Prologue
Prologue
Twas a cold night in the small village of Ackerby. The autumn air carried with it a winter nip, the leaves twirling down from their thin skeletal branches. The sound of horses nickering in their stables, hooves thumping across cobblestone streets and gravel walks. Laughter and the sound of wooden cups clashing together, ale spilling out to the floor signalled the merriment of a well fought battle on behalf of the King of England.
The brothel was the main attraction of this tiny town, visited from far and wide, from across the country to across the realms. The exterior was nothing special, made of oak planks and insulated with mud and stone, lanterns hanging outside the large main entrance. Inside, colorful tapestries of pure human debauchery hung across the walls to further warm the drafty place.
Upon a stage sat a merry band of men, strumming their harps, playing their lutes, beating on their drums, pipes and hurdy-gurdies. The song was cheerful, full of play and joy, celebrating the warriors who danced with the women of the brothel. Skirts flared, bodices squeezed breasts out through the tops, red lips flashing wide with laughter. Men spun them round and round, hoisted them into their laps, slipped shiny silver coins into their cleavage, drunkenly giggling and lapping up any ale spilt upon their prizes.
Behind the stage, hidden behind a thick red tapestry with images of lions fighting, was a small petite child. Hair the color of the nighttime sky, falling in luscious thick waves over slender pale shoulders. Eyes like the fresh fertile soil of the earth. Lips painted a soft innocent pink. Cheeks dusted with rosy powder. Doning the slender slim figure was a ruffled green gown, embroidered with rich gold thread that surely no mere tavern child would wear. Ribbons of gold doned thin wrists, tied about a lean throat into a neat little bow that settled upon an exposed shoulder.
“What a crowd tonight,” came a woman’s whisper in the darkness. Dark eyes swung around and locked on the elder woman, the madame of the establishment. Far too old to be servicing herself, but young enough to appear beautiful, her thick rolling blonde waves fell over her exposed shoulders, her ruffled top hanging low and having more than just a peek at a pair of voluptuous breasts.
“You will put on a good show tonight, will you not, my sweet little Mary?” The madame asked with a smile, standing over the child, who gazed up at her. The madame remembered a time those eyes turned to her with unsteady fear, hopelessness. But over the past year, those eyes were… dead. They were empty of joy, of wonder, but also fear, of misery. They were simply the eyes of a well-kempt doll.
“Mary?” She asked testily. The child curtsied low to the floor, then rose, lowering the heavy gown to the floor.
“Yes, madame,” came the soft response. Indistinguishable as male or female, just as the madame had trained the child to do. She felt a sliver of excitement at having all of her hard work pay off with this one child in particular. The night that piece of trash came to her doorstep and offered up a child as payment, she’d nearly called the priest to come and exorcise the devil worshipper. Only to find that this child, this gift she had received, was her highest profitable product.
In more ways than one.
The sound of men whooping and hollering for more, slamming their cups filled with ale on the wooden tables, boots stomping on the floor. The madame took a deep breath, then turned to her greatest gift yet, placing a finger beneath that chin, lifting that sweet angelic face toward hers.
“Should you earn an encore, I shall ensure that you sleep well tonight, my little Mary, aye?” She asked. The child said nothing, simply stared. The madame smiled, rose to her full height that towered over the fragile creature at her feet. She gave the child a nudge in the back and the child turned to the curtains that were yanked apart by the brothel muscle.
Sharp intakes of breath from not only the men of the brothel, but their partners, even the whores who worked there themselves. All eyes drew to the stage as the child came forth and took the spotlight. The band scooted apart, setting themselves into the shadows, before a harp began to pluck steadily, followed by the gentle hum of a flute. The child studied the space beyond the stage, studied the faces of men well recognized, whores well recognized, new men, old men, young men, fighters and butchers, smiths and law men.
Beneath this roof, they were all the same. The shillings in their pockets meant nothing. The number of ale cups upon their tables meant nothing. Their occupations meant nothing, their wives meant nothing, their children naught, nor even the farms. For once they passed through the entrance, they were all villains.
Villains who came together every morning in church, clasped their hands in prayer and begged a wrathful God to give them entrance to a holy place meant for the true believers, the true saints. Villains who smiled as they passed one another on the street, who passed out candy and toys to the children.
Pink lips parted and the sound of heaven poured into the room. Cups of ale hit the tables, hands fell away from bosoms and buttocks, mouths fell open in awe, not a single eye was dry. The bird’s song rang soft and true, silencing even the horses in the stables, the patrons upon the streets yonder. The trill of a ballad so soft and sweet, the low moan of a hymn, the powerful howl of a war song.
As the bird’s melody came to a repose, the silence in the brothel allowed the sound of the wind outside, pushing gently on the creating wooden planks, to be the only sound heard. Nary a moment passed and the men roared with felicity so great, they rose to their feet and threw their drinks into the air.
“More! More! More!” The chant rose high and loud, vibrating the rafters of the brothel. The whores frowned amongst themselves, arms folding over their chests, eyes pointed irately at the tiny figure on the stage, who curtsied deeply before rising once more. As the child rose, the men fell back into their seats, having moved forward with anticipation as the band began to play once more… and the child parted soft pink lips to sing.
Fed up with the lack of attention, the whores retreated to the space behind the stage, where the madame watched through the tapestries with pure adoration and pride, her fists twisting in the curtains.
“Madame,” a harlot spoke, though her owner and did not even turn from the stage to address her, “Surely tis unfair to our clientele that the boy sings into the wee hours--” Her complaint was cut short as the madame whipped about with a speed not appropriate for her age, and latched onto the whore’s throat with similar strength. The harlot choked and reached for her throat, and her fellow workers recoiled in fear.
“She,” the madame sneered in the whore’s face, her eyes flashing from blue to insidious green, then back again, “She was requested tonight after an encore. Should you ever dare refer to her incorrectly again, and so publicly, I will have you flogged, do you hear me, you worthless harlot?” The worker nodded timidly and gasped when she was released, stumbling back against the others, who gathered her close and trembled in the wrath of their madame, who straightened and adjusted her dress.
“Now go to your rooms. I shall send a man to each of your rooms, whomever I wish,” she tacked on, as if it was a punishment. The women curtsied quickly before scampering off. The madame watched them go and tuned as the final performance ended.
The child on stage curtsied before retreating behind the curtain, leaving behind cheering and merry men. The madame smiled, taking the child into her arms to hold her close, giving the angel a tender kiss upon the head.
“You have done so well,” she crooned, “Now, go forth to your quarters. Your first client of the night is waiting.” The child curtsied once more before heading for the stairs. Upon reaching the hall to the other rooms, the child paused as each doorway was filled with a very angry, very jealous female. The child’s blank dark eyes slid from side to side, scanning each glare, each scowl, each curl of the lip. Small slippered feet started down the hallway.
“Whore,” one of the harlots sneered.
“Monster,” another hissed, slamming the door shut behind her.
“Cunt!”
“Strumpet!”
“Lady boy!”
Spit landed on the floor at the child’s feet and those dark eyes paused for a moment on that glob of saliva, then slid up to the redheaded wench who’d hacked it. Curled lip, narrowed blue eyes, and a hand that lifted in a threat. The child didn’t flinch, simply stared. The redhead glared.
“Devil child!” She spat, then swung around and disappeared into her room. The last of the whores receded into their chambers. The child stood there alone in the hall, staring at the foamy mess on the floor before stepping over and continuing to the last room in the hall to the right. The child opened the door, the heavy wooden barrier swinging open to reveal a large heavy man sitting on the bed, only to pop up when he spotted the child.
His eyes became hungry, his lips parted and his cheeks flushed as he beckoned with greedy hands for the child to come forth. The child stared at him blankly, then stepped in and shut the door behind him.
