Isabel's Heresy

Isabel, spread-eagled and gasping quietly on the cross, noticed the heavy studs of the cross making contact with the more salient features of her back — her shoulder-blades and buttocks began to ache where the pressure of the studs met them, and she sought to shift her body in serpentine motions to relieve this discomfort. De Marisco’s silent observation seemed to intensify at this; perhaps her struggles appeared lascivious to him. It then occurred to her that he must have observed many women in precisely this position, and understood full well the cause of her struggles. How many, she wondered, have been here before me? How many has he tortured and subsequently sent to their deaths? Without a word, de Marisco walked back to the area of the room from which they had come and returned with a high stool and a lectern. Poking out of the crook of his arm she saw sheets of parchment and some quills. At the memory of the quill, she felt her nipples harden again, and realized it was not due to the cold — the heat of the brazier, a few feet away, had already begun to raise a sheen of sweat on her ivory skin. She looked down at her breasts in astonishment and indignation, shocked at the treachery of her own body. With a sense of sadness she remembered that this was only the beginning of the betrayals her body was to inflict on her, betrayals that would almost certainly lead to her doom.

Isabel’s Heresy

By

Tadhg Ó Muiris

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Isabel’s Heresy Copyright  2003 Tadhg Ó Muiris ISBN: 1-894942-52-3 Cover art and design by Martine Jardin All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher. Published by eXtasy Books, a division of Zumaya Publications, 2003 Look for us online at: www.zumayapublications.com www.Extasybooks.com

For Suzanne, for her encouragement and practical assistance, and who helped in so many ways to see this project to fruition.

Isabel’s Heresy

Chapter One

“G

et up, witch,” growled the jailer. Isabel opened her eyes with a start. As the squalid cell in which she found herself came into focus, her mind rushed back to the nightmare that had tormented her sleep, only to discover that waking had failed to banish it. The dank stone walls, the fetid straw strewn about the earthen floor and the heavy chain connecting the manacles that chafed her delicate wrists and ankles all shrieked to her the horrifying reality of her predicament. The isolation and confinement of her cell had been a form of torture in itself; for forty-eight hours no one had spoken to her, nor had they brought her anything to eat. Although her heart quailed at the reappearance of the obese and noisome jailer who had brought her to this place days earlier, any human contact, any event to end the two days of monotony and fear came as a strange relief. To his left and a pace forward stood a man she had not seen before, but his dark dress and bearing made his authority unmistakable. Of medium height and broad-shouldered, his raven hair was swept back from a high forehead, beneath which smoldered jet-black eyes set in a strongly boned, hawk-like face. At any other time Isabel would have found his unblinking stare intimidating — under the circumstances, it was terrifying. “Get up, witch,” the jailer repeated. The dark man said nothing, but she saw him looking her up and down intently, his head tilted slightly to the left in a manner she might have described as quizzical. Quizzical — inquisitorial — inquisitor — her mind began to babble disjointedly in panic-induced word association. 1

Tadhg Ó Muiris Isabel achingly picked herself up from the floor, the squeal of protest from her joints a tenor accompaniment to the bass rattle of the chains. She arose as quickly as her stiffened limbs would allow and remained silent, loath to offer any pretext for the casual brutality she knew would be offered on the slightest provocation. The jailer disengaged the chain from the bolt in the wall and gave it a terse yank, indicating the door with a jerk of his unshaven jowls. After such a long time in the gloom of her cell, she blinked in the relative brightness of the corridor. The procession began — first the grotesque jailer, then Isabel, drawn by that length of cruel chain, and bringing up the rear, the silent dark man, the only evidence of whose presence was the sound of his quiet footfalls. She nonetheless sensed his eyes boring into her. She tried to contain the sick waves of terror that rose from the pit of her stomach, but as her mind came to dwell on the blackness of her situation, she could not stifle a despairing sob. They continued along the passage and down a flight of stone steps, then along another still darker corridor, followed by a further descent to an even lower level of the castle. At this point a cavernous room opened before her, its vaulted ceiling supported by massive, rough-hewn pillars. A few torches set in sconces barely served to illuminate what she had already surmised to be the torture chamber. Deep within its shadows, she could just make out the muted outlines of structures and devices at whose purpose she was reluctant to guess. They advanced to a great oaken table at the extreme end of the room, its surface groaning beneath scores of leather-bound tomes, velum codices and dusty scrolls. There were also, her mind distractedly registered, many blank sheets of paper, quills, and inkpots and blotters. The dark man strode around the table and seated himself at an ornate chair, whose arms had been carved into the savage claws of some fabulous creature. For the first time, he spoke. “Disrobe,” he said. His voice was quiet and its timbre was that of a rich, fortified wine, a sweetness tempered by unexpected potency. The jailer seemed nonplussed. “I’ll strip the witch,” he grunted, 2

Isabel’s Heresy obviously considering this his province. He took a step towards the shuddering Isabel, who shrank from him. “You,” the dark man said, turning to the jailer with the air of man who had been hitherto oblivious of his presence, and to whom this new awareness was a cause of no great pleasure, “shall keep your pig mouth shut and do only what I call upon you to do, when I call upon you.” “Yes, my Lord,” burbled the jailer, and withdrew a step from the cowering woman, whose gaze had become locked on the dark man. After two days of imprisonment in that stinking cellar, the simple peasant smock she had been wearing when arrested now clung in sodden folds to the shivering curves of her body — a body she had always considered a touch too sturdy and a few inches too short, despite its ample bosom and slender waist. It had nevertheless been admired by the eligible farmers of the district, whose aesthetic sensibilities had been shaped more by animal husbandry than an appreciation of the Renaissance standards of womanly perfection. That was until, of course, she had slipped from a decently marriageable age and into her twenties. The thought of being naked before these two men filled her with fear and shame. “Permission to speak, my Lord,” husked Isabel, her voice hoarse from disuse. A slow smile curved the dark man’s lips. “That,” he said gently, “is why you are here, child.” “I cannot disrobe while shackled.” “On the contrary,” he replied, with a glint of humor in his eyes, “you cannot do so without tearing the cloth. My command, however, did not concern preserving the integrity of your clothing — merely its immediate removal. I assure you that you will have no further use for it. I have no intention, however, of elucidating my every instruction — we haven’t the time. You will simply obey me at once, in the most straightforward manner possible.” Isabel hesitated not a further second, but urgently set about finding the seams in the sleeves of her dress and tearing them apart savagely. Within a few moments, her clothing lay scattered in several pieces around her bare feet, and she stood red-faced and naked 3

Tadhg Ó Muiris before her inquisitor, her manacled hands clasped before the bushy mound beneath her white belly, her upper arms drawn demurely in front of her bosom. As if looking at the jailer caused him actual physical discomfort, he kept his eyes on Isabel as he addressed him. “Manacle her hands behind her.” The jailer scurried to fulfill this instruction, unlocking the shackles from Isabel’s wrists with a deftness that belied his bloated, stubby fingers, pulling her arms roughly behind her, and refastening them. “Place the key on the table and leave.” The jailer goggled once more. He was accustomed not only to being present during the examination, but undertaking most of the unsavory tasks associated therewith; an angry shadow passed momentarily across his customarily obsequious features. “My Lord, are you —” “Make me repeat myself and I shall have your tongue cut out,” the dark man said quietly, never lifting his gaze from Isabel. She now stood before him naked and exposed, her hands chained behind her, and all aspects of her loveliness now wholly unobscured. The room was by no means warm, and she realized to her shame that her nipples had become erect. With an insouciance that stopped just short of insolence, the jailer slapped the key on the table and hauled his ungainly girth from the chamber. With his back turned, the snarl of vicious rage on his face was invisible to the other two occupants, who seemed to have forgotten his existence once the heavy door swung closed behind him.

4

Isabel’s Heresy

Chapter Two

A

s the jailer’s footsteps faded, Isabel tried to remain motionless beneath the steely regard of the dark man, keeping her eyes cast downward. Nevertheless, she could not resist sneaking the occasional glimpse at him. Two days without nourishment were taking their toll: her belly growled; the trembling in her knees merely increased when she tried to stop it, and her breath came in ragged gasps as the soundless tableau continued. Finally he broke the silence. “My name is Timoteo de Marisco y Nadon,” he began, “Chief Inquisitor for this district. You are here because you have been accused of witchcraft. What say you to these charges?” “I am innocent, my Lord,” answered Isabel, in as strong a tone as she could muster, looking him squarely in the eye. “Very well. That is what we are here to discover. This —” and his hand made a sweeping motion to indicate the chamber, “is a place of truth. Jesus protects those whose hearts are pure from the calamities of the examination. The wicked, unprotected, are thus made to confess their crimes against God and the Holy Mother Church.” Isabel understood the twisted logic that served as rationale for the use of torture as an interrogation device — the barbarous, tailswallowing doctrine that only the guilty confessed under duress, and the innocent were granted the grace to withstand the pain inflicted upon them, so that none ever confessed merely to end his or her torment — quod erat demonstrandum. She didn’t believe a word of it, and wondered if this de Marisco did. “My Lord,” she began, already suspecting the argument of a naked and enchained female might lack weight with a seated, 5

Tadhg Ó Muiris opulently dressed official of the Holy Office, “has no one ever been compelled to confess who was innocent?” De Marisco made a dismissive gesture with his hand — he had heard these suggestions before, undoubtedly voiced by individuals in situations similar to her own. “To deny the existence of God’s protective grace is a heresy in and of itself,” he responded impatiently, as if by rote. Isabel resolved to keep silent, realizing that the disadvantage at which she found herself made reasoning pointless. Picking up a quill and a blank sheet of parchment, de Marisco stood up and stepped around the desk to where Isabel stood trembling. He held the blank parchment before her eyes. “This, in however long it takes, will be the receptacle of your heart, mind and soul. Whatever I wish from you will find its way onto these sheets. Nothing shall escape me; you can hide nothing. I shall open you up like a melon and scoop out what I desire. It can be quick, or it can be slow — this is entirely up to you. But I will have the truth. Is that clear?” Isabel licked her lips, which had gone as dry as the parchment still held inches from her strained face. “I am innocent, my Lord.” De Marisco’s brow darkened, and his voice took on a menacing undertone she had not heard before. “Your answer is unresponsive,” he said. “You have already been asked that question and you have already answered. I asked if I had made myself clear. You are to answer only the questions, which I put to you, when I put them to you. You are to refrain from embellishing your answers, anticipating my questions, or straying from my lines of inquiry. Is that clear?” Isabel cast her eyes downwards again and answered in a near whisper that it was. De Marisco now stood squarely before his prisoner, so close that she could feel his breath on her skin. It smelled of fennel seed and was not unpleasant. She was suddenly aware of the tang of sweat that wafted from her own body after several days in such unhygienic conditions. It was a self-consciousness that would have been completely foreign to other women of her station. Although only four 6

Isabel’s Heresy or five inches taller than she, he seemed to tower over her. He raised the quill he held in his left hand. “Do not move,” he ordered, and she wondered what he meant.

How could she move when she was already in chains? De Marisco raised the tip of the quill to her right nipple, and lightly traced a circle around the areole. She gave an urgent gasp as gooseflesh extended all over the white skin of her body — calming her breathing was now utterly impossible, and her breasts rose and fell in surging waves. The quill, compensating for her movements, never left the surface of her breast until just as suddenly as it had alit, he withdrew it. Moving his face even closer to hers, with an expression she could not quite identify, he said: “This is what I meant. Now that you are here, you are mine to do with as I please. No law in Christendom can prevent me from doing precisely what I wish in order to gain the truth. Your body is now an instrument that belongs to me, an instrument through which I shall wring the secrets of your soul.” With that, he grasped the now pebble-like nipple between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed it with surprising gentleness. Nevertheless, her back arched savagely in response, and she would almost certainly have lost her balance had he not extended an arm around her shoulders to steady her — an arm which, curiously, he did not withdraw, but which continued to grip her around the shoulders in an attitude of protection. Isabel could not have said anything, even had it been required of her. Her terror for her life was now overlaid with confusion. What

was happening? How could she be aroused by a man who posed such mortal danger to her? “This way,” he said, and began to steer her to one corner of the chamber where the gloom was nearly impenetrable, save a point from which a faint reddish glow emanated. She felt his grip on her upper arm disappear, and stood panting in the darkness, her mind racing. She had not long to wait; after a few moments a torch was lit to reveal a large, X-shaped wooden cross standing upright in the corner, held together with large iron studs and from which dangled chains, ropes, belts and various other devices of restraint. She 7

Tadhg Ó Muiris shuddered as her eyes caught sight of the source of the reddish glow she had observed earlier — a coal brazier, now red-hot, from which extended an assortment of iron rods. Her eyes began to cloud once again with tears, and a sob wracked her bosom. The horror and injustice of her plight was once more driven home to her, and she felt a sick anger at the fate that had placed her in the hands of this man. Gripping her once again by the shoulders, he made her to stand with her back to the cross. She moved with docility, being too weak to struggle and realizing its futility. Her shackles were removed, and she luxuriated momentarily as her aching shoulders and upper arms were relieved of the strain to which they have been subjected. Her relief was short-lived, however, as de Marisco refastened the shackles to two chains extending from rings at the top of both arms of the cross. Grasping the tag ends, he began to haul both in unison, lifting the hapless girl from the ground as if she were a feather. The pain in her wrists and the strain on her shoulders and chest would have been unbearable had the cross not been tilted at a forty-five-degree angle, allowing the structure to take some, but by no means all, of her weight. She bit her lip, and tasted the salt of the tears with which her face now glistened. Moving with a fluidity born of experience, de Marisco unfastened the chains that dangled from Isabel’s ankles, her toes pointing vainly to a floor now a few heartbreaking inches out of reach. He refastened them to the corresponding chains at the bottom of the cross, tightening them enough to provide complete immobility, but not enough to unduly increase the already excruciating pain in her arms and shoulders. His preparations complete, he straightened up to view his handiwork. Once again, there was something in his expression she could not quite understand — she had expected fanaticism, savagery, the brutish wrath of a regime that subsisted on ignorance and obscurantism. The tenderness she detected in his gaze seemed completely at odds with the cruelty of his actions. Isabel, spread-eagled and gasping quietly on the cross, was acutely aware of how her sex was now completely exposed to her interrogator’s piercing scrutiny, and she felt her thighs involuntarily try to close — which was, of course, impossible. She now noticed the 8

Isabel’s Heresy heavy studs of the cross making contact with the more salient features of her back — her shoulder-blades and buttocks began to ache where the pressure of the studs met them, and she sought to shift her body in serpentine motions to relieve this discomfort. De Marisco’s silent observation seemed to intensify at this; perhaps her struggles appeared lascivious to him. It then occurred to her that he must have observed many women in precisely this position, and understood full well the cause of her struggles. How many, she wondered, have been

here before me? How many has he tortured and subsequently sent to their deaths? Without a word, de Marisco walked back to the area of the room from whence they had come and returned with a high stool and a lectern. Poking out of the crook of his arm were sheets of parchment and some quills. At the memory of the quill, she felt her nipples harden again, and realized it was not due to the cold — the heat of the brazier, a few feet away, had already begun to raise a sheen of sweat on her ivory skin. She looked down at her breasts in astonishment and indignation, shocked at the treachery of her own body. With a sense of sadness she remembered that this was only the beginning of the betrayals her body was to inflict on her, betrayals that would almost certainly lead to her doom. De Marisco busied himself setting up the lectern and the stool, which he contrived to place in the crook of one of the arms of the cross, so that he was once again mere inches from her straining flesh. Spreading the parchment on the lectern, he pulled a penknife from his robes and began to sharpen the quill. He had still not said anything. After what seemed liked an eternity to the mutely struggling Isabel, whose exhausted writhings had subsided only slightly, de Marisco looked up from the lectern and turned his face toward her. His position in the crook of the cross put his face a mere hand’s breadth from her taut armpit, where rivulets of sweat gleamed over the clearly visible tendons, and beads of moisture bedizened the wiry dark hair. The cool breeze of his breath on her skin made her shiver. “You name is Isabel, and you are an unmarried herbalist. Is this true?” 9

Tadhg Ó Muiris Perhaps, she reflected bitterly, if she hadn’t been so choosy she might have had a husband’s support and protection during this, her time of travail. She angrily shrugged the thought away: isolation and fear had set her mind to fruitless musing and self-pity. The mixed blessing of her singular upbringing had left her with the sensibilities of the manor, but the station and resources of a churl. She could no more have borne a marriage to one of her bucolic suitors than a donkey could mount a swan. Although she judged her situation hopeless whether spinster or wife, she couldn’t help but suspect that she might not have found herself in such peril had she lived the life of other women. Too late now, she sniffled mournfully, twitching a daintily upturned nose which, with her small yet full-lipped mouth, lent a cherubic quality to a round face framed by long hair of a shade of auburn unusual for central Spain, perhaps bespeaking some distant Visigothic patrimony. Once so lustrous, those tresses had become a tangled mass obscuring large hazel eyes now clouded with tears. Isabel turned her exhausted face towards him, although her vision was partially obscured by one aching arm. Licking her lips once again, she nodded. De Marisco rose from the stool and strode around to the other side of the cross. From a hook on the nearby wall, he pulled down a leather cat from whose handle twenty thongs wickedly swung. “I require spoken answers for the written record of your examination. I shall treat nods, shakings of the head, and other forms of non-verbal communication as a refusal to answer. Refusals to answer are met with this.” De Marisco slowly drew the thongs of the cat across Isabel’s copiously perspiring breasts, where they left complex patterns of alternately wet and dry skin in their wakes. She moaned, although whether because of the sensation of the cat’s light touch on her flesh, or fear of its potential fury, even she could not tell. After several more unhurried passes, he let the tips contact her nipples with a gentle slapping motion. The effect on Isabel’s body was electric, as her back once again arched and strained against its bonds. But this was only the beginning. With each stroke, the vigor of these blows increased. It 10

Isabel’s Heresy was not only her breasts that were to bear the brunt of their onslaught: her belly, the inside of her thighs and her groin began to resemble the charcoal brazier that squatted behind her, as heat radiated from her now rosy flesh in steadily increasing waves. Her moans quickly became sharp, barking cries of distress, as every muscle in her body tensed and released in succession between the strokes. She was peripherally aware that the moisture she felt between her legs was not only sweat, but was beyond noticing or caring. The dichotomy of body and mind that had been such an important philosophical construct for her, and indeed for the society in which she lived, dissolved into meaninglessness when faced with the power of the sensations she was experiencing. She imagined her body would explode at any moment from their intensity. Suddenly the blows ceased, and she could feel the handle of the cat pressed against her inner thigh. For a terrifying moment, she feared he might insert the entire handle inside her — but instead, he pressed it lengthwise between her labia, and drew it up slowly, trailing the dangling thongs through the track it had carved. A low, ghostly wail was drawn from her as this was done. But then — it stopped. De Marisco looked pointedly at her as he raised the cat to his mouth, and slowly licked her moisture from its handle, seeming to relish the flavor of her passion and sweat. He then hung the cat back up on the wall, and resumed his seat. He was breathing more heavily now, doubtless owing to his exertions, but this seemed the only change in his manner. The difference in Isabel’s demeanor was considerably more dramatic. She panted and whimpered before him, and her darting eyes had taken on the glazed and unseeing hopelessness of a hare dangling from a wolf’s jaws. Picking up the quill and holding it to the parchment, he surveyed Isabel’s shimmering loveliness again. “I have been told you can read and write. Is this true?” Still panting, she tried to speak, but found her breath coming in arid gasps. I must answer, she thought, but my mouth is so dry. How

ironic — it’s now the only dry part of my body. Drawing a pink tongue along her lips, she finally managed to 11

Tadhg Ó Muiris rasp: “Yes, my Lord.” She could guess why the accusation against her had been so readily accepted. In a society where even kings were often illiterate, she was an unmarried woman who could read and write both Latin and Greek. This alone was enough to arouse the suspicion and distrust of her rustic neighbors. The fact that she bathed every day had been considered at the least an eccentricity — and in a society where eccentricities were regarded with fear and superstition, this too had spelt danger. While her customers had been happy enough to avail themselves of her skills in herbal remedies, which ranged from healing poultices to purported aphrodisiacs, these skills now assumed damning implications. “Who taught you to read and write?” “It was my father, my Lord.” The Inquisitor cocked an eyebrow at this response, and Isabel craned her head to see him scratching away on the parchment. “Indeed. Tell me about him,” he instructed. Isabel moaned quietly. The pain in her wrists and shoulders was becoming unbearable, and she knew she would be hard pressed to maintain the coherence necessary to avoid further punishment.

12

Isabel’s Heresy

Chapter Three

S

omehow, her testimony punctuated by sighs and groans, she managed to find the strength to speak of her education under her father, who was a nobleman’s librarian — how her mother had died during her infancy, and how she had spent her childhood amid the dusty shelves of the library. Her father had been a man of sweeping imagination and probing intellect, who had found in employment with the Marques a quiet haven from the stultifying ideological conformity of his time. That he saw nothing wrong in tutoring his daughter in the Classics and natural sciences was a tribute to his own unconventionality. He carried on a correspondence with great minds from all over Europe, men of vision like himself whose humble circumstances compelled them to seek sponsorship from noble patrons. He would sometimes read aloud to her letters from such men, the Pole Copernicus and the Dane Brahe among them. At the mention of these names, de Marisco looked up from his stenography with heightened alertness. “These men of whom you speak: they are known by my superiors to propound heretical doctrines inimical to the interests of the Church. Brahe himself is a Lutheran apostate. Tell me, was it from your father and such men that you learned the art of witchcraft and sorcery?” Isabel sighed dolefully, and tried to wipe an irritating droplet of sweat from the end of her nose with one aching forearm; her face came away more sweaty than ever. It was so hard to think in such discomfort, so hard to formulate rebuttals to his leading questions and insinuations. Yet fear of far worse discomforts forced her to 13

Tadhg Ó Muiris focus her mind with acuity. “From my father,” she began shakily, “I learned the value of reason over superstition and ignorance.” “In your perverse lexicon, what the Church calls intellectual pride, you call reason; what the Church calls the faith of the Holy Spirit, you call superstition and ignorance. What other heresies did your father teach you?” Despite her vulnerability, Isabel grew angry. How dare he, she thought, this torturer, this avatar of darkness and terror, impugn the memory of a good and kind man, who had never harmed anyone? She raised her chin proudly and looked him squarely in the eye as she delivered her response, her voice tremulous with emotion. “He taught me the value of love.” Tears welled in her eyes at the memory of happier times with her father, and she was powerless to stop them or even wipe them away. Through the haze, she noticed de Marisco looking up at her with renewed intensity. With glacial slowness, he raised a finger to one of these tears, held it towards his face, and seemed to stare at it, fascinated. He brought it to his lips, making an “o” of them as he inserted the entire length of his finger into his mouth. His eyes shut in pleasure as he savored the taste of Isabel’s sorrow. For a time, the Inquisitor fell silent, and all she could hear over her own labored breathing was the infernal scratching of that quill, like the whispering of dead leaves in a courtyard. At length, it too was still. “Please, my Lord, may I have some water?” She cast a supplicating glance at de Marisco. He seemed to consider this request. He moved to where a battered pitcher of water stood on the floor, and held it up so that she could see it. Isabel, in her distraction, observed the beads of condensation on its surface reflecting the flames of the torches and glow of the brazier: it must have been icy cold. She longed for a drink of it almost as much she longed for the touch of — of what? His touch? What was happening to her? Raising the pitcher to his own lips, he took a large draft without swallowing. Trickles of the crystalline liquid streamed down his chin 14

Isabel’s Heresy and fell with light pattings to the flagstone floor. Slowly he stepped toward Isabel, whose entire tormented being was now focused on that succulent mouth. With every pace he took, her heart seemed to pound faster; she struggled against her hellishly chafing bonds to be nearer to him. When his face was within inches of hers, he stopped. She knew within that mouth was the substance for which her body cried out and more. She craned her neck and extended her panting face towards him, heedless of her screaming shoulders and wrists. Then like a kite he descended upon her, their lips opening and meeting simultaneously as a gush of cool liquid coursed into her mouth and down her parched throat. Still she was not sated, and shot her tongue desperately around his, seeking the wet, dark depths of him. In another instant, his tongue was inside her, darting around and caressing her own. The sweetness of him was indescribable; she felt the tears coming again, and could not have explained why if asked. He withdrew from her slightly; the fire she saw in his glance she now understood. “You must confess,” he said quietly. Isabel felt the sweat bathing her suddenly turn cold. “My Lord,” she whispered, “you know I am innocent.” For the first time, he did not meet her gaze. “As an educated woman,” he said, “you know perfectly well that we are all conceived in original sin, that none are innocent, and it is only by the acceptance of God’s grace that our souls are saved. Save yours now. Do not make me do what I will do to ensure your salvation.” Anger flared in her again, and Isabel turned her face away from him, saying nothing. In an instant, de Marisco had grasped her tangled hair in one fist and pulled her face once more towards his, drawing a startled squeal from her. His words were neither angry nor shouted, but spoken in serene tones that belied their gravity. “I will have a confession.” Releasing her matted tresses, he walked around the cross to which Isabel had been affixed for what seemed like her entire lifetime. Her life before this moment had been an illusion, a 15

Tadhg Ó Muiris somnolent dream from which she had now, and forever, awakened. The only reality was the pain and pleasure that this man could offer or withhold at his whim. She felt her mouth grow dry again as she realized what he was doing — she heard distinctly the metallic grate of a poker being drawn from the brazier, and out of the corner of her eye she caught a single, orange spark waft upward into the darkness of the chamber’s vaulted ceiling, and then suddenly die in a tragic twinkling. Her body stiffened and she tightly shut her eyes, trying to steel herself for what was to come. How long, she wondered, could she endure before any fate would seem preferable to the searing misery that awaited her? She heard his advancing footsteps and smelt the acrid stink of the poker. Her body began trembling uncontrollably, every muscle pulling against those shackles. In an instant, heat and sensation exploded in her body and behind her eyeballs, as a white flash of pain snaked its way along her left breast. For this, she knew, there was no adequate preparation to be had — nothing could be worse, and nothing could withstand its fiery implacability. She screamed a wail of the damned, and her body once again twisted in a desperate effort to avoid the source of this mindnumbing horror. Almost as quickly as it had come, she realized the pain was gone, and that where she expected the tragic ruins of her left breast to be, she felt a delicious coolness trickling down over her abdomen and into her crotch. Opening her eyes, she saw the battered water flagon, whose frigid surface, pressed momentarily against her skin, she had mistaken for heat — as he had intended. “You think you understand, but you don’t,” he said quietly. Dipping his hand into the dark interior of the jug, he flicked his fingers sharply at her twice, drizzling her body with tiny sharptoothed pinpricks of coolness that felt like the sparks of a fire. She felt herself wriggling in a mixture of dizzying sensations she could no longer separate — pain, pleasure, heat, cold, love and hate. She watched wide-eyed as his now cool fingers traced a path down the center of her chest, towards the opalescent mons from 16

Isabel’s Heresy which moisture now streamed, not all of which had found its origins in the water jug. With exquisite slowness, she felt one finger slide from the sodden mouth of her vagina upwards to the left side of her clitoris. It was joined by another finger to the right, and with maddening patience they traced a fragrant and slippery dance of pleasure and control. Beyond dignity, beyond modesty and fear, Isabel found her pelvis undulating in libidinous abandon as she felt the nearing avalanche of sensation preparing to overwhelm her, low pulsating moans punctuating the spasms of her erupting body. When she thought she must surely have reached the point of no return, he withdrew his hand. This, she felt, was even more distressing than the poker — idiot, there was no poker, her mind babbled, and her struggles became even more frenzied. “No!” she cried, “please, my Lord! Please!” De Marisco brought his face once more close hers, one proprietarial finger tracing the delicate line of her jaw. “Please, what?” he asked her disingenuously. Isabel bit her lip, and wordlessly pushed her pelvis towards him as far as her restraints would allow, consumed by an overpowering need to be touched there, a need whose pain was even more insistent than the ache of the cross on which she languished — or perhaps all the more urgent because of it. She felt her crotch brush against his clothing deliciously, and whimpered with renewed vexation when he withdrew from her. “You know what I require,” he said simply. She squeezed her eyes shut and threw her head back; the torchlight flashed in the prisms of her tears. With a superhuman effort, she shook her head. “No,” she moaned, the pitch of her denial rising precipitously into an unspoken equivocation. She gave a squeaking gasp in which both alarm and relief vied as his fingers once more elicited and stoked her raging need in blessed, tantalizing caresses. He carried her to the precipice of a raging bliss whose summit was illuminated by the flames with which her body burned; she longed to hurl herself down its dark heights to where the fires that consumed her might be slaked in the steaming, hissing 17

Tadhg Ó Muiris impact she craved. Once again, he dragged her back from the edge. She found his cruelty inconceivable, blasphemous and unnatural, and statements to that effect mingled with her frantic and delirious pleadings. Her volcanic ardor cooled into a painful, throbbing boulder in her belly. “I can do this all night — and forever,” he whispered in her ear. Isabel wept as he resumed his stroking and caresses for a third time, knowing beforehand that she was to be denied again. How was it, then, that he could do this to her? How was it that she once again felt her clitoris singing joyfully to his every touch, and her muscles clenching greedily around his slickly mischievous fingers? Knowing what she knew, surely it should be impossible. Her body must be an idiot to be fooled a third time, but if it were an idiot, it was a powerful and dangerous one that dragged her protesting mind behind it in one brutish fist. With his third withdrawal from her, she became aware that each denial was more insupportable than the one previous, and the gnawing hunger she felt for him greater. Soon, she knew, it would be insuperable. Even as she writhed and wailed in her fresh distress, Isabel did have some power of reason remaining, and chose, like so many others, to rationalize with it. She was doomed, she realized—this may be the last moment of pleasure and tenderness she may ever experience. She swallowed heavily, and seemed to be gazing out from the edge of a terrifying cliff, beyond which lay darkness and fathomless depths. “I confess, my Lord,” she said, in voice that cracked with a single sob. De Marisco looked up from his activity in some surprise, as if not expecting so easy a victory. He tenderly swept back an errant clump of sweat-soaked hair from her brow. “Do you confess to witchcraft?” he asked quietly. “Yes, my Lord, I confess to witchcraft. I am guilty, my Lord: do with me as you will.” This latter suggestion was not without its affect on de Marisco, but there were nonetheless formalities to be observed. 18

Isabel’s Heresy “You are thus condemned by your own words, and shall share the fate of all witches. Your confession shall render you an excommunicant and place you beyond the protections afforded by any law of Church and State. Bathed in sin as you are —” at this, his eyes swept lingeringly once again over the streams of moisture dappling her white flesh — “your life and liberty are now forfeit — to me.” Isabel’s crotch still felt like it was on fire; if she could have moved her head to see it, she would not have been surprised to see it glowing with the dull, threatening orange of the brazier. All she could see, however, was the Inquisitor removing his clothes methodically, and placing them folded over the lectern, where her entire life had now been transcribed, and which, she knew, would soon be all that was left of her. She no longer cared. De Marisco’s penis was angry and flushed, the alert head of some mythical hunting beast sweeping the air for the scent of its prey. Standing before her, he raised his arms to grasp her hands in his own — she was surprised by the tenderness of his touch. The coolness of his demeanor was at great odds with the waves of heat that emanated from his body, whose delicious smoothness she felt next to her own — it was like a furnace. His cock grazed her labia, leaving a trail of viscous sap in its wake. Her left hand was released from his grasp as once again his two fingers found their way to her clitoris. She shivered in anticipation, knowing that now, at last, there would be no tricks, no denial, no punishment — but that she would pay the ultimate price for this one taste of heaven. The surging tide of her orgasm washed against the shore once again, and her body heaved and bucked. “My lovely, valorous, captive,” she heard him murmur in her ear, as her body exploded with the force and majesty of her climax. With that, the fiery heat of him was upon her once again, as his hard smoothness slid into her with the arrogance and familiarity of a baron returned to his keep from a crusade. Languorously, and then with increasing urgency, he plunged himself within her, as the slapping and sucking of their sweaty bellies pounding against one another all but smothered his strange endearments. She came again, crying “my Lord, my Lord,” again and again, 19

Tadhg Ó Muiris until her tear-stained cheek came to rest on his shoulder. Disengaging himself from her, de Marisco dressed again, gathered up the parchments and quills, and moved to replace the lectern and chair. As he did so, he spared a glance over his shoulder at the spent Isabel where she hung, limp and gasping, watching him in turn through half-closed eyes. He returned to Isabel and detached her shackles from the cross. He did not, however, remove the shackles themselves from her wrists and ankles. He was careful to assume her weight during this procedure, for she lacked the strength even to raise her arms, let alone stand unassisted. Hoisting her in his arms, he carried her through the door of the examination chamber, and down the corridor from whence they had come, surely eons ago. She was barely aware of where she was, and in the unwonted comfort of his arms, soon lost herself to sweet oblivion.

20

Isabel’s Heresy

Chapter Four

T

wo years almost to the day before her confession, Isabel saw Diego for the second to last time. “You’re quite the grown woman now,” he had remarked, eyeing her up and down. The two were rocking desultorily on a pair of swings in the sundappled garden of Diego’s father, the Marques. It was a warm spring day, and a soothing breeze stirred the leaves of the oak bough from which the swings hung. Isabel laughed and began to swing harder. “It’s only been three years since you left for the University,” she observed. “Surely I can’t have changed that much.” But Diego’s remark had not been made idly. The spindly librarian’s daughter he had left for Heidelberg was no more. She had been replaced by a nubile, flashing-eyed beauty with a wavy mane of auburn hair and a blossoming body that pressed becomingly against certain points of her plain smock. “Besides,” she pouted coyly, “now that you’re the educated gentleman, I expect you’ll have little interest in playing with one of the servant’s daughters.” Diego cast his mind back to those idyllic days before age and station had settled education and responsibility upon him, when he and Isabel would play make-believe in the gardens and woods of his father’s estate. As he recalled, these games usually involved Diego, the knight-errant, rescuing Isabel, the damsel in distress, from whatever imaginary dragons, Moors, or evil noblemen had enslaved her. Diego smiled. ‘Eleuteros douleue, doulos ouk esei.’ Isabel laughed. “So they did teach you something in High 21

Tadhg Ó Muiris Germany. ‘Be a slave freely, and be not a slave,’ is it? Except it’s ‘eleutheros’ of course, not ‘eleuteros.’ ” For a moment Diego’s face darkened; then he smiled ruefully. He remembered how Isabel, when not cavorting with him, spent most of her time in the library, immersed in tedious volumes, and how he had vaguely resented her precocity. Admittedly, while in Heidelberg he had been more keen on acquiring the dashing dueling scars that now framed his high cheekbones than on his studies. He rose in mock-menace from his swing. “It is not the place,” he intoned ominously, “of the daughters of servants to correct the sons of their lords.” Isabel giggled and darted from her seat, finding refuge behind the massive trunk of the oak. She peeked coquettishly around its bulk, but could not see Diego anywhere. The noise of a twig snapping from behind alerted to her to his ruse, and she scrambled away just in time to avoid the fingers snatching at her smock. Squealing merrily, she pelted towards the wooded copse that bordered the garden to the south. Just as she reached the shade of the chestnut trees, however, she felt Diego’s arms sweep around her waist and drag her from her feet. They collapsed on the soft grass laughing; yet Diego did not loosen his grip. “Such insolence cannot go unpunished,” he said, once he had caught his breath. He sat up, leaning his back against one of the ancient chestnuts, and by main force heaved the panting girl across his lap. Isabel squirmed to get free, but felt his powerful right arm pin her across the small of her back all the more firmly. Without warning, he brought his left hand down onto the fabric covering her buttocks with a dull thwack. Isabel gasped, her struggles becoming more pronounced, but she said nothing. She felt Diego becoming hard beneath her twisting pelvis, and found she liked the sensation. She began to exaggerate her undulations above him. Suddenly Diego reached over and grasped the hem of Isabel’s smock that curled around her beating ankles, and tugged it up above her waist until her bottom was completely exposed. Isabel froze; this 22

Isabel’s Heresy was a game to which she was unaccustomed. The sound Diego’s hand made as it slapped her now was a far more satisfying smack than his first effort, and Isabel gave a sharp cry, pressing her hips still more firmly against his. “Do you apologize for your rudeness?” Diego husked. “Never,” replied Isabel breathlessly. Her response was greeted immediately by another slap, and then another, in a steadily accelerating tattoo. With every blow, she found herself pressing her pubis against his, and felt the warmth in her buttocks spreading to her moistening crotch. Diego’s penis now felt like a rock beneath her. She was sure her bum must be glowing red, and shivered at the coolness of Diego’s lips as they kissed each buttock in turn. “Now do you apologize?” he asked again. “No,” she answered, but her refusal now came in little more than a moan. With a grunt, Diego rolled her off him until she lay supine on the grass, her dress still tangled above her hips. The dew beaded on her quivering abdomen and the auburn thatch between her legs. He marveled at the sight momentarily, and then pounced upon her; his lips pressed to hers, his tongue coiling around her own. Breaking momentarily, he glanced down to observe the lovely redness of her arse; she wriggled as he drew the back of his hand adorned with its ornate signet along her flushed skin. It was then he spied the moisture staining the hem of his richly embroidered doublet, the moisture of Isabel’s arousal. “You have soiled my clothing,” he smiled darkly, “and your sentence shall be ten strokes.” She looked up at him through her lashes, her nostrils flaring with excitement. “I will escape while you seek a switch,” she smiled. “I think not,” he smiled back at her, and with a single tug had untied the hemp cord that Isabel used as a belt. Wordlessly, she raised both her wrists to him, her eyes shimmering in a blend of expectation and dread. In a trice, her hands were bound together before her, and he pulled her gently to her feet. Head bowed in 23

Tadhg Ó Muiris ostensible penitence, her heart thundered as she allowed herself to be led to where a branch hung within easy reach. Diego tossed the end of the cord over the bough, and gave it a sharp tug, fastening it securely. Isabel found herself on tiptoe, her arms stretched above her. A tress of hair had fallen over her face, and Diego moved it away tenderly, allowing his lips lightly to touch her own trembling mouth. Stepping behind her, he swept her hair over her shoulder and stepped away. Isabel’s breath now came in gasps. With a jerk, Diego tore open the back of her smock down to the cleavage of her bottom, and then pulled outward furiously until Isabel was naked from the waist. Her breasts jiggled fetchingly and she twisted to look at him. “And now,” he said, sauntering away, “for the switch.” After a few moments, he returned with a long sally that he had hacked from a willow. He stood before her, trimming it lazily with his dagger, as their eyes met — hers filled with a strange longing she had only just discovered, his with a smoldering resolve. “Are you ready to receive your punishment?” he asked her. “Yes, my lord,” she whispered, tugging against her bonds to be near him. Once more Diego stepped behind her. Isabel’s entire body tensed in anticipation of the first stinging blow: it never came. Instead, she heard a woman clearing her throat self-consciously, and twisted around in shock and embarrassment to see one of the elderly servants standing in corresponding mortification. Approaching Diego obsequiously, the drudge whispered something in his ear. Diego’s features, which had screwed up in pique at this untimely interruption, smoothed to a somber calm. He began untying Isabel’s wrists. “It’s your father,” he said. “He’s dead.” Clutching the remnants of her torn smock to her bosom, Isabel raced back to the castle, tears of grief and shame welling in her eyes. *** “She must be sent away,” said the Marquesa that evening at dinner. 24

Isabel’s Heresy “Her father may have been our librarian, but she has no status in this household. In any event, it has come to my attention you have been spending far too much time with the wench.” “But this is the only home she has ever known, mother,” Diego protested. “Where is she to go?” The Marquesa made a gesture with a well-manicured hand. “Elsewhere,” she said simply. Thus it was that Isabel found herself at the gates of the castle, her few simple belongings resting on the ground beside her in a canvas satchel. Diego was there to bid her farewell. Her face was set stoically; she had resolved to rein in her grief, the better to face the challenges that lay ahead. “Ten gold pieces,” he said, placing a purse of moneys in her hand. She made to refuse, but he waived aside both protestation and thanks. “What will you do?” he asked. “With this money, I can establish myself in the village as an herbalist without difficulty.” There was an awkward silence, during which neither held the other’s gaze. “Good luck to you, then.” With that, he closed the massive wrought-iron gate, as Isabel turned to face the road to the village. At the sound of the heavy grille closing, Isabel turned again to see Diego reaching for her through its massive bars. She rushed to him, and they embraced as best they could through the rough grating. Her lips found his; as they tasted the sweetness of each other’s mouths one last time, his hand gripped her wrist and twisted it gently into the small of her back. He drew her towards him until the bars pressed tightly across her bosoms. His other hand parted her cloak easily and found the lace that secured her bodice, and with a tug her breasts were unsheathed and rubbing alternately against the harsh metal of the bars and the velvet clothing his chest. She felt one of her buttocks captured in a vice-like grip as she forced her ravening sex against his through the opening. 25

Tadhg Ó Muiris Pinned as she was against the gates, she had little option but to ignore the sound of an approaching carriage. Diego, however, could see that it bore the armorial crest of his father, and in an instant had disengaged himself from Isabel and disappeared up the path to the castle. Bereft and disheveled, Isabel clenched the iron bars and rested her forehead on its coolness a moment. Refastening her bodice, she hoisted up her duffel and started the five-mile trek into the village. As the coach passed her by, she sensed she was being watched through the dark curtains, and imagined eyes of cold malevolence upon her. Feeling suddenly chilled, she pulled her cloak more tightly about her, and continued on her way. She had no idea what might lie ahead of her — but never in her most extravagant imaginings could she have dreamed awaking one morning two years later in a prison cell, a self-confessed sorceress, condemned to the stake.

26

Isabel’s Heresy

Chapter Five

W

hen she awoke, she was back in her cell. Every joint in her body ached, yet she had the impression of having slept deeply and dreamlessly. It was the hectoring cries of the jailer, whose hideous visage now appeared through the barred window of the cell door that had roused her. The previous day, dressed in penitential robes, she had been dragged to the ecclesiastical court, where her perfunctory trial and condemnation had occurred. Page after page of her transcribed testimony, presented in de Marisco’s flamboyant hand, had been more than sufficient to secure her conviction within a few short minutes. Of these proceedings over whose outcome she could have no influence, she was barely aware: she was far more troubled that her interrogator had not even bothered to appear, though she found herself scanning the courtroom anxiously for his presence. “Wake up, witch,” the jailer sneered. “For today you die.” Once again the rusty bolt was drawn back from the lock, and the jailer, accompanied by two even more ill-favored minions, converged on the naked Isabel. Dragging the still-groggy woman to a standing position, they detached the chains from her shackles, and pulled a rough heretic’s blouse, called a San Benito, over her head and drew her arms out the sleeves. They then refastened her bonds behind her back. The crudely stitched sacking, daubed with devils and flames, was far too broad for her frame, and slipped off one lily-white shoulder. Its ragged hem, however, barely concealed her bottom. Forcing her rudely to her knees, the jailer produced a large pair of shears from his tunic, and set about cutting off her hair. She watched the matted tufts falling to the floor with a detached 27

Tadhg Ó Muiris fascination, ignoring the obscenities and guffaws of her trogolodytic custodians. All she could think was where is he? Their tonsorial ministrations at an end, they pulled her once more to her feet. She had become aware of the sound of many voices outside, coming from a direction she judged to be the village square. Finding her voice at last, she asked them, “Master Jailer, will I see my Lord de Marisco today?” The jailer laughed nastily, and spat. “I expect so,” he chuckled, “Lord de Marisco —” (the jailer pronounced the name with a slight sneer in his voice) “— took a fancy to you, I reckon. I’m sure he’d want to take his proper leave of you!” With this, all three laughed again. Unsure whether he was being sarcastic, Isabel could only wonder whether she would ever see the dark man again. The door swung open, and she was lead by a halter around her neck, cropped-headed, barely dressed, hands chained behind her, down the corridor towards the gates of the Inquisitorial Palace. Because of the shackles around her ankles, she could only take short paces, and lost her footing frequently, much to the hilarity of the guards, who would chivvy her along with crop-swipes at her unprotected backside. While these strokes did have the effect of hastening her progress, they failed to elicit any cries from her. Isabel found it strange that everything she saw was now suffused by a new sharpness, a vividness she had not heretofore experienced. She could see every gray hair in the back of the neck of the warder who walked before her, pulling her halter, and noticed the irregularities in the mortar that filled the cracks between the flagstones over which she stumbled. When the gates of the Palace opened, and she found herself blinking in the daylight for the first time in many days, she faltered once again. At this, a mighty roar of derision and excitement rose up around her like a tide; she saw that she was surrounded by hundreds of burghers and as many peasants, who had come to market that day to see the spectacle — the spectacle of her demise. Through the crowd, a path had opened at the end of which she saw the scaffold and the wooden framing upon which her life would end. She resolved 28

Isabel’s Heresy to comport herself with dignity and courage — but could not help the trembling in her knees, visible to all and sundry, and the tears that ran down her cheeks. Still on she walked, through the taunts and imprecations of the rabble. “Look at the whore! You can see her twat!” called one ruffian. “Nice arse, too,” added another wag, in a voice that was familiar. Through a blur of tears, she recognized the gloating face of Federico. In a flash, her mind went back to the last time she had seen him, the day before her arrest. She had been working in her cottage, grinding vegetable matter with the mortar and pestle, and pausing periodically to brush a stray hair from her eyes. Around her, dried sheaves of herbs hung upside down from the rafters of her cottage, whose impeccable neatness nonetheless failed to disqualify it as a hovel. It was comprised of a single room whose floor was bare earth, a straw bed in one corner, a hearth and hob in the other, and a few meager pieces of furniture. In pride of place on a shelf by the bed was a great leather-bound tome in Latin, which her father had given her for her fifteenth birthday — a text on botany from which she had learned her craft. It was here in the village that, for two years, she had eked a precarious existence as an herbalist. The mixture in the mortar was approaching the desired consistency when there came a knocking. Wiping her hands on her apron, she opened the top half of the Dutch door that served as her sales counter. It was Bartolome, from the butchers’ next door, a large, goodnatured oaf who was completely incapable of disguising his infatuation with his beautiful and unmarried neighbor. He would come by almost every day on the pretext of purchasing remedies for the most outlandish ailments, and invariably stop to chat. He was not the only young man who would patronize her establishment for this reason; she sometimes wondered if, were she not young and pretty, she might have starved long ago. Isabel endeavored to be patient and polite to these attentions — they were, after all, her customers — but she did find it trying. 29

Tadhg Ó Muiris This morning, however, Isabel was slightly shorter with Bartolome than was her wont, and found herself distractedly closing the door on his calf-like countenance after the most peremptory of post-purchase pleasantries. A day earlier she had got the news that Diego had been killed at the Battle of Lepanto. Though she had not seen or heard from him in two years, his death had gripped her heart like an icy claw, and she felt the illusions and half-hopes that had sustained her during her lonely exile dissolve into gray wisps. Indeed, lying awake in her bed at night, she often dreamed of various scenarios in which he would come and rescue her from her wretched estate. His father dead a year previously and he now Marques, she imagined some nights that he would finally defy his mother and stride triumphantly into the village to claim her as his bride. She hugged these fantasies jealously to her bosom in the darkness of the night until sleep claimed her. But when sleep came, her dreams tended to be of a different order entirely. Only the night before news of Diego’s death arrived, she had dreamed she was walking through a dark stone tunnel whose walls dripped with moisture, pursued by some nameless fear. Without warning, there arose before her a towering figure garbed in black from head to foot. He spoke not a word, yet with the briefest of gestures from a gloved hand, she seemed to know instinctively what he required of her, and it filled her with dread. In this strange dream, the dark man instructed her to remove her clothes, and she found herself powerless to disobey. Standing naked before this silent apparition, she felt the same kind of warmth and moistening between her thighs as she had felt with Diego. Why should this be so? Nothing could be more unlike Diego than this silent, ebony specter that loomed above her in the dank passageways of her subconscious. A single gloved hand, absurdly larger than any mortal hand could be, gripped both her wrists as if they were two pieces of straw, and she felt herself being lifted in the air before him. A wild exhilaration filled her as she found herself dangling, naked and immobile in the power of this compelling phantom. She felt a moist, serpent-like thing coiling itself around her thighs, draw its length along her vagina and 30

Isabel’s Heresy clitoris, and slither slowly up her abdomen and chest, and knew it to be his preternatural tongue. She was in the hands of a giant, no doubt licking her, his prey, to gauge her palatability as a prelude to devouring her whole. She would have called these dreams nightmares, but for the fact that she would awaken from them bathed with sweat, and trembling from the aftershocks of an orgasm that made her stomach muscles ache for the rest of the day. She was more troubled than usual by last night’s dream. Surely she should have dreamed of Diego, of whose death she had only received word? She found herself absently kneading her still-aching flanks as she closed the door on Bartolome and returned to her labors. She had only just resumed her pulverizing when another knock at the door made her click her tongue in irritation. Assuming it to be another of her ham-handed and perennially ailing admirers, she swung the door open to find Federico the Alderman, or, as he was known behind his back, Federico the Brute. Isabel’s expression of annoyance was replaced by a barely concealed moue of distaste as she regarded the smirking, appraising face of the most dislikable, and, sadly, powerful of her would-be suitors. A detested tax-collector and inveterate bully, his third wife had died a fortnight previously, and such vacancies were generally regarded as ill tidings for the more nubile of the village’s womenfolk. “Good morning, Master Federico,” she nodded politely. “How can I help you today?” In a somewhat theatrical manner, Federico cast sidelong glances at no one in particular, and leaned over the counter in an attempt at a confidential aside. Isabel took a step backward. This reaction was not lost on Federico, over whose face a scowl momentarily passed, before he reassumed his unctuous demeanor. “I require from you one of your most powerful aphrodisiacs, my dear.” “But Master Federico, I understand your good wife has died,” replied Isabel, and then bit her lip. She could have kicked herself. Why had she not just handed him over the preparation and bid him a good day? 31

Tadhg Ó Muiris “I’m glad you mentioned that,” he said, licking his lips and casting his eyes over Isabel’s ample bosom and generous hips. “You probably never realized it, Isabel, but I have always found you a beautiful and charming woman. For that reason, it would please me to make you my wife,” he said, indicating the house with a dismissive gesture, “and take you away from all this.” “I’m afraid I must decline your most generous offer, Master Federico,” she found herself replying instantly. Again, she regretted not having affected to take longer to come to her decision. Federico’s ingratiating manner evaporated, and his knuckles showed white on the ledge of the door-cum-counter. His laughter came in an unpleasant bark. “You, a mere chit of a girl, an herbalist — one step above a beggar — refuse me, Federico?” he thumped his chest grandly. Isabel thought quickly. “It pains me, but I am betrothed to another,” she blurted out. “To whom?” he asked. “I have seen no banns posted. I’m sure whoever it is can be made to see reason. What is his name?” “You don’t know him,” Isabel stammered. “He lives in the next village.” A sly smiled seamed Federico’s vulpine features. “Indeed, in that case,” he hissed, “we can be married before he’s any the wiser. You needn’t fear his wrath — I shall protect you from now on.” Isabel could barely suppress a shudder, and took a further step backward. “You must excuse me now, Master Federico,” she said, shaking her head and moving to close the door. In a catlike movement, Federico reached over the top of the counter and threw its bolt, bursting into the room with a snarl of rage. “By God, I’m dismissed, am I?” he thundered, and lunged at Isabel, who scurried behind the central pillar of the cottage, which supported its thatched roof. They circled around the pillar like sparring boxers, she trying to keep it between herself and her bellowing intruder, he feinting right 32

Isabel’s Heresy and left in order to catch hold of her. “I’ll leave when I’ve finished with you, you insolent bitch,” he hissed. Isabel said nothing; her heart pounded in her chest like a coursed hare, as she concentrated on evading his erratic lunges around the rough-hewn post. After a few minutes of futile clutching, Federico seemed to tire of this sport, and his anger seemed to subside. He let his hands drop to his sides. “Perhaps I shall call back tomorrow,” he muttered ominously, “with friends.” Isabel relaxed for only a moment, but it was enough. With lightning-swiftness, Federico’s hand shot up and clenched her wrist, pulling her towards him. She clawed desperately at him, but he was able to overcome her by dint of his sheer mass, and pinned her between himself and the beam that had served moments earlier as her protector. She ceased her struggles when she felt the iciness of a dagger-blade against her gulping throat. “I mean to have you now,” he breathed. “Put your hands behind you.” Isabel did as she was told. As Federico circled around the pillar behind her, the blade never left her throat. Terror seized her as she felt a leather thong close in a slipknot around her left wrist, but she dared not move a muscle. After the thong was twisted several times around her right wrist, Federico could afford to sheath his dagger and fasten Isabel’s hands more securely around the post behind her. Isabel was both terrified and furious, and struggled wildly to free herself. Standing a few paces back, Federico regarded her struggles with undisguised satisfaction. “When my betrothed hears of what you have done …” she tried to sound threatening, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her fear. Federico barked another humorless laugh, stepped forward, and grasped the collar-front of her plain shift. “Ah, yes,” he grinned, “you mean when he hears you’re no longer a virgin?” 33

Tadhg Ó Muiris With a savage jerk, he tore her gown open. His smile broadened as he observed the urgent rise and fall of her shapely breasts, and the hint of bushy darkness just visible above the end-point of the tear. Isabel’s struggles became more violent, and she blinked back tears of frustration. This only seemed to excite Federico all the more. She felt his hands squeezing and prodding her breasts, scrabbling at her crotch. She drew her knees together and tried to turn her head away from him. He seized her roughly by the jaw, and pulled her face close to his. “Come, my dear,” he said soothingly. “It doesn’t have to be this way. I have money, position, and no heirs. Surely you would prefer to give yourself freely to me in exchange for all I can offer you as an Alderman’s wife, rather than have me take it by force and leave you with nothing?” A plan began to percolate in Isabel’s mind, and she ceased her struggles. As much as it repulsed her, she feigned receptivity to his clumsy pawing. When she judged that a suitably plausible interval had passed, but before Federico had actually made to unbuckle himself, she whispered conspiratorially: “Could my betrothed be made to see reason?” She punctuated the question with a coy cock of her head that sent her rust-hued tresses sweeping off one shoulder. “But of course, my dear,” cooed the completely gulled Federico. “I may it take then, that you, too, have seen reason?” “You must forgive my previous impetuousness, Master Federico,” honeyed Isabel. She felt distinctly foolish having such a conversation while trussed half-naked to a post, but it seemed all in a day’s work to him. For all she knew, this was how he usually pressed his suits. “It was only that your proposal was so unexpected, and I feared the wrath of my intended.” “Leave him to me,” he assured her. Though he had begun to stroke her hair as if she were a pet rabbit, the disquieting acceleration of his breathing continued apace. “Admittedly,” he said, “Though it is a sin, I find myself reluctant to wait until our nuptials to enjoy your beauty.” That was what Isabel was afraid of. 34

Isabel’s Heresy “If you would but untie my hands, Master Federico, I can bestow upon you pleasures of which you have hitherto not dreamed,” said Isabel, having decided the time was ripe. “But of course, my dear,” he replied, as if awoken from a reverie, pulling his gaze from her breasts. He moved to release her bonds. Isabel could scarcely believe his credulity, but supposed that his arrogance and self-regard must account for it. “Some wine, Master Federico?” she offered, pulling the tattered remnants of her frock around her and stepping over to a shelf on which stood an array of bottles. “Perhaps later,” he said, licking his lips and reaching for her once again. She deftly skipped out of his reach, returning with a greenish bottle. “But this wine, I’m sure you’ll find, should be drunk sooner. It is in fact a highly effective aphrodisiac, which was, I believe, the original purpose of your visit,” she smiled disarmingly. Federico chuckled and reached for the bottle. “Quite right, my dear, quite right,” he said, and took a couple of hearty swigs. Wiping his mouth on a sleeve, he smacked loudly and once more made for Isabel. She took a corresponding step back, watching him expectantly. Federico suddenly appeared troubled by something, and his groping hands descended to his stomach. A greenish tinge came upon his face, and a sheen of sweat on his brow. “I don’t feel at all well,” he moaned. Suspicion soon mingled with the discomfort apparent in his features. “What the hell was in that drink?” he groaned, now almost bent over double. “As I said, sir, an aphrodisiac,” answered Isabel, a little worried. Now that the immediate danger was passed, she had no wish to be known as a poisoner. It would have been fatal to more than her business. “Your illness must be due to something you ate.” “You’ve poisoned me, you bitch,” wailed Federico, reeling 35

Tadhg Ó Muiris towards the door. “First you bewitch me, then you try to kill me with your foul witch’s potion! You’ll pay, by God, you will!” With one hand clutching his roiling guts, the other clenched in a fist that he shook at her menacingly, he staggered through the door. “Does this mean the wedding is off?” she called after him, but not loudly enough for him to hear. Isabel did not sleep at all that night, with Federico’s threats thundering again and again through her mind. She knew she had made a powerful enemy — but what choice had she at the time? She rather hoped that the dosage was fatal, and that he died before revealing who had given it to him, but knew that this would not be the case. It was with a sinking feeling of impending dread that she watched the sun rise through her window. It had only just done so when a thunderous pounding set the frame of her door groaning. She leapt out of bed with a yelp. “Open the door, witch,” came a bellowed order from without. Isabel felt the blood drain from her face, and eyed the window in blind panic. She knew what this meant — doom and destruction. She scrambled to the window, and was half through it when powerful arms gripped her and hauled her out the rest of the way. She was surrounded by a detail of five liveried soldiers, one of whom was mounted. All were armed with pikes. “Isabel, you stand accused of witchcraft. You are to come with us,” announced the captain. “But I’ve done nothing!” She was silenced by a peremptory clout to the head. A corporal produced two lengths of heavy chain with shackles at either end; these were quickly fastened to Isabel’s ankles and wrists. “This way, witch.” The palm of a mailed hand thrust into her back propelled her forward. Led by the mounted captain, with two soldiers before and two behind, the quaking Isabel was led down the high street of the village. No one bothered to tell her their destination; she knew perfectly well it was the Office of the Holy Inquisition. As she passed through the familiar streets, disheveled and enchained, she saw the moon-like faces of neighbors appear at their 36

Isabel’s Heresy windows, expressionless and blankly staring. People whom she knew by name and would regularly greet her on the street gazed at her as if she were a stranger, an object of curiosity and nothing more. As she passed by the house of the Alderman, she saw Federico gazing out at her with grim and lascivious satisfaction, nodding maliciously. She shivered.

37

Tadhg Ó Muiris

Chapter Six

A

nd here was Federico again, come to celebrate his victory over her, as she was marched to the stake. She ignored him. Her calvary seemed interminable, and her lips began to form a silent litany: Where is he? Where is he? Where is he? Hobbled as she was, she could take only one step at a time up the crude staircase that led to the platform, a makeshift scaffolding constructed over a vast pyre of tinder, kindling and faggots. Each of these paces was met with a fresh swipe on her buttocks from the jailer’s crop; twice she nearly collapsed on the guards beneath her. By the time she reached the summit, accompanied by a fresh roar from the gathered throng, her backside was flushed and crisscrossed with welts, and she bit her lip to withhold from her tormentors the cries of pain and despair that sought to escape her. She looked out on the jeering crowd, scanning the distorted faces for the one face she sought. Where is he? Where is he? Where is he? Strong hands once again forced her to her knees, as the din of the mob seemed to subside. There, striding in a stately fashion through the gap in the multitude she had just traveled, she could seem him. Her eyes locked on his beseechingly, while his unfathomable gaze never wavered from her as he mounted the scaffold himself. Once there, he loomed above her, and she had to crane her neck to keep him in her line of vision; in this world of ugliness, he was all she wished to see. She thought she detected the faint shadow of a smile on his features as he reached down to trace the delicate contours of the nape of her neck, now clearly visible in the absence of her once proud mane of hair. At the tenderness of this gesture, so at odds with the ignorant brutality to which she had been subjected, she felt 38

Isabel’s Heresy overcome; struggling to maintain her balance, she bent over to kiss the toe of one of his gleaming black boots, leaving a single tear droplet on the shining leather. A low murmuring arose around her. With apparent reluctance, his hand left her throat and he turned to the spectators, who had again fallen silent. From his cloak he withdrew an official-looking document splashed with a great red seal, and in a booming voice that all but the most distant of onlookers could hear clearly, began to read aloud. “Isabel, by your own confession, you have been found guilty of witchcraft, and are sentenced to death. It is the decree of the Holy Inquisition that, prior to your execution, and for a period of twentyfour hours, you are to make public penance in this place, and pray for your soul’s salvation.” Rolling up the parchment, he turned to the jailer, and issued terse instructions to him in words that Isabel strained to hear, but could not. He then stepped away to observe his orders carried out. Isabel was pulled to her feet and conveyed to the framework she had observed previously. It was composed of three rough-hewn wooden uprights roughly eight feet high and standing parallel to one another at a distance of about three feet, surmounted by a single horizontal beam that met the tops of all three. Iron rings were affixed to these uprights and the beam in various places. Isabel was made to stand with her back to the center pole as her hands were once again unfastened from behind her. The manacles that had not left her wrists since her arrest were now each bolted to two surprisingly long lengths of chain. These were made to pass through the iron rings dangling from either end of the horizontal beam above her, their ends held in the grimy paws of the guards on her either side. At a subtle nod from de Marisco, the guards began to pull with a practiced slowness on the chains, and Isabel felt herself being hoisted off the platform beneath her. As her toes left contact with the deck, her already sore shoulders and wrists shrieked out once again, and the scraping of the rough wood against her ravaged buttocks was unbearable. She found herself crying out: “My Lord! Please!” De Marisco’s face remained expressionless. When Isabel’s flailing 39

Tadhg Ó Muiris feet were a good two feet above the platform, her ascent ceased and the chains were secured to bolts in the floor. At this point, the bonds connecting her ankles were detached and the shackles reconnected to chains fastened to the two outer uprights, drawing her legs apart obscenely. Once again the jeering of the crowd resumed with fresh vigor as the San Benito rode up above her thighs, exposing her sex to the mob. Struggling to ease the weight borne by her shoulders and wrists, she found that her ankles had been secured at a sufficient height to the uprights so that her knees were slightly flexed. If she straightened her legs, which trembled violently at the effort, she found she could bear almost her entire weight in this way and the pain in her upper body subsided. After a few moments, however, she found that the pain in her ankles and her own weakened state made it necessary for her to relax her legs once more, and once again dangle helplessly by her arms. From her reading of classical literature, she realized that this was the Dance of the Cross — the way in which crucifixion victims spent their final days, until weakness or the breaking of legs hastened death through exhaustion, congestive heart failure or asphyxia. Indeed, the frame to which she was affixed was nothing more than a crucifix that had been modified — doubtless to avoid any overt blasphemy. The rhythm and motions of her contortions, though entirely involuntary, nevertheless must have appeared very lewd indeed to the spectators, as her legs alternately flexed and straightened, the hairy mound between her thighs winking in and out of view. With every straightening of her legs, her body rose a few inches and she managed a low moan — it was almost impossible to exhale while fully suspended, let alone to speak. Though the day was cool, she began to sweat from her exertions, and the wood of the platform beneath her darkened. Her eyes sought out de Marisco; he was looking up at her, his eyes flashing with excitement. The incoherent moans she uttered on her ascents ceased, and were replaced by an imploringly husked “My Lord! My Lord!” He stepped toward her, and grasped a fold of the penitential robe in his hand. In a single savage movement that wrenched a startled cry 40

Isabel’s Heresy from her, the robe was torn from her body and thrown into the mass of onlookers. So she was displayed - naked, spread-eagled, humiliated and tormented before the cackling mob. He barked an order to the jailer, who handed to him a small wooden plaque from which hung a string, and placed a stepladder before Isabel. Mounting the ladder, de Marisco was now at Isabel’s eye level, his face inches from hers. Despite her torment, her concentration on those eyes was all consuming — she wished she could escape the horrors and cruelties of the world by diving into their darkling depths and hide there forever. Knowing none but he could hear her, she breathed, “Please, my Lord, have mercy.” Wordlessly, de Marisco hung the wooden plaque around her neck — she did not have to look down at it to know what it would say — witch. As he released his grip on the string behind her, she once again felt a subtle, stolen caress on her flesh, that none but she would have noticed. Beyond caring for anything else, knowing she had nothing left to lose, she straightened her legs and strained forward to kiss him, but her lips fell an agonizing inch short of his waiting mouth. He made no motion to close this gap, but pursed his lips and blew softly on her glowing, tear-streaked face. The plaque seemed to pulse with a life of its own as it rode the crest of Isabel’s storm-tossed bosom. Ostensibly in order to adjust it, one of his fingers ran along its underside and, in a motion obscured to all, circled and squeezed one of her nipples, which instantly hardened. She gave a little cry. “The mercy of God is infinite, my lovely one,” he said gently, and then descended the stepladder. His manner suddenly changed, as he turned to the crowd once again. “As you all know, in the interests of public order, our Lord the Marques has ordered a curfew. On pain of death, no soul is to be found on the streets of this village after sundown, which is approaching quickly. All are to disperse.” This announcement was met with a sullen grumble — they felt cheated of their show, realizing that by the next morning, Isabel’s physical condition would probably deprive them of much entertainment. A threatening motion from the pikemen that ringed 41

Tadhg Ó Muiris the scaffold, however, was all it took to disperse the bleating villagers. He spoke to the jailer once again. Whatever it was he said, his listener seemed flabbergasted, and actually made to protest. Without a second’s hesitation, de Marisco struck him a blow on the side of the head that sent him reeling. Within seconds, jailer and guards had joined the dispersing throng. Turning to look up at Isabel once again, whose quivering mouth still seemed poised for a kiss that never came, he descended the scaffold and disappeared from her sight. She felt abandoned without him there to share in her sacrifice; time began to lose meaning for Isabel as her dance continued. Darkness soon fell, and the streets were silent save for the barking of a dog somewhere off in the distance, her own labored breathing and the clanking of her chains. She found herself hallucinating, imagining the oddest sights. She fancied him mounted on a pale horse with a slaughtered lamb, of all things, draped across its withers, riding to where she suffered. In this waking dream, he swung down from the horse carrying the lamb across his shoulders, mounted the scaffold once again, and dropped the carcass at the foot of the frame. As this apparition reached out a hand to touch her trembling thigh, she realized it was not a dream: he was here. “My Lord,” the words tumbled from Isabel - who realized that it was not only the pain of her penance, but its loneliness that had been intolerable — “My Lord, have mercy. Please grant me a quick death.” De Marisco, whose hand had not left her thigh, cocked an eyebrow up at Isabel. “How many favors,” he asked archly, “do you expect of me in one week?” His fingers began to climb up the inside of her leg, their nails once again tracing their path of promise and fate towards her mound, exposed and shimmering in the chill air — she imagined steam might be rising from it. Her bush was almost at his eye level, and he looked up at her, her face almost three feet directly above his, in a strange juxtaposition of supplicant and lord. A single tear, a drop of sweat, she knew not which, fell from her face and landed silently on his own left cheek. His hands gently widened her awaiting labia, and 42

Isabel’s Heresy she felt his tongue slither around the nub of her clitoris. Straightening her legs, she fought to keep herself supported in this way as long as she could; the tremors in her legs and pelvis seemed to add to the delicious sensations produced by de Marisco’s lingual ministrations. In a few moments, however, she found she could no longer support herself this way, and she sagged in her bonds. Isabel saw to her horror that de Marisco had no intention of adjusting his attitude in order to maintain contact with Isabel’s body, but was steadfastly waiting for her to gather enough strength to raise herself to his mouth once again! Knowing she had no choice, she resolved to do just that, even if it meant her ankles being shorn through, or her legs breaking like twigs beneath her — he would have her taste and her essence, which would live on within him, and she, by God, would have his touch if it was the last thing she did, as it seemed it certainly would be. She gave a furious groan as she hoisted herself up once again, and de Marisco’s tongue returned to her body. Her calves were on fire, her face contorted with the effort, and yet she could feel the tension in her pelvis humming with a momentum of its own. Though she still maintained her attitude at tremendous cost, he withdrew his tongue from her. Unutterable disappointment and despair filled her: she sagged and flailed, wailed and cried. Her body screamed for release, and howled in injured rage. “My Lord, have pity!” she screamed, and her pleadings echoed in the deserted, darkened streets of the village. Somewhere below them, the pale horse snorted nervously. “What,” he said slowly, gazing up at her, “will you offer me for my mercy?” “Anything!” she moaned, writhing in near frenzy. “Will you be my slave? Of your own free will? Mine forever, to do with as I please? My property, my chattel, my prisoner, my captive, servant of my desires, devoted to me unto death?” “I would be your slave, my Lord, of my own free will! Yours forever, to do with as you please! Your property, your chattel, your prisoner, your captive, the servant of your desires, devoted to you unto death!” she sobbed. 43

Tadhg Ó Muiris De Marisco condescended to bend lower to reach Isabel’s womanhood, and she found herself electrified once again. As his tongue described its serpentine course around her clitoris, she felt him insert two fingers deeply into her vagina, and a further two began to explore the approaches to her anus. Within moments, her orgasm was torn from her body, and her bucking, stiffening legs heaved her up for a long, keening cry of relief and ecstasy. For a few delicious minutes he rested his cheek against her sweatsoaked belly, and the slight stubble of his face seemed the most comforting sensation she had ever known. He then set about the awkward task of lowering Isabel’s body to the ground. First releasing her ankles from where they were secured to the uprights, he grasped both chain-ends that secured her wrists and lowered her slowly until her feet met the platform. They may as well not have done, as her legs gave like saplings beneath her. Taking her in his arms, he carried the nearly unconscious Isabel down the scaffold steps to his waiting horse, draping her across its shoulders where the lamb had been previously secured. The chains that dangled from her wrists he fastened to the saddle. She was only to remember dimly what happened next — she recalled the smell of paraffin, a blinding flash of flame, and then off they rode quietly, the gentle rocking of the horse’s muscles easing her to peaceful slumber.

44

Isabel’s Heresy

Chapter Seven

I

sabel awoke in a sumptuously appointed bedchamber. The floors were covered in rich carpets, the walls hung with brightly colored tapestries. In a huge and ornate hearth a fire blazed merrily, and she felt its warmth working into her aching joints. Throwing back the rich bedclothes, she found she was still naked; around her throat was a polished metal collar. A closer inspection showed that it was fastened with a tiny lock at the nape of her neck. She scarcely knew what to make of this. All she could really understand was that she had been somehow saved from the flames, and was now this man’s possession, body and soul. Glancing around her, it occurred to her that there might be worse fates — her surroundings were a far cry from the cottage she had once called her home. She was conscious, however, of a certain uneasiness at her new situation. Hearing approaching footsteps outside the door that she saw to be unlocked, she rushed to the wardrobe to find something with which to cover herself, but found it empty. Just as the door swung open, she managed to pull the counterpane of the great canopied bed about her. In the doorway stood de Marisco, looking her up and down in that quizzical manner she had observed before. “Take that off,” he ordered. Reluctantly, Isabel replaced the counterpane on the bed. Something in his gaze prompted her to raise her hands protectively to her breasts. “Lower your hands,” he said, now with a trace of impatience. Isabel complied as de Marisco began slowly to circle around her, allowing no inch of her exposed flesh to escape his notice. The welts 45

Tadhg Ó Muiris on her backside, whose redness had already begun to subside seemed to merit his special attention, and he ran one hand along the curve of her buttocks in a pensive fashion. Isabel shivered. “I expect you’re hungry,” he said. “Food will be brought to you shortly.” “My Lord,” Isabel began, “You saved my life. I know that I am forever in your debt.” De Marisco seemed amused. “On the contrary,” he replied, “You are the debt.” He walked to a great chair that stood near the hearth, and sat down. “Come here.” When Isabel was standing before him, he instructed her to kneel. From his robes he produced a pair of leather cuffs, connected with a chain that Isabel was surprised to see had been forged of silver. Without prompting, she offered him her wrists, palms upward. He placed the manacles on her; they fastened with a lock similar to the one Isabel had discovered on her collar. The chains felt warm against her flesh. He must have been carrying them next to his skin, she thought. It is the warmth of his

body I feel. “My Lord, do you fear I will try to escape?” At this, de Marisco smiled. “Of course not,” he answered. “You know perfectly well that this is a sanctuary, not a prison, and that were you to show that pretty face of yours outside these walls, it would mean your destruction.” “Yes, my Lord, I do understand. May I ask then, my Lord, why I am enchained?” “You may ask,” he replied, “but I would prefer that you come to that understanding by yourself. For now, it is only important that you serve me.” “And how may I do that, my Lord?” Wordlessly, de Marisco took Isabel’s hand and placed it on his own crotch. Beneath her fingers, she felt hardness and warm, throbbing movement. He withdrew his hand from hers and waited. 46

Isabel’s Heresy Isabel blushed. Considering the indignities and ravages to which she had been subjected over the last few days, it surprised her she still had the capacity. Gingerly, she set about unbuttoning de Marisco, glancing up at him nervously from time to time for signs of displeasure or approval. When his tumescence was fully exposed, she began to stroke it. She grew fascinated by its responses to her caresses — the way in which it would twitch and nod to her touch. Throughout this process de Marisco sat silently, though the quickening of his breath told her she was pleasing him. The chains made her feel awkward as she manipulated his penis, to which she felt irresistibly drawn. Stealing another glimpse up at him, she gently eased her face towards his member, and gave one tentative lick on its tip. It tasted marvelous, and she imagined she saw its head swell even further and redden perceptibly, one portentous bead of honey bedizening its cyclopean eye. Isabel took his continued silence for approval, and decided to do everything in her power to please the man who had saved her life. Opening her jaws wide, she took as much of his scrotum into her mouth as she could, sliding her tongue along its surface as her lips reluctantly released it. She felt intoxicated by the smell of him, and savored the feel of his pubic hair against her cheek. Her own breathing grew rapid and shallow. Her tongue flicked along the base of his cock, until she could no longer resist the impulse to take him wholly into her mouth. Back and forth her moist lips slid along the shaft, alternately tensing and relaxing as they passed over the rim of his glans; so enraptured was she by this activity that she hardly noticed de Marisco grasp the length of chain connecting her wrists, and pull it up and over his neck. She continued to suck and lick, arms now upstretched as she was draped like a necklace about him. She felt one of his hands gently stroking her cropped head, and found her own hands near his shoulder level lightly gripping the muscles of his upper arms beneath the silken folds of his shirt. She began to give short, low-pitched moans in rhythm with her ministrations, and the vibrations these vocalizations set off in her mouth seemed to add to the sensations she provided him. After a few more minutes she felt his pelvis stirring beneath her; those subtle 47

Tadhg Ó Muiris movements became seismic heavings as he careened towards climax. She was also aware of how moist she herself was becoming, and distractedly began rubbing herself against his legs, hoping this would go unnoticed as she rode the breaking waves of his pleasure. The chains around her wrists now seemed like the reins to some wild, spectral horse carrying her to an unknown land; she swallowed greedily as a low, amazingly sustained groan of pleasure escaped him. She was awed at this glimpse of a side of him she had heretofore not suspected. Resting her chin on his belly, she dared look steadily up into his face, judging this would be a moment when such audacity might be excused. He was looking down at her in turn, with a deceptively drowsy mien. She felt his hand, still resting lightly on the back her shorn head, stir and grasp a hank of what hair remained to her — not harshly enough to cause discomfort, but with sufficient firmness to make his meaning known. With this grip, he gently lifted her chin from his belly and smiled. “You have pleased me,” he began, and at this, Isabel felt her eyes moisten. “But,” he continued, “do not imagine that pleasures such as these are even a fraction of the servitude and devotion I intend to exact from you.” He reached up to remove the silver chain draped over his shoulders, and Isabel felt her arms relax. As he stared down at her expectantly, she was at a loss as to what to do next. He looked somewhat pointedly from his crotch to her and back again, until she grasped his meaning. With a self-deprecating click of her tongue, she quickly set about refastening his clothing. She then resumed her kneeling position before his chair, her eyes once again lowered to the floor. As if on cue, there was a knock at the door. “Enter,” said de Marisco and two men appeared, the first in livery, carrying a tray laden with food. Placing it on a table, he departed. The second, a tall, graceful gentleman, remained. Acutely aware once again of her nakedness, Isabel’s arms moved towards her breasts and then, remembering herself, she forced them 48

Isabel’s Heresy to relax and tried not to look at the visitor. “This is Iago, my steward. In my absences, which may be frequent, you are to obey Iago in all things. Is that clear?” “Yes, my Lord.” Deeming this half-introduction a suitable excuse for raising her eyes, she looked at this Iago as long as she dared. He was very tall and slim, and, for a man, had one of the most implausibly beautiful faces he had ever seen — his high cheekbones, aquiline nose, and large, almond-shaped eyes were startling in their overall effect. Even his slender neck curved gracefully, and she could see a delicate wrist wresting on the hilt of his sword. A suspicion began to form in her mind, which she fought to conceal. She sensed de Marisco’s eyes upon her, appraising her reactions. “Leave us now, Iago.” “Yes, my Lord,” replied the stranger and strode from the room, closing the door quietly behind him. At the sound of his voice, Isabel no longer had any doubt; Iago was a woman. As if sensing her confusion, and finding no small pleasure in it, de Marisco spoke. “Iago is the ablest of my retainers, deadly with a rapier, and faithful to me unto death. This is all you need to understand. Is that clear?” The special emphasis he placed on the last question made his meaning quite clear to Isabel, even if nothing else seemed to make sense. “Yes, my Lord.” Rising from the chair, de Marisco indicated the food on the table with a sweep of his hand. “Eat and drink. My affairs require my presence elsewhere. I shall return tomorrow.” Isabel shuddered slightly, both at the mention of de Marisco’s “affairs” and his impending absence. He stood above her and she noticed with a tiny thrill the stain her moisture had left on the knee of his hose. He reached down to her, and with a finger beneath her chin, indicated she should rise. He then 49

Tadhg Ó Muiris gave her an unhurried, passionate kiss; she found her mouth working against his in a desperate attempt to remember and savor the taste of his tongue while he was away. And then with a murmured farewell, he was gone.

50

Isabel’s Heresy

Chapter Eight

A

fter a few bites of the food that had been left for her Isabel realized how famished she was, and fell upon the platters of cold meat and fruit with a will. After she felt sated, if not engorged, she curled herself back into bed, fondling her chains idly and marveling at how comforting they felt. Soon she was dozing off again. She was awoken by a light cough. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she saw Iago standing by the door, hands on her well-defined hips, observing Isabel in a clinical manner. “My Lord Iago,” Isabel acknowledged blearily. For a moment Iago said nothing, and at this a new apprehension began to scratch at the back of Isabel’s mind. What, she thought to herself, does this freak of nature want? “You appear to be functioning under a misapprehension,” began Iago coolly, her eyes moving to the platter of half-eaten food. “Misapprehension, my Lord?” said Isabel, fully awake now. Iago walked over to the platter and began to poke at the scraps of meat absently. “You appear to think you are a guest here.” No sooner were these words out then Iago had, with a flick of her wrist, overturned the contents of the tray onto the floor with a violent crash. Isabel started at the sound and began to stammer an apology. “Silence,” said Iago. “Come here.” Her heart pounding with anxiety, Isabel left the bed with such haste that her ankle chains became entangled in the bedclothes and she landed on the ground at Iago’s feet with a graceless plop. 51

Tadhg Ó Muiris “Get up, you silly bitch,” Iago drawled. Picking herself up from the floor with as much dignity as she could muster, she stood facing Iago, again acutely aware of her nakedness, fetters, and vulnerability. From a distance, Iago was an imposing woman. Close to, she was more than intimidating. A head taller than Isabel, statuesque and muscular, she gave the impression of a trap under tension ready to be sprung. The man’s clothing she affected at once served to conceal her more obviously feminine attributes, and at the same time to accentuate the litheness of her limbs and the grace of her form. The eyes that now appraised Isabel’s body, however, lacked the depth and complexity of de Marisco’s — these were hard and reptilian, with an opaque iciness that chilled Isabel. Without comment, Iago grasped Isabel by the shoulders and spun her roughly around. Producing a key, she unfasted one end of the chain connecting Isabel’s manacles. She drew Isabel’s wrists behind her and refastened the manacles directly together. The end of the chain she wrapped around Isabel’s elbows, cinching them tightly behind her back; her breasts were now thrust forward in a pigeonlike pout. Iago then spun her around once again to face her. Isabel winced at this new discomfort. Saying nothing, she looked at Iago with a dislike she managed to conceal after only an instant, but Iago had observed it and grinned. Iago took two large paces back from Isabel, her eyes never leaving her. With a surge of alarm, Isabel saw her hand move to the hilt of her sword. “With all due respect to my Lord de Marisco,” Iago said softly, “I believe he has made a mistake in rescuing you from the flames. From what I have observed, you are a disobedient, willful, self-absorbed, self-indulgent cow whose presence here places my master in mortal danger. It would have been better had you perished at the stake.” At the belligerence of these words, panic began to swell in Isabel’s chest; its rising and falling seemed to give Iago no small degree of enjoyment. Isabel gazed as if transfixed as Iago drew out the long rapier from its ornate scabbard, the glow of the fire danced off its cutting edge. 52

Isabel’s Heresy With a flourish, the blade cut the air with a whooshing sound. In a display of deadly accuracy, the tip of her sword had come to rest a mere inch above the floor at Isabel’s feet. Iago’s arm was completely extended, the elbow and wrist perfectly straight. Knees trembling and breath coming in ragged waves, Isabel realized that Iago meant to kill her and her eyes began to tear. To have come through all this, she thought, only to be killed by a jealous retainer. But what of de

Marisco? Does she not fear his wrath? She’ll probably try to make it look like an accident. With a sob, Isabel began to plead with Iago. “My Lord Iago, I beg you!” Iago’s voice never got any louder and there seemed to be no anger in it; all her hostility was more than adequately conveyed by her words and actions. “You are right to fear for your life,” she said quietly. Isabel’s head was bent low to observe that deadly blade at her feet, whose flash she could perceive between the panicky swell of her breasts. With horror she observed the tip begin slowly to rise from its position an inch above the floor and climb with a steady menace upward between her legs as Iago began to raise her extended arm. Once or twice on its ascent she felt its icy coldness brush up against the inner surface of a calf or thigh, and she moved to place her feet at a further distance one from the other. “I wouldn’t do that, were I you,” grinned Iago lazily. Isabel didn’t know what Iago meant, until she had felt the blade begin to part her pubic hair. Instinctively, she went on tiptoe to delay her inevitable bifurcation. She realized that had her legs been spread, standing on tiptoe would have been more difficult, and the distance from the floor to her pubis would have been decreased, along with her life expectancy. Once Isabel was on tiptoe, she realized the upward progress of the blade had ceased. She could still feel its icy threat poised a hair’s breadth from her body. She fought to maintain her balance on her toes, but her bound state and mounting terror made this all the more difficult. Sweat began to bead on her forehead; she could no longer risk glancing downward, and her eyes fixed on a middle point in the 53

Tadhg Ó Muiris room, as she struggled with all her strength to hold herself away from the blade. She observed distractedly that Iago’s arm, though gripping a heavy sword at the end of it, never wavered or trembled from the exertion. Hours seemed to pass, although Isabel knew it could only have been minutes. Her mind shrieked at the cruelty and terrorism of her assassin. The pain in her feet and her arched back gradually became unbearable, and a violent trembling extended up her legs to her abdomen and chest, making her breasts quiver dramatically. Finally, with a cry of despair, she felt her legs buckle beneath her, and she screamed as her body collapsed onto what she was sure would be her doom. But as she lay crying and crumpled on the floor, she realized that she was not even nicked. She heard the rasp of Iago’s sword returning to its scabbard. “Next time you see me walk into the room, in the absence of our Lord de Marisco,” said Iago quietly, “you will rise. Is that clear?” Isabel’s cheek rested on the coolness of the floor, and her body continued to shake, but she managed a respectful acknowledgement. “Get up,” said Iago. Another ragged sob greeted this injunction. Painfully and awkwardly, deprived of the use of her arms, Isabel nevertheless managed to hoist herself to a standing position once again until she was swaying unsteadily before Iago. She, needless to say, had offered her no assistance. “We may now,” said Iago, “return to the purpose of my visit.” Isabel’s mind reeled. What further purpose could her visit have had, she wondered, if not to inflict upon me what she already has? Once again, she felt herself being spun around by Iago. She moaned in relief as she felt the chains around her elbows loosened, and felt the blood recirculating in her lower arms. She longed to have the flesh where the chains had bruised her rubbed gently, and felt intuitively that de Marisco would have done this. Iago, on the other hand, did not. Her manacles, she noted, were not unfastened, but a cool palm pressed against the small of her back guided her to a corner of the room where, partially obscured by the darkness of the 54

Isabel’s Heresy rafters, she saw a hook hanging from a chain. Behind her, she felt Iago grasp the end of the chain attached to her wrist. Without preamble, this chain was jerked upward, and her entire upper body was bent forward to accommodate the unnatural disposition of her shoulders and arms as she heard the hook engage the chain. She moaned with dread and pain at this novel and unpleasant position, and this moan became a choked cry of anguish as she felt the chain tightened and her wrists drawn even higher behind her. She drew her ankles together and once again stood on her toes to find any available slack in the strappado. Having decided she was sufficiently immobile, Iago stood back to observe Isabel’s predicament, which was extreme. Her head cast downwards, she made no attempt to look at her tormenter. The tendons in her shoulders and arms stood out fiercely. One or two tears patted from her eyes to the floor, in whose direction her breasts hung in a perpendicular fashion, swinging gently with each breath she took. The two perfect globes of her buttocks extended upward behind her. Considering these, Iago walked over to a cupboard and produced an iron bar of some two feet in length, with ring-like finials at either end. Crouching by her ankles, she attached one end to the right shackle. Grasping Isabel’s left ankle, she unceremoniously drew it outward with a violent jerk, and attached the other end of the bar thereto. Not only were Isabel’s legs drawn apart, but the tension on her shoulders and arms was considerably increased by this procedure, and she winced. Stepping behind Isabel, Iago could now see that her anus and vagina were perfectly exposed, which had, of course, been her intention. She then paced unhurriedly around her victim and clasped a short clump of hair in her hand to draw her face upward, but not high enough for Isabel to look her in the eye; short of breaking her neck, this would have been impossible. Iago hunkered down conversationally by her, never releasing the grip she maintained on her hair. Isabel’s tear-brimmed eyes met hers, but she said nothing, trying to preserve her strength for whatever lay ahead. 55

Tadhg Ó Muiris “This,” smiled Iago, “is why I came.” She straightened up and released Isabel’s hair; her head fell forward again dejectedly. From her position, Isabel could see nothing but the floor, but she heard movement behind her, and then silence. Iago, catlike, seemed to be able to breath without making any sound. Minutes seemed to pass, during which her apprehension grew and her trembling increased. She wondered if Iago were still there, or if she had left the room, leaving her in this miserable condition. These speculations ended abruptly when Iago’s cool palm delivered the first slap on Isabel’s behind with a loud crack, landing squarely on her right buttock. She cried out more in surprise than pain, and sensed how the first initial sting faded into a spreading warmth, in a synaesthetic blurring of sharp edges to soft ones. The next blow fell on her left buttock, and then the right again. She began to perceive how, on those surfaces of her body subjected to repeated slappings, the warmth transformed itself to heat, which obscured slightly the sting of initial delivery. She gave tiny dove-like cries at every slap, which increased in intensity with the vigor of Iago’s ministrations. She felt herself begin to moisten. The wetness between her legs had not gone unobserved by Iago. Without missing a beat in the slaps she delivered to Isabel’s now tossing buttocks, which had assumed a steady, pounding rhythm, she began to caress Isabel’s sex and anus in long, lazy strokes with the fingers of her free hand, which slid easily around and inside Isabel’s clenching orifices, well lubricated as they now were. The rhythm of the slaps adjusted to the rhythms of her own internal clenchings and the wiles of Iago’s long, gracile fingers. Her back, already bent by her restraints, began to arch even more violently and strain with her approaching climax, and she raised her head in abandon at her mounting pleasure. Then with a vicious chuckle, Iago stopped and stepped back. Isabel’s eyes widened with consternation, and her head swung wildly to establish eye contact with Iago. She could barely breathe at this point, and her shaking legs could hardly support the weight of her body, whose bonds threatened to break it in half. 56

Isabel’s Heresy “My Lord Iago,” she gasped desperately, “please, I beg you!” Iago walked around to face Isabel, who painfully continued to seek eye contact. Despite her distress and the screaming ache in her loins that pounded at her unsated nerve endings, a part of her mind registered the fact that she could certainly hear Iago’s breathing now. “As I said,” Iago unwontedly husked, “you are not a guest here.” Isabel’s head was on a level with Iago’s crotch. She therefore had no difficulty observing Iago unbutton her codpiece and pull down her fine silk hose, revealing a muscular abdomen, powerful thighs, and finally the bushy red tuft that seemed to throb with an angry life of its own. Once again, she felt Iago grasp her hair from behind, and her face was crammed rudely into Iago’s wet, fragrant mound.

57

Tadhg Ó Muiris

Chapter Nine

I

sabel began to lick as if her life depended upon it, which, again, she suspected it did. The force with which she was pressed into Iago made it difficult to breathe, and she snorted desperately for air as she lapped at the she-devil’s slick, pebble-like clitoris. Above the sound of her own wet smackings and grunts, she heard a low, tremulous moan rise from Iago’s throat. Those muscular warrior’s legs she had observed began to tremble; Isabel could feel the vibrations on her cheeks and chin. The pitch of Iago’s moans slid up to a level at which she almost sounded like a woman, and then suddenly stopped, as did the trembling; the grip on Isabel’s neck compressed her face even more tightly into Iago’s crotch — her airways were now completely blocked, and she could feel her face turning crimson as the frozen, silent fury of Iago’s orgasm continued. Just as spots began to appear before her eyes the vise around the nape of her neck relaxed, Iago pulled away, and Isabel sucked up delicious gouts of air. Her head hanging earthward, she could see where tears, sweat, spittle, and Iago’s passion had speckled the flagstones of the chamber floor. She heard Iago refastening her garments. The Amazon’s great polished riding boots came into her line of vision, and Isabel could just make out twinned, distorted images of her own helplessness and woe in their unearthly sheen. Iago’s voice seemed to reach her as from the bottom of a well. “Perhaps you will have your uses around here.” With that, the chain securing Isabel’s wrists high behind her was disengaged, and she began to plummet, face-first, towards the stone floor. With cat-like reflexes, an arm shot out around Isabel’s waist: it felt like an iron rod. After she was lowered gently to the cold floor, 58

Isabel’s Heresy her ankles were released from the spreader bar and her manacles refastened before her. There she lay like a spent lump, in the cooling slickness of the morning’s torments. Every muscle in her shoulders and hips screamed, but were as nothing to the aching longing in her crotch that Iago had awakened but refused to satisfy. “Go back to bed,” said Iago. “My master expects to find you there.” Isabel made a few feeble and ultimately abortive attempts to pick herself up. Iago sighed impatiently and heaved Isabel onto the bed by main force, where she immediately feigned unconsciousness. As she heard the massive door closed, she opened one eye to confirm that the demon had indeed departed. Isabel’s shackled hands strayed downwards to the source of her lingering, throbbing anguish. She felt powerless to prevent them from completing the job Iago had so cruelly left unfinished, and as she began to pleasure herself she felt an inward satisfaction, as if she were somehow thwarting her vulpine nemesis. The chains linking her manacles afforded her sufficient play to manipulate her rock-hard nipples with one hand as she fondled herself urgently with the other. As a single and respectable woman, she was no stranger to self-love but never had the need for it seemed so urgent and overpowering. While her body began to rock with pleasure, her tongue dabbing at her Iago-bedewed lips, she imagined de Marisco with his hands caressing her bound and helpless body, his tongue savoring the sweetness of her arousal. She was scarcely aware of the rhythmic jangling of her fetters. But someone else was. The door crashed open. She could scarcely believe her eyes, and let out a howl of despair, as Iago the accursed, Iago the devil, Iago the bitch from hell made the bed in three long strides from the door, grabbed the chain and hauled Isabel to her feet. She began to weep uncontrollably in frustration and fear, not knowing which was worse: what lay in store for her now at the hands of this apparition, or the nascent orgasm that was never to be, and which was already subsiding into the shrieking ache she had been trying to escape. “Not a fast learner, are you, bitch?” Iago hissed into her ear. Her 59

Tadhg Ó Muiris saurian gaze flashed with incredulous anger. “If I, Iago,” and she thumped her breast with a gloved fist, “If I wouldn’t dare, where does a slave like you find the effrontery to usurp her Master’s rights?” Fastening Isabel’s wrists behind her once again, Iago produced a long leather lead that she fastened to the ring in the weeping woman’s collar. Turning towards the door, she jerked Isabel rudely behind her to a fate at which her reeling mind could not guess. Naked, enchained, and tormented in the privacy of de Marisco’s chamber had been harrowing enough. Isabel now found herself led, like a domestic animal—to the slaughter? Isabel wondered, through the corridors and halls of the stronghouse. She tried to keep up with Iago’s long strides, but her weakened state caused her to stumble several times, for which she was rewarded with another vicious yank on the lead. There seemed to be people everywhere — retainers, cooks, liverymen, scullery maids, the odd soldier — and Isabel, flushed with shame, kept her face averted, venturing only the merest glance at the people and objects surrounding her. Something struck her as odd: no one appeared to be taking the slightest notice of her. In the village, she remembered scarcely being able to walk down the street, dressed in the most unbecoming peasant smock, without having to endure the leers and evade the occasional assaults of men. Now here she was, a young woman, naked, fettered, in obvious distress, being led through a manse on a lead and one would think it were an everyday occurrence at the house of de Marisco. Perhaps, she thought, it was. Indeed, only one person seemed to take any interest at all — a wizened old woman with a mischievous expression, whom Isabel never noticed. Staring after the procession, she hoisted up a ragged bundle and made her halting way to the castle gates. Iago led Isabel outside to the courtyard. Scores of black windows looked down upon her from the thick stone walls that arose in every side; she wondered if now, from their depths, members of the household now enjoyed, unobserved, the spectacle she made. They stood before a great stone well, protected by a high thatched cupola, between whose supports a massive crank extended. “You seem to need some cooling off,” smirked Iago. “Down 60

Isabel’s Heresy there, I think.” When Isabel grasped the import of Iago’s words she fell to her knees on the bare earth of the courtyard, pressing her cheek against one of Iago’s sinewed calves. “Please, my Lord Iago, I’m sorry, it won’t happen again!” she burbled. Iago chuckled evilly and busily connected the chain to a forged hook that dangled from the massive oak beam of the crank. Grasping Isabel by the hips, she swung her easily over the black pit of the well. As she dangled, the pain in Isabel’s wrists and shoulders was indescribable and she cried out, her pleas echoing eerily off the dank walls. Her feet frantically fought for purchase on the slick stones that lined the abyss, but found none. Looking upward, she saw Iago in the circle of daylight that was the well’s mouth, turning the crank and lowering her down into the chill darkness. So this was to be her fate, she thought, drowned in a well. She could see nothing below her, but merely imagined the obsidian waters that awaited her writhing body. The thought of their first icy kiss filled her with terror. Then her descent stopped. Iago’s head appeared to her over the lip of the pit, but so backlit that Isabel was unable to make out her expression. She didn’t have to — the tone of that monster’s voice was enough. “Here you shall remain for one hour. It is a punishment not nearly adequate for your selfishness, ingratitude and disobedience, but I’m feeling particularly magnanimous after the pleasure I’ve wrung from you this morning.” At these words, Isabel was suddenly aware of an overpowering need to urinate, which she had not done since awaking. The coolness of her surroundings, besides hardening her nipples most fetchingly, made her need all the more pressing. She informed Iago as delicately and respectfully as she could of her predicament. She had no need to see Iago’s face to imagine the dark mirth there, as she chuckled ominously. “What you say pleases me beyond measure. Our laws here are very strict, as they must be. The penalty for contaminating the only 61

Tadhg Ó Muiris operating well in the castle is death — even my Lord de Marisco could not afford to pardon such an offence. If, when I return, you have soiled the water of that well with but one drop of your piss, it shall be my pleasure summarily to lower you into your own filth and leave you to drown like a superfluous litter of kittens. Oh — I almost forgot.” Iago’s shadow disappeared from Isabel’s view, while she groaned and shuddered. Reappearing after a few minutes, she placed an object on the ledge where Isabel could see it. Its transparency made both its function and workings plainly visible even from Isabel’s position; it was an hourglass. With a flourish, Iago upended it. “I’ll be back in an hour. It should take me that long to compose the words that might most gently inform my Master of what he might, mistakenly, believe to be a grievous loss.” And with that, she was gone. Isabel’s mind lurched. She scarcely knew which was worse — the agony in her wrists, shoulders or bladder. She howled with grief, rage and self-pity. Why, oh why, had he left her at the mercy of such an evil and cruel abomination? Her legs scissored in frustration and despair. She knew she would never be able to hold her water for an hour — indeed, her suspension was already making respiration difficult, and she wasn’t sure she could survive for an hour in such a position, let alone remain continent. The thought of that cold, black water slowly enveloping her, smothering her, stifling her cries for succor, was too horrible to contemplate. She cried for help. Surely, someone up there must take pity on me. But her entreaties were met by only by the lonely reverberations of the stone walls. She glanced up at the hourglass. From her angle, she couldn’t see how much sand had reached the bottom, but reckoned it to be heartbreakingly minute, judging by the great, cruel, sluggish mass that seemed to trickle improbably slowly from its top. It happened without her volition, which made it seem all the more unfair, and she the more powerless. Her bladder disgorged in a splashing torrent whose relief was so immense, she forgot both the pain in her muscles and Iago’s warning. Her body shivered in delight, 62

Isabel’s Heresy but her relief was momentary. Almost instantly, the bat-like spectre of Iago appeared above her again. She must have been hovering nearby,

waiting for the sound of water. She saw Iago’s arm reach for the crank. It seemed her gloating taunts and insults were at an end; her silence was far more terrible. She felt herself being lowered. “My Lord Iago,” cried Isabel, trying to keep her tone as steady as possible. She fought to marshal her words, and deny the devil Iago the pleasure of hearing her voice quaver. Iago did not change pace of her descent, which was diabolically slow, as Isabel spoke. “Tell my Lord de Marisco I am grateful —” Isabel struggled to suppress a gasp as her flailing toes came into contact with the icy water. It was like the fiery teeth of a black, unseen monster. Involuntarily, she drew her legs up under her to escape its jaws, but the effort was too much. Deadly needles pricked at her calves and mid-thigh. “— to him for saving my life.” Her breath came in rapid shallow gasps as the coldness reached her crotch — only once did she give a brief, squealing cry. “Tell him for me that I’m sorry,” she said, and tears welled in her eyes. The water crept up past her rolling bosoms and insinuated itself around her neck, her chin, until it reached her lower lip. Her body began to go numb. She raised her head towards Iago’s implacable shadow. “Tell him I love him,” she blurted breathlessly, only realizing the truth of these words an instant before uttering them, and desperate to get them out before her mouth was submerged in the inky silence. But submerged it was not. Incredibly, she found that her toes were touching bottom. “It’s a good thing you’re not more of a midget than you are,” said Iago. “I told you the truth of our laws. Fortunately for you, this is not a functioning well.” Isabel dazedly registered Iago hauling her upward and the strangely muted tone in Iago’s voice before slipping into a dead faint. 63

Tadhg Ó Muiris

Chapter Ten

A

s Isabel opened her eyes, a dark outline gradually coalesced into the now familiar features of de Marisco. Through her dissipating grogginess, she felt waves of relief wash over her. By the angle of the sunset that poured from the windows, she sensed another day had passed. Unsteadily, she rose from the bed and wrapped herself around de Marisco’s booted ankles — her fetters and nudity so natural to her now that she was no longer conscious of them. “It seems every time I arrive I find you in bed,” he observed wryly. “Do you do nothing but sleep?” “My Lord,” she said, “I’ve missed you so much. Master Iago —” “Hush,” she heard him say as his hand smoothed the hair at the back of her downcast head. “I have spoken with Iago, and understand you have had a somewhat eventful time of it in my absence. It seems at least you weren’t bored while I was away.” Her face still downcast, Isabel hoped her astonishment was not apparent. “My Lord, you mean you are aware of what happened? That you were aware of what might have happened?” De Marisco ceased his caressing of Isabel’s hair, and she felt him now clutch it in a firm grip, raising her face steadily in his direction. “Before I left, I instructed you to obey Iago in all things. Although Iago may seem a rather overzealous proxy, you may rest assured she would never actually harm one of my possessions.” 64

Isabel’s Heresy Manipulating Isabel by her short hair, he raised her to a standing position, talking gently all the while. “The fact that you remain unaware of this troubles me.” Maintaining his grip, he led her back to the bed and had her kneel on the mattress, her back against one of the massive carved bedposts that supported the heavy velvet tester. “Did you think, after the risks that I have taken to secure you for myself, that I would lose you to the wrath of a servant?” He fastened her wrists behind the post; Isabel began to pant rapidly in a mixture of dread and anticipation. “Iago was right. You still have much to learn.” Removing the black silk scarf from around his neck, he tied it around her head, and the world was lost in darkness. The room seemed bathed in silence, and she could detect no movement around her. She breathed through her mouth in an effort to hear more acutely, her chin raised in an attitude of alertness. Gooseflesh rose on her skin. Minutes passed. She felt his hands cup her breasts delicately from behind, her nipples coming smartly to attention at his touch, and she gasped in a mixture of arousal and relief. She moaned softly as he began to claw gently at her breasts with his fingernails, a light scraping that elicited from her a convulsive shiver each time they made contact with her already swollen nipples. As his right talon began to snake its way down across her belly, she angled her body hungrily towards it unto the limit of her bonds. Her breath coming in plaintive sighs, she craned her neck over one suffering shoulder, seeking the warmth and fragrance of his lips. This herculean effort was rewarded by the merest brush of an unseen mouth, and made her frantic for more; her sighs became whimpers of entreaty. She groaned explosively when two fingers swam upward into her dripping vagina; at the same instant her probing mouth found his and she sought to bury her tongue in its moist depths, her lips lapping at his desperately. While she twisted and squirmed in increasing arousal, his left hand had ceased its gentle abrasions of her breast and began lightly 65

Tadhg Ó Muiris to slap her bosoms in rhythmic harmony with the convulsions of her body. With two fingers slithering deliciously back and forth inside her, de Marisco’s thumb found her clitoris and began to rub along its satin side. So enflamed was she that Isabel barely noticed how he gradually withdrew his hand from her until she found herself compelled to extend her pelvis in rapturous contortion, her arms and shoulders stretched to their limits; all the while, her mouth worked against his. The force with which de Marisco beat her breasts with the flat of his hand increased steadily, the plosive thwacks punctuating her labored breaths. She imagined her bosoms becoming increasingly red and inflamed: they felt like they were on fire now, and her eyes begin to tear with the pain. Yet it was as nothing compared to the awesome pleasure she felt spreading throughout her entire body. When he missed a beat, she astonished herself with a little cry, plunging her chest in the anticipated direction of the next blow. The electric thrumming had begun in her pelvis, which she recognized as the herald of inescapable climax. De Marisco disengaged his mouth from hers, tore off her blindfold, and whispered in her ear with savage urgency. “I have marked you as mine. To whom do you belong, slave?” As she soared to orgasm, she caught a glance of the angry purple bruises ringing her areoles. The fire in her breasts and the fury in her crotch exploded in an ecstatic thunderclap. “I am yours,” she gasped, but the final syllable was lost in a long, ululating moan. His strong arms rocked her gently from behind as the fires within her subsided to glowing embers. She kissed one of those protecting arms gratefully, but felt it stiffen as a cry arose from without. “Soldiers!” she heard someone shout. De Marisco had made the door in a leaping bound, drawing his sword as he did so. There seemed a tumult outside, but Isabel, still bound to the post of the bed, could only struggle and twist around to see out the great mullioned window. The angle was poor and afforded but a limited view of the disturbance below. She had blurred 66

Isabel’s Heresy impressions of rushing figures, heard the rasp of steel against steel and shouts of anger and pain. As she struggled to see more, one phrase she heard rising from the mêlée made the blood freeze in her veins. “Find the witch!”

Discovery. Betrayal. Frantically, she tried to free herself from her restraints, knowing it was pointless: it was impossible for her to unfasten the shackle bolts. She cried out in terror and frustration. For all she knew, her Master and protector was being slaughtered outside, and she could expect at least as grisly a fate herself. Heavy, racing footfalls sounded in the corridor outside. She braced herself against the bedpost, swinging her gaze to the doorway with expectant dread. De Marisco crashed through the door, blood dripping both from his sword and a gash on his left upper arm. Releasing her hands, he grabbed her by his free arm and hauled her behind him through the corridor, down the staircase, and into the courtyard where a snorting, wild-eyed horse fretfully scraped at the earth. Around her boiled a chaotic scene of destruction and madness. Several outbuildings blazed out of control and bodies littered the churned ground. A wild free-for-all boiled around them, and she saw Iago holding three soldiers at bay with her flailing blade. De Marisco swung Isabel up behind him, wrapping his cloak around her bruised nakedness. Spurring the horse savagely, they burst through the raised portcullis, and the infernal sight was swept away from her in a tangled flurry of pounding hooves and wind-blown cloaks.

67

Tadhg Ó Muiris

Chapter Eleven

I

ago blinked the stinging sweat from her eyes, and tried feebly to daub her cracked lips with a swollen tongue. Through the waves of agony, disjointed images flashed through her mind. Her Master. That bitch who had ruined them all. It had all happened very quickly, with the dull inexorability of a nightmare. An alarm had been sounded at the ramparts that mounted soldiers were approaching at speed. They numbered about thirty, she was told; besides those in livery, there were a few irregulars with them: local toughs from the village. No one had been particularly concerned at the time; de Marisco’s stronghouse was by no means impregnable, but a raiding party of horsemen posed little immediate threat. They would merely parley and see what the trouble was; her Master had important sponsors, and any dispute would either be settled amicably or through administrative fiat, and almost certainly to his opponents’ disadvantage. After having been apprised of the situation, Iago calmly strode out onto the courtyard to direct the defence, buckling on her light armor. Met by the sergeant of the guard, she strolled nonchalantly to the base of the stone staircase that would take them up to the north rampart. She spun around in alarm when she heard the metallic rasping — a sound she recognized with fatalistic certainty to be the portcullis being raised. Treachery. “To the gates!” she cried, as a dozen startled crossbowmen above her turned from their stations to see their doom approaching from behind. Seasoned campaigners, they loosed a volley of bolts from where they stood, dismounting the first few riders through the 68

Isabel’s Heresy breach, then drew their swords and clattered down from the walls. Within seconds, Iago had calculated that their position was untenable, and ran towards the main hall. There she met her Master, tearing madly down the central staircase. As ever, her heart swelled in his presence; she nevertheless flushed with the knowledge that she had failed him. “Master,” she said, “we are betrayed. The portcullis is raised, the enemy is within, and they are too many.”

We can fight our way out together if we leave now, just you and I, Master, as it was before and should ever be, she found herself thinking, and cursed herself for her impertinence. De Marisco gazed into her eyes intensely for what seemed to Iago, despite the urgency of the situation, a long time. The moment was broken when a lone intruder, his back bristling with arrows, lunged blindly through the doorway swinging a gory halberd at Iago. De Marisco shoved her aside to parry the blow, sustaining a slight wound on his arm before cleaving the attacker in two with his sword. Before she could thank him, he had already turned to look up the staircase behind him in the direction of the chamber from which he had just hurried. She knew what that look meant; what was more, he would know that she knew. She felt her heart wrench.

So be it. I’ll teach that bitch what servitude really means. “I’ll hold them off as long I can,” she said, and began to turn to go. De Marisco caught her by the nape of the neck, and slammed her body against his. Her arms hung limply at her sides, her lithe body melted against his, and her lips tasted his mouth for what she knew to be the last time. A tiny, uncharacteristic sound escaped her, that merely hinted at the regret and longing of the stoic Iago. He drew his face from her, and their eyes met once again. In his gaze she saw his ownership and approval. It is enough. Drawing her sword, she let out a cry of animal fury and began carving a path for her Master, swinging her blade in wide, deadly arcs around her. Most of her own troop, she observed, were already dead, as were several of the attackers. But those invaders still on horseback enjoyed a considerable advantage, and were making short work of the survivors. After a few moments of savage hacking, she saw out of 69

Tadhg Ó Muiris the corner of her eye her Master and Isabel scramble onto an available horse and disappear through the gates. In a few minutes, she was the only defender left standing, and found herself surrounded by riders whose snorting mounts kept a safe distance from her swinging steel. She realized the stand-off would be but a temporary one. “Where is your Master?” asked a burly captain who seemed to be in charge. His pointed beard gave him a Mephistophelean appearance, an effect that was in no way tempered by the great fiery scar that ran down one side of his face from the corner of his left eye towards the lobe of his ear. “Does he not appear to defend his own home? And where is that witch of his?” Iago kept swinging. “I am the one you seek, pig!” The Captain produced a long whip from his saddle, uncoiled it, and cast it behind his right shoulder with practiced ease. It extended at least ten feet behind him. The other horsemen warily drew away. In a lightning movement of his arm, the whip shot out and wrapped around the hilt of Iago’s sword with a sharp crack. Another deft jerk, and she was disarmed. Iago, howling with rage, made for the Captain. In an instant, the soldiers on foot swarmed over her like ants, managing to pinion her limbs. Immobilized, she stood panting like a caged beast, scowling up at her captor. He dismounted and strode easily towards her, stopping perilously near. Iago struggled to break free, and it was hot work for the soldiers to restrain her. Yanking Iago’s comb morion helmet from her head, he smiled to see the red tresses fall about her shoulders. She craned her neck to snap at his hand; one of her captors gripped her by the hair so that even her head was immobile; the Captain merely chuckled. Without lifting his gaze from her feral eyes, he said: “Federico.” One of the more unpleasant-looking brutes stepped forward. “Is this the one?” Federico stepped closer to Iago, until his face was a scant foot from hers. His expression was one of malignant indecision. On the one hand, it would be a pleasure to see this crazed Amazon bitch 70

Isabel’s Heresy dance in the flames. On the other, he had a score to settle with the witch. He also suspected that no matter what he said, this one’s fate would be far from pleasant. “No, Captain. She is not.” At this point, a mounted scout clattered into the courtyard with news that de Marisco and the witch had been spotted riding northward. Federico thanked the Blessed Virgin that he had spoken the truth; it would have proved somewhat awkward had he not. “Right,” said the Captain, wheeling his charger around. “Troop, mount up. You volunteers,” indicating the irregulars among whom Federico was numbered, and the disdain was palpable in his voice as he spoke the word, “stay here and secure the castle. I have no desire to be slowed down by amateurs.” Federico knew better than to remonstrate with him over this slight. “What shall we do with this cunt?” he asked the Captain. The Captain looked down at the captured Iago, who remained as taut as a steel coil under tension, returning his gaze fiercely. He fingered his beard speculatively as he watched her: it was a pity that duty called him away. This bitch could have been a source of much enjoyment. He shrugged philosophically. “Whatever you like,” he smirked. “But I’d be careful about it, were I you.” With that, he spurred his mount and led his troop out of the castle gates northward. Federico regarded Iago again, who glared back at him with visceral hatred. He nervously rubbed a grimy cuff over his mouth. Yes, we’re going to have some fun with you, whore. Looking about, he noticed two large wooden posts standing about five feet apart at the south end of the courtyard. Each had been fitted with iron rings at a height of about seven feet. A punishment facility for recalcitrant servants, no doubt. How convenient. Federico gave the order, and the struggling Iago was dragged between the pillars. It took four men to do so, and was desperate work all the same. By and by they managed to get two ropes slipknotted around her wrists, passed them through the rings, and 71

Tadhg Ó Muiris secured them to cleats with which the posts had been fitted for just such a purpose. Her ankles were similarly fastened at the bottom of the posts and spread uncomfortably wide. No one fancied getting a kick in the groin from those legs. With Iago safely spread-eagled, even the cowardly Federico felt sufficiently safe to approach and gloat. Iago remained silent, but her nostrils flared angrily. “What kind of a woman dresses like a man?” Federico leered. She could feel his breath on her face. Without warning, she spat full in that sneering visage. With a roar, Federico struck her viciously. “Strip the bitch,” he ordered. The others obeyed with alacrity, rending doublet and shirt, codpiece, hose and belt, even pulling off her shoes, until Iago stood naked before them. A momentary hush descended on the group as they beheld the statuesque beauty of Iago’s body. Muscles rippled where they surged against the ropes. Who would have guessed, Federico mused, that a man’s clothing

could conceal such lovely breasts and such a perfect ass? He drew a dagger from its scabbard and approached Iago from behind. Federico observed that her beauty was not perfect, after all — her muscular back was marred with puckered, crisscrossing scars that looked years old. A bullwhip, he surmised. This observation did little to assuage his anger; on the contrary, it merely excited him. “You cost me three men today, cunt.” Grabbing a fistful of fiery red hair, he yanked her head violently backward, exposing a snow-white length of pulsating throat. With the dagger, he traced a diagonal red hairline from the corner of her jaw to the hollow between her clavicles. Iago’s reaction was entirely unexpected: if he had not been quick, it would have spoiled everything. Without warning, she impelled her upper body forward with a jerk in what Federico could only reckon was an attempt to impale herself on the blade. 72

Isabel’s Heresy Federico chuckled nervously. “It’s not going to be that easy, whore. No, we’re going to enjoy ourselves today.” Iago did not respond. Her gaze was unfocused, her eyes glistening. But for the movement of her breasts, one might take her for a Greek marble. Federico turned to his troop. “Step up lads; one at a time. Or not,” he laughed.

I shall be very far away. I’ve done it before; I shall do it again. I shall be where he is, because that is my place. Come to me, my Master. I am yours to do with as you please. The first churl, breathing heavily, unfastened his belt and tugged down his filthy hose. He waddled over to Iago and, grinning stupidly, sunk his grimy nails into the twin orbs of her buttocks.

De Marisco stood before her. With a tug at the tasseled cord at his throat, his black cloak fell to the ground in a swirling flourish; he wore nothing else, and his erection beckoned to her. She longed to be close to him, but her bonds held her fast. She whimpered with longing to be near him, to feel his warmth and strength next to her. “You are mine, Iago, to do with as I please,” he intoned sternly. “What I give, I can take away.” Iago could feel her juices dripping between her thighs. He reached out a finger, and daubed at her slick wetness. Iago trembled at his touch; her knees were shaking uncontrollably, and she fought to support herself by her bound arms. De Marisco sucked at the fragrant finger, then returned it to her crotch, snaking it smoothly up inside her. Her back arched in passion, and a groan of pleasure escaped her. Removing his hand, his finger traced along her lips with its velvet gift; she licked at it greedily, and she felt him enter her. She rubbed her pelvis against his, and felt his hands curling around her ass, lifting her off the ground. The relief to her shoulders was enormous, and compounded the pleasure she felt as her powerful pelvic floor muscles contracted spasmodically around him, hugging and cherishing her Master in a way her arms could not. She could feel his cooling sweet breath on her sweating face. Their eyes met — his full of mystery and denial, hers with naked adoration and 73

Tadhg Ó Muiris surrender. As it was, and shall ever be. Their pumping abdomens pummeled one the other. Magically, the bonds around her ankles had disappeared, and she found she could wrap her powerful legs around him, hooking her ankles around the back of his knees as her thighs clasped his pounding buttocks. She felt the explosion near as he grasped her hair and pulled her head back, sliding his tongue along the now salty surface of her throat. At that instant, she felt his fingers enter her anus to an improbable depth. How many hands does my Master have? It doesn’t matter. They both let out animal cries of primeval joy as their orgasms crashed upon them. Her cry subsided to a panting moan which was quickly smothered as his mouth and tongue engulfed her own. Again and again this dance was repeated, each time more explosively than the one prior, until she slumped, sated and exhausted. It was an extraordinary display, at which Federico felt a bit awed, and more than a little cheated. He was no neophyte rapist — the pain, fear, tears and pleadings were what made it so enjoyable. Six men, including himself, had raped this harlot, sometimes two at once. Traces of blood were visible around her vagina and anus. Yet when she seemed to notice at all, it was because she was apparently enjoying herself. Perhaps she was mad. Or a demon. A superstitious fear niggled at him. The other men had exchanged uncomfortable glances throughout the proceedings. “She must be a witch herself,” one ventured, crossing himself. He then looked down at his own flaccid member to ensure no sorcery had been worked there. “Worse,” opined Federico, regarding the panting, unseeing Amazon now hanging limply from her bonds, “she’s a demon.” “Should we burn her?” one asked. Federico considered this for a moment. The idea was not without its attractions, but he surmised that it would be too quick, and that this lovely might escape his grasp without his ever having heard her beg for mercy. The notion was intolerable. “We shall do to her what her kind did to our Savior,” decided Federico, at which they all crossed themselves again. 74

Isabel’s Heresy “You two,” he said, indicating two of the more burly members of his retinue, “find two stout timbers. Sink one into the ground, and bring the other to me. We’ll also need some rope, a ladder and a block and tackle.” The two shuffled their feet uncomfortably. “Hop to it!” Federico bellowed, and they scurried to their assigned tasks. “As for you,” he hissed, turning to the oblivious Iago, “it’s time to wake you up.” From his saddle, Federico uncoiled a vicious-looking whip. With a swagger, he positioned himself about eight feet behind Iago’s sinuous, scarred back. “You’re no stranger to this, I suspect,” he grinned. Drawing the whip behind him, he savored the anticipation momentarily. Three onlookers held their breath. They had no idea what to expect from this she-demon. With a deft flick of his forearm, Federico cast the whip forward at Iago’s gleaming flesh. The effect was not entirely without satisfaction for Federico. Iago’s body seemed electrified as, at the sharp cracking sound, an angry red welt appeared across her shoulder blades. Her limbs clenched, and an audible gasp escaped her. Her body remained tense, in an attitude of readiness. She knows where she is now, by God, smiled Federico. The fire on her back had summoned Iago back from her reverie. From this, she knew, there would be no escaping, and resolved to deny them the pleasure of her screams for as long as she could. Again the whipped cracked, this time across her buttocks. She bit back a strangled cry at this. Federico had heard it nonetheless, and it spurred him to greater effort. His next blow found the whip’s fall coiling like an adder around her abdomen, and this time Iago did scream. Her tormentor shivered in delight at the sound, and paused to admire the red belt of agony he had drawn around her waist. Unable to resist the temptation to gloat and trailing the whip behind him, he stood before her again. Iago’s face was flushed. He regretted the absence of tears, and decided he would have to try 75

Tadhg Ó Muiris harder. “The fun’s only begun, whore.” Iago’s head rested wearily on one striped shoulder. She raised it with some effort and made as if to spit at his face one again. Sadly, she found her mouth was dry.

I do this for you, Master. I only wish I could have bought you more time. Iago merely chuckled and stepped back three paces from her. “It’s time to work on those tits now, bitch.” Iago’s screams were deafening and constant now, as livid tracks of pain traced themselves across her breasts, belly and thighs. Yet no words, no pleas or entreaties escaped her.

No matter. She’ll be begging soon enough. As luck would have it, the detail he had sent to make preparations had discovered a ten-foot post already ideally set in the ground. Finding another timber had also posed no challenge. “Get her down from there and tie that beam to her shoulders,” Federico ordered. The men eyed one another nervously, remembering all to well the mayhem of which this termagant had proved capable. With a bark of impatience, Federico released the ropes from the cleats that secured them, and, as he predicted, Iago fell to the ground in an exhausted heap. This seemed to buck up his retinue. Raising the groaning Iago to a kneeling position, they set about tying the eighty-pound beam across her shoulders, binding her wrists to either end of it. Federico glanced across at the waiting stipes, which was a good hundred yards off near the eastern wall. Pity it’s not farther. He began to pull her up by the hair. On trembling legs she complied — not, he suspected, out of a new-found deference, but because she did not want to be on her knees before him. He found the thought irritating. A length of hair still gathered in his fist, he drew her face close to his. His other hand pointed to the post. “That way, cunt.” Iago’s gaze followed the line of his arm, and she seemed to 76

Isabel’s Heresy understand his intent. He placed a hemp halter around her neck, and tugged on it as if she were an intransigent mule. She remained rooted to the spot. Federico smiled at this. I know how to get that pretty ass

moving. As his whip bit into her buttocks once again, Iago cried out, and would have collapsed but for the two men on either side who jumped to bear the weight of the beam. Sobbing, she steadied herself and with a shrug of her shoulders loosened their grips on the timber. With a rasping sigh, she took one pace forward. “That’s it, bitch,” Federico encouraged her mockingly, “one step at a time.” Iago tottered dangerously as she gingerly balanced the weight of the patibulum on her shoulders. Her flesh screamed where the wood rubbed against the wounds of her scourging, yet onward she walked, as Federico tugged on her halter — the black goat being led to slaughter. I do this for you, Master. She found it impossible to hold her head up; her world was reduced to the ground passing beneath her shuffling steps. Once or twice she felt her knees buckling, but her attendants were always on time to prevent her from falling face down in the dirt. At length, she saw the base of the stipes before her. On Federico’s orders, she was spun around with her back to the post. The rope around her shoulders were cut; those binding her wrists to the beam were not. A block and tackle had already been set up at the top of the stipes, and ropes were quickly secured to the patibulum. All was now in readiness. Once again, Federico put his mouth to Iago’s ear. “It doesn’t have to be this way,” he purred. “I can grant you a swift death — if you beg.” Iago wearily turned her head to face him. Sweat ran in rivulets down her cheeks — or were they tears? All she could do was shake her head. He’s lying anyway. Federico scowled. “So be it, bitch. I’ll hear you beg yet.” At a nod, the patibulum, with Iago secured to it, was hoisted up the height of the stipes. Iago groaned as her full weight was now 77

Tadhg Ó Muiris borne by her wrists, her toes seeking in vain for purchase on the rough post. Her ravaged back rubbed against the wood all the way up. In a few moments, the crossbeam was fastened to the top of the upright. Federico’s ordered her ankles to be bound together and tied firmly to the stipes at a point at which her knees were slightly flexed. Iago found that, with a superhuman effort, she could support her weight periodically by straightening her legs, thus relieving her shoulders and wrists. She lacked, however, the strength to do this for any appreciable length of time, and her tortured flesh cried out as it scraped against the stipes. She felt a tightness gripping her chest. Federico and the others stepped back to admire their handiwork. They watched in fascination as Iago, groaning piteously, heaved herself up and then collapsed in exhaustion in turn. Blood, sweat and tears sparkled on her writhing beauty. Iago resolved to deny them their sport, and fought to resist the temptation of straightening her legs. Her inability to exhale, however, was too painful, and she found herself involuntarily, and pointlessly, prolonging her agonizing demise. For the first time, she cried — in frustration, pain and loneliness for him she would never see again; she was wracked by choking sobs.

For you, my Master. Through a haze of pain, Iago realized she must now be a source of immense satisfaction to Federico, but she didn’t care. Her pride was gone. All she had now was her devotion. “Are you thirsty, bitch?” asked Federico, looking up at his lovely prize. He thought he’d have a bit more fun. Iago nodded, droplets of sweat falling from the ends of her matted red hair. He produced a rag, urinated on it, and wrapped it around the end of a pike. He raised it before Iago’s face, which was now a mask of pain. She reached forward desperately, her swollen tongue outstretched to catch what moisture she could. Federico, delightedly, would flick it back out of reach, until she gave up in exhaustion. The others were growing bored with Iago and indicated a desire to commence that job for which they had really come — plunder. 78

Isabel’s Heresy They began to do just that, but Federico demurred, preferring to enjoy the spectacle of the humbled she-devil. Their pillaging had barely commenced when the troop of horsemen who had left them a few short hours ago clattered back through the gates, their horses foaming. “Gather your men and mount up,” the Captain ordered Federico after a pause, his attention momentarily distracted by the sight of the crucified Iago. “But, Captain,” began Federico. “But nothing. Now that we know where they’re hidden, we’ll need every man we can get.” Seething inwardly, Federico rallied his men, who emerged from the castle with whatever they could carry. As preparations were made for departure, the Captain remained staring up at the suffering Iago with undisguised fascination. Through half-closed eyes, she gazed down at him in mute entreaty. Hoisting herself up once again, her voice came out in a whisper. “Finish it.” At that moment, Federico, now mounted, called to the Captain. “What about that slut?” he asked angrily. The Captain looked up at her again. “Leave her to the vultures,” he said simply, and with a barked order, led the troop away. Federico kept casting glances back at the receding figure of Iago, grinding his teeth in frustration. Iago, for her part, merely wept. For you, my Master.

79

Tadhg Ó Muiris

Chapter Twelve

T

he flight from the castle was a blur for Isabel. She maintained a desperate hold around de Marisco’s waist as the horse pounded through the rolling countryside. She realized that the attackers had been looking for her, and that her Master was now an outlaw for her sake. The thought filled her with both awe and dread. Eventually, the horse near collapse, de Marisco slowed to a trot. “Are we safe, yet, Master?” Isabel asked. De Marisco snorted mirthlessly. “Complete safety is no longer an option,” he said. “But for now, the peril is immediate and close behind.” The road before them twisted around rolling hills. She felt de Marisco’s body stiffen beneath her arms as the sound of hooves and carriage wheels grew louder around the next bend, and observed his hand move to the hilt of his sword. “Master —” Isabel began. “Silence.” Soon a peasant wagon came into view, driven by a young man who looked at them warily. De Marisco was obviously a gentleman, albeit slightly wounded — it looked as if he’d been in a tussle of some sort. But what of the woman riding behind him, swathed in a

man’s cloak and, unless he missed his guess, not much else? And what of that strange collar around her neck? Although there was ample room to pass, de Marisco reined in his mount directly in the path of the rickety cart, which lurched to a creaking halt. The young driver’s uneasiness increased, and he shot an anxious glance back into the cart before bowing slightly in his seat and greeting de Marisco as courtesy demanded. The glance was not 80

Isabel’s Heresy lost on de Marisco. “We are in need of a fresh mount,” began de Marisco. “I wish to trade him for yours.” The lad’s expression changed to one of frank incredulity. True, the beast appeared spent, but it was magnificent nonetheless. All it needed was a rest and a watering. To trade it for his nag? Assuming a trade was what was being proposed, of course. One never knew with these titled ruffians. “God keep you, your Mercy, but I don’t think your stallion would agree to pull my cart,” the lad answered wryly. “No matter,” de Marisco replied, “we’ll take the cart, too.” With that, he produced a jingling pouch from around his belt, from which he extracted two gold coins, tossing them at him. Catching them deftly, the youth’s eyes widened after he examined them. It was probably more money than he had seen in his life. Then suspicion flickered. Was this devil a highwayman? He must be desperate, at any rate. “And why would your Mercy pay so much? Will I get into trouble?” “Considerably less trouble than you’re already in, I expect,” observed de Marisco, as he drew the horse alongside the cart, and tore away the canvas sheet that had covered a large bundle on the truck-bed. A pretty peasant girl, about the driver’s age, blinked in the sunlight, before curtsying awkwardly. The youth blushed furiously. “Excellency, we’re going to my cousin’s in San Cristóbal to be married,” stammered the youth. One of de Marisco’s eyebrows shot up in amusement. “How pleased her parents must be,” he offered. “As my Lord has guessed, they were not pleased at all that Caterina should marry the ploughman. I expect they’ll slit my throat if they catch us.” Making a worried little noise, the girl leapt up and hugged the youth from behind, rocking him in his seat. “You mustn’t talk so, Pedro,” she murmured into the hollow of his neck. He grinned ruefully. “I find myself in a similar situation,” said de Marisco. 81

Tadhg Ó Muiris Isabel took in this exchange in silence, as she had been told. She had already guessed what her Master was planning. In about twenty minutes, they were continuing on their way, dressed in peasant clothing, and driving a ramshackle cart. In the opposite direction went their bucolic doppelgangers, Pedro resplendent in de Marisco’s clothing, which was considerably too large for him, and Caterina in his cloak, beneath which, in a sole exception to the symmetry of the exchange, she wore a spare smock. They maintained a sedate pace, as the evening began its slow slide into twilight. “Master,” began Isabel uncertainly, “are they not in danger? What will become of them?” De Marisco made no effort to pretend not to understand. “It was a necessity,” he said simply. “But Master, have you not tricked them into greater peril?” Isabel pressed on. De Marisco turned to her with a thoughtful expression. The clopping of the horse’s hooves and the creaking of the cart continued, but he was silent. Steering the cart off the road, he reined the horse in beneath a vast and ancient elm, and turned to her once again. “It is one thing for you to inquire after the welfare of our rustic benefactors. It is quite another,” and with this, he hooked a finger through the ring in her collar and pulled her towards him, “to question my actions. Frankly, I’m quite amazed they still seem not to speak for themselves.” Clambering down from the cart, de Marisco began to unhitch the horse. Isabel was about to ask if they were to encamp here, but thought better of it. Her curiosity was further piqued when, instead of tethering the beast where it could graze for the night, he tied it to the back of the cart. Looking up at Isabel, hands on his hips, he ordered her to climb down. His air of command had been by no means diminished by his humble attire. Isabel did as she was instructed. “Strip,” he ordered curtly. Isabel obeyed instantly, pulling the peasant smock over her head 82

Isabel’s Heresy and draping it over the edge of the cart. Though the evening was mild, she felt strangely chilled, and hugged herself. “Stand here,” he ordered, indicating the patch of ground between the two staves of the cart. Realization began to dawn on Isabel; the alarm was clear on her face. “Master, I —” “Silence. The horse needs a rest.” Tears stung Isabel’s eyes, more from the shame of having disappointed him yet again than from the grotesque punishment that awaited her. He lashed her hands behind her back, crooking her wrists upward and securing them to her collar, and then considered for a moment. The bridle and harness, of course, were far too large for Isabel, but he made do with some belts and rope, cinching the straps in an X-formation tightly around her chest, and securing these to the cart staves on either side. Trembling, she began to sob softly around the bit that he had jammed into her mouth, fastening it tightly behind her head. Her arms ached from the unnatural angle in which they were lashed, and the tightness of the belts made it difficult to breathe. She knew, however, that this was as nothing compared to what was to come. She both felt and heard him climb up into the seat of the cart, but dared not look behind her. All was silent for a few moments, as she stood harnessed to the wagon like a draft animal; the bit made her slobber, and a line of spittle formed between her mouth and quivering breasts. “Right,” she heard him say in a businesslike fashion. “Time to be off.” Squealing, she jumped as a stinging pain lacing across her buttocks accompanied the venomous crack of a whip. With a whimper, she pressed forward with all her might, her bare feet fighting for purchase in the soft earth. Her harness creaked, but the cart had not moved an inch. “We’re not moving,” he observed. “This horse serves me better than do you. In any event, he doesn’t question me.” She gave a strangled cry as the whip bit into her bottom yet again, 83

Tadhg Ó Muiris and pushed her body frantically against the straps. A sheen of perspiration highlighted the contours of her harnessed and struggling loveliness. Still, the cart had not moved a hair’s breadth. She wept in frustration, and heard the nag, tethered somewhere behind her, snort derisively. “If this cart doesn’t move perceptibly in the next few moments, so help me, I’ll sell you to the nackers,” he promised darkly. Again the whip cracked; her bottom felt as if it were aflame. She howled, and her struggles reached frenzied proportions, the sweat flying from her with each stumbling scrabble against her burden. She panted, she moaned, she tried to plead and proclaim her loyalty and devotion: but with that damned bit in her mouth, all she could make were unintelligible mewlings. Finally, with a furious cry, she threw her weight against the harness till the sinews bulged beneath the glossiness of her skin; she ignored the screaming ache of her exhausted muscles. That was when it happened — the cart moved. Not much, it was true: probably no more than an inch. But it had moved, she knew it — and what was more, he knew it — because in an instant, he was before her, holding her spent and perspiring body in his arms. Beneath the rough material of his peasant clothing, she could feel his erection pressing against her belly. With one hand he soothed and caressed her reddened buttocks; with the other, he unfastened the bit from her head. As it fell from her, she craned her neck up to him and sought his lips, which found hers; she delighted once again in the sweetness of him. He kissed away her tears and proceeded to lick away the sweat from her shoulders and breasts. She gave a gentle cry as both his tender ministrations and the cooling night air raised gooseflesh on her skin. After such strenuous exertions, her legs began to tremble uncontrollably and she was finding it impossible to support herself. When he went down on one knee, his warm hands playing gently over her violently shaking thighs, her legs gave out completely and she hung limply in the harness, which turned out to be far less uncomfortable than she had imagined — less uncomfortable, at any rate, than had been straining against it. 84

Isabel’s Heresy Without the distraction of maintaining her footing, she could more easily enjoy the magical sensation of his tongue sliding around her hardening nubbin, could more easily spread herself wide for him, her driver, her Master. He lifted her thighs until they rested on his shoulders, and instantly the harness seemed less constrictive — all the while his tongue never ceased its dance of pleasure around and over her slick clitoris. She delighted in the sensation of his warmth next to her legs, the texture of his clothing next to her bare skin, the enthusiastic rubbings of his nose in her thatch. She shuddered as she felt him slide his fingers inside of her, exploring her vagina and anus with either hand in pulsating probings. And she delighted in being naked, bound and harnessed for him, her Master, for whom she had attempted and achieved so much. As her orgasm overcame her, her muscles clenched desperately around his fingers, and her body bucked violently in the harness. “I knew I could do it, for you, my Master,” she wailed through the rolling waves of ecstasy. As he lapped at her sweetness, de Marisco chuckled, partly with pleasure, and partly with the knowledge that his Isabel had had some help.

85

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Chapter Thirteen

A

young peasant girl drove a swaybacked cow down the road, slapping desultorily at it with a stick. Newly sprung into womanhood, her ample bosoms bobbled pleasantly beneath her light cotton shift. She was returning her father’s cow from the neighboring village, where it had been serviced by a bull owned by a friend of her father’s. It had not been an errand to which she had looked forward, being a tedious eight-mile trek. Fortunately, it had turned out that this family friend, besides a bull, had also a handsome young son. His name was Hector, and as they drowsed lazily on the straw together in the byre, he had promised to call on her next market day. Thus, it was not only the cow who returned home with a leisurely and contented demeanor. When she saw the troop approaching, she began slashing at the sorry beast for all she was worth, and shoved it by the rump over to the left side of the highway. Positioning the cow between herself and the road, she crossed herself in a silent prayer that the troopers would continue without stopping. Her hopes were dashed when the Captain, with a motion of his hand, halted his company where the maiden stood meekly. Having good reason to expect the worst, she scrambled up the ridge that bordered the highway. Within seconds, she was overtaken by a rider and dragged shrieking back by the hair to the waiting Captain. The rest of the troop had dismounted, and idly rubbed their bottoms, leering at the girl. After having led his troop from the castle at full gallop down the north road, the Captain had stopped any wayfarers and questioned them as to whether they had seen travelers matching the fugitives’ 86

Isabel’s Heresy descriptions. With superiors, he was obsequious; with the gentry, courteous; with the rabble, terrifying. It was obvious this girl belonged to the latter category. Gripped on either side by two burly soldiers, she dropped to her knees before the commander and bowed her head. “Please, your Mercy!” The Captain didn’t bother to ask the reason for her flight — everyone knew that rape was a de facto perquisite of soldiering. “Your name, wench.” “Please, your Mercy, Maria,” replied the cowering girl. “And where do live, child?” “Please, your Mercy, in the hamlet you just passed. I am returning this cow —” “We seek two witches: a gentleman in dark attire, and a woman wrapped in a man’s cloak, riding pillion on a black stallion. Speak!” The young woman looked up with dawning hope in her eyes, and then quickly lowered them when her gaze met that of the Captain. “I have seen them, your Excellency, but a few miles back — at the next crossroad. Please your Mercy, they took the fork to San Cristóbal.” “Mount up!” shouted the Captain. The solders’ disappointment was apparent — they had been grinning and nudging one another throughout the exchange. Eyeing the girl once again, the Captain himself regretted that there would not be time to indulge. As he wheeled his horse around, he barked over his shoulder at the young woman, who remained frozen where she knelt, as if awaiting the deathblow. “If I find you’ve lied to me, I’ll come back for you — and you’ll wish you’d never been born!” As the troop cantered away up the road, Maria remained on her knees, head bowed, not daring to move, and scarcely able to believe her good fortune. Only after the sound of hooves had completely faded did she thank the Blessed Virgin, and shakily scramble to her feet in search of the errant cow. A few hours later, as the horsemen thundered along the San 87

Tadhg Ó Muiris Cristóbal road, an abandoned windmill hove into view, out of one of the windows of which a faint light shone. The Captain halted his troop, sending two scouts to reconnoiter. They returned in twenty minutes with excellent news: the stallion tethered outside the door of the mill was definitely that of de Marisco. The Captain considered for a moment. The mill was in such a state of dilapidation that it would be difficult to cover every point of egress; even if they moved stealthily, their approach would be discovered eventually, and he wanted no slip-ups this time. He was still seething over the botched job they had made of it earlier today. He sent two riders to summon the ruffians they had left behind at the castle — he intended to make an impregnable ring around that windmill, and needed as many men as possible to do it — even if they were idiots. No one was going to escape this time. As for Pedro and Caterina, they had spotted the windmill just as the last light of day was beginning to fade, and had decided to seek shelter there for the night. “The accommodations are less well-appointed than those to which I am accustomed, Pedro,” Caterina joked, pouting coquettishly. “They seem pleasant enough to me,” remarked Pedro phlegmatically, lighting a candle. “That’s because you usually sleep in the stable,” she pointed out. “We can make a bed from these old grain-sacks,” he grinned, trying to engage her enthusiasm. Thus, Pedro paced up and down the mill, admiring his newly acquired boots and the sound they made on the wooden floor, while Caterina set out piling the softer items of detritus with which the mill was bestrewn into a makeshift bed. The boots made him think of the two strangers they had encountered earlier that day, and the bizarre arrangement to which they had come. “What do you suppose they were running from?” he asked. Caterina, not stopping from her labors, had to think a moment before she understood to whom he was referring. “I expect their flight is for romantic reasons — like ours, just as 88

Isabel’s Heresy he said,” she smiled. “He didn’t quite say that.” “I imagine she’s another man’s wife, someone rich and powerful. Perhaps the dark man was his retainer, or friend. But they could no longer deny their love for one another, and decided to run off together — just like us — or were discovered in flagrante delicto,” she shivered pleasurably at the thought, warming to her subject, “and are now pursued by her husband.” “So mightn’t this rich and powerful cuckold be displeased with us for abetting the adulterers?” Pedro frowned. Caterina was tiring of the subject, and clicked her tongue impatiently. “I’m sure he’d be more displeased with them than with us. Besides, we’ll be in San Cristóbal tomorrow, and you can stop worrying. ” She then began chirping excitedly about how she imagined life would be in San Cristóbal once they were married, and peppered him with questions about the place. He barely listened, his attention having been diverted from his handsome footwear by the way Caterina’s smock stretched around her pert bottom while she bent to her task. Approaching her from behind, he pulled her gown up with a flourish. Her chatter abruptly stopped as she raised her arms obediently, and he let the dress fall to the floor. He marveled at the beauty of her body in the candle’s glow, the flickering of the yellow light playing across her tanned curves and planes. His arms encircled her from behind, one hand caressing her breasts while the other strayed down to her dark mound, his middle finger finding her already wet. She melted against him and let her head rest against his shoulder with a dreamy sigh as his finger began to slide over her clitoris; the scent of his hair wafted over her. Reaching behind, her probing hands found his codpiece, and after a few initial fumblings, managed to unfasten it. She gripped his throbbing shaft and stroked it gently, as the movement of his finger over her unhooded nodule grew more rapid. Together, their bodies swayed and slipped one against the other, in increasing urgency. As 89

Tadhg Ó Muiris she neared climax, her grip on him became more frenzied; he pulled away with a smile while continuing to stroke her until, with a cry, she collapsed against him. Spinning her around, he hoisted her up in his arms and made for the dubious mattress she had prepared. He laid her down upon it and stood over her, enjoying the way she stared up at him so fondly, panting softly, her olive loveliness now glowing. Presently she raised herself to a kneeling position and began to unfasten Pedro’s clothing, grunting as she hauled off his boots and pulled down his hose. He stepped obligingly out of them, removing his tunic and shirt all the while, until at last he was as naked as she. She embraced him from where she knelt, pressing her face against his belly, loving the warmth of his skin next to hers, the smell of him, her long black hair draped over his thighs. Her lips found his cock, from which a luminous amber droplet of pre-cum was suspended; she kissed it away and curled her lips insinuatingly around its tip; he tasted marvelous, as always. She felt him lace his fingers around the back of her head, easing himself further into her mouth. She sucked noisily and greedily from tip to base in rapid bobbing motions, delighting in the pleasure she gave him. His hands came away from the back of her head to find hers; their fingers entwined and he drew her wrists up to the level of his shoulders, stretching and pressing her against him. She felt a thrill she could never explain. My Pedro. We

will always be together. Just as she felt the shuddering begin in his hips and thighs, he withdrew and laid her out on the mattress. In one fluid movement, he was above her, entering her; she folded her legs around him and locked her ankles together as they heaved and bucked in joyous unison, his hands playing at the hollow of her inner thighs: he knew she loved that. She felt her orgasm approaching and whispered his name. As he came inside her, it was that touching cry of his that always sounded more like despair than pleasure that sent her over the edge, and she came as well, clinging to his shuddering body with all her strength. Spent, they sank back onto the mattress, limbs entwined in a tangle, dozing contentedly. 90

Isabel’s Heresy “My Pedro,” she cooed softly in his ear. “Isn’t it wonderful? We shall grow old and die together.” It was then that, with a great crash, they burst in upon them, and a grim voice said: “You’re half right.”

91

Tadhg Ó Muiris

Chapter Fourteen

I

sabel shifted comfortably on top of her Master. De Marisco reclined against the ancient oak tree where they had encamped, his wound having been cleaned and dressed by his attentive slave. She had rummaged in the underbrush for just the right healing plant with which to treat the cut. “It seems you shall be of some use to me after all,” he remarked wryly. “As a draft animal, you make an excellent nurse.” She laughed, swathed around him like a warm quilt, the chain of her manacles looped about the circumference of the massive trunk so that both he and the oak were assured of her embrace for the night. As she stirred, he adjusted around her nakedness the blanket he had found in the back of the cart. She made a soft cooing sound in response, and nuzzled under his chin. It was just as well the night was clear and mild, as a campfire had been out of the question. As it was, a full moon and splash of stars pierced the lush boughs above, bathing them in its cool bluish glow. Isabel was quite comfortably ensconced over her Master’s naked warmth, but found sleep impossible. Her mind spun with thoughts and images of the day’s events — indeed, with those of the last few weeks. By the rising and falling of his chest beneath her, she could tell de Marisco shared her wakefulness. “Master,” Isabel began. “Yes, my own?” “Who was Iago?” De Marisco heaved a sigh, although not of annoyance, she thought. He’s been thinking of her, too. “Iago was my faithful slave and retainer.” 92

Isabel’s Heresy “Might I ask how you came upon her, Master?” He sighed once again, and stirred gently beneath her. At length he seemed to relax. When he spoke, his voice had a dreamlike quality. “When I was a young man, after my years at the university in Toledo, I decided to travel. I don’t mean the usual inane pilgrimages — Santiago de Compostela or Rome — but the world beyond the stultifying borders of Christendom. I traveled to the Maghreb, to the City of Marrakesh, and as far east as the ruins of Carthage. I lived among the Moors as one of them for a while, and even visited the fierce Tuareg tribesmen that roam the deserts to the south.” “You lived as one of them, my Lord? As a Mohammedan? Did you not fear for your soul?” De Marisco chuckled softly. “Some men deal in iron, some in barley, and still others in souls. But it is still just business, and business is just wealth and power. I was speaking of the days before I took up such a trade. Moreover, now that I am a gentleman of leisure once again, having been forcibly retired from such commerce, my interest has waned in commodities — particularly in those whose valuation is based upon a fiction. The market is too fickle. The answer to your question, therefore, is no.” Surprising herself with her own audacity, Isabel decided to put to him a question that had tormented her since they first met. Perhaps his mercantile euphemisms had emboldened her, and she imagined that couching the matter in such terms would pluck the stinger from the query’s tail. “If I may ask, Master, how long had you engaged in such commerce before I was brought before you?” To her amazement, she felt de Marisco stir uneasily beneath her, and thought she spied embarrassment on his features. His answer was devoid of metaphor. “My position with the Holy Office was entirely freelance and quite ad hoc — the local Dominicans owed me a favor. Over dinner with the Abbot a few days ago, the arrest of a certain young woman came up in conversation. You were described to me; I was intrigued.” He looked at her pointedly. “Did it not strike you as odd that there were not the customary two witnesses present during your examination? Did you really imagine me a veteran Inquisitor, who 93

Tadhg Ó Muiris after years of atrocities and depravities had decided to abandon his calling simply because you, the beautiful Isabel, were brought before me?” Isabel’s face flushed with embarrassment. Part of her had imagined precisely that. “Quite the opposite,” he smiled. “I had decided both to take up and abandon that calling after only having heard about you. My tenure with the Inquisition lasted one day.” She snuggled more closely to him, his answer having confirmed what her heart had always suspected. “I fear I was a disappointment to them,” he observed sardonically. “But to continue my story without further interruption: it was during my sojourn with the Moors that I befriended a young nobleman named Muhammad ibn Umr. We shared common interests — languages, fornication, philosophy, riding, and frequenting the slave market in Marrakesh. Naturally, our attention was most drawn to the female merchandise. “There I saw the most amazing sights: women from every corner of the world — Nubians, Ethiopians, Magyars, Georgians, Circassians — many from places I’d never heard of, let alone visited. One by one these captives would be led to the auction block in chains, stripped, and displayed for potential buyers. They would be made to bend over so that their orifices could be inspected — virgins, of course, commanding a higher price. There was a particular poignancy in watching weeping young women fall to the bids of grotesque, toothless old merchants who were bent, no doubt, on their ill-use.” At this point in the narrative, Isabel felt her Master growing hard beneath her, and wriggled pleasantly against him. She was also aware of her own growing wetness, making slick the spot where her pubis met de Marisco’s thigh. “Damaged goods, of course, commanded a much lower price. Whip marks on the flesh of a slave usually indicated high spirit, incorrigibility, and thus, to most buyers, unsuitability for anything but the most menial tasks. These unfortunates generally hit the block first thing in the morning, the auctioneers preferring to save the best for last; purchasers would stand all day waiting in the sun until the lot 94

Isabel’s Heresy that they coveted came under the hammer. “Muhammad and I rarely made it to the market before noon, our evenings usually spent in somewhat boisterous pursuits that lasted till the wee hours. On one such occasion, as we strolled around the market inspecting that day’s offerings, I noticed a remarkably striking woman the bidding for whom, I assumed, had not met the vendor’s reserve price that morning. The vendor’s displeasure also seemed apparent. Muhammad seemed unimpressed, and indicated he’d continue his browsing; I could catch him up later. “She knelt naked between two hitching posts to which her wrists were chained so tightly that her knees barely supported her; her ankles were shackled together and secured to the ground by an iron stake, lest she try to stand up. By the look of her, she’d been out in the sun like that a good few hours — probably from the time she’d failed to sell, or so I imagined. Her owner, quite unkindly, I thought, had placed a jug of water before her that she couldn’t reach. She’d also been bullwhipped. “She was magnificent - despite her filth, thirst, and pain — or perhaps because of them. She had fair skin upon which the African sun was working its mischief, and a blazing mane of red hair. The strength and litheness of her body, her grace and dignity — I was quite intrigued. She didn’t cry out or beg for pity from the many passersby who stopped to observe her sufferings — she simply existed, through half-closed eyes, and endured. Naturally, I was curious. I hunkered down beside her and asked her name. “She turned her head towards me, which under the circumstances must have been an effort, and looked straight at me with those other-worldly eyes of hers. I’ll never forget the expression in those eyes — I’m not sure if I understand it completely to this day. As if she had a secret she wished to share with me, but could not. Or as if she knew me — although I confess I’d never seen her before — she’d be very hard to forget, after all. As it was, she said nothing — I’d no idea if this was by choice, or because thirst had deprived her of the power. “On an impulse, I approached the owner, a rather unctuous merchant named Abdullah abu Jamal, who was chatting and laughing 95

Tadhg Ó Muiris with some cronies at a tea-stall. I asked what price he was asking for the Amazon. “He spat ostentatiously, cursing the ill providence that had sent him such a bitch, and suggested that a discerning sayyid such as myself would be far more interested in one of the lovely and compliant women he had going on the block later that same afternoon. .“When I persisted, he told me she was no longer for sale. I thought this rather perverse, and told him so. He ingratiatingly explained the problem, still hoping, no doubt, to entice me into an alternative purchase. “Apparently, during the auction that morning, she had horribly insulted a prospective buyer, a very wealthy and important individual, and one of Abdullah’s best customers — the Emir, in fact. “After I pressed him for details, it turned out that while the Emir was verifying the woman’s virginity, which he did with more than passing assiduity, she had spat on him. The scandalized potentate had made it quite clear to Abdullah that the woman must die — the more unpleasantly, the better for Abdullah. In fact, he was technically not even her owner any more, but merely her jailer, until she could be dispatched in some splendidly ghastly manner for the Emir’s amusement the next morning in the marketplace. “I was nonplussed by this news, and suppose my disappointment must have been obvious, as Abdullah took pity on me. “‘Cheer up, sayyid,’ he said, and with a pair of tongs extracted a hot coal from the brazier beneath the great brass tea urn from which the men were drinking. ‘Have a go at the bitch, with my compliments,’ he offered magnanimously, handing me the tongs. ‘Just don’t kill her,’ he laughed, ‘or the Emir will have both our heads.’ “I accepted the tongs from him with effusive thanks, and returned to the condemned girl, hunkering down beside her once again, her tormented body between me and Abdullah. When I glanced over at him, I saw that his back was turned, and that he had recommenced gossiping with his comrades. “I had no idea how much she had heard of our conversation. When she saw the coal, the look she gave me seemed one more of 96

Isabel’s Heresy reproach than of fear. “‘Scream,’ I told her. “She looked at me questioningly, then seemed to understand. She let out a hoarse shriek. Abdullah turned around to laugh approvingly, but only for a moment. “‘Again,’ I instructed. She complied, and, as I suspected, Abdullah didn’t bother to turn around this time. I reached for the water flagon and held it to her lips. She drank from it greedily. It was quite fetching how the water spilled down her ravaged breasts in beads that glittered in the maghrebi sun. “‘Do you know what they have planned for you tomorrow morning?’ I asked her. “Out of breath and gasping from the long draft, she gave me that secretive look again. ‘My limbs are to be bound to four oxen, and pulled from my body — slowly,’ she answered. The tone in which she conveyed this belied the horror of her words — you’d have thought she was proposing a lovers’ assignation to me. “I ran a finger along the slick underside of her forearm, into the hollow of her tufted armpit, and down the side of her chest, where her pulsating ribs stood out in stark relief. She was as taut as a drum, yet shivered at my touch. ‘They seem to be making an early start of it,’ I observed, my finger continuing its downward course around the trembling roundness of her becomingly scourged hips. “She let out another ghastly scream, which I’ll confess startled me momentarily, till I realized she’d done it for Abdullah’s benefit. Her eyes never left mine, and her lips parted to reveal the tip of her pink tongue between rows of sharp teeth. My fingernail traced a delicate scratch from her lower belly to inner thigh; both her trembling and respiration increased. Despite her relative immobility, she began to twist her pelvis towards my finger — I found this contortion most pleasing. She uttered a throaty sigh, and spoke. “‘I don’t want the bullwhip to be my last lover,’ she whispered, ‘Touch me. Let me die with the memory of your touch on my body. Please.’ “I glanced down to her sweat-glossed thatch, and observed the viscous token of her passion oozing down the surface of her inner 97

Tadhg Ó Muiris thighs. With a groan she spread her legs before me, thus depriving herself of whatever support they had heretofore offered her tormented shoulders — she didn’t seem to care. “I did as she asked — it would have been churlish to refuse, under the circumstances — and began gently to stroke her womanhood. Her response was gratifying, to say the least; I’d never encountered a woman brought to ecstasy so quickly. Within minutes, she was twisting and writhing in her bonds as if in extremis, plunging her powerful pelvis back and forth in a ferocious display of carnal appreciation — for which I was very appreciative, myself. Incredibly, at the height of her pleasure, I saw her well-muscled arms actually flex against their bonds and lift her a good six inches off the ground, before she crumpled in panting satiety. “I stood up again, and she arched her neck to look up at me, which must have been very difficult for her. ‘Thank you,’ she breathed. “I looked around for Muhammad — I was feeling an urgent need to visit a house of ill repute — till I felt something nuzzling at the front of my kaftan, through which the urgency of my need must have been apparent at fifty paces. She pressed herself quite dramatically forward in her chains, her tongue trying to lick through the coarse wool of my garment. ‘Don’t go yet,’ she husked between licks, ‘This will be my only chance to please you; I want to remember the taste of you in my mouth.’ “If I wasn’t going to forego a chance at pleasuring her, I was damned if I was going to deprive her of the opportunity of doing me a good turn, and clutched her by the back of the head enthusiastically. “I noticed Abdullah had turned around, and seemed alarmed — but only for my safety, as it turned out. ‘I wouldn’t do that, were I you, sayyid! She’d as soon bite it off as look at you!’ “Rather unsteadily, I thanked him for his concern, but assured him that everything was under control. He shrugged and turned away again. “I raised the hem of my jalabiya and draped it over her head; we must have been quite a sight. I got a few envious glances, as I recall — but it was few men who’d have had the courage to entrust their 98

Isabel’s Heresy wedding tackle to the mouth of a condemned slave, and such a fierce one, at that. “As it was, it turned out to be an excellent idea. Stifling beneath my robe, she began to lick my scrotum with breathtaking tenderness, while the front of my thighs brushed her pebble-like nipples. I felt her take me inside her warm mouth, and the sensation of her voluptuous lips around my cock was heartrending. All the while, I heard her make tiny sounds both pleasurable and bittersweet. ‘What a waste,’ I thought. “I recall coming quite explosively — although for decorum’s sake I tried not to be too flamboyant about it — and she slurped and swallowed as greedily as she had from the flagon of water I had proffered her earlier. “After she had licked me quite clean, I lifted my gown from over her head, and let it drape around me. Her hair was matted to her head with sweat, and she looked up at me once again, breathing deeply through those flaring nostrils — and still that look. “I couldn’t resist, but sank to one knee and, grasping her roughly by her slick locks, kissed her passionately — a kiss that was returned with a desperate intensity. Our eyes locked and, at that moment, I believe we both knew — although I suspect she might have known even before I. “I got up, dusted myself off, and went off in search of Muhammad without once looking back, although I could still feel that gaze boring into me. “That night, after our evening debauch, I confided to Muhammad my plan. I never saw a man sober up so suddenly.” “‘What you propose, my friend, besides being incomprehensible, is very foolhardy,’ he warned. ‘True, the guards, if any, would be no problem — but the Emir would be quite irritated with you,’ he pointed out in characteristic understatement. “I assured him that I didn’t intend to linger long enough to feel the Emir’s wrath, but would make my way to a safe place — Tangiers, for instance, and thence repair to Spain and my estates.” “‘This is goodbye, then,’ he said sadly. ‘Come, let us have another drink.’ 99

Tadhg Ó Muiris “With Muhammad’s reluctant assistance, I loaded up two horses and we made our way down to the marketplace. I could see by the torchlight that illuminated the square that preparations had already been made for the morning’s entertainment. Empty stalls had been moved to clear a large space. Four oxen, as unlikely and humble an execution squad as I’d ever seen, chewed their cud dolefully in a nearby pen. “As we suspected, the guard was less than minimal — just Abdullah, in fact, snoring on a hammock before the tent that served as the retail facilities of his enterprise. A jug of arak on the ground beneath his drooping arm told me we’d have little to worry about from him. “She was there just as I had left her, although she seemed to be unconscious, her chin resting on the soft rising and falling of her breasts. While Muhammad held the horses, I crouched down, touching her gently to rouse her. Her skin was clammy, chilled by the desert night. She opened her eyes and looked at me with neither surprise nor relief, but as if she had been expecting me. “‘Can you ride?’ I asked her. “She nodded wordlessly. I freed her ankles, and unfastened the chains that bound her to the hitching posts. I felt her lovely body collapse against mine, her arms clutching about me for support. I held her gingerly, as I could feel the wheals that were just scabbing over on her back. I wrapped a cloak about her, and with some difficulty, Muhammad and I got her mounted on a chestnut gelding. She tottered precariously in the saddle at first, but looked as if she would just manage to stay there. “Muhammad and I embraced and said our goodbyes, and with that we struck north for Tangiers.” De Marisco fell silent, and Isabel wondered if the story was at an end. She felt strangely dissatisfied. “But Master, where was she from? How did she come by the name Iago?” De Marisco said nothing for a few more moments. “I never asked,” he replied. “It didn’t matter. We agreed that her life began when we met, and for all intents and purposes, it had. And 100

Isabel’s Heresy for a new life, she would require a new name, one that she chose for herself.” “But a man’s name, Master?” Isabel looked up and saw de Marisco smiling sadly in the moonlight. “She said being a woman had brought her nothing but misfortune. She detested all weakness, particularly in herself, and couldn’t help but associate her femininity therewith. She resolved that thenceforth, to the world, she would be my manservant — but that to me, she would always be my falcon, my hunting lioness.” “And she hunted well for you, Master?” “Exceedingly well. But those stories are for another day.” Isabel observed that the recollection of those untold stories was having a decided effect on de Marisco — whose erection had reasserted itself as an importunate throbbing against her belly. Recalling Iago’s plight in the marketplace and the tenderness which her Master had shown her, she found herself envying her, even as a memory. She imagined herself in such a situation — which wasn’t difficult, under the circumstances, as she luxuriated in bound helplessness above him — and felt her own wetness increase. She slithered her dripping sex against his thigh. De Marisco’s hands cupped her buttocks and eased Isabel upward slightly. She hissed in pleasure as she he lowered her onto his cock, pulling herself back and forth over him by her bound arms. His lips found her throat, kneading and stroking the gooseflesh above her collar, his tongue darting over her skin. His mouth then moved to her nipples, alternately licking and blowing on them, creating sensations of warmth and coolness that drove her to distraction. Their bellies met in moist collisions. Would that it could be thus

forever — I chained to him and he inside me like this — with no need of food or water or shelter, nothing existing but this moment until the end of time. Her wrists secured as they were, her forearms felt nothing but the rough bark of the tree, but with one upper arm she contrived to caress the cheek of her beloved Master, and imagined, for but a moment, that she might have felt a single tear there. Such thoughts, however, disappeared when she felt his finger, 101

Tadhg Ó Muiris slick with her passion, slide into her anus, which accepted it joyfully. With his other hand he clawed her flexing flanks and inner thighs, until she could stand no more, and shuddered convulsively over him in the throes of an orgasm she seemed to share with the sad, dead Iago. As she dozed exhaustedly over him, de Marisco enjoyed the sensation of her hair on his chest, the scent of it beneath his nose, and watched the angry orange glow of some distant conflagration, some miles away, light up a small corner of the night sky.

102

Isabel’s Heresy

Chapter Fifteen

I

n the morning, they prepared to resume their bone-jarring journey. Isabel re-donned the peasant smock at de Marisco’s bidding; her collar she hid beneath a wimple — she would sooner have risked capture rather than relinquish it now. As she loaded the cart, she asked her Master where they were headed. “North to the house of a friend of mine,” he told her, cinching the horse’s harness. “Tomaso de Piedrablanca Díaz, with whom I studied at the university. We were very close. Though I haven’t seen him in years, we correspond from time to time — I’ve no reason to doubt we’ll be very well received indeed. We’ll shelter with him a while before proceeding on to Provence, and safety.” Isabel wondered what purpose would be served by lingering in Spain, with safety so near at hand, but said nothing. De Marisco seemed to read her thoughts. “I’ve heard that Henry of Navarre has need of strong sword-arms, and pays them well. To secure a commission, however, I’ll need to be outfitted — and they don’t make armor for peasants,” he said, indicating his homespun attire. “Besides,” he added blandly, “I’ve a few deaths to attend to before leaving Spain forever.” That his plans included mayhem and revenge surprised Isabel not at all — but she was astonished at his choice of future masters. “Henry is a protestant,” she remarked. De Marisco laughed good-naturedly. “Yes, there is that, too. His church hasn’t tried to burn you yet.” On the road, Isabel reclined in the back of the cart, riding in as much comfort as a padding of straw could provide, with a tarpaulin at the ready to throw over herself if they met anyone. Thus began a 103

Tadhg Ó Muiris tedious voyage of several days through the foothills of the Pyrenees. Although their progress was slow, it was for the most part uneventful; they avoided towns and villages, purchasing food as they required it from farmhouses on the way. Any strangers were an object of curiosity, but few questioned de Marisco; there was something in his bearing that made them uneasy, and they were generally happy to see him on his way. Isabel, of course, they never saw at all. At length they reached the gates of a stately manor perched on the edge of a high crag, the only approach to which was a winding uphill track. The aged gatekeeper was at first reluctant to allow them entry, nor even to alert his master of their arrival. De Marisco’s peremptory manner, however, and the sight of the hitherto concealed sword at his side, was enough to convince the porter to send word to the house. Within minutes the gates opened before them, and they were ushered into the courtyard of the demesne. Isabel watched an opulently dressed gentleman striding happily towards De Marisco. Though of similar height, in every other respect this man’s appearance seemed the opposite of her Master’s. Whereas the latter was dark, broad-shouldered and sharp-featured, this man was fair-skinned, his hair of a curly sandy color, his frame light and agile, and his face shared the elongated, effeminate beauty of an El Greco. He hugged her Master warmly. “Timoteo, you old devil, it’s good to see you!” “Tomaso, it’s been a long time,” said de Marisco, returning the embrace. Tomaso’s gaze fell upon Isabel. “And who is this?” he asked, eyeing her up and down with more than passing interest. “Allow me to present Isabel.” Such an introduction, Isabel knew, was ambiguous to say the least, hinting at neither relationship nor social status. What would her

Master’s friend make of her? She kept her eyes lowered as she curtsied, and Tomaso nodded approvingly. “Why on earth are you dressed that way, Timoteo?” he asked, his scrutiny of Isabel continuing unabated. 104

Isabel’s Heresy “It’s a long story. I need to speak with you privately.” Tomaso threw an arm over de Marisco’s shoulder and steered him in the direction of the Hall. “You can tell me all about it over far too much wine,” he said, thumping him manfully on the back. Pausing momentarily, and as if as an afterthought, he turned to one of the footmen flanking the great doors. “Show Isabel to the guest quarters,” he said. “And for God’s sake, find her some proper clothing.” As Isabel followed the servant up the staircase, she glanced over the balustrade and down at the two men seated around a massive oak table, where wine was already being poured. Two pairs of eyes followed her ascent until she disappeared from their sight. She was conducted to a marvelous bedchamber, easily as pleasant as the one she had so briefly occupied at her Master’s house. After a few minutes, a maid entered with a fine gown draped across her arms. She laid it out on the counterpane, and with a murmured “With your permission, my Lady,” began to undress Isabel. My lady! Isabel was quite at a loss as to how to react; would her Master want her to dress? They were both guests in this household — perhaps she would embarrass him if she did not. What was he telling Don Tomaso about her? She felt a flicker of resentment at having to make this decision. It occurred to her that since she had met de Marisco, she had made none at all, and quickly identified this as the cause of her uncertainty. Of course, she would dress. As the maid stood behind her, and her capable hands unfastened the garments, Isabel noticed only a brief pause in her movements as the wimple was removed to reveal the glittering steel collar. It seemed to take an age to get the gown on and fastened properly — much longer than the clothing to which Isabel was accustomed. Once finished her task, the maid withdrew. The dress was a heavy, scarlet brocade affair with a flamboyant lace ruff surrounding a low-cut bodice, and Isabel found it both stifling and confining. Admiring its effect in the mirror, however, she noted that its elegance, and the whiteness of her bosoms, served to accentuate the savage beauty of her collar. Hours passed while she awaited de Marisco’s return. She should 105

Tadhg Ó Muiris have felt tired after the long trip, but found that even lying on so comfortable a bed, she could not drowse. She was seized by an unaccountable uneasiness and roamed the chamber restlessly, moving from the window, which offered a limited view of the courtyard below, to the bed, and its alluring comforts, and thence to the door. What was keeping him? With a shiver, she recalled her Master’s previous absences, and how little cause she had to look forward to them. Impulsively, she grasped the knob of the chamber door; it turned easily in her hand. She stepped out into the corridor, which was in fact a great timbered catwalk suspended over the main hall on heavy oaken rafters. She could hear voices below her, but could not quite make out what was being said. With catlike stealth, she inched towards the railing and looked down. De Marisco was standing, already dressed in gentleman’s clothing. He seemed to loom over the seated figure of Tomaso, upon whom the effects of the wine were beginning to show. “But how will you know where to find them?” Tomaso asked, with slightly slurred speech. “My household may be scattered, but their loyalty to me remains beyond doubt. They’ll have compiled names and places for me, even now.” “And how long before you return, Timoteo? Assuming, of course, that you don’t end up with your throat cut.” “I’ll give myself one week, then come back, job finished or no. I daren’t leave Isabel longer than that. The risk to both of you would be too great.” De Marisco gripped the other man’s shoulder and squeezed. “You’re a true friend, Tomaso. Guard her with your life until I return.” Tomaso clasped his hand on the other’s. He made to reply, but was distracted by a noise from above — the sound of a woman’s quiet sobbing. Both men looked up to see Isabel’s retreating figure disappear beyond the railing. She threw herself on the bed and wept. Within moments, she felt de Marisco’s hands on her shoulders, turning her towards him. “My Lord,” she said, “must you leave me? Let me go with you.” Her tears continued to fascinate him; rather than brushing them 106

Isabel’s Heresy away, he contrived to catch one on his fingertips, and rubbed it ruminatively between thumb and forefinger. “You know that’s impossible,” he said softly. “Master, I’m frightened. What if something were to happen to you? What if you never return?” De Marisco bent to kiss a tear. “I’ll be back in a week, I promise. In the meantime, circumstances dictate that you be treated as an honored guest in this house — a somewhat different station, you’ll agree, than you occupied in mine. Take advantage of it.” She clutched at him desperately. Smiling, he disengaged her arms from around him and pressed her by the wrists back onto the bed until he was on top of her. The dress really was very warm; Isabel’s brow shone. She reached for him with her mouth, but he was scanning the area of the bed speculatively. His eyes lit on a thick, tasseled silken sash used to hold back one corner of the embroidered canopy that overhung them. Yanking it free, he used it to tie her wrists together and fastened it in turn to one of the bedposts. Isabel’s sharp intake of breath betrayed her excitement. He had pulled the sash tightly enough to stretch her arms tautly above her head before securing it, revealing the twin crescents of sweat which now marred the opulent dress. “That looks very uncomfortable,” he observed. Isabel wasn’t sure if he meant her restraints or the dress, but could guess. Within seconds, it was clear he was more familiar with the mechanics of a gentlewoman’s raiment than she. The confining bodice and corset began magically to loosen their grip around her chest; her panting bosoms seemed to burst out of them, and were eagerly received by his flicking tongue and nipping teeth. Of the vivid bruises that had formerly graced her breasts there was now only a faint shadow. He alternated gently licking around her engorged nipples, and then biting them sternly. With every nip Isabel gave a tiny cry, and she thrust her chest towards her Master’s cruel mouth, vaguely conscious of the fact that not only the armpits of her fine dress were now besmirched. As he continued relentlessly to tease her panting breasts to the point of ignition, a hand crept down to the hem of her gown and expertly folded the stiff material upward and off her twisting 107

Tadhg Ó Muiris thighs, inserting one knee between them. As she felt the delicious pressure of his knee against her mound, she at once began pounding her pelvis against it. She licked her suddenly dry lips, which craved contact with him — any contact — and set to rubbing them against the top of his head, reveling in the smell of his hair. She was seized with an urge to wrap her arms around her Master; her arms struggled fruitlessly against their bonds — and even this seemed a delicious and honeyed denial. Presently, he began to slither down the length of her body, sliding his arms up through the gap between Isabel’s accordioned dress and her writhing, sweating body. He clawed her flanks gently as his tongue savored the salty tang of her belly. Her desire for him was now like a steel claw in her abdomen. He paused momentarily before his mouth reached her tufted cleft, and she craned her neck painfully downward to see his face between the valley of her breasts, looking up at her flushed, passion-contorted face in turn. When at last his tongue contacted her clitoris her struggles became even more feverish, and her breath came in fretful gasps. De Marisco seemed to dislike moving targets, and gripped her firmly by the buttocks.

It feels so good, Master, so right. After minutes of sublime pleasure, his voice, slightly muffled, came up to her. “Shall I leave you bound here, slave, awaiting my return?” he asked, before returning to his oral caresses. That thought made her even more excited, and she knew it would not be long before her dam burst. “Oh yes, please,” she groaned, though her words seemed belied by the delirious lolling of her head from side to side, “bound and awaiting nothing but your touch, my Master.” Yet through the haze of pleasure her mind seized once again on the sadness their impending separation caused her, and her eyes misted with tears once again, even as her body sped towards its orgasm like a runaway cart. Before this could happen, however, De Marisco abruptly stopped his lapping. Isabel gave an agonized groan, and her legs sought to clasp around him of their own volition. Grasping her slick thighs, he drew himself over her madly twisting body until their eyes were level. 108

Isabel’s Heresy She thrust her face towards his, seeking his mouth with her own tearglossed lips. He grabbed a shock of short hair to restrain her, so that her mouth remained a tantalizing few inches from his. “But shall I leave you sated before I go, slave, or shall I leave you aching, unsatisfied and maddened for my return, with your hands bound, unable even to give yourself pleasure?” As he spoke, he continued to stroke her with a free hand, maintaining her nearly insupportable level of arousal. “Have pity, Master!” she moaned. “Beg me, slave.” “I beg you, Master, please, have mercy!” Isabel’s expression of alarm was almost comical, and De Marisco smiled in spite of himself. “‘Mercy’ for you once meant being spared from immolation,” he observed wryly, his fingers never ceasing their calculating stokings of her furnace. “Now it seems merely to signify carnal gratification. Things seem to be looking up for you, slave.” Isabel was, of course, beyond responding to this teasing. “Please, Master! Let me feel you before you leave!” With this, de Marisco pressed his lips against hers, wide and gulping; his fingers ceased their calculated measures of offering and denial, and within moments, Isabel screamed her sweet pleasure into the cavity of his mouth.

109

Tadhg Ó Muiris

Chapter Sixteen

I

sabel lay awake as the mid-morning sun streamed into the chamber window and washed over her naked body. Lazing in the comfort of the tousled bedclothes, she stretched her limbs out from her, imagining wistfully that she really was bound to the posts of the bed and awaiting her Master’s return. The thought excited her, drawing her right hand irresistibly down to where she could already feel wetness asserting itself between her sun-drenched thighs. Her left arm, of course, she kept stretched tightly above her, fastened as it was by the bonds of her fancy. She remembered their parting that morning, after a night of intense pleasure and sweet pain — a pain that was not merely the emotional distress of their impending separation. Her breasts had still felt warm to the touch. After rising at dawn, de Marisco dressed and made preparations for his departure. He left her drowsing and tied to the bed, her wrists bound together with the sash and secured to a bed post, her legs splayed diagonally through the twisted sheets, the now unsecured ankle restraints trailing from her feet. At length he returned, closing the door quietly behind him. He unfastened the end of the sash, but it seemed he could not bring himself to untether her wrists just yet. Standing over her, he spoke softly. “It is time for me to go.” Isabel successfully fought the urge to weep again, but not the impulse to pull herself awkwardly from the bed and kneel at his feet, pressing her face into his thigh as her bound hands reached upward to clasp his tunic. She felt a tug on the sash, and looked up to see him drawing the end around his shoulders and tying it in turn to her wrists again, so that she hung slackly from him, with hands crossed over the middle of his chest. Eagerly, she flattened herself against 110

Isabel’s Heresy him, and could feel him growing hard where her cheek pressed. He moved his right leg between her thighs, which began to hug it in languid contractions; the silken hose felt magically smooth against her dripping sex. She knew she was smearing it with her juices, but sensed he didn’t mind. “You’d like something to remind you of me during my absence: a sensation, a sign that shall mark you as mine while I’m gone.” It was not a question; nevertheless, Isabel looked up at him through misting eyes and nodded. He unfastened his codpiece with his left hand, and Isabel took him in her mouth greedily, continuing to slide herself lasciviously against his shin. With the other hand, de Marisco drew out the riding crop that hung from his belt. “As you have learned, I myself am the whipping post upon which you suffer, the rack upon which you confess, the cross from which you hang, the stake upon which you burn. I am the instrument of your fate, and your destiny itself.” Isabel could but hum her delicious acquiescence around his succulent member; that his words excited her she better expressed through the caresses of her body against his, despite, or perhaps as a result, of the immobility of her arms. She felt his lips close around one of her fingers and begin to suck it gently, and sighed. The first of the crop’s blows across her bottom was little more than a slap. They came in rhythm to the sliding of her mouth around his cock and the writhing of her torso against his body, their intensity increasing with his, and her own, arousal. Like a lobster in a slowly heated pot, she scarcely perceived the gradual transformation of these mere slaps into the sting of an adder’s fangs. The landing of the leather against her sweat-soaked flesh sounded like thunderclaps in the stillness of the morning, punctuated by the nasalized whimpers that vibrated against his engorged penis. With the intensity of the blows, Isabel found her tongue occasionally losing contact with her Master’s shaft as she fought for air to fuel her cries. She felt momentarily irked with herself and the shabbiness of her servitude, but these thoughts were as evanescent as the tiny sparks that swirled from a young witch’s pyre: when they winked out the mighty 111

Tadhg Ó Muiris conflagration remained, and continued to blaze throughout her body — flames stoked by her own dear Master. De Marisco’s own pleasure was evidenced by the involuntarily trembling of the leg that he had placed between Isabel’s thighs, and its vibration against her sex was as something she had never heretofore experienced. Even on her knees, she felt herself begin to collapse against him as the surge of sensation threatened to engulf her. Her Master was having none of it; casting the crop away, he lifted her up in his arms, falling backwards onto the bed. In a trice he had impaled her above him, and her body closed around his urgently. He extended his arms above his head, clutching the end of her bonds, so that she was stretched once more above him, her tender nipples rubbing against the coarse leather of his jacket, her lips inches from his. He smiled at her, whose face was a panting mask of arousal, tears of passion coursing down her cheeks. “I am your rack,” he whispered. “And I am simply yours,” she breathed, as her body began to convulse tautly in its bonds, seized in the grip of her climax. They lay like that for several minutes, as her trembling and panting subsided. He somewhat loosened, but never relinquished the grip of one hand on the cord that bound her wrists above them. She winced as he laid another hand against the scored surface of her buttocks. “You’ll be able to sit down in a few hours, I promise,” he smiled. She returned the smile. I don’t care one way or the other. Gently, he eased her off him so that she lay on her side next to him. He reached around her to pull an ornate hand mirror from the bedside table, and held it so that she could observe what he had wrought on her bottom. She was impressed. The redness she knew would disappear quickly; the bruising and minor contusions, however, would last for some few days, a reminder of him and a graphic promise of his return to her. There was a knocking. “Your horse is ready, Timoteo. You said you wanted an early start.” It was Don Tomaso’s voice, muffled slightly by the thickness of 112

Isabel’s Heresy the door. “One moment, Tomaso.” De Marisco paused to admire Isabel’s supine body for a few moments; she returned his gaze. Presently, he roused himself and untied her wrists. She made to reach out for him, but he held up an arresting hand. “No, it’s time. Lie like that and don’t move until you hear the beating of my horse’s hooves through the gates. When I return, I wish to see you as you are now: naked, abed, and ready to serve me.” “I shall, Master,” Isabel promised solemnly. With that, he got up, adjusted his disarrayed clothing, and opened the door. Before he had crossed the threshold and closed it behind him, Isabel noticed the fair features of Don Tomaso. He had been standing so close that he had to take a step back to allow de Marisco to pass. In the one or two seconds the door was ajar, she felt his eyes on her, and instinctively reached for the bedclothes. She knew he had seen everything: her nakedness, her collar, and her colorful buttocks. She shrugged it off. I am an honored guest here. The two men walked down the staircase side by side in silence. De Marisco knew Tomaso had seen. He also knew that Tomaso was aware of this knowledge. Not that he cared one way or another; he was, however, slightly irritated at Tomaso’s inquisitiveness. They stepped out into the courtyard, and de Marisco swung himself up onto the waiting black stallion. The other man looked up at him, smiling, resting a hand on the pommel. “Don’t worry, Timoteo. No one shall know of her presence. As you say, I shall guard her with my life until you return.” De Marisco clasped his hand on the pommel. “You’re the finest friend a man could have, Tomaso. I’m in your debt.” With that, he wheeled the horse around and rode through the gates of the strong-house. Only then did Isabel’s face appear from a tower window to observe his departure. From her position, she could not see Don Tomaso’s smile slowly dissolve as her Master disappeared from sight.

113

Tadhg Ó Muiris

Chapter Seventeen

L

eaving Iago to die, the troopers had galloped away in pursuit of her Master. She, however, was barely aware of their absence, locked as she was in a futile struggle of survival on the cross. There she hung, stripped and horribly scourged, ribs distended against the streaming and mistreated flesh of her torso, tendons and muscles throbbing with exertion. She would push herself laboriously upward on quaking, exhausted legs, exhale with a piteous moan, only to sag once more in her bonds, the pain and constriction in her chest and shoulders growing more indescribable each time. Dehydration, too, was taking its toll; it seemed to her as if she had already sweated out more moisture than could possibly have been inside her, and she vaguely noticed that she had soiled herself. Though she would die more quickly than had her tormentors remained to water her, it would only have prolonged her tortures. She would not have refused a drink, nevertheless: such was the irony of life and pain. As her distress reached new heights, through a red haze of agony, the figure of her Master coalesced before her, wraith-like and shimmering. His eyes were sad and knowing. Too far gone to speak, Iago pleaded with him in her thoughts. Let me die, Master. Forgive

my weakness: I can bear no more. An ephemeral hand, translucent as gossamer, caressed her cheek and brushed a sweat-matted lock of hair from her unseeing eyes. Heedless of the pain in her shoulders, she reached out to him, and in reward felt his warm lips brush hers. My good and true slave, she heard the gentle words in her mind.

You have served me well. But now, more than ever, I have need of 114

Isabel’s Heresy your strength. You must endure for me. She pressed herself frantically up on her near-spent legs, wailing inconsolably to the apparition. No, my Master! I beg of you! No more! But the vision was already dissolving from her tear-fogged sight. Once again she hung alone and forsaken in her misery, where even her choked sobs of despair remained but immured captives in the fiery agony of her chest. She longed for the succor of unconsciousness, for the oblivion that was denied her. As the flames in her lungs reached their zenith, she once more sought to extend her legs and exhale. She found, however, that she had lost the power to do so. With all her might she willed her knees to unbend, but they were now capable of no more than a feeble twitching, bearing only a fraction of the weight necessary to sustain her life, a life that had become a horror of pain and loneliness to her. This, she knew, meant the end, the end for which she had so yearned. Rather than greet it, her mind rebelled against inevitability. She twisted desperately on the crucifix; it felt as if her thorax would burst; cramps racked her limbs, and her body convulsed as much as her bonds allowed. No! Not yet! My Master has need of me! With a hideously painful jerk, she felt her ankles freed from the upright; bearing her full weight nearly wrenched her shoulders from their sockets as what little support her legs provided her vanished in an instant. Just as suddenly, the raw skin of her back was set ablaze as the entire length of the stipes swept against it, and she felt her guts heave with disorientation. She heard voices. “Be careful, for Christ’s sake! Gently, now!” “Sod that! We had to get her down quick.” Her toes touched earth; her legs folded beneath her; she exhaled explosively, her useless limbs splayed randomly about her as she coughed and retched. Figures crouched around, untying ropes, wrapping her in a blanket, putting water to her cracked lips. She sucked at it like a demented thing. “Easy does it there, M’lud, not too much, now; it’ll make you sick.” The warning was unnecessary; Iago, the good and true slave, had finally relinquished consciousness. 115

Tadhg Ó Muiris When she awoke, her surroundings were unfamiliar to her. By the smell, and the presence of a goat masticating lugubriously by her bed, she judged it to be a peasant’s cottage. A fire blazed in the hearth, and the smell of food wafted to her from a cauldron that hung on the hob. She recognized Flora, the household cook stooping over her, busying herself tending to Iago’s injuries, whilst an elderly man sat on a stool by the fire, staring silently into the flames. She licked her lips, and the gesture was answered instantaneously by a tepid cup of goat’s milk. The goat seemed unresentful. Iago tried to speak. “How …?” “This is my first cousin Ramón, whose house this is, M’lud Iago,” answered Flora, ever-mindful of social niceties. Though Iago’s sex had never really been in doubt in the house, the fiction of her masculinity had always been scrupulously observed. After seeing her naked body, however, the formality seemed even more strained. At the mention of his name, the old man had stood up and bowed chivalrously from the waist; he could not have been five feet tall. Iago was capable of little more than a nod of her head in acknowledgement, upon receipt of which he resumed his seat and contemplation of the fire. “Most of the servants managed to get away during the fight,” explained the cook. She was a middle-aged woman, tall and sturdily built, whose chunky hands were as adept at dressing wounds as a side of venison. “But we had to leave everything, and most of us had nowhere to go. We assumed the house would be put to the torch, once those brigands were done ransacking it. We just spent most of the day huddled on a hillside, watching the comings and goings. When we saw the bastards all leave and the house still standing, a few of us decided to go back to collect our things once it got dark. “Why, it was a miracle we found you at all, M’lud Iago, bless the Virgin,” she said, crossing herself. “We didn’t think anyone had been left alive; everyone we found was dead. We wouldn’t have noticed you, over by the far wall like that, if we hadn’t heard you speaking to someone. And you up there all night like that — it’s a miracle!” she 116

Isabel’s Heresy repeated. As if overcome by the recollection, she began to sniff, and blew her nose resoundingly on the hem of her apron. “It was terrible what they’d done to you, M’lud! Terrible and blasphemous! We got you down as quick as we could, and I suggested we take you to my cousin’s” — a nod from the wizened little man across the room — “so that I could see to you. We’ll soon have you up and around in no time,” she concluded with incongruous heartiness. Iago struggled to speak. She had to know. “Our Master …” “Got clean away, it looks like,” Flora responded with satisfaction, “With that one he was with.” At this oblique reference to Isabel, her manner became more uncertain, but her good humor was not long in returning. “It’d take more than the likes of that lot to get the better of the Master,” she chuckled. “Last we heard, they were headed north after him.” Her Master, alive! She knew what she had to do. Iago feebly made to stir herself. “Now, now, M’lud Iago, none of that, if you please,” Flora remonstrated, easing her back onto the bed. “You’re in no condition to be up just yet. Look at you; you’re as frail as a spring lamb. Give it a few days, and you’ll be right as rain, you’ll see.” Cursing her frailty, Iago knew she was right. She needed rest, and a chance for her body to heal. She would give herself two days, no more. She allowed herself to sleep. “Miraculous” was, predictably, how Flora characterized Iago’s recovery in her care. Within two days she was able to walk and ride with an apparent ease that, while falling far short of her usual agility, would at least enable her to seek out her Master. She hid from her nurse that the pain in her joints and muscles remained excruciating: her body would become clammy with sweat and her face pale as she rode Ramón’s horse around the little yard, but she refused to acknowledge the agony. On her last morning at Ramón’s cottage, Flora surprised Iago by presenting her with the clothing, light half-armor and sword that, along with their owner, had been rescued from the courtyard that 117

Tadhg Ó Muiris awful night. Iago was immensely pleased, and thanked Flora solemnly — which was for her an uncharacteristically effusive display of gratitude. Thus it was that Iago struck north on a borrowed and halt nag to secure her Master’s revenge. Having secured a better mount through brigandage that evening, and her sex once more concealed beneath her martial apparel, she traveled quickly, confident that none was seeking her. With the moon high in the night sky, she neared a crossroads. At the sound of hooves approaching at speed, she wheeled her horse off the road and concealed herself in a thick stand of trees. Twenty riders galloped past from the southwest road, bearing left to take the northwest fork. She scowled in recognition as they clattered out of sight. She could see smiles of some terrible satisfaction on their brutal features, and hear cackles of dark mirth. Once they had safely passed, she returned to the moonlit crossroads and considered what she had seen, glancing in indecision from one turning to the other. Logic dictated that these ruffians should have been on the same road as she, with a two-day head start on her — yet here they were. From where had they come? What had they been up to? Were they backtracking from a false trail? Although she refused to entertain for an instant the notion that their vile mission may have been completed during her truncated convalescence, her heart nevertheless skipped a beat when she saw the flicker of distant flames winking through the black foliage of the woods. She dug her spurs into her mount’s flanks mercilessly, and the stallion reared up with an enraged scream before pounding off in the direction of that southeastern blaze. When she arrived, the sight that met her brought to mind some old poetry her Master had once read to her by the Tuscan Dante, or the paintings she had sometimes seen in churches, grotesque and graphic reminders of the fate that awaited unrepentant sinners in hell. For a few seconds she could do no more than gape in awe. It had been windmill, now in a state of some decrepitude. Flames danced and cavorted about the base of the millhouse, throwing orange and black shadows on the ground. It was not the fire by which 118

Isabel’s Heresy Iago’s attention was transfixed, however, but by the slowly revolving sails that loomed high above. A young woman, naked and spread-eagled, was lashed tautly to one of the sails. From the glow of the fire, Iago could see how her body writhed and twisted against its restraints, her sweat-bathed body coruscating in the flickering light. To the adjacent sail, a young man, also naked, was similarly bound. Iago felt dizzy with relief that it was not her Master. About such a fate for Isabel, she would have been more philosophical. The two appeared to be speaking urgently to one another, though she could not make out their words. She also noticed that, near the central axis from which the sails extended, her left hand was clasped in his right. Yet even this bizarre sight would not have been enough to give Iago pause —she had, after all, seen many wondrous things in her life. As the sails moved through their slow revolution, the helpless couple would initially be suspended completely upside down at the apex of the circuit. Then, just as slowly, they would be carried downward to where the fire awaited them. Though the flames had not yet reached a sufficient height to lick the sails themselves and set them alight, they were sufficiently near to draw piteous cries of pain and terror from the frantic young woman. Her consort, Iago noted with approval, continued to speak tenderly and encouragingly to her even as they descended within feet of the ravening pyre, his hand clasping hers all the more firmly. Then, with the inevitability of celestial motion, they would be borne upward again to repeat their hellish journey. In their extremity, neither had even noticed her existence. It was the twisted ingenuity of this truly infernal machine, and the infinitely gradual accumulation of woe it inflicted upon its victims, that had riveted Iago’s attention. She realized that, under different circumstances, she may quite have enjoyed the spectacle— indeed, she had a few individuals of both sexes in mind upon whom she might wish just such an experience. Now, however, was not the time for such thoughts. Dismounting 119

Tadhg Ó Muiris stiffly, she jogged a painful circuit about the millhouse to find a point of access. The only practical one that presented itself was a window, still moderately free of flame, through which she would have to dive headlong. Doing so, she landed with a sickening thud on the floor of the mill. She picked herself up and surveyed the network of churning cogs and gears, searching for a means by which to stop it. Not being mechanically inclined, she had no idea which of the various levers might be the one she sought. With a snarl of impatience, she picked up a sturdy iron bar that lay discarded in a corner. Choking back acrid smoke, she stood watching the window, out of a corner of which she could see the passage of the sails. She waited until the lovers, for lovers she had surmised them to be, had completed another horrific descent near the inferno and were, she estimated, a quarter of the way through their subsequent ascent before jamming the bar between two likely-looking toothed wheels. With a shrill screech of protest, the entire mechanism ground to a shuddering halt. Shouts of surprise came from without. Iago had little time to enjoy the satisfaction of initial success, however. She stepped up onto the sill of the window around which pale yellow tongues had begun to flash, and clambered onto the nearest sail with gritted teeth. It was the sail to which the young man was bound, now hanging at a forty-five degree angle to the ground. Iago clung to it with feet and fists hooked through its framework, pressing against the fellow’s body. He gawped at his benefactress in amazement, but soon found his tongue. “Caterina!” he cried. “Help her first!” Ignoring him, Iago pulled a dagger from her belt and set about freeing his wrists from the framework above, her body unavoidably working itself against him. Pedro looked at her in shock. “A woman!” She smirked when she noticed the unbidden erection that sprang against her belly; he blushed. Ah, youth. “Maybe some other time,” she said. “Hang on to the frame above you while I undo your ankles.” Reaching down to do so, and out of sheer bloody-mindedness, she contrived to brush her cheek against 120

Isabel’s Heresy the young man’s swollen member. Judging his physical condition not as dire as that of Caterina, she figured he could just about manage the 8-foot drop to the ground. “Jump for it,” she ordered. Amazingly, he refused to relinquish Caterina’s hand. One firm squeeze of his scrotum made him see reason, and he flung himself outward with a yell, landing in a bruised heap several feet beyond the flames. He scrambled woozily to his feet and started making abortive advances on the mill, driven back each time by the fire, all the while calling his lover’s name. Iago, feet resting on the outer edge of the first sail, now reached up to the thrashing Caterina, who hung almost inverted at a 130degree angle. “Pedro! Pedro!” she called down to her frantic consort. She sliced through the ropes around the woman’s left wrist and ankle, until she hung by her right side only, sagging in the middle and groaning plaintively. With a grunt, Iago wedged her right shoulder under the woman’s midriff, coiling an arm around a waist slick with sweat. She tensed herself as, cutting the last remaining bonds, Caterina’s entire weight descended on the exhausted Iago. Every muscle and joint shrieked in agony as she trembled beneath her load. Grappling with her burden, it became plain to her that she had not thought through the entire procedure, and would be unable to make her way down with this Caterina person on her back. She called down to Pedro, who, continuing his futile shouting, had taken to shifting from one foot to the next, now nursing a nastily burned wrist in the crook of one arm. So much for that erection. “You’ll have to catch her!” Pedro’s face turned chalky, but he nodded readily enough. With the now semi-conscious woman draped over her shoulder, she climbed down to the lower sail, registering that the one next to it was already ablaze at its base. Crouching as low as she could on the frame, she began to let her dainty bundle slip from her shoulder to the waiting Pedro — she could not have held onto her much longer in any event. For a sickening moment, Caterina seemed suspended in mid-air, and Iago feared a fiery and fatal miscalculation. Then it was over: she landed on Pedro with an audible smack, he collapsed beneath her, 121

Tadhg Ó Muiris and there they lay in a tangle of insensate, sooty nakedness. Free of her pretty cargo, Iago leapt down as well. The bonejarring touchdown was as nothing compared to enduring Caterina’s mass on her shoulder for another instant. She hunkered down beside them and began manually inspecting her two new charges, confirming that neither had any broken bones. Pedro had cradled Caterina’s head in his shoulder and was stroking her hair, cooing soothingly—and uselessly, Iago observed—into her unhearing ear. He seemed not to notice his rescuer’s business-like gropings and kneadings. It took very little time to confirm that their clothes had been consumed in the fire. As luck would have it, Iago had some garments and blankets in her saddlebags, and the two were soon covered—if not stylishly, at least decently. Caterina was revived by a few sips of brandy, whereupon Iago instructed them to get to their feet. “They may come back,” she said, “and I have some questions.” Iago decided to strike out down the southeast road, confident that if the horsemen did return, they would find nothing but the blackened ruin of the mill: she doubted they would bother sifting through its ashes. The couple was now horseless, and Caterina still quite unsteady on her legs, leaning heavily on Pedro. Iago, having no pressing desire to subject her own aching joints to the dubious pleasures of the saddle, bade Pedro place the girl on the horse, which she continued to lead by the reins. Soon, the inferno behind them was nothing more than a faint orange glow in a sky of blazing starlight. “So,” began Iago conversationally, “how did you come to be lashed to a burning windmill, Pedro?” It seemed to strike him suddenly that they had neither thanked their redeemer, nor even learned her name. He stopped in his tracks, bowing low, and introduced himself and his betrothed, expressing his undying gratitude. Iago resumed walking, waving away these formalities impatiently, and repeated her question. Pedro explained that they were an eloping couple, on their way to his cousin’s in San Cristóbal to be married. Upon mentioning the 122

Isabel’s Heresy mysterious gentleman and his lady with whom they had exchanged mounts and clothing, Iago gripped the youth’s shoulder urgently. “In what direction did they travel? How are they dressed?” He described the peasant clothing and rickety cart they had exchanged for the strangers’ finery and jet-black Arabian. “And to think we’d imagined getting the better bargain, my Lady,” Pedro laughed mirthlessly. “That bastard knew full well what he was getting us into!” At mention of the dark stranger, he spat contemptuously. It was Iago’s turn to stop. Her hand slipped to the hilt of the sword, reflexively moving to defend her Master’s impugned honor, but thought better of it. Perhaps in the last few days she had acquired a different perspective on honor. “The man to whom you refer is my Master,” Iago said quietly, through gritted teeth. Pedro was instantly abashed, but the effusive apologies he offered for his discourtesy seemed to lack the enthusiasm of his previous thanks. Iago found she couldn’t really blame him, and they continued down the road. “I’m sure he’d his reasons, my Lady,” he added. “Fleeing the Inquisition is, I think, a good enough reason for anyone,” observed Iago. Pedro seemed confused. “The Inquisition? Forgive me, my Lady, but those brutes weren’t from the Holy Office.” Again they stopped. “What do you mean?” “They already had us strung up on those sails before they realized their mistake.” Pedro shuddered at the memory. “The ugly one, Federico, told the captain we weren’t who they sought. Then the irregulars became very angry, and complained that they’d been dragged out there for nothing — I got the impression there was something else they’d rather be doing.” To this Iago said nothing, so Pedro continued. “That Federico swine and the rest of his toughs mounted up and headed off. But the Captain, a chap with a nasty scar on his face, told 123

Tadhg Ó Muiris his men that they weren’t going anywhere until they found out which way the witch had gone. So I piped up and told them, the northeast road.” At Iago’s glance, he made to defend himself. “Come, my Lady, I didn’t owe your Master anything — nothing pleasant, at any rate — and I thought if I answered the soldiers’ questions, they might let us go. Besides,” he added, “they’d a day’s head start.” “You said the soldiers weren’t from the Holy Office,” Iago pressed. “Yes, my Lady. As the irregulars rode away, it was then the Captain said something like: ‘Good riddance. We’re not after loot or wenching: we’re in the service of the Marquesa.” “Marquesa? Which marquesa?” “I’ve no idea, my Lady. The bastards just set the windmill on fire and headed back to the crossroads. We’d be dead now if you hadn’t arrived when you did.” But Iago had stopped listening. Marquesa? She cast her mind back to the livery worn by the soldiers who had attacked the house.

What were their colors? Blue and yellow. Of course! The colors of the House of Aranda de Duero! But what could their interest be in a fugitive witch? Iago decided that her Master’s head start on his pursuers afforded her the opportunity of finding out. “I must leave you now,” said Iago. “I have business to the south.” She heard Caterina’s feet hit the road, and she was standing beside her. Though silent the entire trip, she had apparently not missed a word. She looked up at Iago with huge dark eyes. “We are but a few miles from San Cristóbal now, my Lady,” she said, curtsying. “Go with God.” As Caterina nestled beneath Pedro’s protective arm, Iago mounted up. She glanced down at the young couple, who waved their farewells. Wheeling the horse around, she was soon swallowed up by the night.

124

Isabel’s Heresy

Chapter Eighteen

F

or the next few hours after her Master’s departure, Isabel moped in the chamber Don Tomaso had provided, moving disconsolately from the window, to the bed, to the chair in which she was still too tender to sit, and back again to the window. She hadn’t bothered to dress — she had no desire to venture outside the room, but sought somehow to suspend time by remaining where she had last been with her Master. Periodically her hand would move up to finger her collar, finding reassurance and solace in its cold embrace. Several times the chambermaid had knocked, asking if “my Lady” required anything — would she like to be dressed? Did she require refreshment? Each time, Isabel had rebuffed these offers without opening the door. With every visit, Isabel thought she noticed an increasingly anxious edge to the chambermaid’s voice. Finally, in the late morning, Isabel was informed that Don Tomaso would be expecting her at luncheon, which would be served at one o’clock. Isabel considered pleading illness, but imagined this would prompt even more intrusive attentions. Besides, it would be ungracious of her to hole up in this room indefinitely, and a slight to Don Tomaso’s kind hospitality. She opened the door and two maids scurried in busily. One set about straightening the room, making the bed and sweeping away the ashes from the grate. The other, who evinced no reaction whatsoever from the dramatic state of Isabel’s buttocks, set about bathing her face and hands, cleaning her fingernails assiduously, brushing and arranging her still very short hair and dressing her once again in that vexatious gown. At the stroke of one, Isabel descended the stairs to the Hall, where 125

Tadhg Ó Muiris Don Tomaso was already waiting. The food-laden table was one of the longest she had ever seen, perhaps thirty feet or more. Two places had been set: one at the head, where Don Tomaso sat, the other at a right angle to it, a few feet down its near side. They would not, she observed, have to shout at one another. At Isabel’s approach, Don Tomaso shot out of his chair. This momentarily startled her, being unused to such courtesies, and she had to check herself from taking a step back. He noticed her discomfiture, and grinned, indicating her place with an expansive gesture, and stepped around to adjust her chair as she sat down. She suppressed a slight wince as her still-tender bottom contacted the seat. “We haven’t seen you since you first arrived, Lady Isabel. I hope you haven’t been indisposed.” “I have been well, thank you, Don Tomaso,” replied Isabel selfconsciously, not sure how else to respond. Her eyes hungrily scanned the food laid before them. “Timoteo’s been keeping you all to himself, has he? While he’s away, I’m sure we’ll get to know one another better.” As he spoke, his eyes made a hungry peregrination of their own. The food, however, was not the object of his attention. She shifted uneasily in her chair. “The food looks wonderful, Don Tomaso.” His unwaveringly lupine grin seemed to widen even further. “Please, allow me,” he offered, piling various delicacies on her plate — tiny quails, cold rabbit and suckling pig. Isabel, famished, set about the food enthusiastically. “Some wine,” he announced somewhat superfluously, as he poured a large draft into her flagon. She gulped at it thirstily, and from a lifetime’s habit, wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her gown. At this, his grin threatened to bisect his skull. After several more helpings, punctuated by refills of her goblet, Isabel leaned back in drowsy repletion. “That was marvelous, Don Tomaso, thank you,” she sighed gratefully. “Perhaps you would enjoy a stroll through the gardens,” he suggested, hands moving to the arms of his chair, “as an aid to the 126

Isabel’s Heresy digestion.” Isabel moved to get up, but found, to her bemusement, that she was unable to lift herself from the chair. “I seem to have had too much wine,” she said apologetically, touching her hand to her forehead. She glimpsed up at her host, who now stood over her solicitously. There was suddenly two of him, both fuzzier around the edges than their original. “Perhaps we should get you to bed,” offered the two Tomasos. Isabel made to reply, but found her tongue obstinately refusing to obey her, as the table, the room, and her twin benefactors receded away from her down a deep, dark tunnel. She awoke to a violent headache and a mouth as dry as pillow ticking, in a bed that was not her own. As the world came groggily into focus, she realized that she was naked; the painful sensations in her nether regions provided further intelligence as to what had happened during her period of unconsciousness. Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she saw Tomaso lying next to her, his head propped under one hand, still wearing that sickening grin. She wondered if it had once left his face since dinner. As soon as the notion occurred to her, she snatched up at a corner of the bedsheet to cover herself. Tomaso merely chuckled unpleasantly, and tore the bedclothes from her again with his free hand. “What have you done, Don Tomaso?” she asked indignantly, moving to get off the bed, but found she could not. Incredibly, her collar — her Master’s collar, which he had placed on her, had been secured to the headboard with a short length of chain — by this villain. “Come, come, my Lady,” and the emphasis he placed on this last word was drenched in irony, “You needn’t be so prim. We both know what you are. Naturally, Timoteo told me I could take my pleasure of you while he was gone. ‘It’s the least I can do, old friend,’ I believe, was how he put it.” “You lying swine!” Isabel spat. “Did he tell you to drug me, too?” She fought to put as much distance between herself and Tomaso as the chain allowed her, but all she could manage was to shift her lower body diagonally away from him, so that her legs dangled over 127

Tadhg Ó Muiris the edge of the bed, one lucky foot achieving contact with the floor. It was clear that Tomaso did not care overly for being called a liar or a swine: his grin began to falter, much to her satisfaction. “That was merely to ease us through the preliminaries, my dear,” he drawled. “Now that we’ve become better acquainted, I’ve no doubt we’ll be great friends,” and, grin firmly re-engaged, he reached down to haul her back towards him. His touch had a galvanizing effect on Isabel. She curled her hands into claws, and with a shriek of outrage gouged deep bloody furrows into that loathsome face. Tomaso, howling in anger and pain, fetched Isabel a backhand to the face that jarred her head viciously against the headboard, dazing her. Through the stars that danced before her eyes, she could see Tomaso bathing his savaged cheeks at the washbasin, cursing extravagantly. He dabbed at his wounds gingerly with a towel while he inspected the damage in the mirror. Gone was his former hilarity. “You’ll pay for that, bitch,” he said quietly. Turning on his heels, he left the room. Isabel groped behind her to find where her collar was secured to the bed. She cried out in vexation when she felt the rough metal of the padlocks with which the chain was held fast. Pulling ineffectually at it, she found the heavy oaken bed-frame didn’t even creak. Her heart began to race. What would he do to her? She had ample time to consider this as long minutes passed. Eventually she heard the tramp of several pairs of feet at the door. It swung open to reveal Tomaso, the sides of his face now dressed in sticking plasters, flanked by two tall uniformed attendants. “Take this whore down to the dungeon,” he ordered them, handing one the keys to the padlocks. “And see that she’s made very uncomfortable. I’ll deal with her later.” In a matter of moments, the chain was disengaged, and Isabel was thrown facedown on the floor, whereupon her wrists were bound cruelly behind her with leather thongs. A sharp yank on the collarchain had her scrambling to her feet, fighting for breath. At length she stood shivering before the still-fuming Tomaso. One attendant stood with his back to her, and over his shoulder he had swung the 128

Isabel’s Heresy chain. He hauled on it until she was forced to stand on the tips of her toes, the steel of the collar biting into the graceful curve of her neck. Tomaso stepped quietly towards her, till they were almost touching, and she could feel the warmth of his breath on her flesh. He seemed to feed on the terror in her eyes, and enjoyed the way her nostrils flared with the effort of remaining erect. “You can beg for mercy any time,” he whispered, running a finger down from one nipple to her auburn thatch. Isabel tried to shrink away from his touch, but could not. “When my Master returns —” she managed to blurt out, before a sharp tug on the chain cut off her air. Tomaso gripped a wad of Isabel’s pubic hair, and began slowly to pull and twist it towards him. She cried out, contorting her pelvis forward to ease the pain. His enjoyment of this display was obvious. He moved his lips close to her right ear, whispering confidentially: “You’ll never see him again.” Then, to the guards: “Take her away.” They led Isabel by the chain out the door, along the corridor, down the staircase, through the Hall, and out into the courtyard, while the household went about its business. It resembled another ordeal that she had endured, and yet was different. This time, for instance, Isabel fought wildly against her captors and had to be dragged by main force while she struggled hopelessly. The reaction of the servants was a further dissimilarity. Her plight at the house of de Marisco had been met by calm indifference, whereas here she thought she glimpsed the occasional glance of resigned pity, which was somehow even more terrifying. She was hauled across the courtyard to a set of steps leading down to a barred metal door set into the castle wall. It was unlocked with a great key, and they passed down a low-ceilinged corridor that seemed to have been carved from the living rock of the mountain upon which the fortress was built, dimly illuminated by a few torches set into its dank walls. They met another barred door that, once unlocked, swung open with a crash. Gripping her by the shoulders, one of her escort threw her headfirst into the darkness within, where her fall was broken by the piles of pungent straw that littered the floor of the cell. Struggling facedown, she heard the door slam shut 129

Tadhg Ó Muiris behind her and the lock turned, and began to weep quietly. Once she had managed to calm herself, she shifted her body with some difficulty onto its side and surveyed her surroundings. The cell had no light of its own: what little reached it came from the torches in the corridor, flickering through the barred window of the door. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she was able to make out the shape and dimensions of the cell. Stone walls trickled with subterranean damp, and the straw seemed to glow a necrotic white in the gloom. Her blood froze when she heard the sound of someone else in the cell. It came from the darkest end of the chamber, which she had at first assumed to be a featureless blank wall. Upon more assiduous inspection, she could see that there was no proper wall there at all, but an array of iron bars extending from floor to ceiling, dividing hers from an adjoining cell. It was from this direction that the sound had come — a low, moaned half-sob. “Who’s there?” she asked fearfully. “Please … water,” came the barely perceptible voice of a woman. Isabel pulled herself to her feet, knees shaking: she had become adept at assuming a standing posture without the aid of her arms. Cautiously, she moved in the direction of the voice. In the darkness, the outline of a young woman gradually revealed itself. Like Isabel, she was naked — but not quite. A few ragged pieces of what were once a peasant smock still hung limply from her arms, and a wisp of woolen material clung doggedly around one thigh. From the stripes on her young flesh, Isabel surmised that the remainder of her clothing had been scourged from her with a whip. Her arms extended tautly above her in a shallow V, her wrists having been bound to a slender iron reinforcing beam that stretched across the width of the bars at a height of roughly seven feet. With dismay, Isabel saw that the poor woman’s feet didn’t reach the ground, her soles resting precariously, and agonizingly, on another reinforcing beam about eight inches off the ground, where her ankles had been tied some three feet apart. The woman’s knees trembled continually as they fought to maintain her weight — Isabel had no idea for how long. 130

Isabel’s Heresy The stranger raised her head exhaustedly and her eyes met Isabel’s, shining through a black main that sweat and tears had matted to a lovely, aquiline face. She repeated her plea. “Water?” said Isabel. “Is there any here?” With an effort, the woman indicated with her chin an area down to Isabel’s right. Isabel spun around, and had a sickening moment when her ankle came into contact with and almost upset the tin bowl resting on the floor beside her. But how was she to help this woman with her wrists tied behind her? No matter— she would do what she could. Getting down on her knees, she fought to maintain her balance as she grasped the lip of the bowl with her teeth. Gingerly, so as not to spill any, she pulled first one leg and then the other out from under her and slowly raised herself erect. With gentle, mincing steps, she approached her suffering cellmate and held the opposite lip of the bowl to her parched mouth. But it was to no avail. Her companion’s mouth, though she struggled to reach down with heart-rending desperation, was a mere half inch higher than Isabel’s when she stood on tip-toe, but this was enough to render the angle at which the water rested in the bowl tantalizingly inaccessible. Its proximity was maddening, and she began to cry. Isabel, however, had not given up. With the same degree of care with which she had picked up the bowl, she again lowered it to the ground. She then sucked a portion of the water into her mouth. Coming laboriously erect again, her cheeks bulging, she applied her lips to those of the other woman, their bosoms pressed against one another. Her skin, dripping with exertion, slid smoothly against Isabel. She felt hardening nipples brush against her own as she released her load of the brackish liquid into the other’s mouth. She drank it in a single swallow, and licked greedily at Isabel’s mouth and face for any stray droplets. “More, please.” Isabel repeated the procedure two more times; each time, she lingered longer while her fellow prisoner’s mouth traversed her own, hunting greedily, her now moistened tongue darting between Isabel’s 131

Tadhg Ó Muiris parted lips, their torsos sliding against each other, slippery with sweat and spilt water. Isabel felt that familiar low ache in her abdomen, and let out a little cry as the other woman began to rub her pubis next to hers. She wished she could explore this woman’s body with her hands, her fingers cherishing and comforting every curve and orifice. Instead, she savored the taste of her erect nipples, and played her mouth across the straining, fretful muscles of her belly. Her companion moaned softly, arching her pelvis upward towards Isabel’s tongue. Isabel looked up briefly at the shining face, a haunting admixture of suffering and passion. “What is your name?” she asked. Her interlocutor winced when Isabel’s mouth broke contact with her flesh, as if the interruption caused her more physical pain than her predicament. “It doesn’t matter,” she husked, “there is no hope for either of us.” Isabel’s legs were flexed beneath her as her oral attentions continued downward, but this posture was impossible to maintain. Eventually, she sank to her knees, mercifully padded by the sodden straw at her lover’s feet, and found herself at eye-level with her jetfringed mound, which bobbed and swayed before her with increasing ardor. Isabel began to lick her in precisely the spot and in precisely the way that her Master licked her to such gratifying effect, at which point the woman moaned even more loudly. At the thought of her Master, however, her heart clenched and she raised her eyes again. “What is your name?” Isabel asked again, more insistently. “Dolores,” she groaned. “Please don’t stop.” Isabel resumed lapping at Dolores’ clitoris, savoring the musky fragrance that rose up to her from the twinkling black tuft above it. Kneeling, naked and bound, serving this unknown and doomed woman, she felt both aroused and strangely comforted. Nevertheless, she could not help wishing that it was her Master whom she now tasted, and to whom she was bringing pleasure. Dolores’ writhings became more pronounced, her cries echoing off the dungeon walls. They then ceased abruptly, as she was gripped and shaken by the shuddering throes of her orgasm, whose power seemed to rob her of the capacity of vocalization. Isabel rested her 132

Isabel’s Heresy cheek against the woman’s abdomen, idly licking up the juices that oozed down her inner thigh, and murmured to her gently. Her quaking gradually subsided, and she collapsed exhaustedly in her bonds. Isabel bitterly regretted there was nothing else she could do for Dolores, that there was no way she could help ease her suffering. She curled up in the straw at her feet, the flesh of her hip contacting the poor woman’s twitching toes. She whispered words of comfort and encouragement to her throughout the night, but was herself unable to sleep both because of her companion’s agonies and the dread of what might await them tomorrow. Dolores merely moaned softly, her breath coming in fitful sighs. The passage of time became unfathomable, and Isabel had no idea at what hour a key rasped in the lock of the cell door and the two retainers who had dragged her there reappeared, an assortment of shackles swinging noisily from their belts. She cringed as they made their way towards her, but gasped loudly as they kicked her viciously aside; it was Dolores for whom they had come. One gripped her around the chest while the other set about untying the restraints that held her limbs fast to the bars; once released, they flopped limply at her sides as if there was no bone in them at all. Lowered onto her stomach, the supine Dolores was speechless with pain and exhaustion, facedown in the rotting straw, as they fastened the shackles to her already tormented wrists, binding her now useless arms behind her and cinching her ankles tightly together in iron bands. Wherever they were taking her, she wouldn’t be walking. “Today’s your big day, whore,” said one of the guards, yanking Dolores’ head backward from the floor by a clump of clotted hair. From where she lay, her face was mere inches from that of Isabel, her mouth wide in a silent cry of sorrow, stray strands of straw clinging to her tear-stained cheeks. “If you’re a good girl,” the other sneered, patting his bulging codpiece in anticipation, “we might make it quick for you.” At these words, Dolores’ eyes met Isabel’s. Isabel leaned over from where she lay and kissed Dolores tenderly, for what she knew would be the last time. 133

Tadhg Ó Muiris Dolores mouthed the words “thank you.” Her tragic gaze then quickly receded from Isabel’s sight as they lifted her up and carried her out the cell door, shutting and locking it behind them. Isabel buried her face in the straw and cried. Where are you, Master?

134

Isabel’s Heresy

Chapter Nineteen

I

sabel lay there and grieved. She grieved for Dolores, whom she had never known; she grieved for herself, and the evil fate that awaited her at the hands of the traitorous Tomaso; most of all, she grieved for de Marisco, whose arms she would never feel around her again, and whose protection and mastery over her she had enjoyed for the last time. His sternest rebuke, his cruelest torments would be as nothing but a joyous comfort to her now. Her fingers groped to touch the marks he had left on her body, and lingered lovingly on every ridge and furrow of the quickly healing welts on her bottom. How long ago, she wondered, had she felt his bittersweet caress? Two days? Three days? Her heart sank at the thought of his returning, possibly falling into an odious trap of Tomaso’s devising, to find his Isabel already dead, most certainly after agonizing tortures. Her heart leapt at the sound of approaching footsteps, a single pair this time. With a rusty groan of complaint the door swung open once again: it was Tomaso. Since she had last seen him, his good humor appeared to have returned; he strutted about the prone Isabel with a malign satisfaction, nudging her belly and breasts speculatively with the toe of a spurred boot as she tried to wriggle away from him, making interested noises at the marks left on her bottom by his rival. Her struggles seemed to elevate his mood further, as he savored both the advantage that her bound wrists gave him and the helpless beauty of her contortions. She tried to shrink away from him, but soon found herself pressed against the slimy wall of the dungeon. Instinctively she drew her legs up into a fetal position around her abdomen, all too aware what scant protection this would afford her. 135

Tadhg Ó Muiris It was with a malevolent bonhomie that he addressed her. “I’m not an unforgiving man,” he began, in the tone one might use when reasoning with a wayward child. That he was addressing a bound and naked woman who lay on the floor of his dungeon lent a surreal quality to the statement, and Isabel wondered for a moment if he were mad. “Therefore, after having exacted a relatively meager retribution from you, of course, I am willing to forgive your assault upon me.” Isabel remained silent, but she felt sure that their respective definitions of “relatively meager” might be vastly different, indeed. Tomaso, however, was not finished. “On the condition, of course, that you renounce any allegiance you may have had with the now attainted Timoteo. He can offer you nothing but the life of a vagabond and fugitive anyway: I, on the other hand, can protect you, Isabel.” Despite her vulnerability, Isabel didn’t try to disguise a sneer. She looked about demonstratively at the filthy cell and at her own bound nakedness. “Is this the protection of which you speak, Don Tomaso?” Tomaso was unperturbed by her defiance; indeed, he seemed excited by it. He leaned his right hand against the dripping walls of the cell, and thus supported, raised his left foot over Isabel’s chest. Isabel gasped as the flashing rowel of his spur came lightly into contact with the soft flesh of her breast. With practiced ease, he flicked his heel and a rosy nick appeared above her right nipple. The rowel whirred with a snakelike hiss and then was silent. Tears welled in her eyes, but Isabel did not cry out. “You will find my protection, however disagreeable, far more pleasant than the alternative, my dear.” “Was Dolores also a beneficiary of your protection, Don Tomaso?” Isabel asked through dry lips. “What has become of her?” “An excellent question,” he replied, fetching her a rough kick to the rump. “Get up and I’ll show you.” Isabel remained motionless for a moment, reluctant to invite new horrors. When Tomaso made to kick her again, however, she began to hoist herself achingly to her feet. Standing exposed before him as she was, her captor could not resist the temptation to run his fingers 136

Isabel’s Heresy along her body, tweaking harshly the contused flesh of her breasts. “This way,” he said, and gripping her firmly by the back of her steel collar, he began to shove her forward and out the door of the cell. Isabel’s knees were shaking as she was prodded and pushed along the dim corridor, fearing what lay ahead. From the door ahead of her, blinding white daylight poured; she was squinting long before she stepped through it and staggered up the stone risers to the courtyard of the fortress. Sightlessly she was led about twenty paces more, before being made to kneel on the hard-packed earth. For a few moments she was unable to make out anything until the scene in all its horror came into focus. Dolores, like Isabel, was kneeling bound in the courtyard, surrounded by half a dozen of Tomaso’s men, whose hose and codpieces were in varying degrees of disarrangement. She swayed with exhaustion, and the light of day revealed far more of the cruelties to which she had been subjected than had the gloom of the cell she had shared with Isabel. Sweat poured from the lovely curves of her ill-used body, making a ring of dark round patches in the earth around her. At their master’s approach, the guards appeared to have ceased whatever it was they doing, and stood looking to him for instructions. “I should inform you, Isabel, that your sympathy for this whore is misplaced. Or do you think the attempted murder of one’s lord should go unpunished?” Isabel made no reply, but at the mention of her name, the condemned woman swung her head around to find her. More than pain, Isabel thought she saw sorrow in the other’s eyes — sorrow for herself, and that Isabel must be made to watch the ignominy of her end. “She was married last week, to a miscreant rebel who presumed to refuse me my droit de seigneur. When I made to enforce my rights, he came after me with a pitchfork, if you can credit it.” There was genuine astonishment in Tomaso’s voice, as if he were still trying to fathom such impudence. “Circumstances, sadly, compelled me to kill him then and there. It would have been better to make a more effective example of him. You can imagine my position, therefore, 137

Tadhg Ó Muiris when that slut continued to refuse me — it was insult to injury, after all.” He stepped over to where Dolores knelt in the dirt, and lifted her face toward him by the chin. At his touch, she let out a pre-emptive moan. “Please, my lord, have mercy!” she breathed. Tomaso continued to regard Dolores’ face pensively, though his words were for Isabel alone. “As I indicated previously, I am not an unreasonable man, and have offered this slut a choice. If she pleases me and my men sufficiently, I have promised her a relatively quick death — if not, a less pleasant one. You can’t say fairer than that.” Isabel’s attention had heretofore been drawn to the suffering Dolores exclusively. At Tomaso’s words, however, she noticed other objects that stood to the edges of the tragic tableau. To the left, a simple gibbet had been erected, made of two eight-foot uprights surmounted by a crosspiece of about six feet, supported on diagonal struts at either end. From the crosspiece a looped length of hemp rope hung ominously. At its base stood a pathetic little wooden stool, crudely fashioned, and of about one foot in height. This, she realized with revulsion, was the more pleasant of Dolores’ choices, as her eyes lit upon what stood to the right. They had dug an oblong pit of indeterminate depth, measuring seven by four feet. At each corner, sturdy metal stakes with ratcheted edges rose to a level of three feet. A few paces away, a large metal grate of the same dimensions as the pit, fitted with great iron shackles, lay in readiness. The pit itself was filled to the brim with coals that now glowed white hot, and the air shimmered above it with the intensity of the heat. Tomaso continued to look down into Dolores’ tormented visage. She returned his gaze beseechingly. “What say you, sergeant? Been keeping up her end, has she?” Coming to attention, the sergeant’s words belied the formality of his posture. “Well, I’m not so sure, my Lord,” the sergeant drawled, grinning at the kneeling woman. At this, Dolores’ head turned sharply to face him in agonized terror, and a desperate, imploring whimper of 138

Isabel’s Heresy protest escaped her. “It is, of course, up to you to say, my Lord. My men and I have been fairly well pleased,” he allowed, adjusting his codpiece, “several times each, as a matter of fact. And she didn’t spill a drop.” “They say the condemned shall have a hearty meal,” quipped Tomaso, and the others laughed dutifully. He drew Dolores’ head around by the chin to face him once again. “But the only opinion that matters is, of course, mine. Service me well, bitch. My men are excellent cooks, and know not to hurry a roast. They can have you begging for death for days, if I’m of a mind to so instruct them.” “Have pity, my lord, I beg you,” sobbed Dolores, as she leaned forward to kiss Tomaso’s codpiece with loud smooching sounds. He undid it, and his erection sprang out at her. She set about it desperately, whimpering and weeping about his swollen member, her sweat and tears falling into his pubic hair and scintillating there like gems in the blazing sunlight. She bent to reach lower so that she could take his entire scrotum in her mouth and play her tongue along its surface. She licked as slowly as she dared along the length of his shaft, from base to tip, and lapped at the single golden droplet gracing its head. Finally, she took as much of his length into her mouth as she could, and sucked to and fro on it with a desperate intensity, her whimpers and sobs escaping her in counterpoint to the frenzied back-and-forth rocking of her head. Isabel could only watch, tears streaming down her own face. Did Dolores imagine, she wondered, that it was her poor, dead lover’s cock that she was sucking? The piteous sounds that emanated from her seemed to preclude this consoling possibility. Despite her extremity, Isabel observed that she seemed to know what she was doing. But then, she had already had ample practice on the brutish louts that now stood watching Dolores’ final humiliation with rapt attention. A delicate shuddering of his body and a pleasurable moan informed Isabel that Tomaso had ejaculated. She heard Dolores swallow ostentatiously, and she continued to lick and lap at whatever might continue to ooze from her tormentor’s spent penis, licking her lips ingratiatingly. After a few moments, he did himself up again, and 139

Tadhg Ó Muiris contemplated Dolores’ pleading eyes. “Please, my Lord, I beg you!” Tomaso pretended to ponder a moment, and rubbed his chin as if in indecision. “Hmmm …” With a cry of anguish, Dolores’ face crumpled into inconsolable weeping. “Give me another chance, my Lord! I’ll do better, I promise — oh my Lord have mercy!” Tomaso chuckled, with the air of a man who was highly gratified, indeed. He crouched down to address his wailing prisoner more intimately, forearms resting casually on his knees. He clutched a handful of her filthy locks and jerked her head back with it, whereupon Dolores almost lost her balance. He compensated easily for it and righted her, drawing her face close to his. “I’ve always been too easygoing. It’s one of my great failings,” he said in mock ruefulness. Relief flooded into Dolores’ eyes, and she made to kiss the hand that still gripped her by the hair. “Oh, thank you, sweet Lord,” she babbled her gratitude and endearments to him. Tomaso rose to his feet and jerked his chin at the guards. “String her up, then,” he ordered. The retainers moved to comply, lifting her by the arms. Her ankles, still shackled together, dragged painfully in the dirt as they hauled her to the base of the gibbet. Her head hung in exhaustion and resignation. They propped her up on the stool with difficulty; it was for a moment unclear whether she would be able to support herself at all on her quaking legs, but somehow she managed. The noose, a simple slipknot tied in a heavy cable of rope some two inches thick, accentuated the fragility and gracefulness of her slender neck as it was cinched around it; they lifted her hair through the loop so that it hung over the ligature and fell about her quivering shoulders. Dolores tottered, gulping convulsively as most of the slack in the cord was eliminated with a vicious tug, the end knotted around a cleat bolted to one of the uprights. She was compelled to stand on tiptoes to relieve the unrelenting pressure on her neck, the cords of which pulsed in sharp relief beneath her glistening olive skin. She seemed to be trying to reconcile herself to her fate, willing her ragged 140

Isabel’s Heresy breathing and fluttering heart to calmness. Only the trembling in her body and the tears that coursed down her cheeks in dirty tracks betrayed her. Isabel could contain herself no longer, and began weeping for her friend. Tomaso, who had been observing Dolores’ plight with enjoyment, hands on his hips, looked over at Isabel with renewed interest. “You don’t wish to see your pretty friend hang by her lovely neck, Isabel? Then don’t look to me — I have no intention of removing the stool beneath her feet.” Isabel looked up at him with undisguised suspicion, and received an answering smirk from Tomaso. “Her fate has always been in her own hands.” He held out an outstretched arm, palm open. The sergeant approached briskly and placed in it the end of a long, slender rod of French cane. When Isabel guessed what he intended, she spat on the ground before his feet. “You’re a monster,” she hissed. Dolores, on the other hand, merely let out a long, tremulous sigh and closed her tear-blurred eyes, as if wishing the awful sight away. Tomaso approached where the woman teetered with slow, measured steps, not even deigning to look up at her. As he did so, he grasped the cane by both ends and bent it acutely, as if testing its flexibility. Standing at the foot of the flimsy stool on which she balanced, he made a few practice swings; the high-pitched whistle the rod made as it cut through the air elicited a moan of incipient panic from the hapless Dolores, who had begun feebly to struggle against the iron shackles that bound her wrists behind her. “Observe well, my dear,” he said, addressing the appalled Isabel. “For the time is soon coming when you shall envy this whore her fate.” With that, he cast his arm behind him and swept the cane forward in a vicious arc, laying a crimson welt across Dolores’ heaving breasts, its course traversing one blazing red nipple. She shrieked, vainly twisting her body away from him, and almost overbalanced: her cry was cut off abruptly by the noose’s grim embrace, and it was a few terrifying seconds before she had righted herself again, gagging and panting with effort and pain. Once more 141

Tadhg Ó Muiris she saw him raise the rod, and the poor woman cast her head back and let out a heart-rending wail of hopelessness to the indifferent heavens. He paused with the devilish instrument poised over his shoulder. “No matter how terrible her plight, you see how she clings to life?” he observed conversationally with Isabel. “Knowing there is no hope, and that her final moments will be bitter and dreadful, she nevertheless would choose it over the mercy of the rope. Fascinating, isn’t it?” As if in illustration, he landed another murderously slicing blow on Dolores’ taut abdomen, followed almost instantly by one across her buttocks. She screamed again, and her body fought to fold in upon itself, but could not. Tomaso stepped more closely to his victim to examine the effect of his cruelties on the flesh of her belly, which now quivered before him at eye-level. Dolores’ cry dissolved into broken sobs as he ran his hand caressingly along the hollow of her navel, and laced his fingers through the wiry thicket of her pubic hair. Unable to resist the temptation, and seeing no reason why he should, he kissed her belly, and gazed up to the woebegone face framed between two tortured breasts. “Don’t you wish now that you had been a more obedient servant to your lord and master, you faithless bitch?” he asked quietly. Dolores, however, seemed beyond conversational gambits. She made no reply, but continued to whimper distractedly. “I would have been very gentle with you,” he mused wistfully. “Gentlemen know how to pleasure women, not like boorish peasants.” At these words, she grew quiet, as if remembering the promise and hope of her poor, murdered bridegroom. Tomaso seemed not to notice. “Perhaps I should demonstrate.” He hunkered down to where her ankles were shackled, and released the bolt that joined them. Instinctively, Dolores shifted her feet as far apart as the circumference of the stool would allow, which was about two feet: this made it far easier for her to maintain her balance. Tomaso, in his vanity, misinterpreted this gesture as acquiescence — an acquiescence that, in any event, she was not in a 142

Isabel’s Heresy position to withhold. “Shall I show you a little pleasure, I wonder, before you die?” He began to feather the fingers of one hand gently across the surface of her inner thighs, and smiled evilly at the shiver that coursed through her in response. His tongue grazed the trembling gooseflesh of her belly, teasing a winding course downward to her mound. The other hand let fall the cane, and began to explore between the twin globes of her freshly striped bottom. Deftly he parted her labia with thumb and ring finger, to reveal a now glimmering clitoris, against which his tongue darted once, twice, a third time. Dolores, who had been silent for a few minutes, now gave a quiet moan as if in spite of herself. She licked her lips as her stolen breaths accelerated; shudders wracked her body each time his tongue came into contact with the silken surface of her bud. Her eyes remained closed, her face heavenward, but there was no mistaking the effect of Tomaso’s caresses. From where she knelt naked and bound, Isabel watched this scene with fascination. How many times had she herself drunk gratefully from the well of desire while under the shadow of death? Had not impending doom not made the draft so much the sweeter? Her reflections were interrupted by a triumphant cry from Tomaso, who held aloft his index finger, clearly dripping with the humors of Dolores’ passion. “You see?” he asked rhetorically, by no means unaroused himself. “The randy slut! Though she stands at the gallows, a filthy and depraved wanton she remains. By God, I’ll have her now,” he vowed, and with a few tugs had released the knot to which the end of the hangman’s rope had been secured. Now that she was no longer semi-suspended by the throat, Dolores’ legs buckled beneath her, though incredibly they managed to maintain their purchase on the stool. Tomaso made for her as a man demented, lifting her up in his arms, and throwing her roughly to the ground. In an instant, his hose were down around his knees, and he hung poised on his elbows above the prone woman. He grasped her hair in one of his fists, forcing her neck back, and sank his teeth savagely into the flesh of her breasts. In the other hand he gripped the noose where it emerged from the slip knot, and tugged 143

Tadhg Ó Muiris on it mercilessly. Dolores flailed and gasped beneath him, but these contortions were as nothing compared to her reaction when he plunged inside of her. Her back arched and her mouth opened in a surprised “o”, as he began to pump her viciously. Her head swung madly from side to side, as she fought for breath. “Take that, you cunt!” he spat. “Enjoy it while it lasts, you bitch!” From her position, Isabel had lost sight of Dolores, and could see only Tomaso’s backside rising and falling like some devilish engine as his prisoner’s legs flapped wildly in the dirt. Dolores’ strangled cries coincided with every thrust that Tomaso made into her. Gradually, her legs ceased their frenzied scrabbling, and Isabel was amazed to see them rise up and clench around Tomaso, to see those shackled ankles hook together, and squeeze him rhythmically into her. “You like that, don’t you, slut?” he rasped. “You’ll remember this fondly when you breathe your last, won’t you?” Dolores’ only response was a moaned “no, no, no …” that trailed off in an exhausted wail, and mingled with her tormentor’s groan of pleasure and completion. When he was finished, Tomaso got shakily to his feet and hitched up his hose, gazing smugly down at the filthy and exhausted woman, who lay bound and panting like a landed trout. “By God, that was pleasant!” he shouted, slapping a thigh in satisfaction. He then looked about him at his henchmen. “It seems to me, however, that I have been merciful to a fault, wouldn’t you say, men?” The others muttered non-committal sounds of agreement, but eyed one another interestedly. “Having been beguiled by this whore to show such unwonted leniency, I think it only right that she be roasted after all.” Upon hearing these words, Dolores rolled painfully over onto her side, and buried her face in the dirt, weeping quietly. Isabel could stand no more. “Please, my lord, I beg you, take me!” she cried to him. Tomaso turned to her in frank astonishment. “What’s that?” “Spare her, and I shall be yours, renouncing all others, I swear.” Tomaso cupped a hand to his ear theatrically. “I don’t think I 144

Isabel’s Heresy heard you. You’d better come closer, my dear.” Isabel made to rise to her feet, but was stopped by an imperious gesture from Tomaso. “Come to me on your knees, my lady.” Painfully, Isabel began to comply, hobbling awkwardly across the ten or so yards that separated them. Making her way gingerly, she tried to raise her knees as high as she could to spare them the scraping and scratching of the stony ground, but they were raw and bloodied notwithstanding by the time she reached Tomaso’s feet. “Now then: again.” “Let me be yours, my lord, and yours alone, forever, to do with as you will, if only you would spare this woman’s life.” He stared down at her coldly through slitted eyes. “You would forsake Timoteo?” Tears clouded her eyes. She bit her lip and replied, “I would, my lord.” “And be my chattel, to do with as I will, for ever? Or at least for as long as I choose to let you live?” “I would, my lord.” Turning to his servants, he indicated Dolores with a disgusted wave of his hand. “Take this whore back down to her cell. Use her as you will, but see she doesn’t die, for now.” Isabel watched as they carried the limp prisoner down the steps to the dungeon. “Lick my boots, slave.” Isabel bent forward, and as single tear patted down onto the toe of his boot, she licked it away.

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Chapter Twenty

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he palace of the Marquesa twinkled prettily in the sunlight, bright yellow and blue pennants fluttering from ornate towers. A far cry from the grim mountain fastnesses to the north, it was a marchional estate designed and built for the pleasure and comfort of a nobility grown fat and rich in a peaceable region. Castellated walls around hunched settlements had given way to sweeping acres of green parkland ringed by spike-topped wroughtiron gates. The humble poacher had replaced the Visigoth and Moor as the scourge to be kept without. It was from such a park that Iago, almost feeling her old self and obscured by the shade of the crosshatching oak boughs above, observed the activities of the Marquesa’s household. She could not know, nor would she have cared, that the tree camouflaging her was the same from which Isabel and Diego had swung so happily in those irrevocably lost summers. Discreet inquiries in the village had yielded some interesting information: the Lady Julietta had been widowed a year before, and her grief had been compounded recently by the death of her only son, Diego, at the Battle of Lepanto. Heirless, the estate would fall to a cadet branch of the family upon the Marquesa’s death. Only hinted at in whispered innuendos were the rumors concerning the Lady’s personal habits. Servants’ gossip that filtered its way through the village implied that her predilections were exotic, to say the least. Several young men and women, it was said, had gone missing from the surrounding countryside over the past two years. Fortunately, the hamlets from which these disappearances occurred were always sufficiently far from the estate so as not to become a 146

Isabel’s Heresy cause for local concern — merely prurient surmise. As to the fate of these young people, speculation varied, and generally told more about one’s interlocutor than about the Marquesa’s private tastes. Suffice it to say, they were never seen again. Iago remained unimpressed by these rumors. She suspected that such talk was probably generated more by the fact that the Marquesa, a woman alone, now ruled, rather than on any substantive evidence. It was inevitable that the Lady would be the target of spiteful and misogynistic propaganda, inferring unconscious parallels between the unnaturalness of Julietta’s position and the presumed unnaturalness of her appetites. Her own Master’s enthusiasms, she reflected, had caused nary a raised eyebrow among his tenants — such was the license of masculinity. Indeed, his qualifications had even afforded him a prestigious free-lance position with the Holy Office. Nevertheless, thought Iago, with luck, some of the rumors might

actually have a grain of truth. Iago climbed over the fence and returned to where her horse was tethered, having already decided, previous to this reconnoiter, on her optimum point of entry — the front door. Her red hair cut short beneath her comb morion helm, her bosoms pressed flat beneath a polished cuirass, Iago presented herself at the main gate, handing to the porter a carefully-crafted letter. The porter glanced up dubiously at this handsome stranger, and then squinted down at the red seal on the message. It proved as indecipherable as Iago had intended. “That is for your Mistress’ eyes only,” Iago told him. “I will wait.” The porter disappeared up the steps leading to the gilded front doors of the palace. Iago remained mounted, her horse drinking from one of the carved stone troughs that flanked the portico. She realized the forgery was a gamble, and was prepared for flight should her ruse be discovered. She was, however, rather proud of her literary efforts:

To Her Ladyship Jullietta Marquesa de Aranda de Duero, My name is Don Hector Ramón Guillermo de 147

Tadhg Ó Muiris Franco y Dagoberto. I was a friend of your Son, Don Diego, and was with Him when He gave his Life so valiantly for the Glory of Christendom at the Battle of Lepanto. He spoke of You fondly and often, and frequently expressed his Hope of presenting me to his Parents in the future. Indeed, it was his Final Wish that I someday convey personally to You his Filial Devotion, as spoken from his Dying Lips. The Call of Duty has long kept me from fulfilling this Trust until recently, when said Duties have brought me to Aranda de Duero. If Your Ladyship pleases, I would be Honored to be received, if even for a few minutes, into Your Ladyship’s Gracious Presence. Yours, etc., Don Hector Ramón Guillermo de Franco y Dagoberto Iago passed twenty impatient minutes waiting for the return of the porter. When he did so, she was relieved to see it was not in the company of a troop of guardsmen. “My Lady the Marquesa insists you be her guest,” he announced, bowing courteously. He whistled for a groom, and Iago’s horse was led away to the stables. Spurs jingling resonantly, she was led down a corridor of marbled flooring, dynastic portraiture and brilliant wall-hangings, at the end of which stood a cunningly wrought pair of doors. With the end of his baton, the porter rapped ceremoniously on a brass plate affixed to one of them. The doors were swung open by a liveried servant within, who stepped nimbly to the side and announced in a ringing voice: “Don Hector Ramón Guillermo de Franco y Dagoberto.” Iago strode briskly into the room, hearing the withdrawing servant pull the doors to behind him. She took in as much of her surroundings as she could before going down on one knee and bowing her head chivalrously. The grandeur of the corridor was a mere prelude to the splendor 148

Isabel’s Heresy of the Marquesa’s receiving room. A gigantic crystal chandelier illuminated a room of staggering proportions, in which twenty-foot high windows were bracketed by draperies of velvet and gold brocade; Bokhara rugs felt as soft as meadow grass beneath her feet; opulent tapestries glowed as if from some internal luminosity. Yet all these wonders paled before the sight of the Marquesa herself. On a raised dais, she was ensconced on a seat whose dimensions disqualified it as a throne, yet whose craftsmanship and elegance made it more than a mere chair. She was adorned in a gown of fiery burgundy velvet, from its bodice two powdered, melon-like breasts threatened to escape. A flamboyant lace ruff spread its wings about a meticulous jet-black coiffure, probably dyed, from which pearls softly shimmered. She judged her to be in her mid-forties. A peasant woman of such an age, through deprivation and toil, would long since have become a withered and toothless crone. Iago nevertheless suspected that there was more to the Marquesa’s beauty than the mere conservation of a previous youthfulness through prosperity and comfort. Rather, Iago saw in the high cheekbones, the aquiline nose and strong curve of jaw features well suited to her maturity. Indeed, she surmised that the Marquesa had only shortly entered her prime. It was, however, the noblewoman’s hazel eyes that caught and held Iago’s attention. Large and more widely spaced than classic beauty would prescribe, heavily lidded, long-lashed and framed delicately with kohl, their piercing intensity hinted at both an intelligence and sensuality that reminded Iago, disconcertingly, of her Master. “Don Hector, you are welcome here.” The Marquesa’s voice was rich and deep, with the oaky smoothness of Turkish coffee. “My Lady, it was very good of you to offer your hospitality to an unexpected stranger. Had my business here not been so impromptu, I would surely have been in a position to allow you more notice of my arrival.” “A friend of my late son is no stranger. Please don’t bore an old woman with useless apologies and explanations, Don Hector. Come sit by me, and let me get a good look at you. My eyes aren’t what they 149

Tadhg Ó Muiris used to be.”

In which event the mind boggles, she thought. Iago sensed that these self-deprecating and somewhat ludicrous references to her advanced years was a well-worn conversational gambit of hers, and decided to oblige, seating herself on the dais at the Marquesa’s feet. “My Lady, had I not known you were the Marquesa, I would have taken you for Diego’s sister.” Lady Julietta smiled lazily, as if not particularly impressed but not disappointed, either: it was, Iago noted, an obvious response to a fairly obvious remark, after all, and quite insincere. Both parties were aware, it seemed, that her age suited her. What, Iago wondered, did the Marquesa see when she looked upon Iago? She probably noted that Iago’s face was a bit too pretty for a man, a touch too effeminate, with short-cropped red hair. Nevertheless, Iago’s carriage and manner bespoke a dashing young man-at-arms, cradling a gleaming helmet in the crook of his left elbow. Some women, Iago was aware, liked pretty men. She decided to try again. “Though Diego spoke of you often, and in the fondest of terms, he never mentioned how achingly beautiful you were, my Lady — nor, indeed, how that beauty overwhelms anything it touches.” This, Iago sensed, was better: she noted a telltale rise and fall of those ripe bosoms, and the broadening of Lady Julietta’s smile. With the exception of her reference to the dead Diego, what she had said was, after all, quite true. Iago noted no awkwardness at the mention of Diego’s name — no wistful sigh, no kohl-smearing tear brushed discreetly away. Perhaps the Marquesa wasn’t the strong maternal type — she certainly didn’t strike Iago that way. On the other hand, it was possible that the Marquesa was a woman who held her emotions on a tight rein, which was a quality Iago admired. Moreover she had not yet asked to hear Diego’s dying words, the ostensible reason for the visit — this was a pity, Iago reflected, as she was rather proud of the words she had composed for that purpose, and had been fully prepared to amaze her hostess with the eloquence and passion of her deceased offspring. 150

Isabel’s Heresy Far from matters of filial devotion, their conversation ventured briefly into the spheres of art and poetry, about which Iago knew next to nothing, before settling comfortably into the more dramatic and yet prosaic realms of soldiering and bloodshed, about which Iago knew a great deal more. As the afternoon slid into evening, strolling with the Marquesa on her arm through the park in which Iago had lurked mere hours before, and that night over a candlelit feast in the sumptuous dining room, Lady Julietta allowed herself to be regaled by tales of martial valor and manly mayhem. Iago was unaccustomed to holding the floor for such long periods, particularly without rehearsal, but her host seemed to find her straightforward manner and newfound lack of pretension quite endearing. As they said their goodnights and Iago was escorted to her chamber, she resolved to give it an hour: either a besotted noblewoman would be clawing at her door by midnight, or she would have to take matters into her own hands. As it was, Iago had but fifteen minutes to wait before she heard a discreet knock, rather than a desperate scrabbling, at her door. When she opened it, a servant intimated in muted tones that the Marquesa required Don Hector’s presence in her chambers at once. Upon arriving at the lady’s bedchamber, the servant disappeared before Iago could even knock. “Come in.” The room was dominated by the Marquesa’s four-poster, upon which reclined the Marquesa herself, head propped on one elbow. Her black tresses now flowed unrestrained over a shimmering silken robe of the same burgundy as her gown, but whereas the latter had left some things to the imagination, this new ensemble left much fewer thereto. Draped openly in a provocative dishabille, it revealed newly liberated breasts that bobbled enticingly, and a snow-white hip of pleasing roundness. In an instant, Iago was at the bedside, having taken the Lady Julietta in her arms, and was kissing her passionately. After a few minutes of this, she felt the Marquesa’s arms push her gently away. “Let us have some wine, Hector. Pour it, if you please,” she suggested, indicating a carafe of claret and two silver goblets that 151

Tadhg Ó Muiris stood on the nearby bedside table. Iago did so, and returned to the bedside. “Your health, Hector,” she said, raising the vessel to her lips. There was something in the Marquesa’s manner that made Iago uneasy. Whether it was the stories she had heard in the village, the new and speculative intensity in her hostess’ glance, or merely the need to keep her wits about her, she could not say: but she decided not to drink the wine. She nevertheless gulped noisily as if she had done, the opacity of the goblet an immense aid in this subterfuge. She noted with satisfaction that the Marquesa’s imitation of wine drinking was far less convincing than her own. The Lady Julietta was accustomed, she reasoned, to less cunning prey — young peasants, perhaps, upon whom such a ploy would prove invariably effective. She had failed even to wet her lips with the fluid, which, Iago was now convinced, was at least drugged, if not poisoned. She determined to play along with the scenario and see where it might lead. After several more ersatz sips at the claret, Iago allowed her eyes to droop and her head to nod, apologizing that the wine must have been stronger than she suspected. She contrived to drop her flagon, lest the Lady Julietta notice that none had actually been drunk, and in a matter of moments had feigned unconsciousness, taking deep and steady breaths, draping herself rather presumptuously over the Marquesa’s alluring body. The Marquesa lay with the presumably insensible Hector over her for a few minutes, saying nothing, but absently curling her fingers through Iago’s hair. Then, with a sigh, she tugged on the bell-pull, and within seconds the door opened. “Take him to the chamber.” Iago felt herself being lifted and draped over a shoulder of terrific size. Through slitted eyes, she could see no one else present. One trusted brute, she guessed, paid handsomely for his discretion, was all the Marquesa generally required. They passed through a maze of dimly-lit corridors whose only source of illumination was a candelabrum the lady carried; down winding stone staircases they walked without conversation, the servant’s footfalls and the swishing of Lady Julietta’s silken robe behind them the only sounds. Iago tried 152

Isabel’s Heresy to make a mental note of the route for future reference, but eventually gave up. Finally, she heard the rasp of a metal door opening, and sensed they had entered a cool and damp subterranean chamber. There she was flopped unceremoniously down on her back across a rough wooden surface. “Leave us. Return at dawn.” “My Lady?” The titanic servant’s diction hinted at a cleft palate and his voice seemed to issue from the depths of a cave; there was a trace of petulance in its tone. Apparently what the Lady ordered was not established procedure. “He’ll sleep for at least another hour. Now go.” “Very well, my Lady.” When she heard footsteps receding, Iago ventured a peek at her surroundings. She saw the two massive shoulders disappearing into the darkness of the outer corridor, and the Lady Julietta, robe modestly tied around her with a silken cord, locking the door behind him and hanging the key from a hook on the wall next to the jamb. The surface upon which Iago lay was, as she had suspected, a rack. In a nearby corner stood a glowing brazier, smoking acridly, from which the handles of several pokers protruded. On the walls hung various devices, with some of which Iago was quite familiar. Several were new to her, and about whose function she was quite curious. The Marquesa remained for a few minutes at the door with her back to Iago, peering out the grilled window at its top, as the footsteps of the departing retainer faded into silence. She was, Iago observed, quite particular about her privacy. Doubtless the section of the castle in which they found themselves was quite soundproofed from the rest of the household. Excellent. Iago’s eyes closed once again as her presumed captor spun on her heel with a whispering of silk and approached. She felt nimble hands slip off her boots, unfasten her belt and dagger, and slide her hose down unresisting thighs. An exploratory hand moved to Iago’s crotch, and, predictably, did not find precisely what it had expected. “Aaahh …” The Marquesa’s ejaculation was of mild surprise, as if this were a highly interesting, but not entirely unwelcome, 153

Tadhg Ó Muiris development. She spoke gently, as if no one else could hear, which was surely what she thought. “I had suspected there was more, or less, to you than met the eye, Don Hector …” she purred, now busying herself unfastening Iago’s leather tunic. By the time the lady had moved to pull her blouse off and over her head, Iago had decided the charade had gone on long enough — that the servant was almost certainly out of earshot. This was fortunate: otherwise the piercing shriek the Marquesa let out when she felt Iago’s iron grip on her wrist might have been heard in Cordoba.

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Chapter Twenty-One

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hough more powerful than one might expect a cosseted noblewoman to be, she proved no match for the putative battle-hardened naval hero and veteran of the Battle of Lepanto. Within moments, Iago had the Marquesa squirming beneath her, sitting astride her and pressing her opponent’s wrists against the surface of the wooden platform. The affronted noblewoman cursed and spat, finding it inconceivable that she should be treated so, and threatened the most ghastly punishments on Iago. She nevertheless began screaming in earnest for help, of whose unavailability Iago felt fairly confident, when she felt her wrists being fastened into the shackles of the rack. Her foe thus immobilized, Iago moved warily down the length of her captive, maintaining her weight on those milky thighs she had previously admired, as she secured the Marquesa’s graceful ankles at the opposite end. Within moments, she had been sufficiently bound to permit Iago to slide off her. There was enough slack in the lady’s restraints to afford her considerable movement, and Iago found her struggles quite edifying. Presently the Marquesa overcame her initial panic, however, and decided to use guile where both personal resources and external intervention had failed her. “I am a rich woman, Don Hector — or whoever you are,” she began, still puffing with effort. Iago grinned and folded her arms attentively. She had worked up quite a sweat in her wrestle with the Lady Julietta; her soaking blouse revealed for anyone with eyes that, whoever she was, she was no Don Hector. “I’ll give you a thousand gold pesetas to release me. You’ll have 155

Tadhg Ó Muiris safe passage and I’ll tell no one your — secret.” Iago was enjoying herself. “Go on.” The Marquesa was confused for a moment, until understanding dawned on her. Perhaps her not inconsiderable charms would come to her aid. Swallowing her terror, she began to slink provocatively on the rack, lolling her breasts, still sheathed somewhat precariously by the robe, in Iago’s direction. She flicked a dainty tongue between sensual lips, and her eyelashes seemed actually to grow, so wellversed was she in the art of seduction, circumstances notwithstanding. “And of course,” she purred, “I am at your disposal until dawn.” Iago’s grin assumed a more malignant cast as she answered. “Indeed you are, Julietta.” Her eyes opened wide in alarm — and not merely at Iago’s abandonment of the lady’s honorific. She saw her captor’s hands move to the spoke-handles of the drum-like spool of the rack to which her wrists were fastened. “But as matters stand, I didn’t come here for money, but information.” The crank was finely calibrated, and it took several revolutions before Julietta’s limbs were extended from her with a modicum of tautness. She gasped, though more in fear than actual pain. She had come to the realization that she was in for far more than she had bargained for.

Very well. Where feminine wiles have failed me, I shall rely on my breeding and strength. Better to die at the hands of this churl than endure the ignominy and destruction that confession would bring. Julietta thrust her chin defiantly at her interrogator — a gesture Iago found fetching in the extreme. “I admit to nothing!” Single-handed, slowly and with infinite gentleness, Iago tugged open the knot that secured the sash around Julietta’s waist. With the feather-light touch of a pickpocket, she drew the robe open until the Marquesa’s voluptuousness was completely exposed to the cool air of her own torture chamber. She marveled as goose-bumps rose on the smooth, unblemished flesh, and delighted in watching the tiny fine hairs on the lady’s belly come erect, following their progress to 156

Isabel’s Heresy where the hairs became coarse and black, laced with gray. Leaning down, she blew delicately on the skin, her efforts rewarded by a shudder and corresponding intake of breath on the Marquesa’s part. Iago felt certain that the lady had often stood where she herself now did, with the power of life and death, pain and pleasure over some hapless, anonymous victim. She felt equally sure that she had never occupied the position in which she now found herself — naked, humiliated, bound and utterly at the mercy of an implacable torturer. She hoped Julietta found it a broadening experience. She straightened and brought her face close to that of her highborn captive, who turned hers away with a hauteur that delighted Iago. Serving her Master could be very onerous at times, she reflected, but it did have its moments. It was if Iago could read her mind. The Marquesa had deduced, incorrectly, that she was interested in the disappearance of young peasants. To be sure, the civil authorities might take an interest in such goings-on were absolute proof available, but doubtless bribery and social position had heretofore ensured the lady’s relative safety. Perhaps she assumed this menacing virago were a concerned relative of one of Julietta’s victims. Iago wondered how she might turn this misapprehension to her advantage, but nothing leapt to mind. She nevertheless decided not to disabuse the lady of the notion too quickly, and reached behind the Marquesa’s head to grab a handful of black, and now manifestly dyed, hair. She yanked her face within inches of her own, until she could feel Julietta’s shallow, terrified breaths on her cheeks. “Before the cock crows, Julietta, you will beg to tell me everything.” She released the lady’s hair with the same violence with which she had seized it, and the lady’s head fell back with a thud. Despite her helplessness and vulnerability, the Marquesa fought to maintain her dignity and composure. But the determined and disdainful set of her lovely mouth was belied by the terror in her eyes. She felt her heart pounding in her chest, and prayed that Iago couldn’t hear it, though it seemed inconceivable to her that it hadn’t already awakened the entire household. Iago, however, had been correct in her guess — no cries, no matter how terrified or 157

Tadhg Ó Muiris agonized, had ever escaped this chamber — and there had been many. Another healthy turn of the crank effectively roused Julietta from her doleful reverie. She cried out in pain as every joint in her body seemed to flare with brimstone. She closed her eyes and began murmuring. “Oh, God, oh God,” she repeated to herself softly. Iago noted with satisfaction the pulsing tendons at a shoulder that peeked from the robe’s now damp folds, and the way clearly defined ribs rose and fell beneath skin that shone with perspiration. The fact that she knew exactly how it felt only enhanced her appreciation of Julietta’s situation. The Marquesa looked at Iago beseechingly, kohl-laden tears forming dark tracks along her cheeks. “Please, have mercy!” Unable to resist the temptation, Iago bent forward, and with one unhurried lick had tasted of Julietta from armpit to quaking hip. She was delicious. As her mouth lingered where the lady’s thigh began, that dark thatch beckoned to her. Mischievously, she drew her tongue along the hollow of the lady’s groin, and heard her moan in response. Iago crouched with tongue poised over her victim’s mons. “Will you answer my questions, Julietta?” She shook her head mournfully. “No … I can’t. Please, don’t hurt me!” she sobbed thickly. Iago made a disappointed noise, and straightened up again. There was a different expression in Julietta’s eyes now — fear and discomfort of course, piteous entreaty almost certainly, but something more. Desire. Oh, you evil bitch. The Marquesa licked suddenly dry lips. You evil, evil bitch. She could feel herself becoming wet. No stranger herself to introducing others to the mysterious paradox of pleasure and pain, she found herself now its prisoner — it was not to be borne. Iago pulled a thick, drip-misshapen candle from the candelabrum and stood holding it meaningfully. The Marquesa understood her intention instantly, and her face collapsed in dismay. Frantically, she cast her eyes up to where her wrists were secured, and her fingers, the only part of her body still mobile, worked in a pathetic and futile 158

Isabel’s Heresy pantomime of escape. “Please, don’t!” Iago held the candle over the Marquesa’s enchantingly gasping bosoms, its orange light flickering in eyes that stared up at the flame with a hypnotic, terrified fascination. As Iago tipped it with infinite patience, a glowing bead of molten wax slowly appeared over the lip of the candle. It hung poised as if to delay for as long as possible the lady’s exquisite anticipation. “Oh no …” she wept, her gaze transfixed by that tiny, translucent nodule. As the first fiery droplets splattered across her tender flesh, Julietta’s reaction was more than Iago had hoped for. She screamed uproariously, her writhings abbreviated by the stern, unyielding bonds. As her screams subsided into exhausted squeals, Iago unleashed another drizzle of agony upon her, laying a channel of pain downward along a desperately pulsating belly. If anything, the Marquesa screamed even more loudly than she had upon her initial acquaintance with the wax, as the first gobbets descended onto her pubic hair and burrowed a scalding path down onto her tender labia. It was infinitely worse than Julietta could ever have anticipated. She imagined the liquid fire eating its way into her vitals. She would never be able to endure it, she now knew — and that worse was to come. Well pleased with her progress, Iago replaced the candle and waited while the wax cooled, and with it Julietta’s pain. “Have you no pity?” wailed the Marquesa. “None,” replied Iago affably. “But let’s get that wax off of you — it’s a sin to obscure such lovely flesh.” Julietta craned to see what Iago was about — she had crouched down to pick something up off the floor. She arose holding an object; when the Marquesa saw what it was, fresh terror seized her. It was the belt that she herself, in another lifetime, had unfastened from Don Hector’s waist. Iago made a loop of it; pulling it sharply at both ends, she produced a crack at whose report the Marquesa winced and cringed as if she had already felt its bite. Spacing her feet carefully, Iago turned to present her left shoulder 159

Tadhg Ó Muiris to Julietta, casting the belt over her right. The Marquesa screwed her eyes shut and tried in vain to steel herself for what was to come. The first blow landed with a sickening slap high across her breasts, casting up a spray of liberated waxen shards. Her mind scarcely had time to process the pain before another landed squarely across her nipples, which instantly turned scarlet in protest. As her torturer’s attentions moved downward across her abdomen with a steady, hellish rhythm, she felt as if her own skin itself, and not merely its waxy accretions, was being flayed from her body. Stars of agony exploded behind her eyes as a rain of blows descended on her mound: she thought her back would break as it arched beneath the onslaught. Her throat seized, and her screams degenerated into animal snorts and grunts. Her face had become a clown-like mask of kohl, tears, sweat and snot. “No more, no more, I beg you!” she blubbed. The arm holding the belt swung casually by Iago’s side, and she panted both with effort and arousal. “You look a fright, my Lady,” she observed. With the hem of her blouse, she wiped Julietta’s face. She was much pleased with that lovely, suffering face once it had been cleaned of its disfiguring black grease. Though tears continued to well from the Marquesa’s eyes, Iago considered that but an enhancement of the lady’s beauty. “That’s better,” she whispered, drawing her fingernails down her captive’s reddened, striped bosoms and belly before coming to rest in that sumptuous, salt-and-pepper thatch. The exhausted Marquesa wearily raised her head and met her tormentor’s gaze with a look of mute entreaty. With a lopsided grin, Iago edged back the slick hood from Julietta’s clitoris with her middle finger and began gently to stroke the sensitive node, which quickly became rock-hard to her touch. The lady closed her eyes, cast her head back and moaned lowly. She therefore failed to notice Iago raise the belt once again. She gasped when Iago once again began beating her breasts, first the left and then the right, in alternating strokes. She continued to caress Julietta’s clitoris as she contrived to catch the Marquesa’s nipples on the edge of the belt with every blow. These nipples, seemingly enraged at their misuse, 160

Isabel’s Heresy extended pugnaciously from their areoles, engorged and crimson. “Oh God, oh God …” the Marquesa groaned. Frowning, Iago paid close attention to the frequency, urgency, pitch and volume of these transgressions of the third commandment. In this way, she knew precisely when, as Julietta’s pudendum throbbed plaintively beneath her touch, to stop. “No! Oh no!” screamed the Marquesa, thrashing her head from side to side in frustration. There was a wildness in her eyes as she looked up at Iago and implored her. “Please, don’t stop, please!” Iago chuckled at her discomfiture, absently sucking on the recalcitrant finger. “I require answers, Julietta. I’m only getting warmed up, after all —I can do this all night. Can you?” With a ragged sigh, the Marquesa buried her face in her left shoulder. “Very well,” she breathed, “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. But please, finish it.” Iago shook her head. “I don’t think so, Julietta. I think we’ll hear what you have to say first. I’ll decide if your words merit reward,” she paused meaningfully, “or even more dreadful punishments.” The Marquesa gulped. She was becoming conscious once more of the fiery pain in her joints. “In God’s name, loosen my bonds; I can’t think with this pain.” “On the contrary, my Lady, I know for a fact it’s a marvelous way to concentrate the mind.” A soft sob was Julietta’s only response to this pitiless refusal. Iago pulled over a stool and sat down next to the rack on which Julietta sweated and suffered. “As you may have surmised,” began Iago, “My name is not Don Hector, and I never knew your son.” “I knew that before I ever laid eyes on you,” rasped Julietta, tearfilled eyes staring at the ceiling. “Really?” “Diego had his head blown off by a Turkish cannonball on the gun-deck of his ship. The news was conveyed to me by his Captain, an old friend of his father’s. I had little reason to expect, however dutiful a son he was, that he might have had any ‘dying words of devotion’ for his mother.” 161

Tadhg Ó Muiris “And yet you admitted me?” “Of course. The porter gave me your description. I was … intrigued.” “Doubtless you thought I’d make an intriguing tenant of this room.” “Please!” choked Julietta. “Why are you here? Ask your questions. I can’t stand this …” “What do you know of a peasant woman named Isabel?” Iago demanded sharply. The Marquesa once more lifted her head to look at Iago, and it was if she was seeing her for the first time. There was understanding and a new terror in her expression. “I should have guessed,” she nodded mournfully. “You’re de Marisco’s Amazon.” “Answer me, noble slut,” warned Iago with quiet menace. Julietta heaved a great sigh, which stirred her sweat-glossed breasts most becomingly, before answering. “She grew up in this house, the daughter of the librarian. As she grew older, Diego fell in love with her — he was bewitched. I shipped her off when her father died, but it was too late. Though there was a constant parade of suitable matches for my son, alliances of political and financial advantage, he would have none of them. ‘I shall never marry,’ he told me. I had imagined there would be time for him to forget her — but once he was killed, his line was extinguished with him, as were all my hopes and plans for his future, and for the House of Aranda de Deuro. All because of that bitch.” “With Diego dead, all I lived for was revenge. It didn’t take long to find where she’d gone, and to arrange with a village alderman to have her charged with witchcraft. The day I heard of her burning was the happiest I’d passed since my son’s death. But then word reached me of your Master’s treason — ” The Marquesa screamed as Iago’s belt slashed down on her bosom with a particular savagery, leaving a welt angrier than the others. “I suggest you choose your words more carefully, Julietta,” Iago advised her coldly. “Oh God, oh God, I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please don’t!” 162

Isabel’s Heresy She soon mastered her cries and resumed her monologue. “Word reached me that the witch was still alive, in your Master’s household.” “How did word reach you?” “A washerwoman — I have spies in many houses. I sent my menat-arms to seize her, and put out a reward of five hundred gold pesetas on her head to attract local assistance. I was told she managed to elude them, with Don Timoteo. The last I heard, they were still in hot pursuit.” Julietta took a gulp, and fought to raise her head again. “I have acted within the law,” she pathetically defended herself against a reproof that had not been offered. “I never meant for any harm to come to your Master or anyone else.” Iago stood up, and rolled back a sleeve from her blouse, holding up a scarred and puckered wrist where Julietta could see it. “There has been harm, Julietta,” she hissed into her ear. “Immense harm — to practically everyone but Isabel, you vengeful bitch.” Julietta’s face, which had been flushed from discomfort and exertion, now turned ashen, and her mouth rounded in horrified revelation. The tortures to which Iago had submitted her were not merely an impersonal discharge of a duty to her Master, albeit a quite agreeable duty, by all appearances — Iago, rather, had a quite personal stake in Julietta’s misery, and ultimately, her destruction. “Oh no! Please! I didn’t know — couldn’t have known! Spare me, I beg of you!” Iago smiled humorlessly. “This henchman of yours, who carried me down here with such ease this evening — I take it he is of assistance to you in other ways?” Julietta seemed unable to grasp Iago’s meaning. “He participates where strength and a certain brutality is required,” admitted Julietta. “He’s a subhuman beast whom only money and fear keep in check — but highly suitable for my purposes.” “And does he enjoy it?” The question seemed even more mystifying to Julietta. 163

Tadhg Ó Muiris “I’ve never asked him. He is paid very well for his services and his silence, and does display a certain degree of enthusiasm for the work.” “I assume he’s never seen you like this before,” said Iago, indicating the Marquesa’s naked and abused helplessness with a sweep of her hand. “What would he do, I wonder, upon discovering you thus at dawn?” The implications of Iago’s words were not lost on Julietta, in whose mind’s eye the awful scenario seemed to be playing. “Good God, you can’t!” she cried feebly, and began offering extravagant rewards for Iago’s mercy. Iago found the Marquesa’s pitiful entreaties stimulating in the extreme, and decided she herself had earned a certain perquisite through her labors that night. She climbed up on the rack, planting her feet on either side of the weeping Julietta’s shoulders. With deliberation she hiked up her blouse above her waist. Julietta looked up at a mound twinkling with the stirrings of arousal. “Serve me well, bitch, and we’ll see.” Iago squatted down until the Marquesa’s face was all but buried in her crotch, her nose barely clearing the glossy bush. Julietta’s initial reaction was to gag and to try to twist her head away. “I’m afraid I must insist,” said Iago gently, and reached down to pinch the lady’s nostrils. Within seconds, the Marquesa’s reticence dissolved in a gasping fight for breath, and she began licking desperately at Iago’s clitoris. “Very nice,” purred Iago, gripping the helpless woman’s head by two handfuls of hair and grinding that handsome face into her. The only sounds that escaped the Marquesa were the groans and squeaks of a woman beyond hope. As Iago began to come uproariously, she submerged the captive’s face in herself for the entire and considerable duration of her orgasm. The Marquesa, gasping and choking, was almost blue when the sated Iago finally released her grip. She clambered down from the rack and began unhurriedly to dress herself. “Please,” the panting Julietta pleaded, her lips still glossed with Iago’s juices, “Don’t leave me here like this. What you have done to 164

Isabel’s Heresy me this night will seem a blessing by comparison with what I can expect at his hands!” In Iago’s eyes, however, she saw neither pity nor regret. “You shall reap what you have sowed, my Lady.” The Marquesa began to cry hysterically, casting her anguished eyes heavenward. “Then kill me now, I beg you! It would be no more than a mercy!” Thoughtfully, Iago considered the keen edge of her dagger with the flick of a thumb, contriving to reflect the flickering candlelight off its surface back into the tear-fogged eyes of her victim. The lady seemed mesmerized by the lethal brilliance of the blade, and cast her head back to present the graceful sweep of her throat to her executioner. Iago obligingly pressed the dagger’s edge against the pulsing flesh beneath the Marquesa’s chin. Julietta swallowed noisily and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, which she held tremulously. Playfully, Iago increased the pressure slowly. “Finish it now, for the love of God!” the lady wept. “Poor Marquesa,” Iago mused. “You’ve been most gratifying and cooperative — it occurs to me that it would be the height of meanness not to fulfill my side of our bargain.” Dagger still poised against Julietta’s throat, Iago dragged the nails of her free hand viciously across the already reddened and contused flesh of the Marquesa’s bosoms, grasping one firm nipple between thumb and forefinger. The lady groaned, fighting to keep her chin raised and motionless, as she felt her poor nipple pulled upward until the ample breast had stretched to the limits of its considerable elasticity. Her groan became a quavering cry of despair, half-stifled by the insistent pressure of the knife, as she felt Iago twist the thus outstretched nipple well beyond such limits. She sighed with relief as she felt it released, only to gasp again as an implacable claw traversed the welted and weeping skin of her abdomen. She longed to lift her pelvis upward and to present to Iago, as she had her throat, the aching, longing mound that had been brought so close to sweet release and then had been so heartlessly denied — but the cruel bonds of the rack allowed her no more than a feeble, barely detectable movement of her hips that cost her dearly in strength and 165

Tadhg Ó Muiris endurance. When Iago’s finger resumed its long-interrupted contact with her still-soaking clitoris, she almost wept with gratitude for her torturer; she was too far gone even to consider how strange this might be. As she suffered in a body whose every joint sang with pain, whose flesh burned with the fires of the lash, these agonies seemed but a mere accompaniment to the concerto of pleasure that Iago played gently on her swollen, pleading sex, adding to the richness and poignancy of a symphony of sensuality and unexpected mercy; the doom she knew awaited her only made the melody all the sweeter. As her passion reached its crescendo, the pain seemed to disappear entirely, and every nerve ending of her body vibrated with a fullness and pleasure that rang throughout her entire being. She began to cry out her passion, but the force of her orgasm contracted vagina, anus, belly and throat in a paroxysm of sensation that allowed neither movement nor sound: merely the gift of blessed, wrenching climax. Then it was over, and it seemed as if her much-abused body had turned to quivering aspic. “Oh God, oh God, oh God …” she panted deliriously. She was barely aware that Iago had already returned the dagger to its sheath and made for the door, which she unlocked and threw open. She started at the sound, and realized that Iago was truly leaving her — and she so desperately didn’t want her to go. “Don’t,” she pleaded simply. Iago cast one more glance back at the afflicted Marquesa, whose pathetic gaze moved from Iago to the various torture implements with which the chamber was equipped. She knew she had a few lonely hours more to pass, stretched so cruelly on that rack, and in dreadful contemplation of the arrival of her morning visitor. “Goodbye, my Lady,” said Iago quietly. Julietta turned her face to the wall, closing her eyes. “Don’t go, please don’t go,” she breathed. But when once more she looked to the door, Iago was not to be seen.

166

Isabel’s Heresy

Chapter Twenty-Two

T

he candlelight in Don Tomaso’s great hall quavered with the wind that insinuated itself beneath oaken doors and through weathered gaps in mullioned windows. At either end of the table, two great candelabra blazed like twin glorioles in the pervasive gloom; dozens of tapers slowly melted and hardened into twisted grotesqueries that curled obscenely around the silverwork. The flickering light played across the glittering planes and curves of Isabel’s shuddering flesh. Tomaso expertly skewered a steaming piece of stewed mutton on his knife, and Isabel gasped. Popping it into his mouth, he made appreciative noises and chewed lustily. “There’s nothing like meat that has been allowed to cook slowly to a tender succulence,” he opined thickly around the glutinous mouthful, “Don’t you agree, my dear?” “Yes my Lord,” Isabel readily agreed, through teeth clenched in pain. “But as all good chefs know, presentation is almost as important as flavor — and I can’t imagine this dish ever having been presented in such a toothsome fashion,” he mused, impaling another morsel. Isabel’s agreement was interrupted by another gasp of distress. “And yet again,” he continued through chomps, apparently loath to speak unless his mouth were full, “I can’t help but suspect its flavor is subtly altered, for the better, of course,” he hastened to assure her, “by this particular means of presentation.” “Thank you, my Lord,” groaned Isabel. Tomaso’s affability disappeared, and he raised an eyebrow at his involuntary dinner companion. 167

Tadhg Ó Muiris “I wasn’t complimenting you, you slut,” he said with quiet menace, “I shouldn’t have thought you’d deserve any more credit for the preparation or presentation of this meal than this wine flask,” and he took a noisy gulp. “Or this knife, come to that,” which he poised meaningfully over the food once again. “No, my Lord, of course not, my Lord,” Isabel babbled placatingly, “I only meant to thank you for allowing me to serve you in this manner.” During her short, and highly unpleasant, acquaintance with Tomaso, she had come to realize how completely unpredictable his moods, and corresponding treatment of her, could be. It didn’t seem to matter what she said or did; the rewards and punishments meted out seemed wholly unrelated to anything but his own mercurial fits of beneficence or choler. He was, in fact, quite insane, and she at his total mercy. Dinner this evening seemed a case in point. After the events in the courtyard, she had been taken to her own chamber, which had been stripped of all furnishings save the bed. The tapestries were gone, and the room’s bare stone walls brought to mind a prison cell; the carpets, pulled up and removed, revealed the cold oaken ribs of the house, on which stood a flagon of water and a cracked chamber pot. There she had passed a sleepless night, and then a day filled with loneliness and self-recrimination. Her only company had been a brief visit from the blacksmith in the morning, who had been sent to remove with a hacksaw the collar for which Tomaso lacked a key. Throughout the day her hand would idly move to her throat, and she would experience again and as if for the first time the sense of loss and nakedness she felt in the collar’s absence. It’s just as well. I don’t

deserve to wear it. At any moment she expected Tomaso to burst in upon her and terrorize her with his depravities — but he had not come. The door, of course, had been bolted from the other side, and for a good while she had contemplated throwing herself out the window, to thus cheat her captor of his prize. Something, however, had stopped her — perhaps a sense of things left undone, or some ill-defined hope of redemption — she wasn’t sure. It was certainly not fear of death: she 168

Isabel’s Heresy had been living on borrowed time since the day she had been rescued from the stake by de Marisco, at the thought of whom her heart lurched with pain and regret. In her solitude, she had had ample opportunity to contemplate the terrible deal she had struck to save Dolores’ life, and the ultimate, horrible betrayal it had entailed. Although she couldn’t regret having redeemed her friend, it had been an act of nihilistic despair, of spiritual sloth, she now realized. Had she imagined for a moment that she was not already doomed to meet her fate at the hands of the vile Tomaso, and that her beloved Master were not already lost to her forever, she never would have acquiesced. The fact remained, however, that she had failed the man to whom she owed her life, and who had given up everything for her. She felt consumed by a selfloathing that made her anticipate Tomaso’s cruelties with a bitter relish; it was no more than she deserved. All that was left for her now was to endure until he tired of her, and granted her death. By mid-afternoon, two hirelings had dragged the compliant Isabel down the stairs to the great hall. There they had left her, alone, naked and spread-eagled across the massive table, for several hours. The shackles on her left wrist and right ankle, and right wrist and left ankle, respectively, were connected by two long lengths of chain that crossed over one another beneath the underside of the table. So tightly were these chains fastened that her body quivered taut as a drumhead. A servant brought in a steaming crock and laid it on the sideboard. Upon first smelling the food, she was relieved despite her discomfort, and began to salivate, her stomach rumbling. She had not eaten in two days, and had begun to fear that Tomaso, whether through calculated cruelty or the simple forgetfulness of his madness, had no intention of feeding her at all. The servant began to set a place at the table, inches from one of Isabel’s heaving flanks. Though her angle made it impossible for her to see, she could hear cutlery and glassware being arrayed next to her with practiced efficiency. Her heart sank as she realized it was a single setting, now sure that Tomaso would relish eating in front of her while she was wracked with hunger. 169

Tadhg Ó Muiris “Ah,” spoke a familiar and unwelcome voice, “I see dinner has arrived.” Isabel strained to raise her head from the table to see her tormentor leaning nonchalantly against the doorjamb, arms folded across his chest. “And not a moment too soon. I’m quite famished.” Tomaso stepped toward the sideboard, and removed the lid from the crock. The savory aroma wafted even more strongly. “Mutton stew,” he observed, sniffing enthusiastically. “My favorite.” Isabel watched him raise a silver serving ladle from the sideboard, dip it into the steaming mixture of meat and vegetables, then spin around deftly on his heel, leaving a trail of greasy drops on the flagstone floor. “Would you like some, Isabel?” he asked, standing over her solicitously. “Indeed, yes, my Lord,” replied Isabel, salivating once again. No sooner had Isabel uttered these words when something in Tomaso’s expression made her regret the alacrity with which she had responded. She watched in horror as he raised the ladle about two feet above her unprotected abdomen, and begin to tilt its scalding contents. Desperately she tried to twist her body away, but she was bound too tightly. “No, my Lord! Please!” she squealed. As the first drops contacted her skin, Isabel shrieked and writhed; it felt like molten lead on her flesh. Stray spatters splashed across her breasts to terrific effect; flecks of fiery liquid felt like red-hot needles on her labia, and clung to her pubic hair in viscous globules. For the most part, however, the serving found its mark, and within seconds, a steaming mound of hot mutton stew shivered and jerked on her convulsing belly. Even through her infernal agony, a half-perceived flame of bitterness burned bright in Isabel’s heart: do what you will to me. “Be still!” shouted Tomaso sharply. “With all that squirming, you’re apt to spill some — and I can’t abide waste.” Whimpering softly, Isabel bit her lower lip savagely and forced 170

Isabel’s Heresy her agonized belly to stillness, praying that it would eventually cool, and that she had not been too badly burned. “That’s better.” Though the evening was chill, sweat began to bead on Isabel’s skin, as the heat of the stew diffused throughout her body. Tomaso watched with fascination as her brow, her bosoms, and her pulsating ribcage twinkled in the candlelight, like the dew on a grape leaf in the hours before dawn. “Forgive me if I start without you,” he said, and her body tensed as he raised the knife. She felt a terrifyingly sharp prick on her belly as, piercing a piece of meat, the tip of the blade passed through it and made contact with her flesh. She cried out; he grinned at her reaction as he munched. Thus it was that Isabel found herself Tomaso’s dinner-plate. She had no idea if he were particularly gluttonous, or if it merely seemed to her that the bizarre repast lasted for hours: but with every mouthful that he finished, she found herself tensing in anticipation of that painful and unpredictable jab of the knife, like a repeating nightmare of peril, agony and brief respite. Any moment of this hellish meal, she realized, could be her last: did the mounting pain on her poor flesh make her only imagine that the blade was applied more deeply with every bite, rendering each interval more dreadful than the one preceding it? After an eternity, all the solid pieces of meat and vegetables had found their way into her torturer’s gnashing maw; she prayed no flaming dessert was on the menu. “That was splendid,” he said, dabbing at his mouth with a starched linen napkin. Isabel sighed with relief. “But I see I’ve left some gravy on my plate. Among my many virtues, my dear, I have always counted frugality.” She raised her head anxiously to see that once more, the knife was in his hand. With deadly artistry and rapt concentration, he began to shave gently away at the flecks of gravy that had formed crusty patches on her breasts. The knife’s tip, with which she was already all too well acquainted, was amazingly keen; at its first touch, she guessed that its edge, too, had been honed to a razor-sharpness. 171

Tadhg Ó Muiris Rather than squirm, she fought desperately to maintain a granite stillness lest the slightest shudder on her part contribute to her own filleting. She gazed in fascinated horror as the flakes of gravy curled away from the glinting steel which scraped an ever-diminished perimeter around her left areole. He observed with a bestial smile the hardening of her nipple, and raised his eyes to hers, now wide with terror, as the blade came to rest portentously at its the base. She fought to hold her breath, fearing that even the merest respiration might lead her aroused, ever-treasonous body into calamity. Tomaso, on the other hand, seemed to savor her petrifaction, and delicately drew the knife-edge up the shaft of her erect nipple, as her face reddened with exertion. Finally, with a deft flourish, he made a single poke at its tip with the point of the blade: what with the heightened sensitivity of that nodule of carnality, it may as well have been a thunderbolt conducted through her body. With a loud exhalation, Isabel shrieked and writhed. Very gratified by her response, knife still in hand, Tomaso bent over her and began to lick away the loosened crumbs from her panting chest. Unable to shrink from his approach, Isabel could merely bury her face into the crook of one outstretched arm, closing her eyes. As his tongue slid along her breasts, extracting now a stiffened, jutting betrayal from her right nipple, it occurred to her that, perhaps, it would not be such an unwise course simply to feign enthusiasm for Tomaso’s lewd attentions; she began to moan softly, moving her body sensuously beneath his caress. Despite such rationalizations, however, she knew that her enthusiasm was not entirely feigned, and might have detested herself for it, had she not been so distracted. This distraction, however, only increased as his tongue slid down to her ill-used abdomen, where he lapped at the still tacky residue of his meal. Though she swore to herself she would never ask it of him, she licked her dry lips and willed him silently to continue downward, where errant traces of mutton gravy were even now mingling with her own fragrant juices. Continue downward he did, to the accompaniment of her increasingly loud, and wholly genuine, groans 172

Isabel’s Heresy of pleasure. She felt the familiar ache in her lower belly, the heat spreading between her thighs, which she had not experienced since her Master — he of whom she would always think as her only and true Master — had last been with her. “Master,” she moaned heedlessly, as she neared her climax. Tomaso, in his narcissistic delusion, imagined she addressed himself. Isabel contorted in her bonds, thrashing against the chains in a frenzy of hopeless passion, as deliciously unreasoning sensation engulfed her: de Marisco’s face floated before her. Before the orgasm came upon her, however, Tomaso stopped, and came erect once more. Crying out sharply in thwarted desire, she snapped petulantly at her shackles. She threw him a look of entreaty, but refused to allow herself to beg, as much as she longed to. “It occurs to me I’ve been very selfish,” he said, in mock selfreproach. “Here I’ve enjoyed a sumptuous meal, and have offered you nothing. We shall have to remedy that.” He stepped around to the foot of the table, and seemed to crouch down. Wearily, Isabel raised her head once again to see what he was doing, but both her body and the long surface of the table obstructed her view. Without warning, and accompanied by the stentorian rumbling of the chains as they clattered along the oak, Isabel felt her body drawn unceremoniously along the surface of the table, in the opposite direction from Tomaso. As he hauled on the chains that looped beneath, she presently found her arms curled alarmingly around the edge of the table, her head hanging backward. He then stepped around to the opposite end, where Isabel gazed up at his inverted figure anxiously. The knife, she saw, was still in his right hand. With the other, he was shedding his codpiece and hose. Gripping her hair, he forced Isabel’s head back at an even more acute angle than that at which it already hung. Fearing her neck would break, she gulped in distress; her gaping mouth was instantly filled by his cock. It was then she felt the blade at her tragically bare throat. “Dine well, Isabel,” he said; it sounded more like a dire warning than an invitation. Isabel began to suck, trying to move her head as little as possible: 173

Tadhg Ó Muiris she was all too aware of the peril in which she found herself. Tomaso, on the other hand, set to manipulating her head back and forth by the grip he maintained on her hair, sliding blithely in and out of her gulping mouth. With every bob of her head, she felt the pressure of the knife-edge alternately increase and wane against the flesh of her throat, and sensed that each increased pressure was more extreme than the one that preceded it; she imagined he had already cut the skin, and feared that eventually, in the throes of his lust, through carelessness or design, he would slit her gullet like an Easter lamb. She decided the most sensible approach would be to see that he came as soon as possible, and slithered her tongue around the engorged tip of his penis at every partial withdrawal; she made effusive murmurs of pleasure, as if his cock were the most delicious thing she had ever tasted; she rocked her hips as vigorously as she was able and as if she longed for him desperately to touch her and enter her — the latter longing, she would grudgingly admit, not entirely fictional. “Suck, you slut,” he growled, and she continued to comply. Yet with every passing minute, the icy kisses at her throat became more importunate: discomfort turned to pain, and anxiety to terror, as she felt a trickle of moisture coalescing along her jaw-line. Her former murmurs were now strangled cries for mercy, and the lascivious twisting of her pelvis a frantic struggle for escape. With her terror came the realization that despite her circumstances, despite the tragedy she had endured and the horrors that might face her, she wanted to live, wanted it passionately, would submit to anything to preserve herself — and let out a piercing wail of pain and fear. In ghostly harmony with this cry came Tomaso’s drawn-out of groan of lust and finality: for it was her genuine anguish, she realized, and not any contrived display of pleasure, which pleased him most. With Tomaso finally extracted from her mouth, Isabel swallowed and licked frantically, between pleadings for her life. “Please my Lord, I’ll do anything — don’t cut me,” she sobbed, cleansing his now semi-tumescent member with her tongue. Tomaso merely chuckled. 174

Isabel’s Heresy In her panic, Isabel hadn’t noticed when the pressure on her throat had been relieved, or the grip on her hair had disappeared. “You silly cunt — you’re hardly nicked,” he pointed out, holding up the knife for her to see. “I used the flat edge — this time.” The trickle she had felt had merely been sweat; the lacerations she had imagined were merely the rasping of the dull spine of the blade against her skin. As Tomaso refastened his clothing, her head hung backwards in exhaustion, her eyes closed. They opened almost immediately when one of Tomaso’s loathsome servants entered the hall with clumping tread, lingering uncertainly at the door. Isabel could not be sure if she remembered seeing him before, appearing upside down to her as he did. “What is it?” “It’s ready, my Lord.” Tomaso crouched down to be on a level with Isabel’s face, until her up-ended features panted and suffered a few inches from his own. “Do you like your quarters, my dear?” “Yes, my Lord, they’re very pleasant, thank you, my Lord.” “I’m not so sure,” he seemed to muse. “Perhaps you find them too stuffy.” Isabel had no idea what kind of diabolical game he was now playing with her, but her stomach knotted with anxiety, knowing that something, presumably dreadful, was again afoot. She knew it was a game she could not win. “No, my Lord.” “It’s of no consequence. New accommodations have been prepared for you regardless.” Tomaso looked up at the servant, still waiting expectantly at the door, and then nodded curtly in Isabel’s direction. The churl lumbered to the table and set about unfastening her manacles from the great looping chains, which she heard thunderously crashing to the floor. As the limbs which had been stretched almost beyond endurance were released, Isabel’s relief was enormous; she sat up at once on the table, flexing and massaging her aching muscles. She rubbed the sore abrasions at her throat, and looked down with 175

Tadhg Ó Muiris dismay at the redness and numerous tiny contusions on her belly. “I expect you found it very uncomfortable being stretched out like that for such a long period,” said Tomaso. Isabel glanced at him nervously, knowing that it made no difference how she responded, and that Tomaso’s apparent solicitude meant that he had something very unpleasant in mind, indeed. “That won’t be a problem henceforth,” he assured her silkily, with another nod at the guard. Isabel was manhandled off of the table and the shackles at her wrists fastened behind her. A two-foot length of chain was connected to the fetters about her ankles. Gripping her upper arm, the hireling led her out the door of the great hall. The chains, clattering across the floor in her wake, restricted her progress to mincing steps. At length, Isabel reached the courtyard, and shivered at the memory of the terrible events that had occurred there a few days previously. Tonight, it was dimly lit by torches set in the ground; in the moonless sky the stars shone majestically, oblivious to the wicked follies of mortals below. “Your new accommodations,” announced Tomaso behind her. It was a cage. Cube-like, four feet on either side, it was constructed of wroughtiron strapping of about two inches in width, spaced some five inches apart, bolted together in a grid-work by heavy studs. Raised a good twelve inches off the ground on sturdy iron legs at each corner, it was fitted with a hinged door at the front, from whose hasp hung a massive padlock. The door stood open before her like the jaws of a ravenous beast. Isabel began to tremble as the servant began to push her in the direction of the opening. “No!” she found herself screaming, and struggled frantically as she was dragged forward. Tomaso, much to his annoyance, found he had to lend assistance in folding and inserting the fiercely resisting woman into the box, headfirst. “Get in, you ungrateful whore!” The cold steel mesh beneath Isabel’s back and shoulders, the 176

Isabel’s Heresy cruel pressure of the studs against her flesh, elicited a galvanic response from her. Her arms useless, she kicked and stretched her legs, crying and thrashing, and tried to keep the door from closing. Fighting to maintain a grip on her thrashing ankles, Tomaso turned to his henchman and barked for his whip. It took three vicious blows along her thighs and shins before she relented, and pulled in her legs. The door swung to with a metallic clang, and she heard the padlock engage with a snick. Exhausted, she sat sobbing in the hellish structure, her knees drawn up to her breasts, one tear-stained cheek resting against the iron bars. She was already fiercely uncomfortable, and knew that such constriction and the evil projections of those studs against her flesh and joints would in time prove unbearable. “Please, my Lord,” she begged, “let me out!” Tomaso, still puffing with effort, was unreceptive to her entreaties. He drew his face close to hers, and spat through the bars that separated them. “Your insolence and ingratitude will not go unpunished, bitch. Have a pleasant evening. Tomorrow at dawn, you’ll press those pretty buttocks against the bars, and every one of my men will take you in turn.” Even one who had endured as many horrors as she felt a chill of terror at this threat, and sought desperately to mollify him. “Please, my Lord, just you — I would have none other but you!” “You would have?” he mocked her. “You will have what I say, slut — and gladly, or you’ll have much worse. And now, I bid you have a pleasant night.” With that valediction, he turned and left her. After glancing back at her hungrily, no doubt in anticipation of the morning’s pleasures, the servant followed dutifully behind. The shaft of light from the hall door narrowed to blackness with a thud, and Isabel found herself alone, awaiting the dawn with sickening dread.

177

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Chapter Twenty-Three

I

ago rode all day and all night, pausing only briefly to rest and water the horse. The previous morning, the uplands of the central plateau had finally slipped down into the low-lying Ebro basin; today the foothills of the Pyrenees beckoned. On the highway she faced a human river of pilgrims on their way to Santiago de Compostela. It seemed the devout of all Europe had descended on her bit of road that day, each dressed in his peculiar uniform, but speaking a hodgepodge of languages, most of which Iago couldn’t even identify, let alone understand. Almost without exception, they saluted any oncoming wayfarer with smiles and unintelligible greetings. As it was, their presence was a tremendous boon to Iago. She was able to question those that spoke French, Provençal, Spanish or Catalan as to what other traffic they had met that day. The pilgrims were loquacious and giddy, eager for conversation — most had never ventured beyond the confines of their native towns prior to this trip, and the exoticisms they encountered had filled them with a child-like excitement. They were more than ready to recount, in excruciating detail, everything they had seen since leaving home. It took all the somewhat limited diplomatic skills at Iago’s command to steer them gently away from descriptions of the magnificent cathedral in which they had prayed in Toulouse the previous week, for example. Her interest lay in more temporal matters, to wit: a troop of mounted men-at-arms they may have passed that day, and in what direction they were headed. In this way, Iago was able to determine that her quarry was a mere few hours ahead of her. She did not find it surprising that she had been able to overtake them with such relative ease: after all, they 178

Isabel’s Heresy were the ones doing the searching, back-tracking and wreaking of general mayhem — a time-consuming business. Leaving the Marquesa’s palace had been, in retrospect, far more of a challenge than had been tracking her men across north-central Spain. Fortunately, and doubtless on account of Julietta’s nocturnal activities, no one seemed to venture through the house during the hours of darkness. Thus Iago was able, after some initial confusion, to make her way back to her own chamber and retrieve her belongings. Recovering her horse and exiting the grounds had been another matter altogether, and entailed inflicting minor damage on a lightly sleeping stable-boy and a boozy gatekeeper. Now she was within mere hours of her goal and fully planned to intercept them, if not by nightfall, then certainly by the following morning. She knew that the closer she got to them, the nearer was her Master. She reined in her mount at a crossroads, uncertain which fork to take. She questioned another gaggle of pilgrims coming down the north road, who seemed less exuberant and cheerful than those she had encountered thus far: she soon learned the reason. The inn at which they had passed the previous night had been commandeered by a troop of armed ruffians, and they had all been cast out of their beds, in a most unchristian manner, during the wee hours of the morning. They shook their heads bitterly, having previously been given to understand that pilgrims were protected from such treatment on the road to the Holy Shrine. It became apparent to them that this was not always the case, and their indignant protests had availed them nothing. Quivering with excitement at this news, Iago commiserated with them but briefly, assuring them that God would surely hold their oppressors to account. Or at least she would. As dusk faded into night, she came upon the inn. Tethering her mount close by, she approached stealthily on foot, keeping to the shadows: every window of the house was ablaze with light. The stables, she observed, were overflowing with horses whose blue and yellow livery hung neatly from the rafters. Molding the contours of her body to the outer wall, she slipped along its surface until she reached a ground-floor window from which boisterous conversation 179

Tadhg Ó Muiris emanated. “Can we be overheard?” asked a voice that was strange to her. “It’s a great deal of money — my Master would appreciate discretion until the matter is consummated.” “The innkeeper and his family are in the cottage at the back, with instructions not to poke their noses back in here until morning, if they don’t want them cut off. We shan’t be disturbed.” With loathing, Iago recognized the scarred Captain’s voice. “Now what’s this about her already being taken?” “Just what I said, Captain. My master, Don Tomaso de Piedrablanca Díaz, already has the witch securely in his custody, and claims the five hundred gold pesetas as reward from your mistress.” Don Tomaso. Iago’s Master had spoken of him, a dear friend from his university days, who dwelt east of Pamplona. It made sense that, in a time of difficulty, he might seek aid of him. It seemed that he had sorely misjudged his companion of youth. “One would have thought that a gentleman such as your master,” and Iago noted the disdain in the Captain’s tone, “Would have been pleased to come to the aid of the Holy Mother Church in her work of ridding the world of heresies and witches without thought of worldly gain.” At this remark, there was a low grumble of dissatisfaction from those she took to be members of Don Tomaso’s delegation. “The Holy Mother Church didn’t offer the reward — your Lady did, and my Master means to hold her to her word,” the emissary replied truculently. A warning growl from the Captain’s men greeted this rejoinder. “How do we know you have the witch? There have been mistakes made before.” Federico, putting in his two cents’ worth. Iago scowled upon hearing the all-too familiar voice. So he decided to tag along

after all. Good. “Her name is Isabel, Captain,” replied Don Tomaso’s man, pointedly ignoring the alderman, “And she travels with Don Timoteo de Marisco. There has been no mistake.” “Very well, then. When that bitch has been burned to cinders before my eyes, and her ashes brought to the Marquesa, your master 180

Isabel’s Heresy shall have his money.” Iago’s mind reeled at what she had heard; her knuckles were white as they gripped the mortar of the wall to which she clung, so great was her anxiety for her Master. Was he, too, a prisoner of the treacherous Don Tomaso? “Where is Don Timoteo now?” the Captain asked, as if anticipating her question. “He rode off yesterday morning. Doubtless he’s found that his association with the witch has proven too dangerous for him.” “You mean you allowed him to escape?” “The reward was not for Don Timoteo,” the spokesman pointed out. “If the Marquesa had thought to stump up another five hundred for him, it would of course have been my master’s pleasure to hold him for you.” Iago trembled with fury as she listened to this exchange. He’s out

hunting these bastards, you swine, ignorant of his friend’s betrayal. “Or perhaps your Master finds handling women less of a challenge than dealing with swordsmen of de Marisco’s calibre,” rejoined the Captain, eliciting chuckles from his companions. Iago smirked. “My Master’s prowess is not at issue, Captain. After all, when he wants something done, he can rely on his men to do it for him.” The implications of the remark were clear — that the Marquesa had thought it necessary to put out a reward on Isabel’s head reflected poorly on her own men-at-arms — but further elaboration of the slight would have been unwise, so grievous was the insult. Even the murmurs of agreement from Don Tomaso’s camp seemed muted with unease. The Captain, however, proved a cool head, and forestalled further escalation of this joust before it erupted into violence — he had a job to do, and could indulge himself with settling scores once it was finished, Iago guessed. “Be that as it may,” he said, “We’ll ride to Casa Piedrablanca tomorrow morning. Since, as you say, the witch is held securely, we can afford to take some much-deserved rest tonight. Your men,” and Iago took him to mean Don Tomaso’s retainers, “are welcome to the 181

Tadhg Ó Muiris ground floor.” The sounds of shuffling and chairs shifted back from tables heralded preparations for retirement. Over the sound of boots mounting stairs, Iago heard the Captain order the posting of a guard in two-hour watches over the horses for the night. Iago crept away from the window, burying herself in the shadows. A rectangle of yellow light appeared on the wheel-rutted yard of the inn as the unlucky trooper assigned first watch grumbled his way toward the stable, the storm-lantern swinging at his side casting crazy shadows about him. It was too soon to carry out Iago’s plan: she had to be sure that all were asleep. As the house fell silent, she shared a weary vigil with the oblivious guard for a full hour before slitting his throat; no sound reached the soldiers but the startled whinny of a horse. Calming it with pats and whispered reassurances, she scanned the shed until she found what she sought: a large jug of paraffin. Moving quickly, she soaked the doors, thresholds, lintels and windowsills of the inn with the noisome accelerant. As soundlessly as possible, she wedged the doors shut with whatever she could find — an unladen barrow, discarded sections of planking. She heaved bales of hay and straw from the byre and positioned them beneath the windows. With all in readiness, it was a simple matter to set the infernal concoction alight with the storm lamp so conveniently provided by the sentry. She watched from the stone fence surrounding the property, sword drawn in readiness, as the flames began to lap hungrily at the structure. She had planned for the blaze to be well under way before anyone was the wiser. As she had hoped, the entire ground floor of the inn was completely swathed in fire before the first shouts reached her. She could not deny that the indignities and agonies to which she had been subjected by these men rendered a rampage of murder and arson less disagreeable for her; to do so would have been the height of self-deception. Such a settling of accounts, however, was more properly the province of another. It was, rather, the threat those brutes continued to pose for her Master, and what he held dear, that made a necessity of what otherwise men might call revenge; with 182

Isabel’s Heresy these thoughts, her heart became very stony indeed. Iago began to relax as, with each passing minute, her certainty increased that none would escape alive. Her attention strayed to a group of figures huddled outside the cottage on the far side of the yard, on whose woebegone faces the flames cast flickering shadows: the innkeeper and his family. She felt a pang of regret for the misfortune she had brought on their heads, but assuaged her conscience with the knowledge that the undamaged stable housed twenty now-ownerless horses that would fetch them a handsome compensation. These reflections were shattered when, with a thunderous crash and howl of rage, a ravening, smoldering creature appeared before her, resembling nothing so much as a vengeful demon from hell. The Captain, his jacket still smoking, had cast himself from one of the upper windows. He now made for Iago, sword swinging wildly; in his eyes a madness of fury and hatred burned as brightly as did the inferno from which he had emerged. Iago readied herself for the onslaught, flexing her knees and shifting her weight to the balls of her feet; her blade bobbed up and down in her grip as she reacclimatized herself to its balance and heft. She cursed the fates that had chosen the most formidable swordsman amongst her enemies as their sole survivor, and prayed, rather unsportingly, that smoke and flame had served to incapacitate him. To her regret, she found it had not — at least not sufficiently to render him less than a mortal danger to her. As she parried the first deadly strike, which was accompanied by a bear-like roar, the force of the blow traveled through her blade and jangled every bone in her frame. She pivoted on her outside foot in search of an opening, but his speed was as demonic as his appearance: she narrowly avoided being cleaved in two as his sword descended within inches of her. Knowing herself to be outmatched, she resumed the defensive and hoped he would tire before she. This, she ruefully suspected, was a wan hope, as the hurts from which she had yet to fully recover returned to haunt her in her hour of need; her joints felt as if they contained ground glass, and her muscles screamed for rest. The Captain maintained his hellish onslaught, 183

Tadhg Ó Muiris oblivious to his own, sadly superficial, injuries. Beyond words or reason, he had become wrath incarnate. Snarling and ranting like a demented thing, again and again he struck. Iago could sense her reflexes failing her as the lag between attack and parry increased. The Captain sensed it, too, and his face contorted in malevolent glee as he redoubled his murderous efforts. Soon, her helmet had been knocked from her head. She knew she had only moments left before she would crumble under the assault. On the one hand, she counted herself lucky to perish in battle — she had become intimately familiar with far worse ways to die. On the other, however, her service to her Master was still unfinished: true, with the Marquesa presumably neutralized, it seemed there would no longer be a price on Isabel’s head. She nevertheless remained in the clutches of the traitorous Tomaso, of whose perfidy her Master was blissfully unaware. Moreover, as deadly a threat to him as the Captain may be, and would continue to be once he had vanquished Iago, as surely he must, this false friend had the advantage of surprise — de Marisco would not be on his guard. With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, the realization dawned on her: she had failed him. As if the thought were a self-fulfilling prophecy, her strength deserted her. With one blow it was over; her sword was knocked flying from her grip with a metallic clang, and she felt the razor-sharp tip of the Captain’s blade pressed under her chin. They stood there panting exhaustedly in a deadly tableau: Iago, eyes shut, awaited the coup de grâce; the Captain, still trembling with rage, glared at his defeated opponent with eyes that burned, if no longer with hellfire, then with a more carnal flame. “Strip,” he ordered, beyond elaboration or taunts. Iago’s face flushed, not with modesty, but anger. Was she again to be denied her dignity? Would her prowess always count for nothing, when weighed against her worthlessness as a woman — a minor trophy of war to be defiled and abused, a source of impersonal pleasure? No: the Captain feared her, and sought, through degrading her, to exorcise his almost mystical dread of a woman who had got the better of him. The thought gave her a grim satisfaction, and she 184

Isabel’s Heresy spat an obscenity back in response. Without further comment, the Captain fetched her a vicious clout to the side of the head with the butt of his sword; in that instant he, the yard, the starry night sky towards which the flames of the conflagration now reached, all swirled into a darkening maelstrom that winked into blackness.

185

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Chapter Twenty-Four

S

he was hot. Why was it so hot? As she slowly regained

consciousness, the hideous drumming in her left temple was ably challenged by the other innumerable discomforts that vied for her attention — her wrists, her shoulders, her chest, her feet. With effort, she opened her eyes. Her clothes, predictably, were gone. Her hands had been lashed together, and from them she was suspended from the branch of a mighty tree that dominated one corner of the yard. The rope from which she hung passed over the top of the limb above her and thence downward to a lower, jaggedly truncated branch around which it had been looped several times. Roughly three feet below her dangling toes an impressive pile of coals had been spread, presumably procured from the pyre that was the inn. The embers alternated from orange to luminous white when quickened by the gentle night breeze. To her left, maintaining tension on the rope where it was looped with one blistered hand, the Captain stared up at her. By his meaningful glance from the inn, to the coals, and back to Iago, it was clear that he saw this source of combustion as poetic justice. Iago’s breath felt terrifyingly hot in her lungs. Her sweat poured off her naked body in countless rivulets; it sealed her hair to her head like a helmet, welled in her eyes and stung them, hung maddeningly suspended from the tip of her nose; it fell from her suffering nakedness in droplets that sputtered and hissed on the coals. She flexed her legs under her to withdraw her feet from their uncomfortable proximity to the heat, but realized with a fatalism born of exhaustion that she would be unable to do so for long. Iago fought to deny him her groans, even venturing a remark of defiance — only 186

Isabel’s Heresy to discover, belatedly, that she had been gagged. A filthy rag had been stuffed into her mouth and was held in place by a length of rope encircling her head; her well-chosen insults were reduced to a muffled moan. “I’m going to take my time with you, bitch,” smiled the Captain. “By the time I’m done with you, you’ll wish you’d been in that house,” he spat, indicating the inn with a jerk of his chin. “In the morning I’ll deal with the witch. And then I’ll find that swine de Marisco, and cut his balls off. How does that sound, eh?” At the mention of her Master’s name, a further stream of inarticulate invective surged behind Iago’s gag, at which the Captain merely laughed. The muscles of her thighs and abdomen ached with the strain of keeping her legs folded beneath her, away from the searing heat of the coal-bed; her entire body trembled with effort. The Captain licked his lips appreciatively. “I’d always regretted not being around when Federico and his rabble were taking turns with you,” he mused. He cupped one of her sweat-soaked breasts in his free hand, kneading and squeezing it with singed fingers. “Maybe I’ll have my chance yet, before you’re too well done.” Every fibre of Iago’s being was directed at keeping her feet hoisted beneath her; she dared not even venture a kick at her tormentor’s crotch. With a low growl of pleasure, his fingers savored the smoothness of her taut and toil-soaked belly, beneath the skin of which muscles bunched desperately. So tightly contracted were her legs that the gropings of one injured hand were insufficient to pry them apart for a more invasive exploration of her loveliness from that direction. He was well pleased, however, to savor the texture of her two luminous buttocks, flushed with heat, across which crisscrossing scars of previous agonies stood out with startling lividity. He was even more pleased to investigate the gates of her slick and puckered anus, teasing and prodding a fortress that clenched in an ultimately futile resistance, before moving on to assail from the south the prize whose northward approaches had proved temporarily impassable. 187

Tadhg Ó Muiris In some ways, Iago found this violation more humiliating than had been the depredations of Federico and his cohorts. At least in the courtyard of her Master’s house, none but her enemies had been present to witness her defilement; here, on a busy highway, she suspected that the innkeeper’s family was not the only furtive audience that watched from the darkness and bore fascinated witness of her helplessness, her nakedness, and her sufferings. How many pious pilgrims, elbows propped on the stone fence, smacked their lips and enjoyed the spectacle of her torment? How many would pass by in the morning to see her roasted body hanging from this tree, only to return home with interesting anecdotes for their neighbors about the strange practices of their Spanish co-religionists? Hardest of all to bear was the knowledge that her sacrifice tonight would be a useless, pointless death that availed her Master nothing: her sufferings did not even buy him time for escape, as he knew not the trap into which he had already fallen. She was merely to be a burnt offering to the Captain’s lust and anger: nothing more. Despite herself, and angry with her own weakness, a sob of despair erupted behind her gag. The Captain, mistakenly taking her sorrow for his own achievement, resolved to compound it. “You look a mite chilly up there,” he observed. “Let’s warm you up a bit.” Expertly, he slackened the loops around the stump. Iago felt herself slip a good ten inches in the direction of the merciless heat before her descent was stopped with a violent jerk that nearly wrenched her arms from their sockets; she gave a muffled scream of pain and panic as her feet, carried by inertia, brushed the coals and sent a spray of swirling orange sparks into the night; they winked out one by one. With a superhuman effort, she hoisted her knees to her breasts, so unbearably proximate had become the forge on which the Captain worked her. Such an attitude, however, was impossible to maintain for more than a few seconds, as her every muscle contracted, and her body quivered in distress. Her reaction was the unthinking reflex of a cornered animal, the fox who gnaws off its foot to escape a snare. She swung her legs up and hooked her ankles around her tethered wrists; 188

Isabel’s Heresy she found she could maintain such an attitude with comparatively minimal effort. She sighed in momentary delight at the respite this afforded the throbbing muscles of her thighs and abdomen: even her shoulders thanked her for their diminished load. It took mere seconds, however, for her back and buttocks to cry out their own separate objections to the new arrangement, as they flushed and sweltered unprotected above the embers. “Yes,” he remarked with satisfaction, “They always do that.” Iago’s heart sank further when she realized that this was what the Captain had been expecting: he was, she suspected, horribly adept at this practice. Few avenues of reaction remained open to her when, in readiness for this moment, the Captain produced a leather thong and lashed her ankles and wrists tightly together. Trussed like a calf, the oven over which she was suspended ravished her back and bottom with kisses of fire. She began to writhe and cry out as the pain became unendurable; in her desperation to escape the searing heat, she even tried pulling herself up the rope by her hands. Her struggles, however, were to no avail. Soon she was screaming, a shapeless, low bellowing entombed in a filthy rag, as she cast her head back and declared her agony and terror to the stars. With a series of grating jerks, she felt her body being hoisted up and away from the source of her suffering; the relief was indescribable. The fiery tortures of purgatory were replaced by the mere discomfort one felt sitting too close to a hearth. For the first time, she looked at the Captain through her haze of tears, cursing herself for the gratitude she felt. She both hated him, and loved the mercy he had shown her — or at least what she took for mercy, so unhinged was she in her misery. More than she feared the anonymity of a horrible and ignoble death, she craved his compassion, his approval — anything that might affirm her own humanity, her identity as one of God’s children, and not as the dressed spring lamb to which she had been reduced. At that moment she would do anything for him, acquiesce to anything, to avoid that awful hell that awaited her below, and with a languid closing and opening of her eyes, she even sought wordlessly to communicate that sentiment to 189

Tadhg Ó Muiris her torturer: gratitude, submission. The gesture was not lost on the Captain. “That’s better, isn’t it?” he asked her in a cooing voice, as if to a child. She nodded complacently, tears readily coursing down her cheeks at the mere kindness of his tone. He reached out to stroke her cropped, sodden hair; she shifted her head to rub her cheek eagerly against the back of his roughened hand. With the other, he stroked tender, fragrant surfaces that had earlier been denied him, but were now, by dint of her position, exposed and vulnerable to his attentions. With another series of sickening jerks, she began to swing wildly in her restraints as the Captain drew the fulcrum of the rope about three feet along the sturdy branch, so that she was no longer suspended over the coals. The heat of the coal-bed almost vanished; for the first time she felt the delicious coolness of the night air dance on her perspiring flesh. A fresh wave of gratitude engulfed her; in her extremity, it never occurred to her that the coals might be a hindrance to the Captain himself, and what he sought from her. She felt him standing before her, and lifted her head to see him. She could barely make him out, the faint light of the coals producing deceptive shadows in the darkness. She perceived, or imagined, him watching her face intently, peering around her inverted legs. Once more his fingers brushed and fondled her lustrous orifices, their path now lubricated by more than Iago’s sweat. Two fingers breached the fortifications of an anus that now yielded readily to his touch; gently he rocked her back and forth on this delightful penetration while other fingers slipped between her labia and probed deliciously inward. She felt a thumb seek out and find her clitoris to gratifying effect, and wriggled pleasurably in her bonds as her arousal smothered her discomforts; her belly ached with a pain unrelated to her previous exertions, but with a hunger born of desire. She wanted him inside her, she wanted it with a desperate abandon — to be used endlessly by his merciless, indifferent, evil cock — and then with a grunt he was within her. His nails dug deeply into her stinging buttocks as he sheathed and unsheathed himself in her again and 190

Isabel’s Heresy again. She enclosed him tightly, both with the savagery of her passion and the bound constriction of her thighs. She threw her head back and now moaned her pleasure at an inverted world where trees grew from the skies and coals smoldered from mossy ceilings. There was no thought now for who might be watching — let them: let them take back with them stories of the final, rapturous, glorious passion of a doomed woman. Perhaps I can please him forever in this way, lock

myself around him, hold him here, so that this pleasure might never end, so that the moment of his awful and inexorable cruelty might never arrive. Though she had often puzzled over it before, she found herself once against marveling at the bizarre paradox that in cruelty there could be such beauty and pleasure. It feels so good — never let

it end, please God, never let this end. Suddenly she felt him withdraw, and it occurred to her that this may all have been but a hideously deceptive interlude in her suffering, a last reminder of the passion to be offered and then finally denied her. No! Please God, no! Come back! Like a frenzied pendulum of desire and desperation, she frantically swung her bottom in his perceived direction, pleading through her gag for him to return and slake her ravening need. As if in answer to her muted entreaties, as if he had thought this last trick too monstrous even for him, he penetrated her once more; incredibly, it felt even more lovely than the first time he had entered her, and she wailed her incomprehensible thanks through her tears. As the intensity of her arousal robbed her of will, she felt the overpowering and gut-wrenching end approaching. She did not resist, but welcomed joyously the surge of urgent sensation that spread through her like concentric circles emanating from a pebble thrown in a pond, hurtling outward from her loins to the furthest points in her body: the tips of her toes, her nipples, her ears, all thrummed and quivered in delirious anticipation. As her orgasm seized and shook her like a rag doll, she once again imagined the muscles of her vagina clasping him to her forever; wave after wave of ecstasy pummeled her. When finally she hung, spent and used, barely sensible of her surroundings, she felt the insistent and unwelcome scrabbling of 191

Tadhg Ó Muiris reality on the door of her consciousness. She wanted more, God how she wanted more. Life, in all its horror, nevertheless offered pleasures such as this — pleasures which would be lost to her for ever. How could he deny himself what we have just shared? She choked back a sob and tried to prepare herself. As she felt the ropes above her shift again, she knew she was about to be repositioned over the coals, and that this time there would be no reprieve — he would slowly, with infinite care, lower her to a gruesome dissolution. Her reaction was one of complete mystification when, rather than being consigned once more to the vicious ravishments of the embers, she felt herself taken in strong arms; the cords above her were cut, and her body uncoiled like a parchment in that embrace. She looked up into the face of her Master. As he carried her away from that accursed tree, he stepped nimbly over the body of the Captain, who lay splayed in undignified repose on the ground: hose around his knees, and throat slit deftly from ear to ear. Iago fancied a trace of pleasure, abruptly interrupted, still softened the contours of his face. With the depth of her emotion at their reunion, she flung her arms, wrists still tied together before her, around her Master’s neck and sought to smother him in kisses through the confines of her gag. De Marisco, listing slightly under Iago’s weight and the affection of her onslaught, deftly removed the obstruction. Their mouths met in a passionate reunion of their own, the first since that fateful day when she had covered his retreat from the courtyard. “My good and true slave,” he whispered in her ear. “I could see your distress after I dispatched that swine. The least I could do, under the circumstances, was finish what he began.” Iago grinned sheepishly, sniffled back a tear and buried her face in her Master’s neck. After a few moments, her faced popped up again, this time a mask of dismay. “Master! We must hurry! You are betrayed by Don Tomaso, and Isabel is in danger!” A mixture of shock and confusion clouded his features. 192

Isabel’s Heresy “Betrayed? By Tomaso? What do you mean?” As he cut away her bonds and set about dressing his weakened charge, Iago recounted the conversation she had overhead in the inn. As she spoke, his expression changed to one of anger. “We must return to Casa Piedrablanca at once,” he said, gently hoisting Iago onto his stallion before mounting himself. Her arms squeezed around his waist. Impulsively, he took one of her hands in his and kissed it before spurring his horse northward. As they traveled, de Marisco’s thoughts strayed to the young man he had met on the road that afternoon, who had asked him directions to Casa Piedrablanca. Instantly wary, his suspicions had been allayed when the stranger explained that he sought his sister, Dolores, who had recently wed a tenant of Don Tomaso. De Marisco had put him on the right road, but thought it best not to mention that he had just come from that place, and had seen no trace of a woman of that name. Did the revelation of Tomaso’s duplicity put this exchange in a new light? Pulling his mind back to the present, he thought to question Iago about her escape from the courtyard, and what had occurred since they last saw one another. But the exhausted woman had fallen asleep. He pulled her arms more tightly about him.

193

Tadhg Ó Muiris

Chapter Twenty-Five

I

sabel found that she had to shift every few minutes as the pressure exerted by the studs and bars of the cage against various parts of her body became excruciating, trading one set of discomforts for yet another in turn. Sleep, she knew, would be impossible. Although completely alone in the dark courtyard, fettered and naked in the iron cubicle, the black windows in the high walls surrounding her stared down like the unblinking orbs of a dozen death’s heads. Were there faces watching her in those blackened fenestrations, taking prurient delight in her periodic shifting and groans, smacking their lips in anticipatory glee at the pleasures that awaited them in the morning? Her throat burned with thirst, and her belly with hunger. Predictably, a jug of water had been placed a few feet away, to lend piquancy to her distress. She had managed to urinate through one of the gaps in a corner of the cage without soiling her surroundings, and of this she was glad. After a few hours of confinement, she was compelled to rearrange her limbs with increasing frequency until no position was left to her that was not an immediate source of pain: her shifting had become an uninterrupted writhing to the accompaniment of chains grinding against iron and her own whimpers. Idly, she wondered if the sounds of her misery would awaken the household and invite fresh horrors upon her, but surmised that the concerto of her sufferings would be sweeter than the nightingale’s song in Tomaso’s somnolent ears. Such was the racket she made, it was unsurprising that she failed to hear the stealthy footfalls from behind until the figure was almost upon her. Startled, she swung around to the extent afforded by her 194

Isabel’s Heresy constriction to confront her nocturnal visitor. Though his livery identified him as one of Tomaso’s servants, she couldn’t recall having seen him before: surely she would have remembered such a handsome specimen among that throng of illfavored brutes. As he loomed over her in the semi-dark, his face expressionless, Isabel found herself trembling. She forced herself to put up a bold front. “What do you want?” she asked, attempting a sneer. “Thought you’d get the jump on your fellows?” When he made no reply, her alarm grew. She had come to expect the leers and bluster of cowards who traveled in a pack, but knew not what to make of this solitary, silent menace. Without comment, he stooped to pick up the flagon of water, and Isabel’s body clenched as she braced herself for the icy drenching she had every reason to expect. Instead, and still without comment, he inserted the spout of the flagon through the gap in the bars nearest Isabel’s mouth, waiting for her to put her lips to it. She was momentarily flummoxed by this, half-suspecting another cruel trick, in which the flask would be withdrawn at the last moment. Such was Isabel’s thirst, however, that her hesitation was barely noticeable as her parched lips found the rim of the jug — at which point the flask was duly tipped, and Isabel gulped at the delicious, sweet, cool, water. As she drank, her benefactor spoke for the first time. “Not too fast. You’ll be sick.” His voice was deep and the speech well-accented, but the hushed tone indicated to Isabel that his visit was indeed clandestine. She forced herself to sip more slowly. As she did so, incredibly, she felt a hand stroking her hair through the bars. Emotion surged in upon her, and she began to weep inconsolably, rubbing her head against that caressing hand. How strange, she thought: she had become so inured to viciousness and cruelty that a simple act of kindness could reduce her to tears. At length she had drunk her fill, and the flagon was replaced on the ground. Still that hand continued to stroke her hair. However this 195

Tadhg Ó Muiris stranger was dressed, she was convinced he could not be in league with Tomaso. She gazed up at him through eyes rimmed with tears. “Help me,” she whispered. “Do not lose hope,” he replied simply. Lest it drive her insane, hope was something Isabel had long since abandoned for the dubious solace of fatalism. Several inferences could be drawn from those four words: that hope might be justified; that rescue, however, was not imminent. Soon, then, circumstance would sweep this transitory protector from her as well. As if in confirmation of this, he shifted in preparation to take his leave. The thought was insupportable, and Isabel sought to make him stay in the only way that came to mind. Craning her head, she reached up for his hand with her mouth and began to suck enticingly on his middle finger, drawing her lips back and forth along its length in an urgent sensuality. The stranger looked down at the naked, shackled and terrified woman, huddled in that hellish cage, whose only connection to a world of kindness and normalcy was now the finger which she so desperately sought to seduce with her mouth: he was not made of granite. Kneeling down, he pressed his face to the bars; Isabel found his lips through the gap and kissed him deeply, her cheeks framed by the cold iron. She looked passionately into his eyes. “Don’t go.” It was then she felt his hand reaching up towards her from the bottom of the cage, stroking the inner surface of her thighs as they continued to kiss. She let out a groan unrelated to the discomfort of her predicament, and kissed him more passionately still, her tongue slithering against his in the hollow of two mouths become one. How she longed to feel the warmth of his skin against hers, to bask in the safety and protection of his arms around her, to sense the beating of his heart next to her own — those iron bars seemed crueler now than ever. Drawn inexorably to this man, she disengaged from him long enough to struggle to her knees in the cramped space of her cage; she ignored the shrieks of protest from her knees as they came to rest in two four-inch gaps in the floor of the cell. Her breasts found 196

Isabel’s Heresy gaps of their own, pouting out from the grating, begging for his touch. Sensing her need, the stranger shrugged off his doublet and chemise with a growl of arousal; crouching down, he gripped two bars on either side, and began to rub his chest against the bosoms which reached for him like two silken fugitives, craving the contact of his flesh on theirs. All the while, his mouth played over her parted lips, sliding and pressing against them in turn, the tips of their tongues meeting and parting in a poignant dance of longing and denial. With a whimper of unconquerable need, she jammed her pelvis desperately against the cage, her mound winking plaintively between the bars. Her body trembled with a low clatter of shackles and chains as his finger begin to massage her throbbing clitoris, and her lips locked on his. Soon, the thrumming in her loins became unbearable. “Please, let me feel you inside me.” He looked about, and could see immediately that the angle and elevation were problematic: the cage stood a foot off the ground. “Lie down on your belly,” he ordered. Maddened with desire, Isabel didn’t hesitate. After a few moments’ contortions, she was face-down on the floor of the cage, her legs flexed behind her. Though still uncomfortable, her position was now amazingly less so than previously. Her greatest anguish had been caused by the metal pressed against the bony salients of her body: hips, knees, coccyx, shoulder-blades and joints. Now that her weight had been assumed by the fleshy padding of her thighs, belly, and chest, the relief afforded her skeleton was beyond words. This was not to say that her new attitude did not present its own disadvantages: she had placed herself so that her breasts hung down through two partings in the lattice; the symmetry of the human form, however, meant that a metal strap ran along the central axis of her body, and rasped between her tender labia. With her arms chained behind her, she had to slither like an eel over the unforgiving iron, shifting her pelvis laterally so that her pubis now poked earnestly through an aperture of its own. The lower part of her face had also found an escape, on a similarly skewed angle, but a bar supporting 197

Tadhg Ó Muiris her brow blocked out all sight. She didn’t care: her entire body vibrated with need for him, and tingled in anticipation as she heard him discard the remainder of his clothing, and sensed him sliding under the cage. She remembered her earlier micturition. “Watch out for the —” “I see it,” came his voice, slightly breathless with the effort of squeezing under the structure. And then he was there, beneath her. It was as if the cold iron bars had disappeared: all she could feel was the smoothness and warmth of his knees next to hers, his chest pressed against her nipples, his mouth on her lips, and the probing twitches of his erection next to her mons. She sighed with delight as his left arm slithered between the bars to envelope her, his fingers feathering the small of her back and then gripping the distressed surface of a buttock which still bore the angry red crisscrosses of her prison walls. With his right hand he weaved a path between throbbing bellies and unyielding metal, until she felt once more the gentle insistence of its kiss against her oozing nubbin, restoring her to the heights of ardor she had reached prior to her grueling adjustments, and then beyond them. “Please,” she whimpered. At this word, he slid within her; her body rolled and twisted against iron and chains with the glory of it, and she clenched around his member as desperately as had her lips about his finger. She was barely capable of matching the sublime rocking of his hips with her own, and this inability seemed somehow to accent the bittersweetness of their communion. As if reading her thoughts, he grasped her by the hips, and began gently to manipulate her up and down on the cock upon which she was so sweetly impaled. Within minutes, the ache in her lower belly had turned to a flame that flared and spread like bone-dry tinder put to the torch. “Don’t leave me, please don’t leave me” she groaned, as the brushfire consumed them both in a thunderous, shuddering conflagration. For a few delirious minutes they lay that way, while she continued to clench spasmodically around his subsiding shaft and nuzzle against his panting mouth. Then his body stiffened, and she knew he was 198

Isabel’s Heresy leaving her. She failed to choke back a sob, felt his hand stroke her head once again, and then he was no longer beneath her. She struggled to raise her head, groaning with the effort, and saw him putting on his clothes. He did not look at her. She imagined that when he left, it would all seem like a dream to her that he had ever existed, so brief was her visit to this haven of tenderness in a tempest of blackness and inhumanity. She twisted around on her side to watch him, her breasts, belly and thighs now emblazoned with the cage floor’s grim imprimatur. Only once he was again dressed in the accursed livery of that evil house did he turn to regard her. Tears filmed her eyes, and he bent down to stroke her reddened cheek. “Thank you,” she husked. He disappeared into the blackness. Weeping, Isabel resumed her prone position, save that her cheek now rested against the tear-stained bar that had previously obscured her vision, her face turned in the direction of the house. In this attitude she awaited the light, which was not long off. Even now, the faint scum of false dawn presaged a morning whose arrival she dreaded. The night seemed filled with unidentifiable sounds, compounding her foreboding. The anxious fretting of a horse drifted to her occasionally from the stables. And were those wild dogs she heard scraping through the offal of the rubbish tip? She flinched at the lusty caw of a nearby carrion crow, and wondered what macabre feasts it foretold. Soon it would be dawn, and Tomaso and his men would swoop down upon her like the carrion-eaters they were, driven by their insatiable hunger to rape, torture and kill. ‘Do not give up hope,’ he had said. But what hope is there, save that of a speedy death? She thought bitterly. And she knew it would not be so. As she anxiously contemplated what lay in store for her, the sun began its weary ascent in the sky, casting long shadows on the ground. The cage’s madly distorted silhouette crept across the courtyard, resolving itself more fully into a crazed checkerboard of 199

Tadhg Ó Muiris light and shade with every passing minute. Any time now, she thought grimly. Soon, she heard the sounds of the house coming awake — clattering, shouts, scuffling. From her vantage point she could just make out the main door of the house, from which figures began to emerge, and her body tensed. They were servants — scullery maids, cooks, gardeners and stable boys. But why did they use that door? Surely there were discreet passages more appropriate for those of such lowly calling. Something was wrong. She noticed each carried a heavy burden of some description — a tied bed-sheet from which glittered the tip of a candelabrum, a rolled tapestry thrown hastily over a shoulder, or a wooden chest with a broken hasp. And they were in a hurry, scurrying to the main gate, whose portcullis was hastily raised. “Wait! What’s happening? Help me!” she called out to them. One or two looked over at her guiltily, seemed to hesitate a moment, and then continued through the gates and out of sight. Isabel scrambled to her knees, ignoring the pain, and looked wildly about her. The courtyard was now deserted. The house stood strangely silent. They were gone — all of them. She was alone, locked in this infernal cage. They had left her to die — either of dehydration, or of heat prostration: the day was already growing warm, and when the scorching sun reached its zenith above her, the bars of her cell would become branding irons. Her mind recoiled at the thought. “No!” she screamed, thrashing against the walls. “Let me out! Let me out!” There was no one to hear. Sweaty, exhausted and sobbing, she collapsed. A flurry of startled doves soared in synchronized alarm from the gates, and faintly there arose the clopping of horses’ hooves approaching. Isabel’s eyes were blurred with tears, and she had no free hands with which to wipe them clear. Thus it was only two black and hazy forms she observed galloping towards her and dismounting. One indistinct figure hurried to the cage, and Isabel heard the rasp of a sword being drawn from its scabbard. The apparition stood 200

Isabel’s Heresy between herself and the sun, and she squinted up at the tear-clouded gloriole that surrounded it. She could see it raise the sword over its head, grasping the hilt with both hands, the blade pointed downward, as if poised to stab through the cage. This is it, she thought. At least I am to be dispatched quickly. She braced herself for the blow. With a loud metallic crash the heavy padlock exploded, and the door of the cage flew open. She felt strong arms lifting her and drawing her outside. Her knees, bent for so long, were powerless to support her and she hung limply in those powerful arms as they clasped her to a broad chest. “Isabel,” came a familiar voice. It was her Master.

201

Tadhg Ó Muiris

Chapter Twenty-Six

I

sabel couldn’t remember precisely how she had been carried back to her bedchamber; all she could recall was the bitterness and misery of the last week dissolving into her own hysterical weeping as she clutched frantically at her Master, while he, in turn, murmured soothingly in her ear. As it was, the softness of a bed had become a novelty for her once again, and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. She awoke with a start, disoriented and half-expecting to find herself in the same wretched circumstances she had endured for days. As she saw the sun streaming through the windows, bathing her twisted bedclothes with yellow light, she lay back with relief, rejoicing in the sensation of the clean sheets against her naked skin. She stretched, and found that the ache in her tortured joints had subsided. “So, you’re awake.” Startled, Isabel turned over to find her Master ensconced in a substantial winged chair by the side of the bed. His somewhat disheveled appearance indicated that he had passed no few hours in that position. With a yelp of delight, she untangled her limbs from the counterpane and scurried to kneel at the base of the chair, wrapping herself about his legs and nuzzling his inner thigh. She savored his leathery scent and the warmth of him beneath her arms, squeezing and fondling him, as if to confirm that he were not an illusion. With a jolt, she remembered her fellow prisoner. “There was a woman in the dungeon, named Dolores. What has become of her, Master?” she asked, her body tensing. 202

Isabel’s Heresy “The house has been thoroughly searched. We found no woman.” With this news, she relaxed once again. “How long have I slept, Master?” she asked, her words muffled against her Master’s thigh. She felt cheated of their reunion by her own weakness. “About twenty-four hours, my treasure.” “Twenty-four hours!” Isabel looked up at him in alarm. “You must think me the laziest, most selfish person in the world! And here you’ve been sitting in that chair all this time, waiting for me to awaken? How ungrateful you must think me, after all you’ve done!” Tears of self-reproach welled in Isabel’s eyes. She shifted a few paces backward from the chair, still kneeling, but now trembling in anguish, hands clasped in entreaty, and gaze cast downward to the floor. Her naked beauty still bore signs of the mistreatment to which she had been subjected: the iron shackles had left purple bruises around her wrists and ankles, and her flesh was marked in innumerable places by the torments of dungeon and cage. “I can’t bear the thought that I have failed you so egregiously once again,” she whispered tremulously. “I beg you, Master, as your wretched and undeserving slave, to set my mind at rest, lest this failure on my part haunt me further. I beg you, humbly, to punish me as you see fit. Please expunge this transgression, and any others I may have committed in your absence, that I might serve you free of this terrible burden of guilt.” De Marisco remained attentively silent throughout this unwontedly lengthy speech, the imperceptibly gradual ascension of one speculative eyebrow his only reaction to what he had heard. A terrifying thought occurred to Isabel — did he already know? She turned away to kneel on the mattress, wrapping her arms around one of the bedposts and presenting him the delicate curve of her bottom. She rested her cheek against the coolness of the wood; a single tear plying a winding course down its carved surface. It had only taken a moment after waking, only a few precious, unalloyed seconds of joy at her reunion with her Master, for her to remember her own terrible breach of trust. She knew that, as long as she lived, she could never bring herself to confess it to him — she 203

Tadhg Ó Muiris would rather have died. She resolved at that moment to redeem herself through whatever pain and suffering he chose to inflict upon her already much-misused frame, and to cast to the back of her mind the niggling misgiving that she might be seeking absolution through subterfuge. She waited in silence, and for a few moments all she could hear was his breathing, the volume and frequency of which had increased considerably. She then heard the creaking of the chair as he rose from it, and the steady footfalls of his approach. He circled around the bed until he faced her. Isabel fought to keep her gaze penitently downward, but after weeks of separation, she found herself unable to resist sneaking furtive glances up at him. Though his expression betrayed nothing, his eyes glinted with a flinty volcanism, and his gaze never wavered from her tear-streaked face. With a ferocity that made her flinch, he snatched up a linen bed-sheet and tore it into strips. These he wound around wrists already crossed around the bedpost, securing them in turn to a point above Isabel’s head, so that her arms were fastened tautly upwards and around the sturdy pillar. Compared to the iron shackles she had endured, these bonds were practically luxurious, despite the ache she felt in her muscles. She hoped he was not planning to be lenient with her: that would defeat the entire purpose of her punishment — indeed, it would probably make her feel even more miserable. Her shoulders and the bedpost now completely obscured her line of sight, and precluded any further stolen glances of her Master; her upper body molded to the contours of her pillory, breasts hugging and flanking the upright on either side, while her buttocks remained resolutely raised behind her, eagerly awaiting the cleansing solace of her punishment. For a few minutes, all was silent. She shivered with both anticipation and dread. When the first blow descended on her pouting buttocks with a sharp crack, she screamed. She had been unprepared for the savagery and razor-like insistence of the pain that seared into her flesh — indeed, she could only guess at what the device was: a cane, she suspected. Her body recoiled from the source of the assault, her 204

Isabel’s Heresy hips trying to burrow their way forward into the bedpost. She whimpered into her shoulder through a bitten lip, cringing in terror of the next blow — which did not come — instead, an icy stillness prevailed once again. Cursing her stupidity, she realized why this was so, and with a ragged sigh repositioned herself as previously, the curve of her spine bowing gracefully downward from her bonds, and then up to where her quivering bottom offered itself to him in mute sacrifice. The next blow, when it came, was no less vicious than the first. She nevertheless managed to throttle her shriek into a muffled squeal, and although her entire frame shuddered sickeningly, she maintained the attitude of her body steadfastly in the direction of her tormentor. She imagined the two crisscrossing seams that now traversed her bottom from hip to hip, and could feel the blood trickling down the backs of her trembling thighs. Her chest slid easily against the bedpost on a cushion of sweat, a glaze of perspiration having welled up from her suffering body in a matter of moments. Clearly, now that she maintained the correct posture for her chastisement, there would be no further pauses in the shower of agony that rained upon her. Suppressing her own screams, however, proved to be impossible; she bellowed her pain with every explosive slice into her flesh. These were wordless, animal howls of agony: however, she would beg no mercy, nor did she seek it. There was no way for her to maintain a count of the lashes she was absorbing; after seven or eight, her cognitive faculties were lost to her, and time took on a strange elasticity. Besides, maintaining a count would imply a search for control, perhaps even an anticipation of her punishment’s conclusion — and she must not wish for it to end. In her universe, only three things now existed: her pain, her Master, and the conviction that only the former could reunite her wholly with the latter. Soon, the blows were not restricted to her buttocks: once these were reduced to a quivering mass of raw flesh, as she felt sure they must be, her tormentor’s attentions shifted upward, and her shoulders convulsed as she felt the bright ribbons of fire course across her back, again and again. Dimly, she wondered if she would 205

Tadhg Ó Muiris actually survive this onslaught; in her pain-induced delirium, she reflected how sweet would be the consummation of her reconciliation with her Master to die by his very hands. At length her cries were reduced to the husky sighs of broken billows as her throat, raw from screaming, failed her. She thought she could feel sweat and blood welling in the hollow made by the dimpled small of her bowed back and trickling into the gorge between her tortured buttocks. She was less and less able to support her upper body, and now merely hung from her bonds, all feeling having fled her hands. Even the legs on which she knelt threatened to desert her, and a violent trembling began to rattle her exhausted thighs. Internally, she raged against the weakness and pusillanimity of her body, willing herself to remain upright. The weight of the blows, however, proved too much for her, and her legs collapsed like a folded tent under her, twisting her to the right. She dangled limply from her bonds, a quaking, sobbing mass, only vaguely aware of her surroundings. Instantly the blows ceased, and she heard something fall to the floor. There was movement about her wrists; though they remained tied around the bedpost, they had been released from the height above her head to which they had been fastened. She felt herself gently lowered to lie face downward on the bed, whose sheets clung tenaciously to her sodden yet unbloodied flesh: despite the fearsomeness of his strokes, he had not broken her skin. She heard sounds her distress-addled mind failed to identify, and then felt her Master’s weight on the mattress behind her. She shivered at the delicious coolness of his two hands coming to rest on the blazing flesh of her hips, and then felt her pelvis being lifted off the counterpane until she was propped up on her trembling knees once more, though her upper body remained at rest, arms still hugging the base of the pillar. As she was in no state to maintain such an attitude independently his hands never yielded their grip, though by comparison with her previous position, this was almost restful. She gasped when he pulled her toward him by the hips, her arms and shoulders tautening against her bonds. One arm snaked around her waist in support, and her belly twitched at its touch. Another arm 206

Isabel’s Heresy passed upward between her legs; she sighed as fingers verified with satisfaction the wetness within her, unhurriedly probing her vagina, before coming to caress her unsheathed bud with ever-quickening strokes. With one fluid movement he penetrated her: the pleasure of his being inside her once again; the pain of his naked abdomen and thighs rubbing against the raw flesh of her much-abused bottom; the delightful attentions of the middle finger of that supporting hand goading and teasing her throbbing clitoris; the ache in her shoulders and arms stretched mercilessly against their bonds; the joy of being taken by her Master — she bathed in each of these sensations individually and as one. Faster and faster he pumped; faster and faster came the flicking of that lovely middle finger. Somewhere from the depths of her arousal she found the strength to thrust back onto him, sobbing and grunting with a bestial intensity. Her body quaked and seized around him with several wondrous convulsions, and then was still. His grip loosened, and he let her spent body slide prone onto the bed once again. She sensed his weight off the mattress, and felt her wrists being released from around the bedpost, and then retied in front of her. He lifted her, limp as a rag-doll, in his arms — she caught a glance of a birch switch resting on the carpet — and lay back on the bed, arranging her body to lie over him, her bound wrists about his neck, their bellies slickly meeting, their faces inches apart. “You are mine now and forever, my precious slave,” he whispered to her gravely. “Nothing can change that.” A single tear dropped from Isabel’s face and was lost in her Master’s chest-hairs. Through her exhaustion, she managed to mouth the words “Thank you, my Master,” before her head came to rest, dreaming, on his chest. *** When she awoke, she found herself still lying on her stomach, but he was no longer beneath her. Her wrists had been released. The 207

Tadhg Ó Muiris momentary pang of loss she felt was quickly dispelled by the delicious sensation of warm hands applying a soothing balm to the skin of her buttocks and back, which still throbbed from the stringency of her chastisement. A second later, she noticed the familiar kiss of the collar at her neck, and her hand moved to fondle it; she smiled contentedly into the folds of the bedclothes. “That feels so wonderful, Master,” she purred, “thank you.” “You needn’t address me as Master,” came a familiar voice, “although it’s a relief to see that you’ve finally learned some manners.” Isabel stiffened in shock, twisting around and instinctively drawing the sheets around her. Her eyes were wide with alarm. “My Lord Iago!” Iago smiled at her discomfiture, her hands still held before her, smeared with fragrant unguent. “Back on your belly,” she said, not unkindly, “I’m not finished yet.” She did as she was bidden, but found it difficult to relax. She had no idea how to account for Iago’s resurrection, or indeed what to make of it. “Glad to see me, I see,” observed Iago, as her hands returned to their work. “I dimly remember another person with our Master when he rescued me from the cage. Was that you?” “It was.” Isabel bit her lip, unsure how to frame her words — particularly from such an awkward position, which she had nevertheless been instructed to maintain. “My Lord Iago,” she began awkwardly, “you saved us when they stormed our Master’s house. Had another not already a prior claim on it, I would say that I owed you my life.” “That was deftly put,” Iago noted. “As it is, you owe me nothing — what I did, I did for him.” “My Lord Iago, I still feel obliged, no matter what your motivations.” Iago’s hands ceased their caressing of Isabel’s shoulder blades. 208

Isabel’s Heresy Isabel wondered if she were finished and made to turn around, whereupon Iago resumed her ministrations and spoke. “You needn’t address me in that way,” she said slowly, in a measured tone. “Our Master informs me that you and I are henceforth to be as” — another pause— “sisters.” There had been only the slightest modulation in Iago’s tone when she spoke this last word. Isabel’s mind reeled, trying to grasp the full implications of what she had just been told: whether this meant a debasement for Iago, an elevation for herself, both, or neither, and how Iago might feel about it. She decided to ask her. Iago’s reply was phlegmatic. “You were a responsibility I was pleased to accept from my Master, and even more pleased to relinquish. It was,” and she seemed to choose the word with care, “a complication.” “Surely,” mused Isabel, “after the travail of the last few weeks, our lives are now more complicated than ever.” Iago made a dismissive noise. “That’s not what I meant. The world has always been chaotic and hellish, and always will be. I was referring to matters of consequence, such as serving my Master.” Isabel felt emboldened by the intelligence she had just received, and decided to press her advantage further. “When we thought you had been killed,” she began, “our Master told me of the debt which you owed him. Has this not been repaid now?” Iago’s kneading of Isabel’s flesh grew a little rougher, and there was a slight edge to her voice as she responded. “You adapt well to your new circumstances, don’t you? As to your point, my servitude is not a clerk’s ledger to be totted up and balanced at year-end. It is what I am.” She indicated that her treatment was concluded with a slap on Isabel’s still-tender bottom, eliciting a wince. Isabel rolled over onto her side to face Iago, who sat on the edge of the bed, dressed in her usual man’s attire. “And where is our Master now?” Iago appeared to concentrate on wiping her hands with a cloth. 209

Tadhg Ó Muiris Her answer was oblique. “There are matters of some delicacy to be attended to which concern our temporary presence in this house, and its previous occupant.” Again, the last word of this response bore a particular intonation. Isabel, suppressing a shudder, once again sought to cover herself. “And what has become of Don Tomaso?” “That is a question best left to our Master.” Isabel relaxed slightly. “But surely you can understand why I am so full of questions, Iago. Your return, and that of our Master, seem no less than miraculous to me.” She was interrupted by a knock at the door. A serving girl, one whom Isabel had not seen previously, came in with a tray of food that Iago instructed her to place on the bed between them. Before the girl could withdraw, Isabel had fallen upon the platter with gusto. Iago watched her set about the food with amusement. “I see your appetite hasn’t suffered.” “Please excuse me,” she apologized around mouthfuls, “but I haven’t eaten for days.” Isabel’s curiosity was momentarily forgotten as she crammed what she could into her maw. Only once she was finished did she resume her queries. “What happened after you covered our escape from our Master’s house?” she asked, wiping her mouth with a proffered napkin. Seeming to consider the question, Iago plucked a single grape from a bunch that had escaped Isabel’s depredations, rotating it distractedly between thumb and forefinger before finally placing it in her mouth; she held the plump orb poised on the edge of her teeth before crushing it with a juicy pop. Her gaze focused on a middle distance between them, and her mind seemed to go back to that terrible day. She drew her legs up to her chest with some difficulty, Isabel noticed, more stiffly and haltingly than was the lithe and catlike Iago’s wont. Leaning her back against the bedpost, she told Isabel her story. It was not Iago’s way to dwell in detail on the sufferings through which she herself had passed: she would have considered it unseemly. Yet even given this characteristic understatement, Isabel’s 210

Isabel’s Heresy heart lurched at the woe and depredations to which Iago had been subjected, and wept at the thought of her gallant sister suffering on the cross as she and their Master made good their escape. Ironically, it was Iago who moved to comfort Isabel as she was overcome by these revelations, taking her in her arms and rocking her soothingly as her account ran its quiet, inexorable course. When told of the fiery end of her persecutors, Isabel shivered. Perhaps because it was precisely the hideous fate that they had envisioned for her, she found it all the more horrible to contemplate. At length, Iago’s relation reached the morning of Isabel’s rescue, and her narrative became even more lacking in detail. Isabel appreciated that Iago’s circumlocution was dictated by the sensitivities of their situation. Reading between the lines, however, it became clear that when de Marisco and Iago arrived at Casa Piedrablanca, they found the sole sentinel lying dead at his post. It had been, therefore, a relatively simple matter to dispatch, asleep and unshriven, the few of Tomaso’s men-at-arm’s who had remained behind from the rendez-vous at the inn. The dead sentry had puzzled Iago, until she connected her Master’s encounter with the young stranger and Isabel’s account of the poor Dolores, of whom they had found no trace. “And what of Don Tomaso?” she asked again. She found herself sincerely hoping that he had died with the others. “For my part, I assume he fell victim to Dolores’ mysterious brother; he was nowhere to be found when we got here. Our Master, however, is dissatisfied with this uncertainty, as Tomaso’s continued existence would, of course, pose a grave threat — not least of all to you. It is for this reason that we are departing for Navarre in the morning, where our Master has already made arrangements to enter into the service of King Henry.” Isabel became excited at the prospect of a new life in a new country. “What’s Navarre like, Iago?” “Navarre is an industrious, progressive Huguenot kingdom where neither the tentacles of the Inquisition, nor of any other of our enemies, reach. Our Master is very wise to hitch his wagon to Henry’s rising star — there is even talk of a betrothal to Margaret of Valois. 211

Tadhg Ó Muiris An alliance of the Houses of Bourbon and de’ Medici would strengthen Henry’s position immeasurably, and, presumably, of those who serve him.” “And what shall we do there, you and I?” Isabel asked. Iago stared at her as if the answer were obvious. “Why, we shall serve our Master, of course.”

212

Isabel’s Heresy

Chapter Twenty-Seven

H

aving gingerly dressed in a modest but rather closely-fitting blue gown which she had found in a chest, and whose provenance she didn’t care to consider, Isabel roamed the now-deserted halls of Casa Piedrablanca as preparations were made throughout the afternoon for their departure. In the absence of its previous, horrible occupant there was an eerie stillness about the place, and she imagined she could hear forlorn cries of misery echoing off walls that had witnessed much depravity. She dared not even venture into the great hall where that bizarre table had been laid, nor would she allow her gaze to stray too long out of a window that looked down on the courtyard below, where that awful cage still stood with door ajar. She detested this place, and would be glad to see the last of it in the morning. As twilight descended, Iago informed her that their Master required their immediate attendance in his chambers. She dutifully followed Iago upstairs, hurrying to keep up with her companion’s long, imperious strides. She had not seen de Marisco all day, and felt a girlish thrill at the prospect of being in his presence once again. Her excitement made her loquacious, and she asked Iago what this summons was for. At this Iago merely shot her a withering glance, and snapped at her to get a move on. Iago knocked once on the chamber door. “Enter,” ordered de Marisco from within. Iago stepped in first, then bolted the door behind Isabel. In almost perfect symmetry, they knelt before their Master with heads bowed. A fire blazed merrily in the hearth, and the room was suffused 213

Tadhg Ó Muiris with its warmth. The reflected flames twinkled in the chest hairs that curled above the gap in the silken robe tied around his waist with a sash. He was seated on a large winged chair, his hands draped regally over each arm, his gaze moving proprietorially from Iago to Isabel and back. Isabel stared at the patterns in the carpet, wondering what was on her Master’s mind. Was he displeased about something? Had he discovered her betrayal of him, and now meant to expose her, cast her out — set Iago on her? She felt sure her disquiet must be obvious in every minute movement of her body, though she fought to keep still. From what she could observe through the corner of her eye, Iago seemed the model of serenity, as impassive as a statue. How she envied her poise and self-assurance! She could picture Iago uncomplainingly kneeling that way for all eternity, awaiting her Master’s instruction — and if it never came, she would be in no wise disappointed. As for Iago, she wished that Isabel would stop fidgeting. She would never presume to second-guess her Master, but couldn’t help but suspect that another good thrashing would be just the thing to calm this prattling chit. Reproaching herself, she dismissed the thought as unworthy. Though she had yet to assimilate it emotionally, she recognized intellectually that she and Isabel were not so very different. Indeed, their dissimilar manners merely concealed a common need to serve and submit to their Master, a servitude whose rewards were incomparable, but whose wages were often suffering and sacrifice willingly borne — and who was to say whose had been greater? Isabel, she knew, was still very far from this realization — and yet they could never truly be equals without it. This, she foresaw, could be a continuing source of unhappiness and discord. With this thought, she suddenly realized why they had been summoned here so soon before their journey, and what her Master planned to do; she saw the wisdom of it. As if he had been waiting for that subtle change in Iago’s posture, de Marisco spoke. “I begin a hazardous journey over the Pyrenees tomorrow, to begin a new life in a new land. I shall take with me only two 214

Isabel’s Heresy possessions that I treasure: you. Once there, I shall be a foreigner in a strange kingdom, in the service of a new liege; doubtless there will be pressing demands on my time. It is unavoidable that there will be instances when you shall have to rely on one another, otherwise friendless and alone as you shall be.” At this point in de Marisco’s speech, Isabel stole a glance at Iago; her face, however, remained an impassive mask. “Isabel,” he said, and, though he spoke it gently, she flinched at the sound of her name, “You are a slave of infinite worth. Though my ownership of you is more recent, you are in no manner less cherished or esteemed than Iago. Besides the qualities of devotion, loyalty, self-sacrifice, courage and obedience you share with her, your scholarship, sensitivity and resilience make you a slave of unique value — just as Iago’s martial skills, ruthlessness and physical strength are qualities that set her apart. It is therefore both unwise and unseemly for you either to fear or to worship Iago — these I claim from you exclusively. Do you understand?” “Yes, Master,” replied Isabel promptly. She did understand — but, as with Iago, understanding a thing was not the same as feeling the truth of it in one’s soul, and she tried to tell him so. De Marisco raised a silencing hand. “I knew that you would require a tangible demonstration. This is why you’re both here.” He turned to Iago. “Disrobe,” he ordered. Wordlessly, and as if she had been expecting just this instruction, Iago stood up and unbuckled her tunic, letting it fall to the floor. She hauled her shirt over her head, revealing broad shoulders and firm, moderately proportioned breasts. Her boots discarded, she pulled down her hose to expose in succession boyishly slender hips, an untrimmed mound of downy thatch, and long, muscular legs. Within seconds, she was standing naked before them, feet planted some distance apart, hands clasped behind her, eyes still cast downward, and her face tranquil. Already, Isabel was getting a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. This was not a situation to which she was at all accustomed — quite the opposite. She had never seen Iago naked, and felt humbled by her stature and thoroughbred elegance, despite the scars 215

Tadhg Ó Muiris that crisscrossed her pale skin — scars proudly displayed as marks of service to their Master. She felt inadequate and frumpy by comparison — not, she suspected, the lesson that he was trying to impart to her. De Marisco unknotted the sash around his waist and tossed it at Isabel, who fumblingly caught it. His robe fell open just sufficiently to hint at his own enthusiasm for the proceedings. “Bind her to the bedpost, hands behind her.” Iago stepped smartly to the bed, spun on her heel until her back faced the post nearest them, and extended her arms out behind her. Isabel began haltingly to tie Iago’s wrists, but was far from adept. Iago had to bite back an instruction to make it tighter; the order to do so came from de Marisco, and rather sharply. Isabel complied, and was rewarded by a grimace on Iago’s part. “Now bind her ankles.” Isabel was momentarily flustered, and turned to him with open palms. “You’ll find something,” he told her, not impatiently. She scanned the room urgently, anxious to obey, craving his approval and praise, despite the butterflies that drummed in her stomach. Of course — a cord of twisted satin hung mere inches from her, tying back the velvet bed curtain. She pulled it free, and crouched down to secure Iago’s ankles, already planted firmly on either side of the post. This time, she was scrupulous in her efforts to make the bindings tight and the knot secure. “Good,” he said. “Now face her.” Isabel got up, the vista of Iago’s naked helplessness passing across her vision throughout her ascent. There was something quite appealing about Iago with her arms pinioned behind her — something about the way the muscles in her shoulders bulged, and the way her breasts stood out so pertly. She stood inches from Iago, the bodice of her gown almost brushing Iago’s skin. The differences in their height compelled her to look up into those secretive eyes. They flashed back at her. “Iago is my slave, to do with as I will.” Isabel turned to her Master at the sound of his voice, but he 216

Isabel’s Heresy reminded her to continue facing Iago until he had instructed her otherwise. “It is my exclusive prerogative to subject her to the depths of cruelty, the heights of ecstasy, or both simultaneously. I can degrade or exalt her, humiliate or glorify her at my pleasure: that is my right and privilege as her owner. Mindful of my responsibilities, it is a power I exercise both with discretion and relish. It is a power I also wield over you, Isabel. Would you like to beat Iago, Isabel? Keep looking at her!” The question had put her off balance, and she once more found her gaze shooting involuntary in her Master’s direction. She forced herself once against to return Iago’s gaze, whose eyes had begun to glisten. “Since you ask it, Master, I will answer truthfully: no, I would not like to.” “Of course you wouldn’t. Nevertheless, you shall.” He rose from the chair, stooping to pick up a long, slender cane that lay on the floor next to it. He strode towards them, his robe flying open to render his appreciation of the situation unmistakably manifest. He stood beside both women, as close to them as Isabel stood to Iago, the apex of a triangle that now vibrated with tension. “You shall beat her as vigorously as I require, for as long as I require,” he said, pressing the cane into Isabel’s right hand and closing her fingers around it. “Do you understand?” Isabel gulped, her eyes locked on Iago’s, and nodded. Without preamble, he grasped Iago’s head by her short-cropped hair and pulled her face towards his, stretching her to him against the bonds with which she was secured to the bedpost. Iago could feel the warmth of his erection throbbing against her thigh. He looked deeply into her limpid eyes for a moment and she into his, her lips parting gently to reveal a hint of her sharp white teeth; her breathing was clearly audible. Then his mouth was pressed over hers, and she tasted once more the mysterious sweetness of his tongue, a taste of secrets shared and not shared, of dark places and cries; it was the kiss for which she had, one day, agreed to die. Her mouth folded against his and her tongue caressed his, curling against it in an 217

Tadhg Ó Muiris ophidian gavotte of pleasure and surrender. Just as suddenly, he pulled her away. Her lips hung frozen in thwarted passion, her nostrils flaring. She had become oblivious of Isabel. Isabel watched this exchange with no small degree of envy and arousal, wishing she were the recipient of her Master’s attentions — she would gladly have traded places with Iago, notwithstanding whatever torment awaited. The cane seemed ungainly in her hand: she felt uneasy holding it, as if it were an animal that might turn in her grip and bite. He returned to his seat, absently pulling the robe around him. Resuming his previous magisterial attitude, he curled his fingers gracefully around the ends of the chair’s carved arms. “Begin.” Isabel took a couple of steps back, unsure exactly what was required of her. Where should she strike? How hard? She made an awkward swipe at Iago’s bosom. The cane seemed to glance off to no effect at all, besides setting those lovely breasts to wobbling a bit. She glanced up again at Iago, but the latter’s face betrayed nothing. “Stand about a pace to her right,” he instructed quietly. “Grip the cane about a hand’s width from the end. Take a few practice swings with it up and down; get a feel for its weight and balance.” Isabel did as she was told, and winced at the whistling sound the rod made as she parted the air with it. “Good. Now strike Iago — across the belly.” Iago turned her head to look at her reluctant torturer. Isabel’s lips were pursed in concentration, and she stood shifting her weight from foot to foot. As she raised the cane, Iago faced forward once again, as if in readiness, but with no apparent increase in the tension of her body. Isabel brought the rod down on Iago’s belly with an audible crack, her eyes screwed shut all the while. Iago gasped, and her belly contracted in protest at the fiery red band that began to appear across her abdomen, passing neatly over her navel. She knew there was no need to suppress her cries — indeed, she knew her Master appreciated them, and she would gladly offer them up to him: but they were never bought cheaply, and had never heretofore been purchased on his behalf by an intermediary. 218

Isabel’s Heresy Isabel gasped, too, when she saw what her blow had wrought on Iago’s flesh; she could well imagine how it must feel, and her hands began to shake. She blinked back tears. “Good,” he said. “But keep your eyes open at all times, Isabel. I want you to watch what you’re doing. Continue.” Isabel nodded obediently, her face a study in both self-reproach and gritty resolve. She so wanted to please him, no matter how unpleasant the task he had assigned her. Inflicting pain, however, caused her great distress. She tried to steel herself, casting her mind back to her earliest encounters with Iago. How cruel she had been! She remembered Iago’s rapier, the beating, the humiliation of servicing her, that all awful episode in the dry well — times when she thought Iago meant to kill her, and was happy to have her think so — frightful memories whose author now stood before her, bound, stripped, and her flesh still burning from Isabel’s switch. Deep within her heart, a tiny ember of anger began to burn. She would beat her. She would repay her for the indignities, the cruelties, the times when she had been made to feel inadequate — an outsider. Isabel again brought the switch down on Iago’s belly, more savagely than before. Heedful of her Master’s instructions, she kept her eyes open, and watched with interest the new welt that now crossed the first in a squat “X” across Iago’s skin. This time, Iago did cry out as she writhed in her bonds, a film of perspiration glazing her muscles as her body tried in vain to double over in an involuntary, and futile, attempt at self-protection. Fighting back tears, she cast a glance in Isabel’s direction. Isabel felt an icy glow of pleasure when she saw what lay in those glistening eyes — fear. You’re not so scary now, are you? You’re just

a slave like me — to be used and abused at her sweet Master’s pleasure. And I am blessed to be his instrument today, you bitch.

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Chapter Twenty-Eight

T

he next blow descended on her breasts; Iago heard the hideous snap before she felt the fiery wave radiate from the twin points of impact just above her nipples, and tried to twist away from the source of that terrible pain. Panting with exertion, she threw another look over one streaming shoulder at Isabel, who stood with cane poised once again. She saw the grim satisfaction in her face, and knew precisely where the next blow would land. So be it. She turned her body to face her vengeful tormentor, and pointed her breasts defiantly in her direction. Through a tear-fogged haze, she held Isabel’s stare as if to say: this is what servitude means. In the next moment her nipples blossomed in a sickening explosion of agony. “Master!” she screamed, as her shimmering body convulsed against the bedpost. Sobbing, she bit her lip, regretting her outburst. She turned her head to face him wordlessly, her breasts twitching with sobs, the tears streaming down her flushed features. He watched her intently from his seat, the fingers of his hands touching in a steeple. I am not weak; I am strong, my Master. This I will endure for you, and more. She wanted to make him proud of her, to show how gladly she would suffer for him. Though she had endured far worse for his sake at the hands of others, and had even thought to perish for his sake, he had never been present during these travails. His very proximity lent an added sting, a frisson of poignancy to every bite of the switch: the warmth of his caresses, the comfort of his touch, so very near at hand, and yet denied her as she suffered Isabel’s tortures. She shut her eyes and howled again as the rod cut a swathe of misery across her lower abdomen, just above the point where coarse 220

Isabel’s Heresy thatch subsided into the downy floss of her belly. When next she opened her eyes, her Master was nowhere to be seen. He’s gone! I’m

to suffer alone! Isabel won’t stop unless she’s told to, and there is no one here to tell her. “Master!” she cried again, but his name became a strangled shriek in her throat as the cane slapped across her labia, sending her hips into convulsive spasms. Oh God! Please don’t leave

me! In her extremity, it was a few moments before she became aware of his arms snaking around her from behind, the heat of his hands on her breasts, and the silken promise of his lips brushing against her ear. Weeping with relief, she craned her neck and sought those lips with her own, desperate to find shelter from her torments in the warm, moist darkness of his kiss. He bathed his lips in the bitter sweetness of her tears; finally their mouths met, and as she worked her tongue hungrily against his, another blinding flash of flame streaked across her mound: her cry was muffled in the merciful mysteries of his mouth. So lost was she in the labyrinthine depths of his kiss that she barely registered that no further blows came: her body sang for him. *** As her Master kissed Iago, he raised an arresting hand toward Isabel; she let the cane, already poised over her right shoulder, drop to the floor. Watching the tenderness with which he soothed the quietly weeping Iago, and the eagerness with which she returned his affection, she felt the anger and spite draining away from her: in their place was left shame, regret and loneliness. She looked at the cruel marks she had made on Iago’s body with a mixture of pity and selfrecrimination, and felt as if she might cry herself. Her Master, his mouth still pressed on that of Iago, made a further gesture: with an index finger he pointed to the floor before Isabel’s feet, and then to Iago. Her heart welled with gratitude as she dropped to her knees before the captive and threw her arms around that sweat-glossed loveliness, heedless of soiling her fine gown. She found Iago’s crossed and bound hands with her own, and held them tenderly as 221

Tadhg Ó Muiris she rubbed her cheek against the angry welts on her sister’s belly, anointing them with her tears; she felt her hands squeezed in response. Her tongue traced the course of that squat “X” across Iago’s abdomen in two lavish swipes, before traversing the bushy patch towards her mons. She remembered how, when they first met, she had been compelled through fear and intimidation to do what she now did freely, and out of kindness. Whether she comforted Iago freely or not soon became a moot point, however, as strong, familiar hands grasped her wrists and wound the tag-ends of Iago’s bonds around them, cinching them tightly. A lascivious thrill coursed through her body; she was here for his pleasure, too. Bound kneeling as she was around Iago’s trembling frame, it was as if her Master had provided her with a living, sensate pillory of servitude, and she moistened instantly in response. She lapped eagerly at Iago’s clitoris, gratified by the coo-like sounds this elicited from her partner in captivity, and the no less eager undulations of her pelvis. Isabel momentarily froze, then scrupulously resumed her oral ministrations when she sensed him grasping the collar of her dress from behind, and heard the snick of the dagger slice through the topstitching, its point brushing the nape of her neck. A violent tearing sound accompanied the sudden sensation of release and coolness as her gown came asunder from collar to hem, falling away from her body in two folded wings that hung from her shoulders. She knelt with her back and buttocks exposed to her Master, flesh that she knew still bore the vivid marks of her blessed atonement. Would she now feel the bitter kiss of that cane, still warm from Iago’s affliction? Would she and her sister suffer together? Iago’s arousal seemed greatly enhanced by Isabel’s newly stripped and restrained condition: she was able to appreciate it all the more from her vantage point. She moaned throatily as she shoved her crotch against Isabel’s mouth, whose proximity was now fixed and unyielding by dint of her bonds. Far from objecting, Isabel rejoiced in her own helplessness, and replied with still more enthusiastic licking and sucking. Isabel’s body thrilled with anticipation when she felt her Master’s 222

Isabel’s Heresy arms sliding around her, felt the warmth of his naked thighs against her buttocks. She hadn’t even been aware of his undressing, so engrossed had she been in pleasuring Iago. Now he was down here with her, his hands playing over the plains and curves of her flesh, teasing her nipples to earnest solidity, raising goose-bumps on her belly with the merest brush of a fingernail, his lips and teeth setting the hollow of her neck aflame. Her own crotch slavered viscously for his touch, and she ground her body back against his in mute, hungry supplication. She fought to concentrate on Iago’s pleasure, tried not to let her panted gasps and sighs upset the flow of her attentions, as his hands moved downward — one making its crablike way along a belly that ached with desire for him to where her need burned brightest, the other insinuating itself from behind, along the curve of her inner thigh, around a trembling, bruised buttock, and into her impatient vagina. Oh, sweet Master. I am yours. In lazy rhythms he snaked his finger around her slithery kernel, pressing and rubbing alongside it in turn, as another finger slid back and forth inside her like some divine piston gliding on the velvet carpet of her desire. Her thighs trembled as power and control fled extraneous muscles and sinews, all her energy converging in a humming nexus at the points where he touched her. Though unaware of any pain, she hung by her wrists; what support her body now had was afforded by his strong forearms as he drove her closer and closer to frenzy. His strokes became shorter and more frequent, the tip of his finger finding a finely ribbed area behind her pubic bone whose ridges seemed to throb and rise with every touch. This had never happened before: her body began to seize in a convulsive shuddering as a fire-bloom of pleasure radiated outward from the core of her being. Oh, sweet Master! Her body heaved against its restraints with the implacable savagery of her climax, an overwhelming and subsuming power not to be denied: she felt lost in it. She was only dimly conscious of wailing her ecstasy against her sister’s slick arousal, and that Iago, too, was writhing with a fierce desperation around the bedpost and against Isabel’s face, crying out her Master’s name in her own explosive pleasure. For a few minutes she panted in her Master’s embrace, utterly 223

Tadhg Ó Muiris spent. Her cheek still rested against Iago’s belly, by whose shuddering vibrations Isabel surmised that she, absent the support afforded Isabel, remained erect only with difficulty. “Thank you, Master.” Isabel’s whisper was almost inaudible. Still cradling her body, he released the cord around her wrist one-handedly. Letting the ruins of her gown slip from her shoulders, he picked her up gingerly, conscious of the lingering tenderness that served as a reminder of her previous day’s chastisement. He laid her on the bed, gently disengaging from around his neck hands that loosened but with reluctance. There Isabel drowsed wistfully, wishing he still held her. Standing before the flushed Iago, he stooped to release her ankles before throwing his arms around her, pressing his body against hers. The warmth of his skin was magically soothing against the welts on her breasts and belly. She made to kiss him, and was rewarded by his lips’ smoldering caress. Her wrists were still deliciously bound, and she still delightfully at his mercy. A glorious moment of exultation swept over her when his hands came to rest on her shoulders and press downward. She flexed her legs with alacrity, descending the length of the bedpost. Her bound wrists, however, could slide no lower than the height of the mattress; as she came to rest on her knees, her arms remained raised behind her at a severe angle, forcing her to bow low in compensation. Kneeling before the delectably humbled Iago, he roughly clutched a fistful of her hair, and rubbed her cheek against the fiery throb of his erection. She opened her mouth wide and turned her head to and fro, greedy for his taste. He nevertheless maintained his unyielding grip on her hair, drawing the tip of his penis along the line of her jaw, across the bridge of her nose, around her eyes, and always tantalizingly out of reach of those lips so desperate to take him in. As her frustration grew, she extended her tongue and darted it urgently at the elusive shaft, hoping for the merest lick of him. “Please, Master! Let me serve you! I beg of you!” she whimpered, looking up at him with eyes misted with longing. He relented; she moaned in delight, as her mouth was free to explore her Master’s cock unhindered despite the thralldom of her 224

Isabel’s Heresy pinioned, naked and scourged body. Up and down its shaft she slurped, making appreciative noises as she reveled in the scent and taste of him. She flicked her tongue at the base of his scrotum, and observed with pleasure the way his penis reared up in response. “My Iago,” he murmured to her. She pursed her mouth against his tip, supping of the golden nectar that was the harbinger of her Master’s passion, enflaming his glans with delicate motions of tongue and lips until it blossomed wide, red and wrathful. Only then did she take it wholly into her, assuaging its crimson ire with the placating rhythms of her mouth. He growled his pleasure, and Iago could both feel and taste his approaching climax. She craved to swallow the spurting distillation of the pleasure she had provided her beloved Master. It was with difficulty, then, that she suppressed a cry of disappointment when he withdrew from her. As she smacked her lips, he unbound her wrists; gravity and her center of balance did the rest, and she fell into his waiting arms. He laid her on the bed next to Isabel. As Iago served their Master, Isabel, lolling in post-coital torpor, had watched dreamily through one eye. Now fully roused by the jostling of the mattress, she rose to a kneeling position to make way. He instructed Isabel to kneel in the middle of the bed, facing towards its foot, knees spaced well apart. Recovering the discarded cord and sash, he anchored each of her ankles to the headboard behind her. Binding her wrists together before her, he secured them in turn to the canopy over the footboard. As a result, Isabel hung forward awkwardly, with back bowed. Though her breathing was labored, she nevertheless wriggled in sensual surmise: she had no idea what her Master planned. He re-bound Iago’s wrists behind her, and told her to lie on her back, legs apart and flexed. He shifted her upwards until her mouth was directly below Isabel’s sex, and propped several pillows behind her neck, so that her head hung back, her throat throbbing in anticipation. In this way, her mouth was even closer to Isabel’s thatch, and her airways unimpeded. He regarded them for a moment thus, his two cherished slaves: Isabel, trussed and partially suspended, inclined forward in her restraints 225

Tadhg Ó Muiris towards him over the prone Iago, her striped breasts bobbling pendulously beneath her. Her eyes spoke to him wordlessly: I am yours. We are yours. Iago’s eyes, of course, were obscured by Isabel’s nether regions, but he could see her bound body quivering, awaiting his command, awaiting his touch. Kneeling between Iago’s legs, his fingers played over her body and probed deep within her, finding her still slick and warm from Isabel’s attentions. She moaned beneath Isabel and her body blossomed at his caress, her back flexing in amorous response to his every touch. Isabel, unable to bear the sight of Iago’s arousal while she herself hung in discomfort and neglect, tugged painfully against her bonds, aching to be near him. Her glance flitted back and forth from the lucky Iago to her Master’s face in increasing desperation. With a smile, he leaned forward and kissed her; her mouth frantically locked upon his, terrified of losing such precious contact. He disengaged his lips from her only long enough to instruct Iago to begin. Isabel sighed through her kiss as she felt Iago’s tongue gliding along her. Iago paused only once in her oral ministrations: this was to groan rapturously as her Master slid into her and began to grind against her in lazy, sumptuous rhythms. Thus it was that Isabel felt her body ignited both by the servitude of Iago beneath her and the sublime kiss of her Master, whose arms now embraced and supported her where only a few minutes ago she had languished so cruelly. All the while, Iago moaned and clenched ecstatically about his plunging member, too enflamed even to marvel at his logistical prowess. As his rhythm increased in frequency, so too did her lappings at Isabel, who imagined that they were somehow connected, and that Iago’s tongue was an extension of her Master’s penis, and bent to its will. Soon, all three found themselves borne helplessly on a white cataract of passion, swept away by its irresistible current into a torrent of groaning, snorting sensation, upon whose rocks Isabel was the first to joyfully dash herself. As she writhed in ecstasy over her dear Iago, already beginning to buck and judder in the throes of her own orgasm, she wept her joy to him, babbling tearfully into his rapt 226

Isabel’s Heresy features. No matter where tomorrow found them, in far-off lands and in dangers not thought of, tonight she was happy. “Oh God, oh my Master, I am yours!” *** The next morning, a brilliant sun sparkled on the snow that hung in white rags about the craggy peaks of the Pyrenees, a jagged chevalde-frise that stretched from west to east, standing between the three heavily cloaked travelers and their destination. The trio gingerly picked their way through the narrow and less-used mountain passes, errant hooves sending rivulets of scree rattling down the forbidding slopes. That brilliant sun would rise and set twice before they would finally see it glint off the rooftops of Saint-Palais, the capital. The journey afforded Isabel time to reflect on all that she had experienced in such a short time, how much her life had changed, and how uncertain it remained. She welcomed this uncertainty: she found it vastly preferable to the soulless and predictable existence that had once stretched before her with bleak inevitability. There was a time when she had accepted the triviality of a joyless life with the somnolent resignation of the defeated. She would face whatever future now awaited her with the courage and fortitude she had hitherto not known she possessed until her Master had revealed it to her — just one of the many gifts he had bestowed. Sheltering in the warmth of his stern devotion, she and her sister would serve him faithfully through whatever befell. She felt herself glow with the knowledge.

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About The Author Tadhg Ó Muiris is a Toronto-based writer whose work explores the darker themes of erotic domination and submission. He is also an accomplished harper and composer specializing in tunes in the traditional idiom and songs in the Irish language. The recipient of numerous Canada Council grants, he has twice placed in the top three at the Fleadh na hÉireann, the All-Ireland traditional music competition, in the “Newly Composed Song in Irish” category, the first non-Irish person to do so. Isabel’s Heresy is his first full-length novel.

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