I Will Never Forget Her
Five months ago, Insane-Li asked me to write an entry for her about being in love. This presented me with a problem, for I have never been in love, and my sexual experience is zero. At first I attempted to fob her off with an entry which, I have to admit, did not meet her requirements. In the comment she left at the time, while thanking me very politely, she added:
Okay, so it wasn’t exactly what I demanded, so we will have to get the leather straps out later…
I thought it better not to say that I liked the leather straps, so I reverted to an idea I had briefly considered when she first mentioned the matter: to write a parody of a piece of romantic fiction instead. I should warn you that it is a parody in the same spirit as films such as Blazing Saddles, and is not a subtle, biting satire; indeed there are points in which it descends into vulgar humour.
‘He trusts you,’ Emily said, looking at me with her head slightly tilted, running her fingers through her long, dark hair with slender fingers, an implied question in her wide, innocent eyes.
‘Yes, my Lady’ I said shortly, keeping my face expressionless as I stood rigidly by the side of the entrance to her room. As the man in charge of the safety – and, perhaps more to the point, the fidelity – of my Lord’s young bride, the statement was superfluous. Someone as ruthless and jealous as Earl Hugo Lestrange would not have chosen anyone to guard his wife unless he could rely upon him to keep his hands to himself.
Emily Lestrange did not at first appear to be the cause of a husband’s jealous regard: only sixteen years old, with pale, smooth skin, eyes of cerulean blue, soft pink lips, and long, smooth auburn hair framing her oval face before flowing down her back to her waist, she was not everyone’s ideal of beauty. However, despite her lack of physical appeal, Hugo needed a male heir, and he needed to be sure that that heir was genuinely his child. So, even though it was rumoured that he had not bedded her yet since their wedding night, it was with almost obsessive care that he had her guarded.
And, as Emily had observed, he knew she would be safe with me. Ah yes, how well he knew.
‘I can remember my nurse reading a book of tales to me,’ Emily said, eyeing me with interest. ‘It was set in Araby, I think…’ she paused and picked her nose thoughtfully. ‘Anyway, the king’s wives and concubines were guarded by eunuchs. My nurse said that eunuchs didn’t have beards or moustaches, like you.’
‘A trait from my mother’s side of the family,’ I said shortly, caught off-guard by her question, and self-consciously rubbing my smooth-skinned chin. ‘She rarely had to shave either.’
My voice was curt, for I hoped to end her line of enquiry before it became too personal, or indeed anatomical. Fortunately she seemed to realise she was touching on something sensitive, and did not pursue the subject.
‘Guard,’ Emily began again, moving up closer to me, her inquisitiveness aroused rather than dampened by my terse reply. She hesitated, and looked slightly downward, made shy by her intimacy. ‘Or may I call you Tristan?’ In the weeks since the wedding she had seemed to be increasingly in need of someone to talk to, and evidently I was the nearest she felt she had to a male confidant.
‘I am your servant, my Lady,’ I said, a trifle more stiffly than I had intended. ‘You may call me whatever you wish.’
Something of my bitterness must have been reflected in my face, for she looked at me keenly. ‘Tristan,’ she said, her eyes staring pleadingly at me. ‘Please come inside. My maids have retired for the night, and I desire company. There is something I wish to talk to you about.’
‘As you wish, my Lady,’ I replied with careful deference. It made little difference to my duties whether I stood at the door or inside her bedroom; in fact Hugo, in his malice, would probably be amused to at the thought of my penetrating his bride’s private chamber.
Once inside, and the door shut, she turned to me, her eyes full of distress, all her barriers now down. ‘Tristan,’ she said, her voice almost breaking. ‘I feel so lonely and uncared for. I know I’m not attractive, but he shows me no attention at all. He doesn’t love me.’
I saw no point in masking the truth from the unfortunate girl. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, bowing my head slightly, sadly. ‘I’m afraid you are correct. It grieves me to say it, but to him a wife is merely someone to produce an heir for the Lestrange family. A male heir,’ I added before I could stop myself. Again, she caught the stress in my voice immediately.
‘He has a daughter?’ she asked, looking up sharply. ‘I did not know he had been married before.’
‘He has not been married before,’ I said. ‘Sir Hugo is a man who prefers good, manly company. Fellow knights; virile, handsome young men who joust and indulge in such rugged sports. Wrestling with each other while rubbed down with oil and wearing black leather thongs, and robust pursuits of that sort.’ I shifted a little uncomfortably. ‘It wasn’t until recently that he reluctantly accepted the need for a wife to ensure a male-line descent; hence his marriage to you.’
Emily gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘I see.’ She hesitated, reading my expression again. ‘Then why did you imply he has a female heir? Did you know her? What was her name?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, masking my feelings by scratching my armpits. ‘I knew her. Her name was Ysabel. She was not his daughter though, but the orphaned child of a remote relative, and the last in the Lestrange family line apart from himself, whom he took under his protection. To carry on the Lestrange name required him to have a son of course. He might have married her himself – their relationship was a sufficiently distant one – but he was not inclined to marry then. However she presented a way of keeping the bloodline, if not the name going; it was his plan to marry her off to a member of a good, noble family.’
I hesitated at the memories that speaking of her stirred in me, and was unable to keep the emotion entirely out of my voice. ‘I will never forget her.’
Emily had now lost her snivelling self-pity, and looked at me in fascination. ‘You knew her well? she asked gently. ‘What happened?’
‘I had just entered the Baron’s service when I first saw her,’ I said, my eyes now looking inward as I remembered that day. ‘I was eighteen, and she must have been just sixteen. Her eyes met mine at the same instant, and she smiled at me. She was so beautiful that I fell in love with her at that moment.’
‘What did it feel like – to fall in love?’ asked Emily, her eyes large, the look on her face a poignant mixture of sadness and wonder.
I considered for a moment, thinking back those seventeen years. It seemed like a lifetime ago. ‘I… it’s difficult to explain…’ I said. ‘There are some things which can’t easily be expressed in speech – experiences which transcend mere words.’
‘Try, please,’ she begged, her voice showing her yearning to know, to have some idea of that sensation which she had never felt.
‘Well,’ I hesitated, struggling to find the words. ‘It was a sort of warm, pleasant feeling. And a sort of… tightness.’
‘As if your heart was being compressed by an iron band?’ whispered Emily. Her eyes were glistening; tears was beginning to form in them.
‘N–no…’ I said. ‘It was lower down…’ I considered, trying to recall that wonderful feeling. ‘…it was as if a part of me was swelling up with the intensity of my emotion… but I knew it was love.’
Emily looked puzzled, but I continued. ‘I knew I could not wait long to see her. I remember how long and hard it was, waiting for a chance to present itself. Luckily, due to my trusted position in the household, I was able to meet her with comparably little difficulty.’ I paused, sinking into nostalgia, while Emily remained silent, not wanting to interrupt my thoughts.
‘The Baron’s trust then was more a matter of faith, complacency even, rather than the absolute it is now,’ I reflected. ‘We spent many happy hours talking together, albeit not in complete privacy; we had to be careful not to show overt signs of our feelings for each other. But the more often we met, and the more we talked, the more we yearned for more… intimate contact.’
‘More intimate contact?’ asked Emily. ‘You mean you wanted to share her bed?’
‘Er… yes,’ I conceded, taken aback by her bluntness. ‘I— er, we eventually devised a plan by which this was to be accomplished.’ I hesitated, for the memory was a mixture of joy and pain.
‘I came to her bedchamber at midnight,’ I continued eventually. ‘She had managed to slip her maidservant a sleeping-draught, and had left her asleep in an adjoining room. She was waiting for me in bed, and as I entered she sat up, clad in only her silk chemise.’ I faltered again at the image I still had of her.
‘As she got out of bed and came to greet me, her long dark hair unbound and falling around her, her chemise clinging to her slim form, I could only see one thing.’ I hesitated again. ‘Two things.’ I swallowed as I revisited that long past event.
‘Two things?’ whispered Emily, leaning towards me, eager to hear my words.
‘Her breasts,’ I sighed, my thoughts turned inward. ‘The thin fabric of her chemise delineated her erect nipples so tantalisingly my breath quickened at the sight.’ I pondered, remembering. ‘It was a cool night.’ I closed my eyes at the mental image.
‘But however cool the night may have been, it could not freeze our heated passions,’ I went on, my allegories beginning to suffer as I recalled what had happened next. ‘She tore open my shirt, sending the buttons spinning across the floor, and crushed me to her chest, pressing her firm lips against mine.’ I paused and scratched my ear thoughtfully. ‘Or it may have been the other way round,’ I admitted. ‘Anyway, we kissed… I took her lower lip in mine, tasting its delicious softness, then slid my tongue into the hot wetness of her mouth. Our breathing became rapid as I slipped my hands up inside her chemise, feeling the warmth of her body, and the perfect smoothness of her skin; she shivered as I ran the tips of my fingers lightly along her spine—’
‘She shivered?’ remarked Emily sympathetically. ‘Was she cold? Perhaps you should have got into bed to keep warm.’
‘Well, as a matter of fact we did,’ I explained. ‘Though it wasn’t a matter of cold as such. Anyway, I felt her fingers pushing through the hair at the back of my head as I kissed her delicate throat,’ I resumed, hoping I hadn’t left anything out. ‘She moaned as I ran the tip of my tongue up the side of her neck, and sucked on her earlobe, before moving down again, first to her shoulder, kissing and biting it—’
‘Biting?’ questioned Emily doubtfully. ‘Were you hungry?’
‘I was, actually,’ I replied. ‘I hadn’t eaten in a while, and provisions were never very generous in this place. I hope you’re being better provided for – do you want me to get you something?’
‘No thank you,’ said Emily, after a moment’s consideration. ‘I’m fine. Carry on with what you were saying, please.’
I struggled to remember what point I had got to in my narrative, but years of self-abuse had damaged my short-term memory beyond repair. ‘I felt her fingernails clawing at my back in the intensity of her passion,’ I recommenced, ‘while her slender legs wrapped around my hips. The exquisite sensation of her nails digging into my skin, drawing long scratches across it, drove me to new heights of ardour. I had to take her, to enter her delicious young body, to enjoy her delights to the full. ‘Tristram!’ she cried out, as I thrust my—’
‘Tristram?’ interrupted Emily. ‘But I thought your name was Tristan?’
‘People often get it wrong,’ I explained. ‘The two are after all derived from the same root. It’s thought to be Celtic in origin, possibly derived from the Pictish ‘Drostan’, but influenced by the French triste, meaning sad. Now, where was I?’
‘I can’t remember exactly, Tristram,’ confessed Emily. ‘I think you were just—’
‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘I remember. We were lying there, exhausted at last, after an entire night of heavenly lovemaking which surpassed anything either of us had experienced before, and more than most people would ever come close to in their lifetimes.
‘I was holding her in my arms, my hands caressing her lovely body as she lay against me, when I became aware that something was wrong. The hands fondling my buttocks were too large and rough to be hers. I soon realised whose they were.
‘“Tristram,” I heard the Baron’s reproving voice, “you have disappointed me. Is this how you repay my trust? I believe I shall have to… punish you. To curb your lust, that women may be safe from your lasciviousness. And as for you, Ysabel, I don’t think your marriage to Lord Malfeasance may be delayed any longer.”’
I bowed my head sorrowfully again, my face crumpled with the tragic memory. ‘That was to be the last I saw of her.’
‘Lord Malfeasance!’ cried out Emily in amazement. ‘But Lord Malfeasance was my father!’ She hesitated, and her smooth brow became creased with unaccustomed thought. ‘Though Mother did tell me once that he was not my true father, and that she had been made pregnant by her secret lover, just before her marriage.’
‘Yes,’ I said ruefully, as I realised I had given away too much, ‘I hadn’t intended telling you, but I am your—’
‘Father!’ cried Emily, throwing her arms around me and pressing her head against my chest, stunning herself slightly on my chain-mail, and weeping copiously. ‘So… so…’ she sniffled, ‘the reason the Baron could trust you with me was because I am your daughter, not because he had you… had you…’ she wasn’t able to say the word, as it did not lie in her vocabulary.
‘No,’ I replied, surreptitiously wiping the snot from my mail. ‘I explained that,’ I went on diplomatically. ‘Haven’t you ever heard of plot misdirection? Hugo was not someone to waste a muscular, good-looking young man. He was able to… make use of my body in certain ways. Such was his revenge.’
This reminder of the Baron’s cruel nature was enough to cause Emily another tearful outburst. ‘Please, Father, save me from losing my virginity to that monster,’ she begged, holding on to me tightly. ‘I can’t stand the thought of it. There must be something you can do.’
‘There now, Emily,’ I said, patting her on the head. ‘I will get you out of here. We will return to your home, and with Ysabel flee the country, and thereby escape the Baron’s clutches.’
‘Oh…’ said Emily sadly, ‘I’m sorry. I thought you knew. Mother died last year; that’s why I had to get married.’
I froze with shock. ‘Oh God – no! How can that be?’
‘From grief,’ said Emily. ‘It was an almost inevitable plot development, wasn’t it?’ She looked at me sympathetically. ‘You do realise we’re just fictional characters, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ I said, pulling myself together. But how had the plot managed to get to this point? Presumably Simon had given up in despair after about the fifth re-write. And it would be a way of making sure Insane-Li didn’t ask him to write another entry for her. But what was I to do now? I gently eased Emily back from me.
‘Emily,’ I said firmly. ‘Do you seriously believe anyone will still be reading this drivel? It must be over 2500 words by now – no one reads that far, do they?’
‘Well… no,’ she conceded, drying her tears and blowing her nose noisily on the sleeve of her gown.
‘Very well then. So all we have to do is to bring things to a natural conclusion. I suppose I have a duel with the Baron in which we both die – he ignominiously and I tragically – and you enter a nunnery, where you gradually pine away with sexual frustration.’
‘I’d rather that a handsome stranger rescued me,’ she said. ‘A tall, broad-shouldered young man with pale skin, black hair and icy blue eyes.’
‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘Are you ready then?’
‘Yes,’ said Emily, her eyes bright with determination. ‘Let’s do it.’
The End
NOTES
Thus Emily (Insane-Li) became my first illegitimate daughter, despite Shannon (Indantatia) being the older of the two. I’m sorry to say that while Emily must have got something like half a dozen stories from me, Shannon only got one: Dream Well, at least published on Journalspace – though glancing at the above, that’s probably just as well.
With regard to that, and lines such as her smooth brow became creased with unaccustomed thought., I have to congratulate Emily on getting her own back. On 25 October 2007 she wrote a piece in her journal called The Glory of Men, in which she describes a beautiful girl visiting the expensive apartment of a wealthy middle-aged man whose wife is away. A man who, as I read on, resembled me: thin, balding, bespectacled. And, when it came to the sex scene, had a small penis, and who ejaculated immediately on penetrating her.
From Gchat later that day:
okay
I admit it
your face sort up popped up when I was writing it
It was at that moment I realised Emily really was my daughter.
As to the parody I wrote, I realise it could have been better. The narrative-induced moments of coitus interruptus could have been handled more deftly. But I was really struggling to come up with anything at all by this time, and I just wanted to get it done. By the time I was ready to hit ‘Publish’ I must have rewritten it at least five times. And if I’d changed my mind, I’d have been back to square one: I would still have to write an entry about Love, which the earlier attempt had proved me incapable of.
The criticism, when it was deposited in my comments box was not, however, directed at the poor quality of the writing. It was because I’d written it for a sixteen-year-old girl. There were cries for my expulsion from Journalspace. I withdrew it. I put it to the vote: if it was determined that I was at fault, I would delete my journal and leave. I was perfectly well aware that pointing out that Emily had written far more explicit erotica since she joined Journalspace at 14 was not a good defence.
So it went to the vote. I was permitted to remain. Of course, being who I am, I made my next entry a satire on the subject of attempting to leave Journalspace, and of deciding to stay. It was called Redemption, but I later renamed it Second Thoughts, as that meant it worked perfectly well as a standalone story.
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