Blood, Wine, and Roses Read online

  Blood and Wine and Roses

  UÄÉÉw tÇw j|Çx

  tÇw eÉáxá

  The thorn has pierced my finger, pierced my skin. Blood wells up, a

  bead of life that rises and gleams in the moonlight. Black. It reflects the slit

  of a dying moon.

  The roses are all about me. Their velvet blooms are damask, Bourbon,

  musk, they swell like the breasts of harlots and their scent is sweet as sin.

  A crystal goblet holds blood-red wine, drained of its color by moon and

  stars.

  What has brought Father's beautiful Dove to this place? Why must I

  forever fear the sun? The answers lie in memories of blood and wine and

  roses.

  2

  Lark Westerly

  Blood and Wine and Roses © 2008 by Lark Westerly

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any

  means, electronic of mechanical including photocopying, recording, or by any information

  storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of

  the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons,

  living or dead, events, or locals is entirely coincidental.

  An Eternal Press Production

  Eternal Press

  Wangaratta,

  Victoria,

  Australia,

  3677

  To order additional copies of this book, contact:

  www. eternalpress.com.au

  Short Story

  Cover Art © 2008 by Julie D’Arcy

  Edited by Lisa Logan

  Layout and Book Production by Julie D'Arcy

  Proofread Sherri Good

  Eternal Press * March 2008

  Production by Eternal Press

  Printed in Australia and the United States of America.

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  Blood and Wine and Roses

  UÄÉÉw tÇw j|Çx

  tÇw eÉáxá

  Lark Westerly

  4

  Lark Westerly

  he thorn has pierced my finger, pierced my skin. My blood wells up, a

  bead of life that rises and gleams in the moonlight. Black. Reflecting

  g the slit of a dying moon.

  The roses are all about me. Their velvet blooms are damask, Bourbon, musk, they

  swell like the breasts of harlots and their scent is sweet as sin. My crystal goblet holds

  blood-red wine, drained of its color by moon and stars.

  The stars prick holes in the fabric of night. I long for the sun, but its touch is my

  doom. I gaze at the bead of blood. Black as the blooms of my roses. Black as the wine in

  the goblet. Blood and wine and roses. And so we go round again.

  I gulp my wine. The hunger grows upon me.

  Once the roses were pink and fair. I remember the brilliance of day. I remember a

  playmate; his name was Alfric, I think. I pricked my finger on a briar rose and he bound

  it in his kerchief.

  The world was innocent then.

  I walked in sunlit meadows, but slept in the virgin’s chamber, guarded like gold. My

  father drank, he diced, some say he wenched, but I loved him. I turned my gowns about

  and went ill-shod, but I held my head in pride of my ancient name.

  One day my father seemed drawn and ill, a twin red blemish beneath his throat and

  shadows under his eyes. “Dove, you are to be wed. A lord has asked for you.”

  Dove was my name, strange for a dark-browed maid.

  I felt my interest quicken. ‘What lord, Father? Why does he ask for me?”

  “He offered a goodly settlement.” My father looked abashed.

  “Is he so ill-favored, then?” I sighed.

  “He is good to look upon.” My father’s voice was heavy. “I will miss my dove.”

  “You have given consent.”

  “I have.” He plucked his sleeve. “But he asks consent from you. You must be

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  Blood and Wine and Roses

  willing.”

  I bit my lip in thought. A kind lord, sure, to want no unwilling bride.

  “He comes from an ancient line,” said my father. “You consent?” There was a

  terrible eagerness in his eyes.

  I truly loved my father, but I had pride. I was tired of turning my gowns.

  I gave consent.

  I thought to have time to compose myself, but the lord awaited me now in the

  nuptial chamber. He had slept today, my father said, but would soon be waking.

  The village beldame readied me; she snatched away my gown and washed me with

  milk and wine.

  “Milk to your breast,” she chanted, “milk to your lily-white throat. Unmarked,

  unblemished, untaken, a maid for her master’s delight. Milk to your breast and lily-

  white throat, wine, red wine to your secret parts to make you strong and sweet for him.

  You’ll need your strength, milady. Drink this cup. It will ease your apprehension.”

  I drank the wine, which was filled with petals of roses. The beldame filled the goblet

  again and dashed it against my belly. The red, red wine poured down my thighs like

  blood. I cried aloud as the wine stung secret places. The goblet shattered upon the

  hearth, twin shards leapt to pierce my neck and blood ran down to mingle with wine.

  I felt no pain, but stemmed the blood with my fingertips. I brought them to my lips

  and tasted blood and wine.

  The beldame clothed me in muslin. It clung to my breasts and belly, it clung to my

  thighs. It was stained with blood red wine.

  “I cannot be wed like this,” I cried, but my tongue was thick in my mouth.

  “This is your lord’s desire,” she said, and crowned me with blood-red roses.

  I might have fled my father’s house, a shivering, shift-clad bride, but my pride

  burned high with the wine. I would not be seen in a soaking shift, my body exposed to

  the lewd gaze of the servitors.

  The sun had died, the sunset had streamed like a banner. Too soon I came to the

  door of the chamber, the dark-hung nuptial chamber. My father waited there.

  “Dove,” said my father. His face was ghastly. “You shall not wed him, Dove! I

  repudiate the match!”

  In the candle-light I saw the welt on his neck. I saw it ooze a drop of blood, another

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  and another. Blood was flowing, drop by drop, my father’s life was bled away. He fell to

  his knees, half swooning.

  I tried to stanch the blood but it oozed between my fingers. “You . . . shall not . . .

  wed him . . . Dove,” said my father. “Not for my worthless life.”

  The blood ran faster, spattering the oaken floor.

  The door sprang wide before us. Starlight blanched the windows, ran like rivers of

  velvet, iced the blood that ran from my father’s throat.

  I raised my eyes to see the shadowed form of the one I was to wed.

  “Lord!” I gasped. “My father bleeds!”

  “And would you stanch the blood?” The words were soft and cold. “Dove, would you

  stanch your father’s blood?”

  “It runs too free!” I wailed.

  “You will be my wife? Willingly, body and soul?”


  “Help my father!” I pleaded.

  “You will be my wife?” said the lord. “Willingly, body and soul?”

  “Please!” I wept, and I saw him in the candle-light, in the starlight, through my

  tears. His form was young and powerful, his eyes were black as pitch and old as the

  darkness, glinting under a hood.

  “You will be my wife?” he said again. “Willingly, body and soul?”

  “Yes, yes, yes! I will be your wife. I am your wife. Whatever you say, whatever you

  ask, if only you help my father!”

  “Then so it be. My wife, body and soul.” His voice was velvet with triumph and my

  flesh crept on my bones.

  My hands were pressed to my father’s throat, I felt the pulse of life regain its

  strength. And still I didn’t understand. And if I had, what could I have done? If my

  father died, and I unwed, there would have been none to protect me from the wolves.

  Lords and lackeys, they’d come, and use me for their pleasures.

  Better the pleasures of a noble lord, no matter how dark he seemed.

  The dark lord raised me up. He bent and brushed his fingertips against my father’s

  throat. The punctures sealed, purpling, appearing as seamed old scars. My father’s

  breath came easily.

  “Wine and beef,” said the lord. “And let the beef be bloody as you please.”

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  My father’s servants carried him to his chamber. None of them looked at me. There

  I stood, in my father’s house, wet with wine and blood and crowned with roses, and

  none of them looked at me.

  The shuffle of feet died in the silence, the lanterns passed from my sight. I stood

  with the lord who owned me, body and soul. The candle smoked and died, it was tallow

  and poor. The dark lord gave me a golden ring for my finger. He kissed my hand and I

  shivered. “I take you for my wife,” he said. “My wife until day or the dagger.”

  Into the chamber he led me, crowned with bridal roses.

  There was a lamp within that shone with phosphorescence. The light streamed blue

  and strange like the corpse-light of the marshes. My husband put back his hood. “Let me

  look at you.”

  His black gaze pierced. So dark, so cold, so ancient. And yet, his voice was gentle to

  my ears. He was dressed in black for his wedding night, black breeches, I supposed, and

  the full black hooded cape. His shirt was white and ruffled, and his hands were finely

  made. His flesh was smooth as marble, and as pale. His hair, I saw, was lustrous; raven-

  dark.

  His laughter was low and pleasing. “A goodly thought, my Lady Dove. I shall be your

  Raven. A better name than many I have suffered.”

  “What is your true name, Lord?” My mouth was dry with fear and yet there was a

  trembling deep inside me that was not fear. Pride bade me meet his gaze.

  “Call me Raven,” he said. “I have many names; this pleases me more than most.” He

  raised the lamp and his face became more solemn. “What has been done to my dove?

  Why do you tremble?”

  “The beldame washed me with wine and milk.”

  “Foolish superstition!”

  “She said it would make me sweet and strong.”

  “You are sweet and strong as you need to be. Take off the gown. You will take a chill

  and your blood will run thick and cold.”

  I had no wish to remove my only garment. “Sleep, my lord,” I said. “Call for a posset,

  and rest from your travels again. It is late and you are weary.”

  Raven laughed. “For me, my dove, it is early. I have slept and am much refreshed.

  But here is a posset, see?”

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  Lark Westerly

  He took a brew from the brazier by the lamp.

  “My father . . . ” I said.

  “You saved his blood. Take off the gown. Take off the crown of roses.”

  I edged towards the door, but Raven was before me. “Take off your gown,” he said

  again.

  I was cold, I was strained and tired. The chamber door was barred. I removed the

  shift and cleansed the blood from my hands and arms on its folds.

  “Drink this posset,” he said. “It will dull your suffering when I take you.”

  “Why should I suffer?” I whispered. “The village girls take pleasure from their

  lovers. Am I less than a village wanton”’

  “Pain is pleasure. Take off the crown of roses.”

  I removed the circlet, piercing my finger on a thorn. A drop of blood welled forth.

  “Ah!” said Raven. “Your skin is fine as silk. Let me stanch the blood.”

  I thought he might give me a kerchief, but he took my hand and carried it to his lips.

  He took my fingertip in his mouth and drew on it hard as a babe draws on its mother’s

  nipple. I snatched my hand away.

  “Drink the posset,” he said, and turned aside to fumble beneath his cloak.

  I gulped the wine and my trembling grew more.

  He came to me and stood naked as a new-born among the silken folds of his cloak.

  He was well and finely made, his shoulders as broad and his chest as deep as a maid

  could wish. His legs were strong and his sex hung like some heavy, exotic fruit. The

  strange blue light made him gleam like a marble man, and my fears grew clamorous. I

  had never seen a full-grown naked man, but I knew the village talk. I knew that

  drooping sex would swell and thrust its ruthless entry to my body.

  “Come, my dove,” said Raven. “I shall teach you pain and pleasure.”

  “I need to wash myself,’ I said. “I am stained with wine and milk.” I retreated as far

  as I might, but again he stood before me, a man of marble and night.

  “Fear not, Dove. You shall be cleansed.”

  I cowered, but he moved like a great dark bird, swinging me into his arms. “You fear

  me, Dove,” he breathed. “You must not fear, it will sour the blood in your veins.”

  Clasping me he sank onto the bed. He bent his head and I braced myself for the touch of

  mouth on mouth. Instead, I felt his tongue on my shoulder, drawing a languid path

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  along my arm. And surely he could feel the beat of my blood.

  “Milk,” he said. “Mild and sweet, but I am not a babe.” He drew the path to my

  breast, a place no man had touched.

  I felt a surge beneath my thighs, where his sex was rising against me. I struggled to

  free myself, but his mouth was drawing from my flesh sensations the like of which I had

  never dreamed. I writhed in his arms, he laved the other breast with his mouth, firm

  warm strokes that seemed to hurl me tumbling through the night. I had lost my way, but

  he held me close against him. He turned to lay me down, the velvet cold against my skin.

  And then he was close beside me, hands on my arms to hold me down, licking, licking

  me clean of the blood-red wine. His breath warmed my belly and my secret place was

  hot and throbbing.

  I tried to cover myself, but my arms were pinned, my legs were limp as a new-born

  lamb’s. And still my dark lord cleansed me with his mouth. My hips, my thighs, my

  belly, cleared of the residue of wine. My legs, my hands and arms. My belly again, in

  sweeping strokes, and I felt a great weakness upon me. I writhed and drew my breath to

  cry out my despair, but still the torment continued.

  My thighs had been wet wi
th wine, but now they were wet again. I am going to die, I

  thought. My husband laughed and his breath was hot against me. Then his mouth was

  touching my secret place and I felt myself spinning through the dark. I heard a high wild

  keening from my throat. I thrust my hips high from the bed, but he drew his mouth

  away. His tongue touched once, twice, teasing me to madness.

  “The pleasure and then the pain,” he breathed, and his weight came down upon me.

  The cloak fell over us both like a raven’s wings. I felt his sex, now firm as a rod of flesh.

  It probed my thighs, it brushed the tender place. I gritted my teeth for the thrusting of

  my maidenhead. I feared the tearing, but strained to be assuaged. His sex was right at

  the portal, but it quivered and held its ground.

  His firm hands left my shoulders and clamped my head, tilting my chin until my

  throat was clear. His tongue was touching, testing my throat, just as his sex was testing

  my maidenhead. I thought I would burst asunder with suspense.

  Then suddenly he tensed and rolled away, leaving me cold and burning.

  “You have been broached before!” he spat, and his eyes, oh his eyes were black as

  the dawn of time. And oh, the fear in my breast! The blood crawled in its pathways and I

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  seemed to see again the river bled from my father’s veins.

  “Never!’ I gasped. “Never, my lord, I swear!’

  “You have been broached before!” His face contorted with rage. “Your worthless

  faithless father swore you were untasted!”

  “And so I am!” I gasped. “Except by you, Lord Raven.”

  “I tasted blood. You have been broached before.”

  His voice was harsh and I feared he was mad. I had spoken the truth.

  “If you tasted blood, it must have been my father’s,” I stammered. “It splashed me