her shoulders she wore the tatters of her nightdress, and her lips and breasts were red with the pressure of Kelven’s admiration.
“Madam,” said Reave courteously. He appeared to regard her nakedness in the same way he had regarded Jillet’s torment. “You are the widow Huchette?”
She stared at him, too numb with horror to speak. In strict honesty, however, her horror had nothing to do with him. It was a natural consequence of the Divestulata’s lovemaking. Now that he was done with her, he had perhaps sent one of his grooms or servingmen or business associates to enjoy her similarly.
“You have nothing to fear from me,” her visitor informed her in a kindly tone. “I am Reave. Men call me ‘Reave the Just.’”
The widow was young, foreign, and ignorant of the world; but none of those hindrances had sufficed to block her from hearing the stories which surrounded him. He was the chief legend of the North Counties: he had been discussed in her presence ever since Rudolph had brought her to Forebridge. On that basis, she had understood the danger of Jillet’s claim when she had first met him; and on that same basis she now uttered a small gasp of surprise. Then she became instantly wild with hope. Before he could speak again, she began to sob, “Oh, sir, bless Heaven that you have come! You must help me, you must! My life is anguish, and I can bear no more! He rapes me and rapes me, he forces me to do the most vile things at his whim, we are not wed, do not believe him if he says that we are wed, my husband is dead, and I desire no other, oh, sir! you must help me!”
“I will consider that, madam,” Reave responded as though he were unmoved. “You must consider, however, that there are many kinds of help. Why have you not helped yourself?”
Opening her mouth to pour out a torrent of protest, the widow stopped suddenly, and a deathly pallor blanched her face. “Help myself?” she whispered. “Help myself?”
Reave fixed his clear gaze upon her and waited.
“Are you mad?” she asked, still whispering.
“Perhaps.” He shrugged. “But I have not been raped by Kelven Divestulata. I do not beg succor. Why have you not helped yourself?”
“Because I am a woman!” she protested, not in scorn, but piteously. “I am helpless. I have no strength of arm, no skill with weapons, no knowledge of the world, no friends. He has made himself master of everything which might once have aided me. It would be a simpler matter for me to tear apart these walls than to defend myself against him.”
Again, Reave shrugged. “Still he is a rapist—and likely a murderer. And I see that you are not bruised. Madam, why do you not resist him? Why do you not cut his throat while he sleeps? Why do you not cut your own, if his touch is so loathsome to you?”
The look of horror which she now turned on him was unquestionably personal, caused by his questions, but he was not deterred by it. Instead, he took a step closer to her.
“I offend you, madam. But I am Reave the Just, and I do not regard who is offended. I will search you further.” His eyes replied to her horror with a flame which she had not seen in them before, a burning of clear rage. “Why have you done nothing to help Jillet? He came to you in innocence and ignorance as great as your own. His torment is as terrible as yours. Yet you crouch there on your soft bed and beg for rescue from an oppressor you do not oppose, and you care nothing what becomes of him.”
The widow may have feared that he would step closer to her still and strike her, but he did not. Instead, he turned away.
At the door, he paused to remark, “As I have said, there are many kinds of help. Which do you merit, madam?”
He departed her bedchamber as silently as he had entered it, leaving her alone.
The time now was near the end of the day, and still neither Kelven himself nor his dogs nor his servingmen knew that Reave the Just moved freely though the manor house. They had no
“Madam,” said Reave courteously. He appeared to regard her nakedness in the same way he had regarded Jillet’s torment. “You are the widow Huchette?”
She stared at him, too numb with horror to speak. In strict honesty, however, her horror had nothing to do with him. It was a natural consequence of the Divestulata’s lovemaking. Now that he was done with her, he had perhaps sent one of his grooms or servingmen or business associates to enjoy her similarly.
“You have nothing to fear from me,” her visitor informed her in a kindly tone. “I am Reave. Men call me ‘Reave the Just.’”
The widow was young, foreign, and ignorant of the world; but none of those hindrances had sufficed to block her from hearing the stories which surrounded him. He was the chief legend of the North Counties: he had been discussed in her presence ever since Rudolph had brought her to Forebridge. On that basis, she had understood the danger of Jillet’s claim when she had first met him; and on that same basis she now uttered a small gasp of surprise. Then she became instantly wild with hope. Before he could speak again, she began to sob, “Oh, sir, bless Heaven that you have come! You must help me, you must! My life is anguish, and I can bear no more! He rapes me and rapes me, he forces me to do the most vile things at his whim, we are not wed, do not believe him if he says that we are wed, my husband is dead, and I desire no other, oh, sir! you must help me!”
“I will consider that, madam,” Reave responded as though he were unmoved. “You must consider, however, that there are many kinds of help. Why have you not helped yourself?”
Opening her mouth to pour out a torrent of protest, the widow stopped suddenly, and a deathly pallor blanched her face. “Help myself?” she whispered. “Help myself?”
Reave fixed his clear gaze upon her and waited.
“Are you mad?” she asked, still whispering.
“Perhaps.” He shrugged. “But I have not been raped by Kelven Divestulata. I do not beg succor. Why have you not helped yourself?”
“Because I am a woman!” she protested, not in scorn, but piteously. “I am helpless. I have no strength of arm, no skill with weapons, no knowledge of the world, no friends. He has made himself master of everything which might once have aided me. It would be a simpler matter for me to tear apart these walls than to defend myself against him.”
Again, Reave shrugged. “Still he is a rapist—and likely a murderer. And I see that you are not bruised. Madam, why do you not resist him? Why do you not cut his throat while he sleeps? Why do you not cut your own, if his touch is so loathsome to you?”
The look of horror which she now turned on him was unquestionably personal, caused by his questions, but he was not deterred by it. Instead, he took a step closer to her.
“I offend you, madam. But I am Reave the Just, and I do not regard who is offended. I will search you further.” His eyes replied to her horror with a flame which she had not seen in them before, a burning of clear rage. “Why have you done nothing to help Jillet? He came to you in innocence and ignorance as great as your own. His torment is as terrible as yours. Yet you crouch there on your soft bed and beg for rescue from an oppressor you do not oppose, and you care nothing what becomes of him.”
The widow may have feared that he would step closer to her still and strike her, but he did not. Instead, he turned away.
At the door, he paused to remark, “As I have said, there are many kinds of help. Which do you merit, madam?”
He departed her bedchamber as silently as he had entered it, leaving her alone.
The time now was near the end of the day, and still neither Kelven himself nor his dogs nor his servingmen knew that Reave the Just moved freely though the manor house. They had no
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