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Chapter Two

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Ale had been a life long friend to Mitchell. It had been ever since stealing into one of his old neighbours' drinking cabinets as a child. He'd fallen in with the wrong lot then, even though his father was a banker, and he was a boy of relatively choice upbringing... or at least he had been. Look where he was now.

The willowed man sat in the back of a tavern's drinking chamber, a tavern called the Frog and the Shield. The thick clouds of pipe smoke and the stale stench of gin wafted together in the muggy air around him. But the other drinkers seemed to care less. They were all gathered in and around their tables, striking the tobacco of their pipes and downing flask after flask of ale. They laughed and chattered with one and other, speaking heartily of their fancies, eyeing and debating the sizeable bosom of the alehouse master's daughter and primary bar wench; Little Annie, as they so called her.

Mitchell sighed. Many a man would feel some shame in drinking alone, as he was, but not him. Not now. He merely took up his flagon to swallow back more liquid sustenance. Before long he had reached the bottom of his supply. Three other flasks sat next to his current empty. Little Annie hadn't come to collect them -- in fact she had been avoiding his table for quite a bit of time, though she had yet to spare him a brief glance through the corner of her eye.

He would have been offended by that if he weren't so caught up in himself. At the moment though all he saw was his empty glass. Mitchell growled under his breath, just about to stand up and call over to Little Annie for another ale, until he overheard a conversation between a bunch of fishermen at a neighbouring table.

"They should work it up their arse!" Shouted one of them. "To fiery hell with Sheerness!"

A second fisherman spoke up. "At this rate we'll be mucking around in a workhouse by winter's fall. I know of a few oystermen who went private and benefited from the Borough Charter. But its been years now and it's going on like this for us? We're finished."

"Better dead here than anywhere else!" Yelled a third. "I'll more than meet my maker with an ale in hand!"

That was when a forth one said something strange. "You know I heard a rumour? I just keep hearing that the mayor was... enchanted."

"You what?"

"You `heard me," responded the forth fisherman. "Some say he was the one that brought all this about by selling down the river to the bastards at the new dockyards. My father used to say that he changed so suddenly, mate, like he was under a spell. When you see how things are right now... you gotta wonder."

The third fisherman snorted. "Heh. Next you'll be telling me ya spotted a mermaid by the pier!"

All the other fishermen around that table burst up with thunderous laughter, quashing the idea as folly. But Mitchell was no where near as sceptic. He stood up from his seat, provoking a quick stare from Little Annie, before staggering over to the fisherman's table and slapping his hands down upon the grain of its ale-stained wood.

"It isn't a fraud!" He shouted, startling everyone. "Hateful things, I say! Everywhere!"

The first fisherman sneered at him. "Is he drunk?"

"He must bloody well be." Replied another.

"I'm right! I know I'm right! I've seen it!" Mitchell then turned to the man whom had brought up the whole story about the former mayor's supposed `enchantment', the fourth of the fisherman at that little table. "You've seen it too, haven't you! You've seen the evil!"

The older man frowned, lifting his ale to his lips. "...I think you'd best be sitting down, mate..."

"Why can't anyone see it?! It's those witches and demons that took my daughter!"

Everyone looked at each other with the exact same thinking in their heads. That this man was roaring drunk. Drunk in the early evening. So they all nodded to each other to confirm what they had to do. Mitchell was confused about it all until they seized him by the arms and legs and dragged him across the tavern hall to the door. Mitchell tried in vain to shrug and toss himself out of their hold, but it was no use. They were burly fishermen and he was a mere shop clerk. Little Annie and the other pub saw the four fisherman carry the forlorn man outside the Frog and the Shield before tossing him roughly into the craggy stone streets. Mitchell landed with a thud, groaning. The fishermen laughed at him and his `drunken' behaviour a spell before returning to the alehouse.

Mitchell sat up when they were gone. He was truly dwelling with the lowest of the low now. The weakened Mitchell buried his face in his hands, feeling the scratch of his coarse stubble against his palms. In four days he had yet to shear his face or even bathe. That little effect reminded him of how unkempt and craggy he must have looked now. No wonder `Little Annie' had been ogling him. His white shirt was rumpled and soil-stained whilst his brown trousers were torn and creased. Flecks of dirt matted the blonde of his hair.

But despite the wretchedness of his appearance that made him look like a tramp, Mitchell's thoughts were focused on everything of value he had lost. Namely his daughter. It had been a long journey from York down to Queenborough but somehow he had done it. But even here he could not escape his memories. His memories of his beautiful little daughter, and the evil sorceress whom had taken her. That and that alone was what had led him to a rutting town like Queenborough, once a shining harbour, now a wasted wretch of a fishing town, all thanks to the silting up of the Yantlet creek. Like a skull stripped of its flesh, Queenborough was no more than a shadow of itself. Colonists probably lived better lives than this. And now here he was, a once good man, living amongst this filth.

Who in his place would not feel embittered?

"I'm so sorry, Tess..." he whimpered to himself. "I'm so sorry..."

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Golden light filtered its way into the carriage as an unbroken morning descended over the dales and moors of Yorkshire. They had ridden all the way out from the murky distance into a place of humanity -- finally. A distracted Ruth and more composed Cassandra sat beside one and other as that carriage pulled along the cobblestone streets of a village. The clattering of the horseshoes against those stones was what alerted Ruth to that. It was the first thing that captured her thoughts since Cassandra's 'proposal'. The young girl forced herself to glance out the window to ignore the probing stares that she and her contours of her body were receiving from her newfound mistress.

She saw them pass by little shops; fishmongers and grocers and such. Chimneys puffed smoke and the little heads of the young boys who still dared to clean them. In the distance the chugging of the watermill could be heard, as well as the polite clucks of the chickens roving about in their hens. It was a typical rural village. It was much like Ruth's own, the home she'd once known, her beloved town of Ellgynberry. But no matter how reminiscent this village was of it, this place was not her own. They passed by a sign eventually. That sign, a wooden plank nailed to a stake in the soil of a dirt path, said 'Roehaven Village'.

Mr. Whyte led the horse-drawn carriage through the quiet streets of Roehaven whilst the common villagers went about their day regardless. Though Ruth would only learn this later it took the three of them all the way to the centre of the township before coming to a timely stop. Cassandra smiled at the youth.

"We are here," she said softly.

Ruth swallowed before looking at her. "...W-where?"

"Why my home, of course. Whistlethorn Manor."

The carriage door on Cassandra's side opened. Ruth turned and saw a young woman, perhaps a year or so older than herself, standing there. This girl smiled up at Cassandra with blushing esteem, the way Ruth remembered her mother looking at her father sometimes, they had that same dreamy smile, like a woman in love.

"Welcome back, Lady Cassandra..." she whispered giddily. When she spotted Ruth however that bright smile of hers went lopsided.

An ever perceptive Cassandra beamed at her, as if to quash whatever misgivings she had, before she leaned down and blessed the broad of girl's forehead with a gentle kiss. Ruth was palpably alarmed. Never in her life had she seen or heard of women like this, women who took no qualm in laying with one and other. In her church studies she'd been told time and time again that such an aberration was a mortal sin -- a sin worthy of true hellfire. Yet this sort of thing was going on here, in Yorkshire, in plain sight? How little she knew of the world...

Cassandra caressed the other girl's cheek. "It is lovely to be back. But I have some business to attend to. Is Beatrice at hand?"

"...No ma'am." She replied.

"Summon her."

The girl curtsied before helping Cassandra step out and onto the smooth grey cobblestones below. The carriage door was slammed shut, leaving Ruth alone in there, but only momentarily, for in the following few moments Mr. Whyte opened her door. His grim face still frightened her.

"Come quickly now," he said.

Ruth took his gloved hand when he offered it. He helped her step out of the carriage and then closed the door behind her. At that point, another young girl, dressed in the same pale ashen frock as the one that had received Cassandra, mounted the seat of the carriage and rode off with it toward the bend. That was when Ruth took in her surroundings. She now found herself stood before the gates of Cassandra's home, Whistlethorn Manor, as she called it. It was the biggest building she had seen in her life -- far larger than even the local magistrate's manor was back home at Ellgynberry village. The smooth cobblestone path (that stretched right downhill to the village) jutted through an immanent garden of finely trimmed grass and overpowering water fountains and extravagant Greco-Roman marble sculptures of women; women carved into nakedness, brazenly so. Tall metal fencing surrounded those gardens and the manor house it delimited. Each pole was spiked and ran this way around the fence length, all aside from the gates themselves, which were shaped in an arch and opened for greeting.

It was a staggeringly beautiful place. You couldn't mistake the wonder of it. If there were any doubts that remained in her mind about Cassandra's aristocratic heritage then they were truly defeated at the mere sight of this place, this magnificent Whistlethorn Manor. While Ruth had a deep gaze of her surrounds Cassandra chatted with Mr. Whyte and the nameless girl.

"We have a new guest," said the Lady of the house. "Prepare a bed for her Nancy, after you bring Beatrice here. She should be in her quarters."

That girl, Nancy, gave Ruth another dark, envious glare before nodding at her mistress with a polite "As you wish, Miss" before hiking up her skirts and scuttling down the pathway to the doors of the manor. Once she was out of sight Cassandra turned to her faithful man-servant, Mr. Whyte.

"As you know I've a sermon tomorrow," she said. "I can't afford any more interruptions, do you understand? See to it that that previous lapse in security... does not happen again. I scarcely want all and sundry gnawing at my doorstep."

He bowed before her. "It shall not, M'lady. I will reinforce the aether shroud at once."

"Good. Be about it."

After one more nod he turned on his heels and walked through the gates of the manor, his heels clicking underneath him. This left Ruth and Cassandra alone together. Ruth was suddenly cautious of this, not knowing what to say or think at this point. What was expected of her here? How many more girls were here? Cassandra had at least two, as Ruth had seen thus far, why did this woman need her?

It was Cassandra's voice that dragged her from that reverie. "...Ruth."

The girl blinked at her name. For some reason she noted that this was the first time Cassandra had uttered it. What a silly thing to think of! Nevertheless the older woman approached her, removing her gloves. She had the most beautiful, sleek, slender fingers. A true noblewoman's hands.

"I see you are lost," spoke Lady Dawes. "But know this. There is no better place for someone like you. Had we lived in an era prior to this, you'd have found yourself darkening the sky with your ashes... at the flame of a stake."

Ruth felt protest in her gut yet stumbled to voice it. "I... I am not a..."

"A witch?" Her tone was baked with dry sarcasm. "Well you've certainly no familiar."

Did she find that at all funny? Why was this a joke? Ruth looked away, wanting to speak her piece in anger, but she hadn't the stomach for it. How could she? Her parents had always told her to be respectful to her betters. Cassandra Dawes was clearly her better. Naturally thinking of her parents once again reminded her of her own sins. If Cassandra's... `taste' for young girls was a crime then Ruth was truly more criminal than her. It made her heart break, to think of what she herself had done...

"Ruth."

Once again Cassandra's slow, velvety voice dragged her out of herself. She looked up, more attentively than before, at Cassandra's behest. "...Y-yes?"

"It is time you understood what is required of you as a maiden of my manor. I cannot teach you these things myself so I will have my servant Beatrice do that work in my stead. You might find some difficulty in it first, but... I am sure that, given the right amount of time, you shall be quite dismissive of any other life you had outside of these walls."

Every fibre of her being sought to defy that as a falsehood. But she hadn't the time to think it. Just as that was said, a figure approached the pair of them from the manor house. It was yet another woman, only this one was clearly older than both herself and Cassandra, perhaps in her early forties. But what struck Ruth sooner than that was this woman's height. She was very tall, unfathomably so, well over six feet, even taller than her father and brother had been; encumbered with broad shoulders, quasi-muscular forearms, and powerful, vain-laden hands -- hands that could effortlessly crush an apple into pulp.

When Ruth saw that this woman was being flanked by Nancy (who looked much like a gnat in comparison to her) she deduced correctly that this woman was in fact Beatrice, the woman that Cassandra spoke of, the one that was to indoctrinate her into the ways of Whistlethorn. The two came upon her and Cassandra but with separate attentions; Nancy rushed to her mistress's side whilst Beatrice inspected Ruth heartily, her dark eyes roving up and down, absorbing her nubile young form.

"This is the one?" Beatrice questioned.

Cassandra nodded. "Yes. Can you see to it?"

"Quite easily. And is she to stay indefinitely?"

"Certainly."

Beatrice crossed her arms then. "Very well. It will be done, M'lady."

"Excellent. I must be on my way now. Come along, Nancy."

With glee the girl did what she was told. In fact as she left with her mistress, Nancy glanced back at Ruth with a contemptuous glare, as if to say, `I am her favoured, you've no right to her'. How confused could one girl be about the situation? Ruth's intent was not to steal away Cassandra -- far from it. Her only intent, whether she knew it or not, was survival. She had no choice. She had to take this offer to live. Once both Cassandra and Nancy had retired to the halls of Whistlethorn, Beatrice and Ruth were left alone. Then, when Ruth tried to ask her what would happen now, she was dragged forth by one of the older woman's mighty arms. Ruth was brought to Beatrice's toned body with a yelp.

"W-what are you...?"

Beatrice glared down at her. "Whilst here... you shall not question your superiors, especially not Lady Cassandra. If you speak out of turn or cause mischief, you will be punished. Do you understand?"

Ruth, scared by the strength of Beatrice's arm curled around her waist, responded. "Y-yes."

"Good," Beatrice then released her. "Follow me."

The juggernaut of a woman strode through the gates just as Cassandra, Nancy and Mr. Whyte had all done. Ruth, after taking a moment to compose herself, followed her. They walked all the way down to the magnificent arch doors of the manor and into the foyer. Their footsteps echoed against the chequered floor as they walked down the lavishly decorated hallway and turned a corner into a spiralling stairwell. Ruth followed Beatrice up its steep marble steps, making sure to hold onto the balustrade less she lose her grip. Eventually they climbed two floors up to a deeper corridor above. This one was unlike the one above it. Where that had wall-mounted Renaissance-style portraits and antique muskets this thinner, longer corridor had none. Ruth followed Beatrice's lead all the way to the end of the corridor until they came to a door. Beatrice turned its knob, stepped inside and gestured for Ruth to do the same.

It was an unusual, hexagon-shaped room. It was floored with tiles and in its centre there was a square space in its ground filled to the rim with warm water, a kind of bath, one big enough to hold twenty girls at a time. Its waters exuded exotic fragrances as steam rose from it. Ruth noticed that the walls had golden rungs on them, from which soft cotton towels dangled. At the rear there were white marble basins and taps. There were racks and racks of soaps, tonics, oils and creams; all to cleanse the skin with. Furthermore the room had potted plants, stained-glass lanterns and verdant landscape paintings to decorate it. Bright morning light filtered in through the wide half-circular panes of glass built into the room's front wall -- windows that gave a brilliant view of the manor gardens, of the village, and of the surrounding Yorkshire hills on the horizon. It was a very copious, very sensual private bathhouse.

"Now then," Beatrice said, turning to Ruth. "Take off your clothes."

"W-what?"

Ruth was positively incredulous. Had Beatrice actually asked her to... undress? In front of her? It was no surprise that she wanted Ruth to bathe after being out in the moors for so long, her odour must have been positively wretched. But why did she have to do this in front of someone else? Why did she have to disrobe in front of Beatrice?

It seemed that her sudden reluctance was not the reaction Beatrice had wanted. Quite the opposite in fact. The taller, burly woman slipped her eyes shut, irritably. "I think I informed you earlier that you aren't to question your superiors. If you question me now I shall certainly hold to my warning of punishment. Now. I'll not tell you again. Disrobe. This instant."

For a moment, with the way Beatrice sounded, gruff but yet somewhat eloquent, Ruth had to wonder if her threats were even all that serious. She hadn't even explained what 'punishment' was. But then she saw her eyes. Beatrice's cold eyes flashed open with the passing of mere seconds to reveal a hidden, subterranean, menacing brutality. Her eyes were just... so utterly chill... and the moment she saw that chill Ruth knew that this was a woman not be trifled with. Cold fear made her accept her fate.

The girl slipped her eyes shut with a sob, swallowing her own indignation, as her fingers came up to the first button of her collar. Her fingertips fumbled to unhook them from their cotton slips under the watchful eye of Beatrice. The first one soon popped out. Then she went to the second. That popped out too. Ruth's hands then reached around her back to the lace that was tying the back end of her dark green dress' collar. She pulled its loops out, revealing the tight flesh of her swan-like neck. Then Ruth grabbed the shoulders of her dress into bunches in her fists before pulling it up, off of her body. Unbeknownst to her Beatrice lustfully licked at her lips as the dress rose up her slim legs, thighs, stomach, breasts, neck and finally her head.

Now standing in her under-linen, and all the more conscious of it with Beatrice staring at her, Ruth folded her dress up and put in down neatly on the floor tiles. Then she raised both of her legs to pull off her shoes, revealing her little feet to the bathhouse. She put them next to the folded dress. Then there was a pause. Ruth hesitated to go any further, pausing at her last bit of clothing, her underthings. But Beatrice's gaze was one of iron and remained on her, quite unmoving. Once again Ruth was forced to swallow down her indecision to the whims of this garish woman. She reached around her back again and untied all the knots of her under-linen from her nape to the small of her back. Then with a slow motion she pushed the freed cloth down her skin all the way to her ankles -- and stepped out of them.

This left her utterly naked.

Beatrice's jaw twitched at this most splendiferous sight. Her skin was of a milky ivory, clearly supple but also delicate to the touch, the kind of skin that easily flowered red with merely the slightest of strikes. Her figure was equally as charming. It was the figure of a girl just a few years shy of flowering into womanhood. Ruth Whitley was unquestionably lovely and Beatrice devoured every inch of her. Her small but firm little breasts topped with little nipples of bright pink hue, already swelling into erect stiffness; her flat stomach, so tight and level you could eat off of it; her pert little buttocks, so rounded and delicate that it made Beatrice wonder how many strikes of the hand it could take; her long, shapely legs, slim and graceful, coming into their own; even her handsome little feet, their toes curling against the cold touch of the bathhouse floor. All the more attractive was her face. Though enamoured with soil smudges from her time in the moors, Ruth's visage was alarmingly striking. She possessed a sweet heart-shaped face. Her pale baby-soft cheeks had turned rouge with humiliation. Her jewel green eyes were lowered in shame and her lip shuddered with nervousness.

Beatrice's hard stare turned into a prolonged grin of lust, that Ruth quivered at. She wouldn't see the lion's share of time with this girl, that luxury was reserved for Cassandra, but Beatrice was resolved to seize all the enjoyment she could take from Ruth beforehand.

So she advanced on the girl. Ruth looked up at the taller woman as she approached. What was she doing? It was felt firsthand when Beatrice pulled Ruth to her with one powerful arm. A yelp escaped her. Ruth's naked form was sandwiched between Beatrice's towering figure and the muscled arm wrapped around her lower back. She struggled reflexively, recalling at once the way Cassandra had kissed her in the carriage ride down here; how intruded upon she felt. This was no different. And as she looked up into Beatrice's eyes she could see the same sort of fixation, that same sinful lust.

Eventually Ruth's wiggling grew tiresome. "...Ugh. Hold still!"

The girl froze at Beatrice's bark. Not once had she ever liked hearing people yell at her. It made her close off, palpitate and submit. So as she fell still Beatrice seized her opportunity and cupped the girl's left breast. Ruth gasped. Beatrice's hand was so big and her tit so small that it literally disappeared into her palm. It had an immediate effect on the girl, one that was twofold, one of both humiliation and pleasure. She'd hardly recognized it at first. All she was aware of was the indignation of it, and the cruel intent, to defy God's word and partake in such filthy behaviour. But then she noted Beatrice's caress of her breast. Her grip was like iron but Beatrice moulded Ruth's small mound with the soft care of a handmaiden, caressing it. The woman's mighty fingertips trenched its skin, leaving a little redness in their wake.

Ruth at once could not deny the humiliation being seized like this. It was so sinful, she said to herself, what would the chaplain back in Ellgynberry have said if he saw this? Nevertheless she could neither deny how... pleasurable it felt, to have Beatrice kneed her. It made her loosen somewhat, slackening in Beatrice's grip, unintentionally offering up more of herself. The older woman took that invitation without qualm. And she relished it. The effect she had upon Ruth was manifest when she felt the girl's fully stiffened nipple poke into her palm. Though her pink aureoles were quite small, perhaps slightly smaller in diameter than a sovereign, Ruth's nipples were extremely prominent and clearly highly sensitive to the touch. Beatrice drew back her fingers again but went on to grab that swollen bud. Ruth moaned, delicately.

Her first vocal reaction. Beatrice's grin widened at the victory then plucked at the nipple with her thumb and index finger, twisting it slightly. It made the young girl tremble again, but for an entirely different reason. A wave of warmth overtook her. She felt it surge over her like an inundating tide, disrupting the inklings in her head that muttered reprimand of the sinful nature of both Beatrice's handling of her... and her new taste for it. Before long that heat started to centre in around her crotch. Ruth had never experienced anything like this in her past. It was an abomination. But for some reason... the way Beatrice was touching her... it felt good...

...and then it stopped.

Beatrice released Ruth's breast and nipple all of a sudden, the girl's eyes broke open, puzzled and confused. Why had Beatrice stopped? Then the fog of arousal that had little Ruth had been abruptly possessed by began to clear. A deeper question arose shortly afterward. Why did she want Beatrice to continue? Why was she enjoying such a deeply perverse act? How was a girl so readily knowledgeable about the Bible so taken in by another woman's sin? All this left her with a sense of shame. She had been touched in an overtly sexual nature by another woman and she had started to enjoy it. What was wrong with her?

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* This chapter opened with the introduction of the character of 'Mitchell', who will have his own segment in this story. But as you might have guessed, the brunt of the plot development takes place within this Mitchell segment, so if you want to bypass them entirely feel free to do so. You don't really need to read them to follow the rest of the story, they just set up the final chapters.