The Price of Hannah Blake (3 page)

Hannah tried to discern the woman’s face. There was little light. She began gingerly, as though on tiptoe, “Cara…”

“Yes?”

“Why is this happening to me? Can you tell me?”

The shrouded head moved back and forth?

Hannah knew little of the world—nothing, really. What could she have done? Some violation, some defiance of power? She asked, “Am I taken to prison?”

“You will know nothing until we arrive. All that you learn, you will discover for yourself.”

It was a long declaration for the raven. Hannah was encouraged. She ventured, “Cara, do you not understand what you are doing to me? My little ones, my mother?” And she added, “Can I escape?”

“If you escape, I will be punished, punished severely.”

Again, the raven was silent, and Hannah’s mind explored what terrible thing might be in store for her—and yet there was a place her mind would not go. Again, she grasped for some alternative. “Cara, do you mean you would be punished in prison?”

The words came from Cara like the snaps of a whip. “I would be stripped naked. I would be hung by my arms, with no shred to cover me. I would be flogged with the cat—20, 30, 50 times. Who knows? If those who whipped me still found my body desirable, I would be violated, over and over. And whipped again.”

And Hannah’s mind no long could veer away from that forbidden thought. She was a woman desired by men. Desired in ways she could not imagine, except that it meant sin, the forbidden things. She said, her voice breaking, “Then I am to be used by men?”

“As I was once, a girl like you,” said Cara. “Catholic, a girl of the Church of Rome. A novice of the blessed sisters of the Virgin.”

Hannah whispered, “A sister of the Church?”

“Yes.” It was said tonelessly.

Hannah forced herself to say, “And there is no escape, even in death?”

“None,” said Cara. And all at once, Hannah was exhausted, so overcome that the only luxury seemed sleep. She said, “I must sleep, now.”

Cara’s voice became soft, even tender. “That is best,” she said. “There is escape in sleep, unless you hang from the triangle. Then, there is no sleep—only the pain.”

Hannah carefully rolled to her side, lifting her legs and hips onto the wide seat that smelled of leather. How wonderful it felt. A little smile came to her lips. She still had a choice, a remnant of control. “I will sleep, now,” she announced.

When Hannah did not return that day, a search was made or, rather, a young fellow from the village set off on the road to Torridge. For several days, much was made of her disappearance. Such disappearances were unusual, in Devon, though in London they were a fact of daily life. For Hannah’s mother, it was agony. Tell the constable of the two men, the brazen offer—and let all the countryside know that her daughter, her beautiful daughter, had been seized for a brothel? To what purpose? She must be in London, and no one could hope to do anything in that citadel of unimaginable power. What happened there might as well be in Heaven—or Hell.

She couldn’t weep anymore. She sat on the edge of the bed, an unimaginable four-poster of fine dark wood, with sheets—oh the satin sheets! She could look out the window through glass as clear as air to the garden, the woods, and, far beyond the high wall, the sea. She never had seen it; her daddy had said he would take her to Portsmouth, but then he was gone. Now, she saw tiny ships, like pictures in books, distant on the water.

When they had left her and shut the door, she had rushed to it. It was locked, immoveable. Another exit here? A closet. She paused, staring. There were more garments, and such garments: raiment of a princess, more than she had seen in all her life. In spite of herself, she reached out. Some silk, it seemed, taffeta. A dozen pairs of shoes and boots; she stooped to touch them—leather. Here was a fortune her whole village could not afford. It terrified her. She closed the door as on a grinning, dangling skeleton.

And on the table: brushes, hair nets, powders, and bottles of cut glass. Dishes of wax, silver scissors. All of it reflected in a great mirror. In all her life, she and her mother had only slivers of mirrors, chipped, darkened. This mirror was almost at tall as she was. She stood before it, but did not see a tall, slender, beautiful young woman. She saw a soiled, tear-stained, shrinking little girl with wild hair. She looked at the girl, delivered to evil. What power could have created this wealth—and why should it be here, for her? She reached out and picked up a silver brush and drew it through her hair. Then, she began to weep, again.

Finally, it was dark. She saw lights on the walls, gaslights such as were in the finest pub in her village. She didn’t know how to light them. Instead, she threw herself, totally dressed, onto the vast bed, exhausted. She did not wake when the moon rose in the window, the moon over the sea, and lighted her face. It was a young, innocent, and peaceful face, beautiful in serene composure. The heavy door cracked open and a face peered in, a woman’s face, expressionless. For a few moments it gazed at the bed, waiting to adjust to the light. Then, the head nodded and the door closed noiselessly.

Harsh sunlight was on her face; she squinted. Gradually, the room came into focus; the dream had not gone away. It was a huge, dark-paneled room, something she might have imagined in a grand manor, a palace. And then, she realized what had wakened her, sat up with a cry, and turned to the door. It was Cara, the dark cloak and hood gone. Instead, the face with the black eyes and red lips was framed in long, dark hair—a Spanish face out of a book, except that it was there, in the doorway of this palace of evil imagination, and it said, “They will see you.”

Hannah rolled to sit on the edge of the bed. Then, she slipped to the floor and followed her. First, Cara led her to a place she could relieve herself; she had not realized how desperately she needed to do so. “Two minutes,” Cara announced. “They will not wait.” Nor did Cara move, or look away, as Hannah did what she must.

Then, down a stairway, along a corridor—a larger building than Hannah ever had entered. She struggled to comprehend. The castle of a dark prince as in tales she had read. And she would be ruined—have no life, no future, no husband, no children. But why Hannah? She was desirable; men wanted something; and now they would take it.

Around a corner, they came to a large, high-ceiled hall filled with long tables. Seated at them, or swarming around them, were young men and women. They all talked at once, or shouted, or sat eating. Some laughed or called out. They were dressed the same—in white, a loose-fitting blouse and pants. Most of the girls had long hair, pulled back and tied. Hannah had halted, but Cara’s hand was on her back, pushing her forward.

“Eat,” said Cara, pushing her. “Twenty minutes. They will not wait.” She raised an arm, pointing: “Food is there. Whatever you want, as much.”

Hannah approached as though mesmerized. On the table was bread—but what bread! And cheese, more cheese and more kinds than she ever saw. And meat. It didn’t look like pork, but she could not be sure. But eggs, she recognized, except there were piles of them that a hundred hens could not lay in a week. What must she pay for this? Ruin. But she realized she had not eaten in almost 24 hours; she shook with hunger at the smells. Even cakes, jam, honey, butter, milk…

“Go,” said Cara, pushing her. “Take what you want.” But Hannah was looking at the others. Beautiful! All beautiful! Like gods and goddesses. Tall, handsome, with perfect skin, luxurious hair. They moved gracefully, lightly.

“Take the food,” said Cara behind her, and Hannah picked up a plate. China, she thought; she never had touched it, but she had heard of it. What if she dropped it? She reached out and took bread, even jam—but not very much. “Take all you want,” said Cara, behind her.

Hannah reached for the hill of eggs. She turned to Cara, questioning. “As much as you want. Anything.”

Hannah put a small serving on her sparking white plate. “You must hurry, they won’t wait.” Then Cara took the plate from here; she moved quickly, piling on bacon, more eggs, some kind of fruit in thick syrup, jam, butter. Hannah reached out for the plate, but Cara held it. She pushed Hannah toward a chair at a deserted table. “Sit and eat.”

She sat, lifted a forkful of egg—but a silver fork! She looked up at the others at nearby tables. Now, they began to notice her, too. Quickly, by jabs, whispers, and gestures the word rippled along the tables till many were staring at her. It made her long to fold her arms over her chest. Instead, she ate, quickly, greedily; she had never tasted such food.

A boy as alluring as a painting in a chapel was staring at her. Hannah looked down at her food, but, when she glanced up, again, he still stared. He was more handsome, and bolder, than any man she ever encountered. She grew angry, then alarmed. His wide brown eyes were arrogant, possessive, insufferable. Hannah looked elsewhere, but there were girls who had ceased eating and gazed at her. They looked at her in a way that terrified her. They were goddesses, with long hair, perfect skin—and they had no modesty, none at all. For a moment, she felt like a rabbit, a very small rabbit, among snakes.

Cara returned. Another large, silver plate with rolls and cakes, berries and cream, from the windows of bakeries Hannah never ventured to enter. All on silver, like candelabra in church, silver from which to eat! The wonderful smells made her stomach churn with fear. She passed her hand across her forehead.

“Eat,” said Cara, a touch more gently. “You don’t look well. This is not what will hurt you.” Hannah tried: bit, chewed, swallowed. She risked at glance at the others, now eating lustily. Cara had not eaten. Hannah selected a bun, the nicest, and held it out to her. “You eat, too.” She smiled. “I am not permitted. More will be waiting for me, but not food like this.”

A bell (a church bell?) chimed three times right in the building, almost overhead. Hannah started. The others hastily rose, crowding toward the exit. Hannah started to rise, too, but Cara said, “Not today. Finish, today.”

Hannah couldn’t resist. “Where are they going?” Cara shook her head and jabbed toward Hannah’s plate.

“Why am I here?” Cara was silent.

Hannah forced down the food, dry in her mouth. Cara handed her a glass of milk—enough for her whole family for two days. She never had a better meal or a worse one. Finally, she gave up, setting down the silver fork. “Come, then,” said Cara. It was less a command than a sad beckoning.

Down corridors, across courtyards with flowers and fountains, up to a dark-paneled door, and suddenly Hannah remembered: “They will see you…” and panic sat in the pit of her stomach. Cara knocked lightly and someone inside seemed to reply. The door opened and standing there was a woman in a skin-tight, unimaginably lascivious black garment. The woman stepped back, now, and pulled the door wider. Cara’s hand was on Hannah’s back. If only Cara would come with her! Cara was real, human—from the other world, world gone.

The woman in the skin that clung to her breasts and hips, and even hinted the fold at the base of her belly’s triangle, jerked her head to indicate Hannah should enter. Hannah quickly turned her head; Cara had disappeared. Hannah had an impulse to flee. The woman before her with long, luxurious hair, a steady gaze, seemed to read her mind. She took Hannah’s arm—not roughly but firmly—and drew her into the room.

Hannah saw another woman who sat in a massive chair upholstered in red. She wore not the tight, black skin, but a richly ruffled cream-colored gown; it hugged her bosom, lifting and pushing together her breasts. The room was unfurnished but for the chair and the walls and ceilings were mirrored, such mirrors as Hannah never imagined. “This is the one,” said the woman in the skin, still holding Hannah’s arm.

Hannah began to resist the steady tugging on her arm. “Why am I here?” she demanded, trying to keep her voice steady. “I am English. I have committed no offense.” What else to say? “I was seized yesterday by ruffians on the highway as I walked home from the marketplace…”

“We will see you, now,” said the woman in the red chair. See her? Do not admit to your mind the unimaginable thought. “Yes,” said Hannah. She stood before them, arms at her sides. “Strip her—does she not understand or does she pretend not to understand?” asked the woman in the red chair.

The woman in the skin turned to Hannah. “You must remove all your clothing, so we can see you.”

“Lucile,” called the woman holding Hannah. She barely had raised her voice, but a door opened in the wall where none seemed to be and another woman entered. She wore the same black skin that hugged the breasts, hips, and even the notched bottom of the “V” made by her belly and thighs. The woman moved with the grace of a dancer—or a stalking cat—and in a moment was beside Hannah.

The woman seated in the red chair said, “You must disrobe entirely, or we will strip you.”

“No!” cried Hannah. “Never! I will not!”

The women on each side of her seized her arms. Quick fingers were at the rude buttons of her woolen shift. She tried to grab the hands to tear them away, but the other hands held her arms. She twisted her body, crying out, but now hands were dragging down her shift. Once over her hips, it slid to the floor. She twisted in a frenzy: “No!” She began to plead: “No, please!”

The fingers had her chemise and she felt the material drag her breasts upward, roughly, and then her vision was blocked as the chemise rose over face. She felt her breasts flop back and knew they were naked. “No!” It was a long wail.