She looked into his hazel eyes, which were misty with his admitted emotion. How could she ever have doubted, she wondered? "I will hold you to that promise, my lord husband," she said. "Yesterday, today, tomorrow… always!”

EPILOGUE

LONDON 1159

The house on Trollops Lane, just outside the Aldersgate, was one of the finest that had ever been built in or about London. It was not wood, like the majority of the homes and shops in the town. It was built of stone, and had a slate roof unlikely to catch fire. It had a garden behind it, and it was rumored that the lady Strumpet, for that was the name the owner of the house went by, owned the fields beyond as well.

The door was kept by two dark-skinned Moors, eunuchs it was said. They wore bright red baggy silk pants, and vests cut from cloth-of-gold that were embroidered and bejeweled. A wide gold sash was wrapped about their waists. From those sashes hung sharp-looking curved scimitars. Inside the house the decor was expensive, elegant, and very lush in the Oriental fashion. It was like no other house in England. The serving girls were all extremely pretty, and the whores full-bodied and very willing, not to mention most beautiful. Beautiful women cost far more to lie with than ordinary wenches. The house on Trollops Lane was the finest whorehouse in the world, or so it was said. Any and every kind of pleasure was offered to the gentlemen who called. They had but to ask.

The house stood a full four stories tall. On the fourth floor the servants lived comfortably. On the third and second floors were the comfortable rooms in which the women entertained their clients. The first floor was used for greeting and entertainments. There was a deep stone cellar, too. It was there fine wine was kept, as were rooms for patrons whose tastes ran to the more exotic, the painful, and the bizzare. Yet so well built was the house that the sounds of such forced pleasure never arose from that cellar.

Entertainments were always unique and daring. My lady Strumpet had a great and colorful imagination. The most popular evening each month was when a virgin was offered up to the house’s patrons. The maiden was brought to the hall and placed upon the high board. She was always fully garbed to begin with. Sometimes she was dressed like a lady of the court. Other times a merchant or a farmer’s daughter. Sometimes the virgin was gowned as a nun with her beads or as a gypsy girl. The patrons would eagerly pay to have articles of the girl’s clothing removed until she was quite naked. Then the bidding would begin in earnest for her maidenhead. The winner would be given his prize for the entire night, but only after the innocent was publicly deflowered by her patron upon the high board. That way all saw that when the lady Strumpet offered a man a virgin, he got a virgin. The virgin was always lightly drugged to assure her cooperation; but some still struggled and shrieked, adding to the evening’s amusement.

It was even said that King Henry, whose carnal appetites were well-known, patronized the house on Trollops Lane when he was in London. The queen, while very beautiful and said to be every bit as passionate as her husband, had been kept busy birthing heirs for their vast domains. Alienor of Aquitane had come to England with her firstborn child, Prince William, and a full belly. The little prince had since died, but the queen had given England three more princes, Henry, Richard, and Geoffrey, as well as a princess, Matilda. If she had ever heard of the house on Trollops Lane, she was too well mannered and, at that point in her life, too confident of her husband’s love even to mention it.

It was but two hours until the dawn. The house was very quiet now, the patrons having taken their pleasure and gone their way, or having decided to remain for the whole night. The lady Strumpet sat within her locked apartment, counting the many coins taken in that night. She was attired in a diaphanous chamber robe, for the evening was warm and her body was still a good one. It amused her to greet her guests dressed so provocatively. Many of them openly desired her, but it was she who chose her lovers. She never retained them for too long a time, lest they grow complacent and certain of her affections. She wanted no man to have charge over her ever again.

"You are as beautiful as ever, my pretty bitch," a familiar and certainly most unwelcome voice said to her, breaking the soothing silence.

Isleen turned slowly about, feigning surprise. "Who are you?" she said, pretending she had never before seen this man.

Merin ap Owen laughed. "Do not dissemble with me, my pretty bitch. I have come for my monies. You have invested my gold quite nicely, my dear. Two bags, I believe it was. I shall have three off of you, for certainly you did not borrow it from me and expect me not to charge you interest." He was garbed all in black.

"I do not know what you mean," Isleen said loftily, still attempting to pretend she was ignorant of his purpose in coming.

His gloved hand shot out and grasped her by the neck. "I will have the gold you stole from me, my pretty bitch!" His fingers tightened about her throat just enough to give pain, but not enough to seriously injure her. "I have tracked you these five years, Isleen. You have been a most wily vixen to bring to ground, but now the game is up. Give me my gold!" He released her so she might speak again.

Isleen de Warenne, the lady Strumpet, rubbed her injured flesh, all the while glaring at him furiously. She was alone. Her bodyguards were sleeping on the fourth floor. Her rooms, like all the others in this house, were virtually soundproof. "When I left you, my lord," she said acidly, "I gave you something better than gold. Something you desperately desired, but were too cowardly to take for yourself. I gave you Eleanore de Montfort. Did she weep and scream when you raped her? Did you enjoy her? Or did you learn that she was a very great disappointment before you finally killed her?" Isleen smiled nastily

He looked at her with distaste now. She had aged, and was no longer quite the young beauty she had been when she was his leman. "I did not rape the lady Eleanore," he told her, smiling. "Did you think me so foolish, I would not divine your plan for revenge? I returned her to her husband as unscathed as the day I took her by force from Ashlin. It was not her fault that you murdered my courier and took his place. It was not her fault that you stole the ransom her husband sent for her release. Now, give me my gold, and I shall be on my way. We will not meet again."

"I will give you nothing!" she snapped at him. "I am a powerful woman, my lord Merin! The greatest lords in the land come to my house to be entertained. The king himself has been in my bed! If you try to take what is mine, I shall ask the king for his help. He will give it to me. He has said he has never known a woman like me," she concluded proudly, looking at him defiantly. "You are naught but bandit scum."

"It is true, Isleen, that I am a bandit lord, but you are a thief, and there are many who will attest to it. The king is a fair man. If he hears your true story, he will clap you in the prison. When Sim of Ashlin came that night to Gwynfr to learn why the lady had not been released, we pieced together what had happened. Under the circumstances I could not retain custody of my captive. I have sought for you ever since. My men left me two years ago to return to Gwynfr, certain you were dead or gone to Normandy. But I knew better, and I persisted. Now I have found you, and I want what is mine. Give it to me willingly, or I will take it by force."

"You romantic Welsh fool!" Isleen hissed at him, hearing only one thing. That he had left Eleanore de Montfort untouched. She had been certain her enemy was long dead. "To idolize Eleanore de Montfort, and why? She is like all women, my lord, and all women are whores at heart. Even your precious lady Eleanore!"

He hit her with his open palm. The force was such that he actually heard her neck snap, saw the surprise in her blue eyes as she realized she was a dead woman. Then Isleen crumpled to the floor.

Merin ap Owen bent and sought for a pulse, but there was none. Isleen de Warenne was quite dead. With a fatalistic shrug, he stepped over her body and walked to the fireplace. Counting over from the center stone atop the arch, he slowly pulled the heavy gray block from its place. He had been watching Isleen for several nights now to learn her routine, so his visit might be a simple one. He had seen through the window how each night she opened her hidey-hole, and placed the ill-gotten gains of the evening inside.

Now, reaching deep, he drew out half a dozen bags of coins. She probably had a goldsmith with whom she deposited the bulk of her funds. This would be the taking from just the past few nights. There were also several items of fine jewelry. He casually pocketed them. They would not do Isleen any good now. Replacing the stone carefully in its niche, Merin ap Owen gathered up the several bags of coins. Blowing out the candles and snuffing the lamps in the rooms, he went to the window through which he had entered. Opening the shutters, he stepped through. He turned a moment before reclosing the shutters to view Isleen’s fallen body a final time. "Farewell, my pretty bitch," he whispered to her. And then he was gone into the night, well pleased with himself.

He had kept his promise to Eleanore de Montfort. She would never again be troubled by Isleen de Warenne. His pretty bitch was now in hell awaiting him, but perhaps he would not join her one day. Did not the lady Eleanore say even he could be delivered from the devil if he would but repent of his sins and wickedness? Had not she believed there was good in him? Five years on the road had taught him that to be alone and filled with evil was not a good thing. He did not know if he could ever be really good; but his mission fulfilled now, he knew he wanted to try. Reaching his horse, he stowed his booty in the saddlebags and set off down the old road called Watling Street, stopping six times along the way over the next few days to lay a bag of gold upon the altar of churches that he chose at random. The jewelry he left at the last church.

He moved northwest for the next several days, finally reaching the town of Shrewsbury. There he sold his horse and gear, pocketing the small profit for the final gift he meant to make. He walked through the town to his destination where he knocked upon the gates that opened to reveal a brown-robed monk.

"I wish to devote the rest of my life to God, good brother," Merin ap Owen said, "but I do not know if God will want so great a sinner as me. I have robbed, and murdered, and violated the fair sex. I am the worst of the worst, and I have escaped punishment for all my wickedness. Now I wish to repent, if the abbey will have me. My name is Merin ap Owen."

"God is always happy to welcome a repentant sinner, Merin ap Owen. Come in! Come in!" the monk cheerfully beckoned him. "We have some as bad as you here already. You are not the only man to offend our Lord. Still, I am certain God has been waiting for you for some time now!" And smiling, he ushered the penitent through the abbey gates.

The thought crept into his head unbidden that the lady Eleanore would be surprised-or would she? Seek the good in you for the sake of your immortal soul, she had told him. Well, he was going to try. A smile on his face, Merin ap Owen followed the brown-robed monk into the cloister, and into a new and better life.


Bertrice Small

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