‘And now we shall have supper,’ Whichcote said quietly. ‘The servants will leave us to wait on ourselves. We shall have the toasts – we shall have the initiation – and you will be canonized. St Bartholomew is the title reserved for you. And then, when you are finally one of us, you shall be conducted to your trembling virgin.’
22
Supper passed in a dream; then came the interminable toasts; then, at long last, the initiation ceremony. Archdale kneeled before Whichcote, very grand on a throne-like chair flanked with black candles; and Whichcote, as Jesus, read out a list of apostolic tenets couched in bad Latin, to each of which Archdale was required to assent.
Archdale took the phallic glass, filled to the brim with wine, and drained it without lowering it from his lips, to the accompaniment of apostolic whoops and cheers. He committed himself to the Holy Ghost for all eternity. Amen. He swore to abominate the Pope of Rome and all his works and to leave no bottle unemptied, no toast undrunk and no virgin undefiled. Amen, amen, amen, amen. There were more tenets and more wine and his head spun around and around. He noticed that the thread at the front of Whichcote’s left shoe had frayed and the sole was beginning to come adrift from the upper. He mumbled the required responses and drank the required toasts. He would have given everything he possessed to lay his aching head on a cool pillow and fall asleep for ever. Amen.
When the ceremony was over, a procession formed up around him. Jesus was on his right and St Peter on his left. St Andrew led the way with one black candle, St Simon followed with the other and St John wielded a handbell. Jesus and the Apostles marched Archdale downstairs, chanting as they went an obscene variation of the Angelus that dwelled at some length on the phallic splendours of the Holy Ghost. The procession halted in the corridor. The discordant voices swirled around Archdale, mingling with the clanging of the bell.
Apart from the candles, the only light came from a lamp burning near the far end of the hallway. Archdale thought he glimpsed the footboy Augustus cowering in a doorway and for an instant felt a stab of relief that he was not alone in his fear.
St John rapped smartly on one of the nearer doors, ringing the bell and calling on the occupants to open in the name of the Holy Ghost. The Apostles formed an arc facing the door with Archdale at its centre. As the door opened, it revealed the shadowy outline of a small woman, childlike in size, enveloped in a nun’s habit and with her face obscured by a domino.
‘In the name of the Holy Ghost, an Apostle demands the virgin sacrifice,’ the Apostles chanted in ragged unison.
The masked nun stepped back and pushed the door wide. The Apostles cheered. Jesus and St Peter led Archdale forward. He stared wildly around the little white cell. Only two candles were alight, one on the table near the fireplace and the other near the bed. There was his virgin, lying on the white coverlet, her limbs lashed to the bedposts. She wore a plain white shift with a loose neck. She stared up at him with wide and terrified eyes.
‘You may take her trussed like that,’ Whichcote murmured in his ear. ‘Or if you want her loose, you may untie her. But be warned, the little minx may struggle.’
St Peter patted Archdale’s shoulder. ‘Go to it, my lad,’ he urged. ‘Show the maid her master.’
Archdale heard the door closing behind them. Someone outside began to sing the drinking song about Jerry Carbury again. The apostolic footsteps receded into the distance. Even the nun was gone. He was alone with the girl.
He stared at her, and she stared back. She was not ill-favoured, he thought, taken all in all, and she was certainly young. She seemed clean, too, and in that she compared favourably to Chloe the other night. As he watched, she licked her lips and he noticed that they were full and prettily formed. He pulled off the green coat and draped it over the chair by the table. Still with his eyes on the girl, he slowly unbuttoned his waistcoat. His fingers were clumsy and it seemed to take an age. His head hurt and his mouth was dry. There was wine on the table but what he really wanted was water. Why was there no water to be had?
He pushed the embroidered waistcoat over his shoulders and let it fall to the floor behind him. There were now two beds in front of him, and two virgins, and if he had not known better, he would have sworn that they were both smiling at him. He tugged violently at his necktie and the movement overbalanced him. He staggered to the right and tried to steady himself on one of the posts at the foot of the bed. His hand unaccountably missed the post. He fell forward and his face collided with it. He yelped with pain. The next thing he knew he was sprawling half on and half off the end of the bed.
The necktie felt as if it were strangling him. He tore it off and flung it on the floor. He looked at the girl, furious that she should be witnessing this moment of weakness. But her face was unchanged. Her eyes stared up at him.
Archdale used the bedpost to pull himself into an upright position. He kicked off his shoes and glanced over his shoulder again at the girl. He had to deflower her by force. That was the whole purpose of his being here. It was unthinkable that he should fail to carry out the task. Everyone would know – Whichcote, the other Apostles, the little nun, even this girl here. She would blab about it, of course she would. There was no help for it, he would have to do it.
He unbuttoned his breeches and stood up. The breeches fell about his knees. He pushed them lower and stepped out of them. At the last moment, he tripped and plunged forward on to the bed, landing partly between the girl’s legs and partly on her body. The impact made her gasp. Frowning, he pushed up her shift, exposing her fork. He pushed his hand under his billowing shirt and grasped his penis.
To his utter, unbearable horror, his manhood lay small and flaccid in his hand. He massaged it, first gently and then vigorously. Nothing happened. Sweat broke out on his temples. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate, to force the erection by pure exercise of will. Still nothing happened.
The girl cleared her throat.
It was as though a waxwork had made a sound. Startled, Archdale opened his eyes and stared at her. Here was the first witness of his shame. He could not see her clearly but it seemed to him that she was looking at him with grave, unblinking eyes and there was an expression of sorrow in her face.
‘I can give you a hand, sir,’ she said in a low voice, little above a whisper.
‘Eh? What’s that? What?’
‘Sometimes a gentleman likes a little encouragement to come to attention, sir.’
‘Yes, yes, that’s true.’ He pushed himself away from her, hugged the bedpost and leaned his cheek against it. ‘But – but how do you know?’
She laughed softly. ‘Oh, bless you, sir, when maids lie abed together at night, they talk of all sorts of things. And sometimes it’s about what gentlemen like, and how we may please them when the time comes. If you untie me, I’ll show you.’
Archdale dragged himself up and shuffled round the bed, undoing the four knots. The bonds were so loose, that it struck him that the girl could easily have extricated herself, had she so wished. When she was free, she sat up and pulled her shift down over her shoulders. She drew Archdale down beside her on the bed. She kissed him several times and encouraged him to rub his face against her little breasts, all of which he would have found agreeable enough in normal circumstances. Unfortunately he could not escape that sense of underlying panic, a suspicion of impending failure.
Murmuring endearments, some of which were quite remarkable for one who was a maid, she pushed him down on his back and straddled his legs. She tugged up his shirt, exposing his soft pink body. She set to work on his penis, first with her hands and then with her mouth.
Nothing happened.
After two or three minutes of her attentions, Archdale groaned. The girl raised her head and then sat back on her haunches. This was failure, Archdale knew, unalterable and absolute. Soon Jesus, the Apostles and the lesser disciples would be roaring with laughter at him. He was but half a man, a poor womanish creature, and his inadequacies would be exposed before the world. He imagined the news flying around Cambridge, whispered in coffee houses and clubs, and finding its way at last to London, where men and women would laugh at him in the street, and Sir Charles Archdale would cut off his allowance and disinherit him. He wanted to be sick, he wanted to cry, he wanted to die.
