savage. Where on earth have you been? And where did that blood come from?’
‘I went on the hunt!’ Patrice boasted. ‘The boys said I couldn’t, so I followed them secretly until we were too deep into the forest for them to send me home. Then they were glad I was there because I spotted the herd of swine first. It was so exciting!’
She laughed merrily at Georgette’s consternation and danced away. Georgette shook her head and hurried to find a clay pot to catch the precious lard that dripped from the pigs over the fire. She mixed it into wheat flour and baked some rough cakes on the glowing coals.
The boys hunted for other wild animals too, especially deer and rabbits, and they fished in the streams and lakes for a welcome change of diet. At night, they told stories around the fires, and stacked low piles of springy boughs from coniferous trees to raise them above the damp ground while they slept.
The Prophet preached on the Sabbath, and sometimes on other days. Georgette’s strength was always renewed by his words. It was scarcely believable that she, an ordinary farmer’s daughter, was part of the army of Jesus. How fortunate she was.
One night Georgette left the warm fire, going a short way from the group for some privacy. She could never piss or empty her bowels at the side of the road as so many did, especially those sickened by the rampant dysentery among their ranks. Before she returned, she admired the great old oak trees around her, gleaming in the moonlight. She loved the scent of their acorns rotting on the forest floor. Our pig Bess would enjoy rooting around with her snout here , she thought, smiling at the image.
A figure loomed suddenly in front of her and she shrieked. She caught a glimpse of the face and realised with shock that it was the leader himself, Stephen, who stood in front of her, directly in front of her.
She was embarrassed at being caught so clearly having just finished pissing. My skirts were barely down , she thought and blushed.
Stephen smiled. ‘What is your name, girl?’ he asked.
‘Georgette,’ she answered, wondering at his interest.
‘So pretty,’ he murmured, and Georgette started. Had he really said she was pretty? It wasn’t the first time that a boy had told her that, but she hadn’t expected their leader, who was chosen by the Lord, to think of such things as a girl’s appearance. She shivered.
‘You are cold,’ Stephen said in that low voice. ‘Let me feel how cold your hands are,’ and without a chance for her to respond, he took her hands.
Instinctively, Georgette pulled away at what in another boy she would have called impertinence. But his hands only slipped to her wrists and kept hold there. She froze. There was the smell of ale in the air.
‘Don’t be frightened,’ he said to her, smiling again. ‘You are with your leader. Aren’t you glad I find your face pleasing? Very pleasing . . . ’
His hands holding her wrists were strong but Georgette could have broken free if she wished. She had not escaped Gregor’s violent tempers many times as a child for naught. But the hold preventing her from breaking away had little to do with Stephen’s hands: it emanated from his intense eyes boring into hers, his golden curls lifting and waving like fiery serpents, his voice that sounded thick and deep. He murmured things she hardly heard, crooned words in a stream that took away her will to run. Smooth, soothing words as if he were taming a wild animal. Gently, he released one of his hands, keeping the other firmly around her wrist, and stroked her face with his fingertips, moving slowly downwards, her neck, her throat, her breasts. She trembled violently but his eyes were on her and his voice trapped her. Skilfully, his hand caressed her breasts more and more firmly, burning through her shift.
Suddenly, he stopped and listened. Georgette heard it too. There was loud rustling in the forest very near them. Dry leaves crackled underfoot, a twig
‘I went on the hunt!’ Patrice boasted. ‘The boys said I couldn’t, so I followed them secretly until we were too deep into the forest for them to send me home. Then they were glad I was there because I spotted the herd of swine first. It was so exciting!’
She laughed merrily at Georgette’s consternation and danced away. Georgette shook her head and hurried to find a clay pot to catch the precious lard that dripped from the pigs over the fire. She mixed it into wheat flour and baked some rough cakes on the glowing coals.
The boys hunted for other wild animals too, especially deer and rabbits, and they fished in the streams and lakes for a welcome change of diet. At night, they told stories around the fires, and stacked low piles of springy boughs from coniferous trees to raise them above the damp ground while they slept.
The Prophet preached on the Sabbath, and sometimes on other days. Georgette’s strength was always renewed by his words. It was scarcely believable that she, an ordinary farmer’s daughter, was part of the army of Jesus. How fortunate she was.
One night Georgette left the warm fire, going a short way from the group for some privacy. She could never piss or empty her bowels at the side of the road as so many did, especially those sickened by the rampant dysentery among their ranks. Before she returned, she admired the great old oak trees around her, gleaming in the moonlight. She loved the scent of their acorns rotting on the forest floor. Our pig Bess would enjoy rooting around with her snout here , she thought, smiling at the image.
A figure loomed suddenly in front of her and she shrieked. She caught a glimpse of the face and realised with shock that it was the leader himself, Stephen, who stood in front of her, directly in front of her.
She was embarrassed at being caught so clearly having just finished pissing. My skirts were barely down , she thought and blushed.
Stephen smiled. ‘What is your name, girl?’ he asked.
‘Georgette,’ she answered, wondering at his interest.
‘So pretty,’ he murmured, and Georgette started. Had he really said she was pretty? It wasn’t the first time that a boy had told her that, but she hadn’t expected their leader, who was chosen by the Lord, to think of such things as a girl’s appearance. She shivered.
‘You are cold,’ Stephen said in that low voice. ‘Let me feel how cold your hands are,’ and without a chance for her to respond, he took her hands.
Instinctively, Georgette pulled away at what in another boy she would have called impertinence. But his hands only slipped to her wrists and kept hold there. She froze. There was the smell of ale in the air.
‘Don’t be frightened,’ he said to her, smiling again. ‘You are with your leader. Aren’t you glad I find your face pleasing? Very pleasing . . . ’
His hands holding her wrists were strong but Georgette could have broken free if she wished. She had not escaped Gregor’s violent tempers many times as a child for naught. But the hold preventing her from breaking away had little to do with Stephen’s hands: it emanated from his intense eyes boring into hers, his golden curls lifting and waving like fiery serpents, his voice that sounded thick and deep. He murmured things she hardly heard, crooned words in a stream that took away her will to run. Smooth, soothing words as if he were taming a wild animal. Gently, he released one of his hands, keeping the other firmly around her wrist, and stroked her face with his fingertips, moving slowly downwards, her neck, her throat, her breasts. She trembled violently but his eyes were on her and his voice trapped her. Skilfully, his hand caressed her breasts more and more firmly, burning through her shift.
Suddenly, he stopped and listened. Georgette heard it too. There was loud rustling in the forest very near them. Dry leaves crackled underfoot, a twig
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