply, but there came a sound from the front door, and Weyland cocked his head. “Unclothe yourself,” he said. “I hear a knock at the door.”

Weyland led the man up the stairs and to the door of the room.

Noah lay on the bed, her face turned to the door. One of the filthy grey sheets was pulled up to her shoulders.

Weyland looked at her, but could find in her eyes and face no hint of fear or nervousness, so ushered the man into the room.

He was tall, and burly, with a huge pendulous gut.

And he was eager. He groaned with lust the instant he set eyes on Noah.

Weyland leaned against the doorjamb, feeling unaccountably tense.

The man almost stumbled in his haste to get to the bed. His hands fumbled with his breeches, his chest heaving in his anxiety, then he pulled out his erection.

Weyland saw Noah’s hands whiten where they held the sheet.

The man reached down, his breath now a continuous rasp, and jerked the sheet violently away from Noah.

He pulled Noah’s legs apart, knelt down between them, and—

Weyland grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him off the bed. The man, furious with lust, leapt to his feet, and pulled back a fist, ready to strike Weyland.

Weyland’s form shimmered. For a moment it appeared as if a man-bull stood there, and then it was gone, and all that could be seen was Weyland’s fist driving into the man’s face.

“Get out,” said Weyland. “Begone from this house!”

The man was slowly backing towards the door. His nose dripped blood, and his hands fumbled at his breeches. “I’ll see you ruined for this, you foul whoremaster!”

Weyland took a threatening step forwards, and the man almost fell in his haste to get out the door.

“Ruined!” he cried, then bolted down the stairs.

Weyland drew in a deep breath, then turned back to the bed.

Noah was now standing on the other side, the sheet wound about her.

“Get dressed,” Weyland snarled, then he turned and left the room.

Barely had he reached the bottom of the staircase when Weyland heard a commotion in the lane outside the house, and then a banging on the front door.

Weyland strode to the door and flung it open, half-expecting to see the frustrated client there.

When he saw who it actually was, his mouth dropped open.

The deacon of St Dunstan’s stood on the step, his face flushed with excitement. Normally the officers of the church had nothing to do with their near neighbours—they knew well enough what service the members of this household provided—but now all that seemed forgotten in the deacon’s excitement.

“The king!” he cried. “The king! The king!”

Jane appeared at Weyland’s shoulder. “What news of the king, then?” she said.

“They say his ship lies off Dover, and that he shall land this very afternoon. Charles is home!”

And with that he was gone, and, from the sounds drifting down the laneway, most of London had by now heard the news.

The king was off Dover, and his feet would tread English soil once more this very afternoon!

Weyland pushed the door shut, then looked first at Jane, and then very slowly turned and looked up the stairs to where Noah stood at their head, still with the sheet wound about her.

“So your lover is home. How glad is your heart, Noah?” Weyland smiled, cruelly, intent on recovering all the ground he had lost when he tore the man away from Noah. “I think it is time we thought about preparing a small and very private reception for him, don’t you think?”

Noah stared at him. Then she drew in a breath, visibly trembling.

“It was you who came to me and healed my back, wasn’t it?” she said. “You are the strange physician.”

Dover, south-east England

Charles II’s fleet set anchor off the south-eastern port of Dover during the evening of the 24th of May 1660. Charles was in no hurry to land. He did not wish to appear anxious, nor as if he arrived in arrogance, nor even as if he was the invader and needed to rush ashore with blade drawn. The king had also heard from a delegation which had rowed to his flagship that the reception at Dover still needed a few hours to arrive at its full magnificence. Thus it was he told his officers that they would spend the night on board, breakfast, attend to some pressing matters of business during the morning (unlike the decades of his exile, Charles now had to attend to all matters of state that needed the king’s attention and decision), and then row ashore during the afternoon of the 25th.