Munley Priory: A Gothic Story

4

'I WISH you'd stay with me, Charlie.'

A pair of white bodies lay on a narrow cot. A red-haired girl, pale and freckled, rested on her back with a blanket draped over her middle, while her lover—a handsome youth with green eyes and golden curls—lay naked beside. The room was small with a low ceiling, and sparsely furnished, containing only the bed, a table, and a single chair. A window was open, and just outside it a wooden sign suspended on a chain rocked in the breeze. At one time it had borne some emblem or design, but the paint was badly faded and the image indecipherable.

Charles Whittaker rolled over and tugged the bedcovers down, brushing aside the auburn locks and kissing her plump, round breasts. 'I'm afraid that simply isn't possible, dearest,' he said, laying his head on her shoulder. 'I shall be gone on the morrow, away to Munley Hall to meet my future bride. Her father is an Earl, you see, and it would not do to keep her waiting.'

'But you have never met this woman. How do you know she will marry you?'

'Oh she will. I have never known a woman to refuse me yet.'

Her freckled chest rose and fell in a sigh. 'Will I see you again?'

'I don't think so. But worry not, my sweet Emily!' He sat up, and stroked her face with the backs of his fingers. 'We are here in this moment, in flesh united, and is there not beauty in a love that is transient? A stillborn romance, frozen in time like a butterfly under glass, ere it may wither and turn to hate?'

'Hate? But I could never hate you, Charlie.'

Charles smiled. 'Yes you could. They all do, in the end.'

He reached down beside the bed and took up a wine bottle, splashing the red liquid across her breasts and belly. She giggled as he lapped it with his tongue. 'Enough talk of partings! I love you today, and to hell with tomorrow. Let us stoke once more the dying embers of our passion, and let the flames of love consume us while we may!' He spread her thighs, and mounted her. 'Do they burn you, my love?'

'Oh they do! They do!'

Suddenly the door burst open, and a young man with dark eyes and a thin moustache bounded into the room. He wore a patterned silk coat, unbuttoned, with no shirt underneath. In his right hand was a naked sword.

Emily screamed.

'Mr Whittaker!' bawled the intruder. 'How did I know I would find you here, in bed with your whore? Dear God, man! Can you go one hour without putting your cock somewhere it doesn't belong?'

Charles rolled onto his back, and Emily pulled the sheets over her chest. Charles, in contrast, seemed unabashed by his nudity. 'Damn it, Jeffrey!' he grunted. 'Can't you see I'm busy? You can wait your turn.'

'Be silent!' Jeffrey held his sword aloft, as if to be certain that the other had seen it. 'Charles Whittaker, I denounce you as a lecher and a villain! You are lewd, you are vulgar, and you have no honour! With your mere presence you corrupt and debase all that is good and virtuous; your very breath is a poison to noble hearts—'

'And yours could curl the paint on the walls, my friend,' Charles interrupted, laughing. 'You are drunk, Jeffrey. I can smell you from here. Go home and sleep it off. If you still want to kill me when you are sober, we may continue this discussion then.'

'No Mr Whittaker!' Jeffrey stamped his foot. 'You have insulted me! You have brought shame and dishonour upon my family, and I will not stand for it! It is too much, do you hear? Too much!'

'Charlie, what is he talking about?' Emily squeaked.

'Shut up, Emily.' Charles' eyes narrowed. 'Your family? Who did you tell, Jeffrey?' His voice was suddenly cold.

'What? No one! Do you take me for a fool?'

Charles relaxed. 'Then where is the shame? If no one knows—'

'That's not the point! I know! Whittaker, you took something from me!'

'I took nothing that was not freely given.'

'Lies!' Enraged, Jeffrey slashed at the mattress. A cloud of feathers danced in the air, and Emily clutched Charles in terror. 'I was cajoled! Coerced! Pick up your sword, you rascal! I demand satisfaction for this affront, and only your death or mine will suffice! I hereby challenge you to a duel!'

Charles laughed. 'Don't be such a dunce. You know not what you say, Jeffrey! The brandy has addled your brains. I say again: go back to your father's house and cool your head. I'm not going to fight you.'

'Oh, so you are a craven as well as a reprobate? I have challenged you, Whittaker. Do you refuse? Will I go out and tell everyone that Charles Whittaker is a coward? That he knows no honour? That he shrinks from combat like a woman?'

At once Charles' smile vanished. 'I am no coward, and you will do no such thing. Don't force my hand, Jeffrey. I don't want to fight you, but nor will I let you go about the town slandering my good name. I beseech you, leave now and we shall say no more of this.'

'Damned if I will!' He tore a strip of lace from his cuff and flung it at the other. 'There. I have no glove, so that must do. Now are you man enough to accept my challenge, or will you cringe in your bed like a frightened mouse?'

Charles watched the crumpled lace flutter onto the mattress with a grim resignation, as a felon watches the fall of the gavel. His teeth clenched, and he looked up at Jeffrey, pain in his eyes.

'So be it,' he said, very low.

Jeffrey smiled, triumphant. 'Then make your peace with God, sharpen your blade, and meet me in the field behind the town hall in one hour.'

'No. I will not fight you with a sword.'

'Why not?'

'Because you wouldn't last thirty seconds, man. It would be... unsporting. I don't mean to boast, but I have been duelling since I was old enough to walk. I can cut the sting from a wasp in mid-flight. No. We are gentlemen, you and I, and a gentleman duels with a pistol. It is, after all, the right of the challenged party to choose the means by which the duel is fought, and I see no sense in slashing each other into ribbons. I have a set that will do nicely.'

'Very well. My father will referee. You have one hour.'

'Are you going to tell him how I have shamed you, and disgraced his name and house?' Charles wondered, wryly.

But Jeffrey was already storming out of the room, and did not answer him.

'Charlie, why does Master Nightingale want to kill you?' Emily whimpered when he had gone. The girl was in tears. 'What did you do?'

'I only opened his eyes. I showed him what he is really like, and he is ashamed. And perhaps a little afraid. Alas, poor Jeffrey! As if my death will somehow change who he is.'

'But you don't really mean to fight him, do you? Oh you mustn't! You might be killed!'

'No fear, my love.' He climbed out of bed and began rummaging through a knapsack that lay on the floor. 'Charles Whittaker always has an ace in his sleeve.'