Janet dressed herself again and left the bedroom, walking quietly down the stairs and back into the room where Lord Dorian was waiting for her. He was standing by the open door. The storm had passed over, and she saw the shimmering cobbles of the farmyard beyond the doorframe, glistening wet in the silvery moonlight.

Her father stood, wringing his hands, at the end of the long oak table. The fire had burned low in the hearth. The tallow candles sputtered in a chill breeze. The old man averted his watery eyes from hers and drew a deep, ragged breath, before saying, in a hoarse whisper, “Are you ready, child?”

Lord Dorian looked at her calmly, his face giving away no expression of thought or emotion. Janet felt dazed, strangely numb. So was this to be it? Was she to leave now? She heard the sound of horse’s hooves and the clatter of carriage wheels on the cobbles outside, the crack of a whip, voices.

“Am I not to have time to pack?” she asked.

“You will have everything you require at the Castle.” Lord Dorian glanced out into the courtyard, then his eyes shot quickly between her and her father. Her father looked at him imploringly, and then began to speak,

“My Lord…I…to say farewell.”

“A few moments only,” said Lord Dorian as he turned on his heel and vanished into the darkness.

Janet felt as if she had been suddenly plunged into a nightmare. Time seemed to be racing as fast as her beating heart. How could this be happening to her? How could it be that she must now, so suddenly leave hearth and home, her father, the farmstead where she had grown and worked and played since as long ago as she could remember? For all her twenty odd years and despite her reputation for adventurousness and independence, it seemed to Janet, in that terrible moment, that she was really still nothing more than a little girl. She wanted to rush back through the corridors of time, fling open the doorway of yesteryear and throw herself into the arms of her mother, who would stroke her hair and sing to her and tell her that it had all been nothing more than a nightmare and she was safe now. She wanted to indulge in the safer fears induced by her grandmother’s tales of monsters and elves and dragons and witches and hidden treasure; so much easier to face a fear that is only imagined, a spell that can be broken by the simple act of opening one’s eyes. How she had dreamed as a young girl, inspired by her grandmother’s less dark and tortuous stories, of the day she would go to a ball at the Castle and dance in the arms of a prince! But now it seemed to her that she was forced to face the cruel truth: there was no happy ending. That had been invented after the fact. A lie to tell to frightened children. Cinderella, if she had gone to the ball at all, had run away in rags as the clock struck twelve, her feet cut and bleeding as her glass slippers shattered on the unforgiving earth. Sleeping Beauty, lost forever in her castle surrounded by thorns and briars, had lain between life and death until the inevitable cruelty of time had corrupted her supple flesh and left only the putrid remains of a rotting corpse. Snow White had choked on the apple, unable to breathe as the poison flowed into her blood, convulsing her body in a fit of agonies until she lay lifeless in a puddle of her own vomit. And now Janet was to be made a slave even as her true love was led to the eternal tortures of the flames of Hell.

With the door left open and the fire burned away, the room had become cold. She felt detached from what was going on around her, from herself even, as if she were merely observing the terrible fate of someone else that she hardly knew. What a travesty of her childhood dreams was this agonizing, terrible adult reality.

She was suddenly aware of her father standing beside her. He smelled of the farm, of tobacco smoke and the damp odor of fear. He rested his stubby fingers on her arm. She was aware of his voice murmuring to her as if over a great distance. She tried to focus, concentrate on what he was saying.

“…Only a few years…comfort and luxury…perhaps a visit or two….”

Janet turned and looked at him. He seemed suddenly much older even than his years, his face ashen gray, crumpling in the merciless grip, she thought, of loss and guilt. For a fleeting moment she felt compassion for him. Then as suddenly she found she hated him. To save his skin, his farm, his coffers, he was willingly abandoning her to this cruel and dangerous fate. She had protested to him that Dorian would view her as no more than a heifer or a mare, bought and sold, but now she saw that it was her father who saw her this way: an item of his property that could be bartered in this evil contract. She knew that once she was gone, her father would not break down in uncontrollable sobs of grief but rather flatten his back against the door and breathe out a long, heartless sigh of relief; his lands secure, his troublesome, gossip-generating daughter out from under his feet. The icy memory of Dorian’s blade running down her spine shuddered through her. Her father was still speaking.

“…Find it in your heart to forgive me…all for the best in the long run, you’ll see…”

She stepped away from him, abruptly. His eyes widened. His thick tongue rubbed over his dry teeth.

“Janet, please. This is already so difficult. His Lordship is waiting. Come now, child, let us embrace and…”

The sharp snap of the sound left a scorching trace in the crisp, emotion-charged air. Her father staggered back, his podgy hand pressed hard against the stinging flesh of his cheek. She had slapped him. And he had felt not only the physical blow but the spite and anger of it also.

“Come.” The voice was Lord Dorian’s, standing once more in the doorway, a slight smile twitching at the corners of his thin lips. Janet lifted her skirts; eyes burning with dark defiance, she straightened her back and spat at Dorian’s feet as she pushed passed him into the darkness.

The carriage rumbled through the night at a thunderous speed. Lord Dorian made no move to engage her in conversation and she directed her gaze resolutely out of the window.

In the distance, under the moonlight, she saw the outline of the Twisted Oak and the shadowy edges of Seldom Forest. What fate awaited her now at the Castle? Her mind raced faster than the spinning carriage wheels. She thought of Tam Lin, of Ruan, of their lovemaking. She could call it that, she thought. Perhaps for the first time in her life, she had known more than the mere satisfaction of corporeal desire: something extraordinary had passed between them. An unbreakable connection had been made. This time, she knew she had been bound not by a leather strap or a hempen rope, nor even by the twisting tendrils of a faery haunted tree, but by a bond stronger than any or all of these: the bond of love. And would this now be so cruelly and suddenly stolen from her? Her heart felt as if it would break. Could she be trapped, enslaved and helpless as Ruan was led inexorably to his fate in Hell? There was a way to save him; he had begun to say so. If only she had discovered it. If only she had not returned to the house. If only…hot tears stung her eyes as her anguished mind struggled with the bleak realization of her powerlessness. It was too cruel, she thought, too cruel.

At last the carriage drew to a halt. A servant opened the door and Dorian stepped down into the Castle courtyard. A small retinue of torch-bearing foot soldiers, the Dorian insignia of the Black Serpent emblazoned on their tabards, clustered around the carriage, as Lord Dorian offered his hand to help her from the compartment. She refused his courteous gesture and stepped out unassisted into the flickering glow of the torchlight. Lord Dorian’s eyes glittered like black diamonds. His voice was quietly mocking.

“Welcome home, my Lady.”

Janet looked around her. The immense gray walls of the Castle towered above, enclosing everything – house, stables, and gardens – in their tight and unforgiving fist. The iron-wrought portcullis was locked in place, the drawbridge lifted and barred with a colossal oak beam. Armed sentries patrolled the castle walls. She wondered, was this the best-defended fortress in the Kingdom or was she to be yet another of the most securely kept prisoners in that entire realm?

“Show my Lady to her chambers. Give her food and wine. Prepare a bath for her. I will deal with her tomorrow. For now, I am tired and wish to rest.” Then he turned to her. It was perhaps a trick of the light, or the astringent black smoke that issued from the burning pitch of the torches: but for a moment, as he looked at her she thought she saw his face soften, cruelty and lust overcome momentarily by wonder and sadness, eyes moist with unspilled tears.

“It will be fitting,” he said quietly, almost as if to himself, “that we celebrate our wedding tomorrow night. The Night of the Dead.” Then he turned and strode off into the shadows.

So Janet found herself escorted, courteously but clearly under obligation, by a high ranking servant and a small retinue of men at arms, to a suite of chambers high up in the east wing of the ornate mansion that occupied the central area within the castle walls. A bath was prepared for her; food and wine were brought and laid on a table in the salon and the servants departed. As the last of them left Janet waited for the turning of the key in the lock but there was only the sound of the door creaking closed on its heavy hinges and the drop of the iron latch, then the soft pad of retreating footsteps and silence. Quickly, Janet stepped over to the door, gently lifted the latch again and opened it a fraction. Cautiously, she peered out. On either side of the door stood two armed guards. Silently, she pushed the door closed again.

A brief exploration of her chambers revealed four lavishly furnished rooms, exquisitely appointed in every detail and decorated with intelligent and subtle taste. The bedroom was spacious, the bed itself fit for a Queen. Yet, exhausted as she was, she had no yearning to lie between its sheets. There was a dressing room and a wardrobe of the most beautiful gowns that Janet had ever seen. The rustle of the fabrics, the sensation of velvet, silks and cotton under her fingers brought a momentary tingle of pleasure, but it was a pleasure as fleeting as a newborn’s smile. Such fine clothes she had always desired, yet now she found the colors harsh and the cloth coarse and could not entertain the idea of these gowns against her skin. There was a bathtub, steaming and scented with herbs and aromatic oils. No cramped tin tub, either, she noted, but a deep pool of burnished copper, sunk into the polished stones of the floor and glowing in the rich light of a dozen lanterns, whose flames danced behind colored glass. In another room, under the radiance of a diamond chandelier, was laid out a feast of cold meats: roasted pheasant, honeyed ham, and pink beef carpaccio; there was fresh bread, cheese, fruit, and sweet cider and ruby wine. Janet gazed on a supper that would have fed herself and her father and quite possibly all the servants, too, for a week. But she picked unenthusiastically at the food, finding that she had no appetite.

The fourth room was smaller although as relentlessly and determinedly sumptuous. There were books and paintings lining the walls, in the center a chaise longue. A fire, banked up with glowing coals, filled the room with drowsy heat. At the far end was a tall window, whose shutters had not been locked against the night. Looking out, Janet could see the vast, looming shadow of the castle wall, black in the darkness, with its towers and walkway. Under the occasional glow of a brazier or the flickering of torches, held in iron brackets along the wall, she could just make out the passing of foot soldiers, the guards of the night watch. A palace of wealth and comfort, this place might well be but, thought Janet, to her it would always be nothing more than a prison. She turned away from the window, exhausted. Too tired for tears, she slumped down on the chaise longue and, feeling her eyelids closed, slipped into a restless and troubled sleep filled with nightmarish images. She saw Ruan tormented in the flames of Hell, his hands stretched out to her, mouthing her name as she reached out towards him but found herself only pulled further and further away by some invisible and malevolent force. She saw her father’s face, laughing piteously it seemed, as if at some puerile village entertainment, as she was bound naked to the whipping post in the village square and Lord Dorian brought the leather strap snapping over her arching back and trembling buttocks, scoring her blushing flesh with stinging stripes. She saw the terrifying beauty of the Faery Queen as she reared her horse high above and this time his kicking hooves, hot as embers, trampled her into the hungry earth. Finally, near dawn, her soul too weary even for dreaming, she sank into the cold tomb of deep sleep and at last, rested.

When she woke, the sun was already high in the sky, all traces of the previous night’s storm banished by the crisp clarity of a bright autumnal morning. The shutters had been opened and she found herself lying between the silken sheets of the regal bed. Whether she had unconsciously stumbled there during the night or been removed there by servants come in the early morning to wait on her, she did not know.

Janet pushed herself up against the softness of the feather pillows. Tonight would be the Night of the Dead. Tonight would be the night of her wedding to lord Dorian, if a wedding it could truly be called. Tonight would be the night that Ruan was consigned to Hell to pay for the immortality of the Faery Race. Pushing back the silken sheets, Janet swung her legs over the edge of the bed and walked over to the window. From her chambers, she realized, it was not possible to see beyond the Castle Wall in any direction. The realization was oppressive, perhaps intentionally so. The feeling of being trapped, of there being no way to escape, was almost overwhelming. And yet, she could not shake off the knowledge that there was a way to rescue Ruan, to free him from this fate. And if she could do that, then he could return and claim his right to the castle and lands, to the title of Dorian. But how? How? There was so little time. But she had to try. Even if she were to die in the attempt, she had to try. Without Ruan, after all, what would be the point of living?

Quickly, she washed and dressed, choosing from the wardrobe clothing as plain and practical as she could find amongst such fineries. She felt a new energy of determination arising within her and with it came appetite. There was food laid out on the table as before and she ate. Satisfied and ready, she moved to the door and again pulled it open. Outside, there still stood two armed guards; although different to those she had seen the night before. She spoke.

“Am I to be kept prisoner here?” she asked.

“No, my Lady,” replied one of the guards, levelly.

“No?”

“No. You are, my Lady, at liberty to go where you will and when you will. His Lordship’s only instruction is that you are not to attempt to leave the castle grounds.”

“And if I were to attempt to do so?”

“There are no unguarded exits, my Lady. You would not be permitted to do so.”

“I see. And why are you here, if not to keep me prisoner?”

“For your protection my Lady.”

“So I am free to take the air, then, in the castle Gardens?”

“Certainly, my Lady.”

“Very good, “replied Janet, playing the role of Lady, joining the game. “Then I shall stroll for an hour and familiarize myself with my new home. Be sure to allow no-one to enter my chambers in my absence.”

“Very good, my Lady.”

The guards gave brief, courteous bows as she passed, lifted her skirts and walked away down the corridor. She followed passages and stairways until at last she found herself on the ground floor and out into the main, sunlit courtyard. Here, she paused a moment to take stock of her surroundings.

It was much as she could have expected any thriving castle courtyard to be: servants went to and fro on errands, horses were being fed and groomed, watered and exercised, peacocks strutted over the tended lawns and displayed their scintillating plumage; consignments of grain, meats and clay flasks of wine and oil were being received and checked against inventories. In short, all the sights, sounds and smells of busy Castle life bustled around her. Here and there she saw groups of Lord Dorian’s wives, obvious by the finery of their dress, strolling about the grounds talking or sitting in the shade of leafy bowers. No one, however, seemed to pay any great attention to her. Her first priority was to find an escape route. Even if there were no unguarded gates, goods and people came and went to and from the castle all the time so there had to be some way of passing out again beyond the Castle wall, there had to be.

The main gate was too obvious a place, almost too busy and whilst standing now wide open, the drawbridge down to permit the arrival of a stately carriage, admitting a view of the lands and forest beyond, it was too heavily guarded by far. And besides, the whole of the main courtyard in front of the House was too open and public a space. No, she thought to herself, she must find another way, a subtler route.

So, skirting along the edge of the house, she found her way through a narrow archway to the back and into the labyrinth of hedged pathways, enclosed gardens, herbaria, fountains, walled enclosures and clusters of buildings that composed the working and recreational heart of the Castle’s life but also concealed hidden bowers and seemingly abandoned corners where, it seemed to Janet, one might pass unseen.

Following a quiet, graveled path, the scent of aromatic greenery in her nostrils and in her ears the chatter and song of those birds that preferred to brave the oncoming winter rather than join the migration to the warmer climate of the south; she found herself standing in the cool shadows of a pillared cloister. In the middle there was a marbled fountain that danced and sparkled where it reached above the shadows to kiss the sun. The fountain was surrounded by a circle of close cut grass and beyond that flagstone and then the shaded colonnade of the cloister proper. On the grass sat two white-clad servant girls. Pretty creatures, making coronets of ivy they had stripped from the fountain’s base and laughing.

Janet was suddenly aware of another presence. The figure of a man appeared, striding purposefully under the vaulted ceiling of the cloister but on the opposite side to where she now stood, half concealed by the pillars, pressing herself into the shadows. He was tall and dark, his brow furrowed, deep in thought. Lord Dorian. As he passed by, one of the servant girls let out a high squeal of laughter. Lord Dorian stopped in his tracks.

“What are you laughing at?” he demanded, sternly, turning towards them and stepping from the cloister onto the grass where they were sitting. The girls fell silent, their eyes lowered.

“Would you remain seated in the presence of your master?” he asked slowly. The girls glanced at each other under their long eyelashes. Dorian sighed.

“Stand up,” he commanded. They stood. Janet saw, from her concealed vantage point, the svelte forms of their nubile young bodies, tantalizing through the semi-transparent cotton of their clothes, draped loosely over them: teasingly outlining the firm points of their youthful breasts and the smooth rounds of their bottoms. One, the one with a mass of bright golden curls that tumbled like liquid sunlight over her shoulders, gently entwined her fingers in those of her companion, whose nut brown hair fell straight and shining, neatly framing the olive complexion of her face.

Dorian stood in front of them now, towering a good head and shoulders above them both. Now Janet could see the look in his eye. And she saw that his anger was mock: that there was some understanding between the three of them; that their disobedience pleased him.

“And do you still remain silent?” he asked. There was no reply from the servant girls. Dorian stretched out his arm and lifted the blonde girl’s head roughly, clasping her chin between his fingers and thumb. Janet caught the flash of azure eyes. Dorian smiled.

“So, Venus, it is you again. Not satisfied with your last punishment are you so willful as to lead your dusky friend here into your own wicked ways?”

“I cannot help myself, my Lord. I am a naughty, wicked girl.”

“Indeed. And so we must try again to correct your wicked ways.” He turned then to the other girl. “And you child, what is your name?”

“Lilith, Sir.”

“Well, Lilith, I hope in future you will keep better company than this naughty little strumpet. She may seem pure with her golden looks but I tell you she is nothing more than a dirty, perverted little whore who has already led a visiting Lord into the sin of self abuse by her guileful ways.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Answered the dark girl. He turned again to Venus.

“Tell your friend here, Venus, what you truly are.”

“A dirty, perverted little whore, my Lord.” As she spoke she released her friends fingers and raising her arm, slid her hand around Lilith’s waist, then allowed her slender fingers to ride up the side of her friend’s body to gently stroke her breast. Lilith responded, turning towards Venus slowly and reaching out with her own hand, slid her long-nailed fingers up Venus’s inner thigh and played around her shaven pussy. The two women fondled, kissed and caressed one another as Lord Dorian looked on. Janet saw clearly now the outline of his hardened shaft, a rod of oak beneath the tightening leather of his trews. His dick was throbbing hard, pulsing, straining. His lips parted, his tongue running under his teeth. Lilith’s dress was torn down to her waist. Venus’s pink lips kissed her friend’s satin breasts, her tongue flicking over her long, stiffening nipples. She flashed her azure eyes again at her Lord.

“You see my Lord. What a whore I am?” With that, she turned Lilith round and pushed her to the ground, where she lay back, propped up on her elbows as Venus sank her head down between the dark girl’s thighs. Her own buttocks, white and firm, pushed up, wriggling, towards Lord Dorian. Lilith’s voice came, through little pants of pleasure.

“Punish her, punish her, my Lord! Look how she is perverting me! Punish her by hand and rod!”

Janet watched as Lord Dorian spanked the girl’s ivory tush over and over until it was sore and blushed a deep red, purpling slightly at the most tender parts. As his hand came down repeatedly on her buttocks, Lilith gasped in pleasure, shuddering in orgasm. At this, Lord Dorian released his swollen member, straining upwards in a glistening arced shaft so potent and stiff that Janet found herself having to stifle a little moan of pleasure just at the thought of it, and thrust it deep into Venus. Lilith wriggled out from underneath her. Turning around in front of Dorian, she looked at him coyly over her shoulder as she began to spank herself. Then, suddenly, Lord Dorian withdrew, his penis pulsing, pumping, as jets of creamy spunk shot over Venus’s bottom, dribbling down her crack and dripping between her legs. Janet watched as the two servant girls then knelt before him, licking and sucking his cock until they had lapped up all the semen and sucked him dry.

As the two girls stood up again, Lord Dorian replaced himself, then, drawing his sword from its scabbard, which lay against his thigh, he turned them around and with one swift thwack with the flat of the blade on their bottoms, he sent them running, giggling, away from the cloister and out of sight. Then, adjusting his clothing he continued on his way. Janet hung back momentarily in the shadows and then determined to follow him.

Lord Dorian glanced quickly about him then turned on his heel and strode calmly but purposefully back down the cloister to a shadowed corner where a thick knot of ivy hung like a dark green curtain, half concealing a low archway. Brushing the leafy tendrils aside, Dorian stooped low and disappeared under the arch, the foliage falling back behind him. Janet waited a moment or two, then quickly ran across the cloister, pushed back the ivy and peered beyond. There was a narrow passageway, just wide enough for one person to pass through, at the end of which was a small, paved square whose high walls almost closed in on themselves to form a roof of iron spikes embedded into the topmost stones. In one of these walls there was another door, low and blackened by time and Janet saw Lord Dorian turn the iron door-ring and vanish into the darkness within. The door creaked shut and she heard the scrape of iron on iron as the latch was dropped back into place. Swiftly and quietly she moved down the passageway until she stood outside the door. She heard the murmur of voices from within. To the left of the door there was a tiny grilled window, obviously intended more as a means of ventilation than for the admittance of light. Pressing herself against the cool stones, Janet cautiously peered in.

The grill did not permit a broad view of the interior. Nevertheless, she saw that beyond the door was a single, cramped room, dark but for the sputtering light of greasy tallow candles, dripping their fatty wax from rusted wall brackets. The room was cluttered with ancient, seemingly half rotten furniture – tables and cabinets mostly – piled high and crammed full of dusty parchments, vials and glass vessels containing colored liquids or what seemed to be pickled body parts. There were skulls and bones and twisted roots, dried herbs, feathers bound together with threads and beads and little figurines punctured in the eyes, the heart, the breasts or the genitals with a dozen sharpened pins.

From her restricted vantage point, Janet could just see the back of Dorian’s head and shoulders. And beyond him the shadow only of someone else cast against the soot stained walls: a shadow looming large and crooked, bent and broken as the room itself. The figure that cast the shadow she could not see. Janet calmed her breathing and strained to hear the conversation that passed within.

The voice of an old woman, cracked and hoarse: “ Well Crespus, your hopes must be high.” In her tone, and the informality of her address, Janet sensed the cadence of mockery. “ Your lust is almost complete. Tonight is the Night of the Dead and the Queen of the Otherworld must pay her ransom to hell. And your poor, wretched brother will trouble you no more. Except perhaps in conscience, although even that I doubt. So, why do you trouble me with your puerile demands? Yet further assurances? Would you have me burn acrid herbs and read the entrails of a rat? You know already as much as I.”

“Do not mock me old hag. I know enough to know that Faery magiks are never simple and I have no wish to fall foul of their cunning so close the reaching my purpose. Tell me, is all so truly secure or is there still some way by which Ruan…by which that wretch Tam Lin, might yet be saved?”

“Aye. There is a way. Of course, of course.” The old woman chuckled.

“Well?”

“You would have me tell you?”

“Damn it, bitch!” Dorian’s fist struck the table hard, scattering papers and sending a bottle crashing to the floor where it shattered into a hundred shards of light. “Tell me now and tell me everything or I swear to you’ll be dangling by your scrawny neck from the parapets before dawn!”

Janet heard the old woman sigh.

“You, Crespus, are a fool. Your brother, the rightful heir to the title you have assumed, would have made a just and fair ruler. I will tell you what you ask. But do not flatter yourself to think that it is because I fear your threats. It is only because I know the ways of the fates and I have already seen far more than I can tell.”

“Enough of your damned riddles, woman. Tell me!”

“Tam Lin may be saved. He may be saved if a woman who truly loves him will have the courage to drag him from his horse as he rides out with the Queen and her company at midnight and not let loose her hold no matter what. Then that woman, if should could survive the tests and torments that would be visited upon her, would have saved the mortal soul of Tam Lin from hell and freed him from his bonds in the Otherworld.”

“And if there were to be such a woman, how would she be identified?”

“Not many women would venture freely into Carterhaugh.”

“What do you mean? If there is such a woman, how will I know how to find her?”

“A very perplexing problem for you, Crespus.”

“Damn you hag! You must tell me!”

Janet heard the sound of the old woman’s laughter. Then suddenly Dorian’s voice again, quiet with suppressed excitement.

“Wait a minute. The flower. The rose.”

“What rose?”

“It is a rose that the girl was wearing in her hair…I thought there was something…yes, it is a rose that only grows in Carterhaugh,” his voice low with slow realization. “It is she!”

Janet was suddenly cold, clammy with fear, her breathing sort and painful. Dorian’s voice continued, laughing now, exultant and cruel.

“But she, the one who could save Tam Lin, is locked in here and cannot rescue him. I have her. And I will have her. While Ruan is dragged to hell I, Lord Dorian, shall be fucking the only woman who could have saved him!”

And Janet sank from the window, the cold stones grazing the skin of her cheek, the sound of Dorian’s laughter piercing her heart.