Exile's Children by Angus Wells Page B

hope of rescue save by her own wits.
    â€œSieur,” she extemporized, “it’s as I’ve said—we are engaged, and I cannot forswear that vow. Surely you, an officer in the God’s Militia, understand the import of such a promise?”
    Schweiz snorted. He seemed to Flysse more drunk than usual, more pressing. He said: “An officer in the God’s Militia, yes! And consequently of far greater position than any yokel. You must forget your promise, Flysse. Shall it make your mind easier, I’ll have our padre bless you and absolve you. Only—”
    â€œSieur!” She feigned amazement, shock. “You suggest I renege a vow made in God’s name?”
    Schweiz said, “I do; you must. Listen to me, Flysse—I think of you hourly, and I swear I cannot live lest you agree to my proposal.”
    Now her shock was genuine. “That I allow you to set me up as … as your
doxy
 … your
kept woman
?”
    â€œAs my
mistress
,” Schweiz said. “There’s a difference, you know.”
    â€œI think not, ’sieur. I think you suggest the unthinkable.” She captured his tankard, hoping he’d free her to gain more ale. “I’m not some street woman, to be bought and housed for your pleasure.”
    â€œFor my love,” he argued. “Only for my love.”
    But there was not, now or ever, Flysse thought, any mention of honest marriage. She felt fear stir—Schweiz seemed mightily determined this night, and did he continue in this vein and not leave her go, she thought it should be very hard to rein her temper, her disgust. It should prove very hard not to strike him, and damn the consequences.
    â€œI think,” she said, hoping her voice did not tremble, “that I’d best refill your mug, no?”
    â€œNo,” said Schweiz, “for I’ve made up my mind this day. I
shall
have you, Flysse.”
    He jerked his arm then, tugging her forward and down, reaching out with his free hand to grasp her shoulder so that she was toppled andturned to land across his knees. He set an arm around her and a hand beneath her chin, holding her head still as he planted a beery kiss on her lips.
    Flysse closed her mouth tight and struggled furiously, pounding at his shoulders and back. But he was strong and ignored her blows, endeavoring to force his tongue between her lips even as the hand that clutched her chin descended busily down her body to find its way beneath her skirts.
    Flysse felt nauseated, and the queasy feeling galvanized her to a more ferocious defense of her honor. She raked nails down her attacker’s cheeks, gratified even through her panic to hear Schweiz’s pained cry. His hand left off its clumsy fumblings and rose to touch the wounds. When he saw the blood upon his fingers, he gaped in disbelief. Then snarled in anger.
    â€œGod’s blood, girl, you’ve marked me! You’ll pay for that in kind.”
    He took a handful of her hair and slapped her hard. Flysse felt her eyes water, then shrieked in outrage as he cupped a hand about a breast and squeezed viciously. Dimly, she was aware of an abrupt silence throughout the taproom, so that Schweiz’s panting sounded unnaturally loud. She wondered why no one came to her aid. Surely Master Banlyn would not stand idly by; surely there must be someone would take this creature off her. But none come: there was only Armnory Schweiz’s hand tearing at her bodice and his face descending again. She supposed it was not so unusual, a patron disporting with a tavern wench; likely the other girls would laugh it off and return the kisses, nor object to the hand unlacing her bodice to delve at the flesh beneath. Some, she knew, would invite him to bed.
    But she was not like them. In Cudham she had fought off ’sieur Shaxbrof—and others since coming to the Flying Horse—and she would not willingly submit to attentions so distasteful.