“Part his legs,” said Margret. “Bend him over the bed.”
“What are you –”
“Silence! You’ve brought this on yourself, Lord Bainbridge. I heartily suggest the next words from your mouth be, ‘Thank you.’”
Biddy whispered in my ear: “She means to say, your sweet wife mourns for her husband, the love of her bridal chamber. By submitting to us, you’ll give the girl new hope. Now be of good cheer, Edmond, and let us practice our art.”
While she spoke, Biddy caressed my wrists. But a sudden tug showed me my error: she had bound my hands with hemp. From across the bed, she jerked the rope, pulling me down, and tied the far end to the bed frame.
And so I found myself with my knees scraping the oaken floor, my back exposed to the heavens, my arse cooling in the morning breeze. Whilst Biddy and Mother Katheryne positioned me, I could hear Margret rustling in the sack.
…
“I have Onan’s curse,” I said. “I indulged myself five times last night alone. So that’s the truth. So you can stop your torment because it’s futile, I tell you.”
“An Onanist!” said Margret. “It explains much, but it doesn’t save you. We’re tasked with finding a way to make you firm, and we’ll not stop until we succeed. Kathy, do you think there’s a chance?”
“There’s always a chance, Sister. Biddy has the right idea — I felt the first hint of a response when she probed him a moment ago. But stronger medicine is required.”
“Indeed,” said Margret. “The root of fire puts fire in the root.”
I didn’t like the flavor of that. The sack rustled yet again.
“Biddy, take this, shave it. Make him watch.”
My nurse came into view, standing across the bed from me, and in her hands she held a dirt-covered horseradish as long as a grown man’s forearm. She held it at its tapered end and used a fisherman’s knife to shave the grime and skin away, taking care to preserve the bulk of the rounded end.
“Get back to it, Kathy. Perhaps the fear will make him swell.”
Fear I had aplenty, but precious little blood. I closed my eyes, squeezing out the tears. Would there be no end to my torture?
But I could not flee. If I did, the crones would tell Wynefrede of my lie; I might not have much lust for my wife, but I would not see her shamed. If only I could revive one last time!
“Please,” I said, “give me time. I’m sure I can manage to do my duty tonight. One night, that’s all I ask, and if I do not satisfy my lady, you can do your worst tomorrow morning.”
And then, a familiar voice, as pure and cold as winter’s first snow: “I wish I could believe you, my love.”
I looked over my shoulder again — there at the door stood Wynefrede!
“My darling, my love, make them stop. Please, I’m a sick man.” I coughed for good measure.
“No more lies, Edmond. Waiting behind the door, I heard your admission. Why do you prefer your hand to my warmth?”
What warmth? I almost said, but I remembered my vulnerable position.
“Biddy, give me the root,” said Wynefrede.
She was merciful, my wife. I’ll give her that. She entered me with the tapered end.
The effect was immediate. I screamed, certain my lady was branding me, half convinced I could hear the sizzle of my flesh; but then she pushed the horseradish deeper, and I could feel the fire consuming my loins.
That’s when something odd happened. The midwife gagged, then pulled away.
“We have iron!” she cried.
“Get him up on the bed and roll him over,” commanded the Lady Bainbridge. “Kathy, step away. Biddy, you work the root.”
