HF - 04 - Black Dawn (39 page)

So why did he not? What more could he seek from her? He had explored every pore of her body, kissed every strand of hair. He had sated, on that utterly white delight, every dream he had ever had of woman, every desire he had ever experienced. For was she not his slave? Oh, indeed, she was his slave, and no man could ask for a more servile bedmate. She lay absolutely still, whenever he would mount her. She said not a word, until he was done, then she would quietly and coolly remove herself from beneath him, and standing by the bed, ask, 'Shall I fetch the monster's wine?'

She served him at table, allowing her hair to brush his cheek as she placed each plate in front of him. 'Pork today, monster. Sweet-tasting, succulent pork, such as any white nigger would appreciate.'

So, did she despair, did she weep, in what privacy she was allowed? As now, when he was on a tour of inspection, and she was left alone in their quarters? He invariably hurried back, still dominated by the lurking terror that one morning he would find her hanging from the rafters, as he still always left one of his servants with her, to prevent such a catastrophe. And did he still hurry back just to hear the lash of her tongue? Because she could only tongue-lash him when she could see him, which meant that he could also see her, could lean back and look at every magnificent movement, every flutter of that glorious hair, every twist of that exquisite mouth.

So perhaps she also felt frustrated, at his continuing love.

'And will the fortress stand forever?'

He turned, sharply, was enveloped in the gust of scent from the blood-red robe.

'You'll excuse me,' he said.

'No,' Gislane said. 'I will not
excuse you, General Warner.

Richard Hilton. Why do you avoid me?'

'I have my duty. The Emperor entrusted this fortress to my care. I would not fail him.'

'Nor will you, while you retain your strength, Dick. But how will your strength stand up to such continual torment?'

'You are a creature of blood, priestess. You would no doubt have me cut her throat.'

'Would that not be a waste? You act as if you love the girl.'

'What can you know of
...
of love?'

Gislane smiled. 'You were going to say, of white love? Until I was eighteen I thought I was white, Dick. And I loved. I loved your father. I was prepared to give up all for him. And I stayed in love with him, dreaming of him, for a long time after I was returned to the West Indies. It was only when I understood that he would never come for me, that I sought other loves.'

'And you can forgive my family. Well, then, Gislane, you have strength, power, beyond ordinary understanding. Cartarette blames me for the death of her father as much as anything else.'

'For a thoughtful man, you do not think enough. Your woman knows you did not kill her father. She knows that you tried to save him, and certainly that you saved her.'

'But. . .'

'But this is the fact that is unacceptable to her. She knows she should have died, with her father. She reproaches herself, for having lived, for having lacked the courage to take her own life. Yet a human being cannot live, hating himself, or herself. So she takes out her hate on you. But it is herself that she is hating.'

'Aye, well, no doubt you are right,' Dick said. 'But whatever her reasoning, she practises her hate continuously.' 'And you keep assisting her.' 'Eh?'

'By practising rape upon her, daily.'

'I love her. I cannot see her but I wish to take her in my arms.'

'And you see no reason to practise restraint. You see no reason to treat her as a woman, perhaps, instead of a slave.'

Dick frowned at her. 'She will merely insult me more.'

'I doubt that, Dick. I doubt that. Listen to me. I can give you her love.'

'By witchcraft?'

'As I gave you your strength, your power, your ability, with sword and pistol? Was that witchcraft, Dick? Or was that just a cutting away of fear and inhibition, a removal of dead wood, to expose the strength I knew lay beneath? I can strip this girl of her hate for you, and replace it with love. But you will have to help me.'

'Of course I would help you, could I believe it possible.' 'Because of the crimes you have practised on her it will take a longtime.'

'I have nothing but time,' Dick pointed out.

'And when it is done,' Gislane said, 'it is done. You must understand that, Dick. When she loves you, she will love you, now and always. And if I do this thing for you, you must swear to me that you will love her, now and always. I do not speak of physical love. I know the frailty of the flesh. I speak of your care for her, of your respect for her, of your admiration for her, of your determination to place her before all else. You must swear that to me.'

'Before life itself.'

'Before life itself,' Gislane said. 'Be sure that Cartarette will make herself the same promise.'

La Chat opened the leather satchel. 'His Majesty is presently in Sans Souci, and sends you this, General.'

The envelope was sealed. Dick tore the edge, took out the single sheet of paper; writing was an accomplishment Christophe had learned late in life, and he did not waste words.

'I long to be with y
ou, Matt. My spirit is weary. Pe
tion ails, it is said. His armies retreat. But my people murmur. A man fired a musket at me, but a week gone. He was hanged. They do not worship me, any more, Matt. I long to be with you.'

There was no signature. Dick folded the paper, placed it in his pocket. 'You saw him?' 'To receive that message, General.' 'And he is wel
l?'

La Chat hesitated. 'Perhaps he has been too long at war, General.'

'Aye. Well, rest yourself, La Chat.' He went into his house, sheltering beneath the east battlements, and the girls who waited on him bowed their greeting. Cartarette d'Estaing stood in the inner doorway.

'The monster will have his luncheon,' she said. But her voice lacked the brittleness of a year ago, even three months ago. She was a sorely puzzled young woman. Perhaps she had forgotten what it was like to have her own bed, her own chamber, to be allowed the pleasures of solitude. But if she was puzzled, and disturbed, would she not hate him more? Only Gislane knew the answer to that.

'Yes,' he said. 'You may join me, today, Cartarette.'

'I, monster?'

He had reached her by now, and she stepped aside to allow him in. He could smell her, he could almost touch her, without moving his arm. Had she the slightest inkling of what it had cost him, in determined self-discipline, not to touch her for three months?

'You, Cartarette.' He handed his hat to one girl, his sword to another, his gloves to a third, sat at the table. A fourth girl hastily poured him wine, a fifth held the chair for Cartarette, and she lowered herself, slowly, uncertainly. 'And you will take a glass of wine.' Because Gislane had ordered it. Only Gislane could know.

She drank, again hesitantly. And then ate, as they were served. A special meal, today, of oysters, brought up from the coast, packed in ice. At Gislane's command. And of mixed fruits, soursop and golden apples and sappodillas, at the end. What Gislane desired, she simply commanded. As what General Warner commanded, he received. Was he not the closest associate, the right hand man, of the Emperor himself.

'Finish your wine,' he said.

'Whatever the white nigger commands, his slave obeys,' she said, and drained her glass. But the venom remained absent from her voice.

He rose, held her chair for her.

'Are we leaving this prison?' she inquired.

‘
We are going on a visit,' he said. 'But within the walls.'

She allowed him to escort her to the door. It remained early afternoon, and the sun was hot; the breeze had died, and the only sound was the tramp of the sentries on the battlements. He gave her a wide-brimmed straw hat, and she settled it over her hair. He placed his cocked hat on his own head, opened the door for her.

She hesitated, blinking at the sunlight, glancing at him, before stepping into the heat. He walked at her elbow, across the huge courtyard, to the curtained door on the far side. And again she hesitated.

'This is the house of the
mamaloi.'

'Who is also my friend.'

'Voodooism is unspeakable,' Cartarette declared. 'Enter,' he commanded.

She pushed the curtain aside, and he realized she had forgotten to taunt him with her obedience to either the white nigger or the monster.

A girl opened the inner curtain for them. Cartarette glanced at Dick. 'She expects us.'

'A priestess of Voodoo knows all things,' he said, enjoying his own humour.

Cartarette stepped into the gloom beyond, paused to inhale, the incense, the scent that always filled this room, to stare at Gislane, seated in her armchair.

'Welcome, mademoiselle,' Gislane said. 'I have long waited for you to visit me.'

'I am not visiting you,' Cartarette said. 'I was brought here by my monster.'

Gislane smiled, and stood up. 'It is still a visit, and you are welcome. Come.'

Yet another curtain, behind the chair, was swept aside, and they followed her into another chamber. Here it was utterly dark, save for the inevitable fire glowing in the centre of the floor, doubling the heat. Dick felt sweat trickling down his face. And he only suspected what was about to happen.

Gislane stooped, a taper in her hand. When it glowed, she straightened, handed it to Dick. 'Light the candles,' she commanded.

He would see them now, set around the wall. He left Car-tarette's side, lit each wick in turn. The room glowed, and the candles were scented. He could hear Cartarette breathing. Perhaps she had also supposed this to be a bedchamber. But it was not. It was a love chamber. In the centre of the far wall there was a mattress, laid on the wooden floor, reaching almost as far as the fire. In the wall, above the mattress, were two rings, to which were attached buckskin thongs. At the foot of the mattress, beyond each corner, were two stakes, to which also were attached buckskin thongs.

Cartarette gave a gasp, and turned. But Gislane had remained behind her.

'You practise witchcraft,' Cartarette whispered.

'In this case, white magic, mademoiselle,' Gislane said. 'Undress.'

'I will not.'

'Then will you be stripped.' Gislane stretched out her hand, stroked the material of Cartarette's collar. 'It will be a pity, to destroy a beautiful garment. And you will be humiliated. We may need to call others. Undress, Cartarette. Then your secret will belong to this room alone.'

Her voice seeped around the chamber.

'My secret?'

'You will have a secret, Cartarette. I promise you. What, are you ashamed, to be naked before your master, who is also your lover? Before me? I am an old woman, Cartarette. I have seen many naked women, many naked men. Many more beautiful even than you.'

Her quiet voice filled the chamber, yet seemed to echo. It made thought difficult, when combined with the heat, and the incense. Cartarette's fingers were already at the buttons of her bodice.

‘I
will not be bewitched,' she insisted.

'I do not seek to bewitch you, child. I seek to help you. To release you from your prison.'

'My prison?' Cartarette's gown slid past her thighs, and to the ground. She wore no stays, here in the informality of La Ferriere. A moment later her shift joined her gown. She wore no stockings, either, in the warmth of this climate. Only slippers.

'The prison of your mind. Lie down.'

Cartarette hesitated, glanced at Dick, and for the first time that he could remember in their acquaintanceship, flushed with embarrassment. Or was it only the firelight, flickering in her checks? She lay down.

'Arms above head,' Gislane said, reassuringly, and secured the girl's wrists.

'If you wish me no harm, madame, why bind me?'

Gislane smiled at her. 'To keep you from harm, child.' She secured each ankle in turn, leaving the girl spreadeagled on the mattress. Then she rose, slowly, with the faintest rustle of material. 'You must also undress, Dick, and stand at the foot of the bed,' she said. 'Your woman must gaze upon you, throughout the ceremony.'

Dick obeyed; the heat of the fire scorched his back, made his blood run the more quickly. But no doubt this was as Gislane intended.

Gislane removed her own gown; she wore nothing underneath. It was several years since she had taken him to her bed, made him over in the image she sought, and now she knew she must be past sixty. Yet these firm muscles, these long, slender legs, could still reawaken all his manhood.