Chapter 21: Samhain

[Samhain, 1678]
Near Oxford, Oxfordshire

THE DANCERS WERE nude. All of them, as far as Amélie could tell. Men and women, although more women than men, not a surprise, given that it was Samhain, she thought. She shivered, but not entirely because of the cool night air that became chillier with each hour. Without the bonfire that must have been twenty feet high to dance around it would have been impossible to enjoy the celebration.

Beside her she felt rather than saw Sandrine moving in time to the drums and the flutes. She felt her own body begin to absorb the rhythm, the tones, that seemed to enter her everywhere and touch places she did not expect.

This was nothing like the similar dances she and Gérard had observed on the islands they’d visited with Captain Beauchamp aboard Black Weasel. Then the air and often the water were at blood temperature or seemed to be, although Amélie thought it unlikely the sea reached such an extreme. It was easy to cast off one’s coverings in that environment. Easy to fall into the seductive rhythms and let the music enter one’s blood and keep time with one’s heart.

What the dancing led to, she remembered, gave her a frisson, no need to recall the actual details. She remembered sweat, the aromas of arousal, the taste of each other, the frantic coupling and the delicious enervation that followed one climax after another. The breezes at dawn were welcome ones, and a swim cleansed the remnants of the delights she’d experienced and had returned in full measure to others.

She and Gérard emerged from the sea recovered and invigorated on those mornings, so much so that more than once they’d fallen on each other anew.

Tonight, Amélie wasn’t quite as confident even as she watched dancers move closer to each other and then apart in some kind of progression, some series of dance steps, that wasn’t immediately clear to her. Sandrine stepped away momentarily to disrobe. She would be a sensation, Amélie knew, by her color, her very otherness, her African-ness. Her ebony skin and her frizzy hair were objects of curiosity here in Oxford, and not all the curiosity was positive or innocent. Already the two had endured encounters that required the assistance of decent men and one or two women to resolve. One such encounter proved exceptionally difficult, and would have ended badly but for the presence of Gérard. Sandrine’s would-be tormentor found himself in the river and the three of them continued their leisurely walk.

Sandrine was not the only person of African ancestry in Oxford that year, but her beauty and her stature were sufficient to ensure heads turned whenever she was out on the street. It was the principal reason Master Heathcoate elected to have Sandrine assist almost entirely out of sight of the public. The less unwanted attention the better, he figured, and besides, her talents at typesetting and proofing had grown enormously during the months she and Amélie had been in residence.

It had taken her but days to learn the odd layout of the trays of little bits of metal sorts from which she and Heathcoate created forms that represented the pages to be printed. Even though each sort or piece of type had a nick to facilitate proper placement it was all too easy to set one backwards. Sandrine could spot an inverted b or d or q or g the first time she passed her eye over the form. She seemed to have an instinct to read backwards and upside-down when she loaded the composing stick. Her proofing was equally thorough and accurate. Now that he shared typesetting and proofing duties with Sandrine, Heathcoate had time to breathe. He’d arranged an introduction to his tutor customer for Sandrine to assist him in his researches of French erotica.

At the stones, Gérard told them, the usual and customary inhibitions and restrictions did not apply. The circle tonight was some distance from a larger and more elaborate circle known as the Rollright Stones. The rumors surrounding this smaller stone circle with no name were many, some lurid, others outright salacious. Some were merely odd or attention-getting, such as the story told that touching the stone made the contents of one’s heart discernible to the object of one’s affections.

This proved to be somewhat problematic when said object did not correspond with one’s spouse or partner. Perhaps even more noteworthy, when it turned out to be someone not customarily considered to be a proper object of affections. A man’s affections for a man, or a woman’s for a woman, for example. Worse yet, on occasion the newly revealed feelings were not reciprocated.

There were darker and more puzzling stories told, as well. They concerned persons who danced at the stones and almost never returned. Despite what Mistress Heathcoate believed and had related to Sandrine and Amélie, on those rare occasions when someone did return it was almost always after years rather than days or months. None spoke of where they might have been during their absence or what they might have been engaged in. Those who did not return at all were given up for dead.

Not all who were left behind after such a disappearance were unhappy. This led to unseemly speculation over whether their disappearances and the subsequent journeys, whatever they may have been or wherever they might have gone, were entirely voluntary.

Tonight, little of this mattered to the girls or to Gérard. His easygoing manner and quickness on his feet had made him a popular figure among his fellow students. At the same time his evident dedication to his studies and his preparation for tutorials meant he found favor among his tutors as well. Moreover, the three of them had stopped for some discreet refreshment before journeying on to the Stones, so they were relaxed and prepared to enjoy themselves.

“Will you dance, my love?” Amélie asked Sandrine. It was a strange question given the circumstances, that is, of Sandrine proud in her nudity and standing tall as she continued to move in time to the music.

“Yes, Amélie. Will you not join me?”

Amélie shrugged. She knew she wanted to, but truth be told she was frightened, an unusual state of affairs for her.

“If Gérard dances so will I.”

At that Gérard returned to their sides. He was bare now, his clothing safely folded and stored at the edge of the meadow along with Sandrine’s things. “Amélie?” he asked. “Please dance with us.” His smile melted her, as it always did. Sandrine had stepped behind her and was undoing her laces. Momentarily, as though of their own volition, Sandrine’s hands made their way to hold Amélie’s breasts.

Why not, Amélie thought. It’s not as though the three of us are new to each other in a carnal sense. When she looked again at the dancers she saw many had moved close to each other and remained so. It was not difficult to guess where this was going to lead for many of them, and for some perhaps for the first time.