Free The Witch from the Sea by Philippa Carr Page A

cruel trick of fate to have been delivered into his hands. He had said that I would remember. Did I? Could I recall strange sensations which frightened me and fascinated me … as he himself did.
    I dressed hastily, anxious to cover up those bruises.
    One of the women servants came in with a tankard of ale and a piece of cob loaf and meat. I could not eat but I did drink a little.
    Out in the courtyard my horse was saddled. So was his. He looked fresh and vital.
    He himself helped me into the saddle. He took my hand and looked up into my face, as though he were pleading with me, yet I saw the mockery there.
    He said: “We have a long ride ahead of us, Mistress.”
    “I wish to go with all speed.”
    We did not speak as we rode along and took the road along the coast.
    “It is some fifteen miles,” he said. “You see we are not such distant neighbours.”
    “More’s the pity,” I retorted.
    My mother was safe. I believed that and because I need not fret about her I could think of the enormity of this thing which had happened to me.
    I was not the first who had had such an experience. Many men such as he was did not bother to drug their victims first. At least I had been spared consciousness. Whatever he might say, I could not remember what had happened. There were only those vague uneasy stirrings of sensation within me … only the knowledge that I had changed.
    The day was bright and sparkling. The wrong sort of day for my mood. It should have been grey, sombre. He broke into song once or twice—they were hunting songs. It was as though he were so pleased with life and himself that he could not suppress his pleasure.
    I said nothing except when he spoke to me and then I replied as curtly as I could.
    When we had ridden some miles he said our horses should be refreshed and so should we be.
    We found an inn and stopped there. He rode into the yard in his bombastic manner which, however, brought him immediate attention. Then while the horses were being looked after we went into the inn parlour, where ale and great pies were set before us.
    We were alone in the inn parlour, a fact which did not please me. I would rather someone had been there so that I did not have to talk to him.
    “Do not be so downcast,” he said. “A girl should not mourn the loss of her virginity. It’s not all that precious, you know. It is only those who fear they are never going to lose it who have such a high regard for it.”
    I was silent.
    “You are foolish, my girl. I will not call you by that ridiculous name.”
    “I am no girl of yours.”
    “But indeed you are my mistress. You know that.”
    I rose to my feet and lifted my hand to strike him. He caught it.
    “Steady,” he said. “We do not want to make a noise, do we? What if mine host came in? What should I say? She shared my bed last night and now regrets it.”
    “You lie.”
    “It is you who lie. I speak the truth. I’ll say more. I have a fancy for you … a fair fancy. I’ll marry you.”
    “I would never marry you.”
    “You might find it right to do so.”
    “Right to marry you!”
    “’Twas such a night,” he said, staring into his ale, “a rare night. What if you should be with child?”
    I stared at him. “It is not possible.”
    “We shall see. ’Twould not surprise me. I’d say you were a lusty wench. You’ll breed … you and I together. I’d swear that we had started already.”
    “No,” I cried shrilly. “No. Let us go now. I cannot endure any more of your company.”
    “Then we shall go. I will take you back to your father’s house.”
    “The sooner I am rid of you the better.”
    As he went out he said: “Do not hesitate too long. Who knows, I might find someone else to my taste. I am ready for a wife and I am not known for my patience.”
    “I shall commiserate with her when the time comes.”
    He laughed. “Let us hope it is yourself. Commiserating with oneself is a more frequent habit than with others. My little bird. Pah! Linnet!