Jim Butcher - Songs of Love & Death

Mistress Darby declared it excellent and drank two glasses. Martha drank well of it, too. He topped up her glass when she wasn’t looking and saw her drain it again.

Mistress Darby began to nod off. She started. “Oh, my, the long journey has tired me out. I’m for bed.”

She left the room somewhat unsteadily. Martha rose and he saw her steady herself on the back of her chair. “I, too, am tired. You set too hasty a pace, Mr. Loxsleigh.”

“Perhaps I did. I am simply impatient to see you in my home.”

He watched her struggle to focus. “I am not going to marry you.”

“You must. You know the story now. Remember Oberon’s revenge.”

“Fablesh…” She frowned. “Fables for the credulous.”

He grabbed her and shook her. “Why am I cursed with such an impossible woman!”

She fought him off. “Cursed. Cursed. Because I will not sin in your bed I’m a curse?”

“I want to marry you!”

“I don’t want to marry you!” she yelled, inhibitions shattered by drink. She was magnificent. But adamant.

“You’re mad, Mr. Loxsleigh,” she said with the careful precision of the drunk. “It’s sad, but I will not bind myself to a madman.”

A man laughed, deep and dark.

Martha looked around, almost losing her balance again. “Who was that?”

“Oberon. Anticipating victory. Martha, listen to me. My birthday isn’t twelve days away, it’s tomorrow. We need to go to bed together. Now.”

She blinked at him. “That is a most improper statement, sir.”

“I know. Very well, we need to go on to Five Oaks. Now.”

“Mad, mad, mad.”

“We could ride.”

“I cannot ride.”

“We could share a horse.” He desperately wanted her willing. “Martha, if we don’t… wed by tomorrow I will die. My father will die. All the descendants of Sir Robert Loxsleigh, wherever they may be, will die within the year.”

She swayed slightly. “It is impossible for us to marry by tomorrow, sir. Banns… and I do believe that you have made me drunk.”

He approached again. “Certainly you are affected by the punch, Miss Darby. Permit me to escort you upstairs.”

She swatted at him. “Keep away from me, you… you… horny goat .”

That came so improbably from her lips that he laughed.

A mistake. She backed away, muttering, “Mad, mad, mad. Keep away from me. And I will not go to your home. Not tomorrow. Not ever!”

He watched her steer carefully toward the door. Some were made docile by drink, and some quarrelsome. Clearly Martha Darby was the latter. Some were made lusty, but he’d never trusted to that.

He followed at a distance, ready to save her if she stumbled on the narrow stairs. Halfway up her legs betrayed her and she sat down, leaning her head against the wall, muttering, “Drunk. I’m drunk. Oh, the shame…”

Then she slipped into a stupor.

Rob went to where she slumped and touched her prim cap. “Martha, my love, I wish it had been otherwise. Pray God you forgive me.”

He gathered her into his arms, aware of Titania’s exultance and Oberon’s fury and hating both equally. Titania’s lilting voice approved. But then Oberon changed his tone to coaxing.

Will you rape her? it murmured. Despoil her limp body? What will be the result when she regains awareness and understands what you have done?

She’ll love you, argued Titania. She’s your marrying maid. It is her destiny to love you just as it is your destiny to love her. Do it now, my knight. Do it now so you and your line can live.

Do it now and eat bitter bread forever. Perhaps it is not necessary. Perhaps I will allow your birthday to be as your worldly custom designates.

Rob carried Martha up to his bedchamber where he laid her on the bed. He untied the stings of her cap and took it off, then unpinned her hair. He spread it, astonished by its silky thickness, aroused by it and hungry. He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers…

Which were slack and unresponsive.

He inhaled, straightening. “I cannot,” he said. Titania screamed at him; Oberon laughed.

Where was virtue and vileness here? Where was right and wrong?

There was one last hope.

MARTHA WAS FIRST aware of a throbbing head, and then that she was cold and wet. Then that she was not in her bed, but being carried. Was this another odd dream?

She struggled feebly and realized she was trapped in something. In heavy cloth.

“Hush, love, we’re home. I’ll soon have you warm.”

“Home?” She forced her eyes open and saw a distant starry sky. Closer, she saw Loxsleigh’s shadowed face.

“What have you done?” Her mouth was almost too parched for speech.

“Brought you to Five Oaks. It was the only way.”

“No…” He was going to rape her, and here in his house there would be no noble Sir Robert to stand between. She felt her own hot tears on her cold cheeks.

He kissed them. “Don’t be afraid, love. I won’t harm you. But I had to bring you here. I had to try.”

He put her down on the steps to open the door, but only for a moment and still swaddled, so her feeble struggles achieved nothing. They entered total darkness, but he must know it well. Of course he did.

Then wild candlelight showed a high, painted ceiling. “My boy, my boy! You’re home and with your bride. Praise be to God!”

Martha turned her head and saw a tousled-haired man in a night robe, candle in hand.

“Welcome, my dear, welcome. Oh, happy day. But why such a journey? The poor girl must be chilled through. Bring her up, bring her up. She can lie in my bed for now.”

“No!” Martha cried. Not the father, too.

“No,” Rob Loxsleigh said. “I must take her to the old hall.”

“The old hall? She’ll catch a lung fever.”

“I hope she’ll catch credulity.” Already striding across the entrance hall, he called, “The calendar change. It changed my birthday. We have no time! Bring brandy and water. Rouse the servants to prepare her a bed.”

“Please,” Martha cried. “Please, don’t.”

But he rushed forward into darkness, struggling to open doors, leaving them wide behind him, and all around her a cacophony of voices swelled—high voices, low voices, merry and angry, coaxing and threatening, tangled up in a song. In that song. Her nightmare song.

A man growled, “He plans to rape you. Fight, mortal creature, fight!”

She tried, but was helpless.

Then Loxsleigh stopped. Small-paned windows let in a trace of light and Martha’s eyes were accustomed to the dark. They were in the ancient part of Five Oaks. And the nightmare song and creatures whirled around.

A dream. This had to be a dream!

He put her on her feet, supporting her still.

The lady was there, the one in iridescent robes. She smiled like a Madonna, but with blank eyes. Titania.

The man paced around them like the panther she’d seen in the Tower of London. “He cannot rape you. He’s too puny for that. You have only to resist.”

Titania pressed close in a cloud of woodland perfume. “Dear child, you have only to surrender to Rob, to that which you most desire.” Her hand brushed Martha’s forehead and the dull throb there faded. The room seemed brighter by the moment, and all her senses heightened. The song turned sweet.

“You love Rob Loxsleigh,” whispered the Queen of Faery. “He loves you. You were destined from birth. And the threat is real, dear child. Refuse and my lord will have his way.”

“Then stop him.”

“I have brought you together. Now it lies in your hands.”

“You demand that I sin!”