The Duke and the Enchantress

Chapter Ten - The Birth of Darkness

***trigger warning*** This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence which may be disturbing to some readers.

Willow ate slowly and carefully this time.  It seemed that the cook had take the leftovers from the dinner and turned it into a thin, brothy soup.  The hunk of bread was turning a little stale, but she softened it by dipping in the soup.  The ginger tea was spicy, but somehow it warmed and relaxed her stomach.  After half a bowl of soup, and half the cup of tea, Willow laid down her spoon. 

“Thank you, your grace, I’m satisfied.” She said tightly, as though it killed her to address him politely.

“You are okay this time?” He actually seemed genuinely concerned, which was out of character for the duke. 

“Yes.” she avoided his eyes, and pushed herself to her feet.  “I’m ready to retire to my rooms now.” 

This time he made no attempt to stop her, but fell in step beside her.  “I will escort you back to your rooms.” 

“Not necessary.  Justine can show me the way.”  In fact, the small maid had fallen asleep outside of the duke’s chambers.  As they opened up the door, she jumped awake and rubbed at her eyes.

The duke's lips tightened into a flat line.  “Fine.  Good night, madam.” 

She looked at him with that flat, expressionless gaze, and barely nodded her head before she turned and followed the maid back down the dark halls.  Justine carried a candlestick that barely illuminated the way.  He watched them until they had disappeared and then shook his head.  “Insufferable woman,” he grumbled, and then shut his door. 

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Justine led them through the maze of halls and stairs until they came to the dark and cold wing where Willow’s chambers were.  However, when they opened the door to the room, the fire was blazing, and the room was warm and bright with several candelabras.  The baby’s things had been shifted into the room, including the ornately carved wooden cradle.  The thing was massive, it must have taken four men to move it.  A rocking chair had been moved close to the fire, and that’s where the nurse was at present, rocking the baby who was crying petulantly.   

“Ah, you’ve come at last.” The woman stood, and yawned.  “Tonight I will sleep soundly in my own bed!  Thank the stars in heaven!”  She pushed the red-faced infant into Willow’s arms and hurried out of the room before anyone could tell her differently.   

Willow stared down at the baby and sighed.  "Now I must pay for my meal, I suppose,” she mumbled.  She went about the task of nursing the newborn, and then changing out the wet and soiled linen wrappings.  Justine was practically falling asleep on her feet, so Willow dismissed her.  Justine gratefully left her charge and went into her small adjoining room to sleep. 

Violet, now fed and dry and comfortable had settled down, her purple eyes watching Willow silently, as though memorizing the features of her face. Willow moved to lay her in the cradle, but as soon as her hands left the little body, Violet let out a wail of protest.  “What’s the matter little one?  You don’t want to be alone in this beautiful cradle?  I wonder how many generations of Connors have slept in this boat?  I bet your father, at least.” 

It was hard to picture the duke as a child, let alone an innocent infant.  Willow couldn't picture him without that broody frown on his face.  Rocking the cradle did not sooth the baby, so Willow lifted her in her arms and carried her back to the bed.  “You know they tell mothers never to sleep with their infants, lest they roll over on them and smother them.” Willow kept talking quietly to the baby.  She extinguished the candles so that the only light in the room came from the flickering flames in the small fireplace.  She slid beneath the covers on the bed.  “But you know what I say?” She rolled onto her side and tucked the child close to her.  “Mankind would have been extinguished a long time ago if mothers had a habit of crushing their newborns.” 

Although she was thoroughly exhausted, Willow laid awake for a long time, her thoughts in turmoil.  She had resigned herself to death in the dungeons.  Being dragged out by the duke was an unexpected reprieve, but it was also felt like a new and different kind of torture.   

When she closed her eyes, she began to relive that night again, just as she had ever single night since the birth.

Labor pains had come on suddenly with the breaking of her waters.  She had crawled as far away from the bars as she could, into the darkest corner, and forced herself to keep quiet, so the guards wouldn’t know her labor had commenced.  She bit the insides of her cheeks until they bled, but she labored in silence.  But when the boy-child finally slid out into the cold and damp world, he let out a hearty and indignant cry that alerted the wardens.  They came and stared and whispered amongst each other.   

“What do we do?” 

“Better fetch the bishop.” 

At the mention of the bishop her blood ran cold.  They left her alone for a time.  She delivered the placenta uneventfully. She had nothing to cut the cord with, so she tore it with her own teeth.  The child had no desire to nurse, but she kept it tucked in her shift, under her breasts, just trying to keep the thing warm.  She felt ambivalent toward the infant.  She didn't want it, but how could she hate it?  He hadn't asked to come into the world. 

She didn’t know how much time had passed, an hour, perhaps two.  She heard the voices, the crying, men begging for mercy from the bishop.  She saw the torchlight moving and flickering on the slick, damp walls.  She shrank away as far as she could as the fat bishop came into view, holding his blue robes like a woman would hold her skirts, trying to keep it from dragging in the filth on the dungeon floors.  The locks clanked open ominously, and the door creaked as it swung on ancient hinges.   

“What evil sorcery is this?” the bishop growled. 

She said nothing, but stared at the man, her stomach roiling with so much hatred that she wanted to vomit. 

“w***e of Satan,” he spat.  He turned to the guards, “Tonight you have seen the power of evil in your midst.  A child conceived of demons, and birthed from the cursed womb of a witch.” 

In the flickering light, she saw the guards shift and exchange uncomfortable glances.  They knew damn well how the child was conceived, and exactly what demons had fathered it.  Likely the bishop also knew.  He wasn't as stupid as the superstitions he perpetuated.  His interpretation of events absolved the rapists and heaped more crimes upon the woman he called a witch. 

“The child is evil incarnate; it must not be allowed to live.”  He waved his hand, his many rings sparkling in the firelight.  “Destroy it, before it brings curses upon us all.” 

“Uh, bishop?” 

“Are you deaf man?  Get rid of it, immediately.” 

One of the guards, who perhaps still retained some shred of humanity, backed away.  But the other two pushed into the cavernous cell.  One of them grabbed her roughly by the hair, while the other ripped open her shift.  He tore the newborn out of her hands, holding it by the ankles, so the child hung upside down, wailing, its tiny arms shaking.  She should have looked away, she should have closed her eyes, but she couldn’t.  Something in her made her watch as he swung the baby, just as one swings a rabbit by its hind legs, and bashed its head against the wall.  There was a dull crack, and the child was instantly silent and limp. 

Willow didn’t want the child, didn’t love it, but still hot tears ran down her cheeks.  But more than grief, they were tears of rage.  If she didn’t die in this hell then she swore on everything that was sacred... she would kill the bishop. 

“What do I do with it now?” the guard asked stupidly.   

“Burn it.” the bishop turned on his heel and hiked up his robes even higher as he stepped over the threshold.  “And if anyone asks, the child was born dead.” 

Willow squeezed her eyes shut... and when she opened them again, she was back in the clean bed, her arm curved protectively around Violet.  Darkness was blooming in her chest like a black rose, the petals opening and spreading slowly.  She reached down and stroked the child’s ivory cheek.  “I’m going to become everything he ever accused me of,” she whispered to the baby.