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Chapter 2: The Stranger II Chapter TextThree days later Shella was on the wharf with a group of sisters collecting coins and clothing for the orphanages.
"I'm so pleased you've decided to join us, Sister Mordane," Septa Gale said as she bustled around arranging things. "I know it can be an adjustment, being away from one's home and family, but I'm sure you'll find service will help you just as much as it helps others. Have faith!"
Shella did not have faith. She did not want it, either. Shella tried to smile back at her and rang her bell. "Alms for the poor," she called indifferently. The sailors generally ignored her. Some laughed, sensing easy prey for a joke, but Septa Gale's happy, bustling presence seemed to put them off. Some women in pretty dresses came by and dropped a few coins in the collection box. That brought the sailors closer and Shella listened to their flirtations with jealousy.
The sea air, the sunshine, and being around people again revived something in Shella. She couldn't believe she'd kept herself confined to the hill for so long! And there were men everywhere. Eventually she was able to identify some of the townspeople and the fishmongers but there were also sailors galore. Each wave seemed to bring in a fresh supply. Though most ignored her, some talked, asking for news (she had none) or telling her about the places they'd just been (she didn't really care). But she laughed and smiled and enjoyed herself as much as she could without garnering a reprimanding look or word from the head septa of the day.
It was an overcast day when she and the sisters were selling bowlfuls of soup to raise yet more funds for the never-ending needs of the orphanage. She had, as yet, not actually been to the orphanage but that didn't stop her from telling passersby about how desperate the children's situation was. She called out the various hardships donations would alleviate as a group of sailors approached.
As the sisters implored the public to be generous, one solid-looking man let his eyes range all over them. Shella had done her own, more discreet estimation of the men, and the most attractive of them, inexplicably, stepped forward and spoke with Sister Mallin.
"Don't remember seeing you here before," a voice said. It took Shella a moment to realize the comment was addressed to her. The man was older than her. He was swarthy and bulky with erstwhile muscle. Dark hair covered his arms and the longer hair on his head was pulled into a sloppy knot at the base of his neck. He wasn't what she usually found attractive but he had a force about him. Also, he was the only one talking to her. "I'd remember a pretty face like yours."
Shella subconsciously tugged on her head covering. It had been a long time since a man had paid her a compliment. "I'm fairly new to the motherhouse," she said, her blood suddenly thrumming through her veins.
"Name's Mac."
"I'm Shella," she said with a smile, and then added because Sister Mallin was nearby, "Sister Shella."
"The gods must listen to your prayers especially."
"Why's that?"
"You haven't wrung out their ears yet," he said with half a smile, peering at her to gauge her reaction.
Shella laughed.
"Maybe you could say a prayer for me."
"Of course."
"I knew you would. Seagard has the nicest, prettiest septas. That's what I was told and that's what I've seen since coming into port."
Shella decided he was more handsome than for which she'd originally given him credit. "What brought you here?"
"A boat," he said and then laughed. Shella laughed, too.
"My captain had business here. Trade. You know how it goes. You bring cargo into port only to trade it for cargo that's wanted somewhere else."
Shella nodded as though trade was a topic with which she was familiar. "I guess your cargo's not wine or there'd be a stampede to the dock."
Mac's eyes widened and he burst out another gust of laughter. "I like sour wine. Dornish red. You ever had it?"
Shella liked sweet wine, expensive sweet wine that went down smooth as a sigh. Not that she'd had much of that. "No."
"I'll give you a bottle."
"Oh, no, I couldn't possibly accept." Not if Mother Stoutwall found out about it.
"Call it appreciation for services well rendered. My sister's sick, you see. If you'd come to visit with her, it would ease her suffering."
Shella knew immediately there was no sister. "I'd be happy to pray with her."
"She'd like that. We both would."
"Where shall I call?"
He gave her the address of a boarding house a bit away from where the sisters usually traveled. The plan had Shella in an absolute flutter. Agnes's words had given her hope and now, finally, after weeks, it appeared her prayers might be answered.
Hours later, hours fueled by impatience to finally be seen as a woman again, to be touched by a man, she made her way there, a basket containing fish broth and bread hanging from her arm, The Book of Holy Prayer clasped in her hands. She'd recruited Sister Greenleaf to go with her, since it wouldn't do to go alone. Agnes was only too happy to be left to her own devices and promised to meet up again at an appointed time.
The boarding house was drafty. It was not near the disreputable wharves but nor was it far. She followed Mac's instructions to use the rear stairwell and found the room without issue. Shella's heart ricocheted from her chest to her throat and back again. If she was caught . . . An ache settled in her loins and drenched her smallclothes. The need in her breasts centered on her nipples. She stopped and took a breath. How long had it been since she'd last been with a man? Too long. Much too long. Mac wasn't much to look at but it wasn't a man's face she was missing.
"You ready?" he greeted her, the smell of wine gusting on his breath, his eyes a little unfocused.
"Where's your sister?" Shella asked, just for pretense. She didn't want Mac to think she did this all the time. For some reason, she wanted him to know she was a woman of good breeding, despite her need.
"Not here. Must be a different port. They all look the same after a while." He gave her a nasty little smile. "But not the septas. Like I told you. Not many pretty ones."
"I remember."
"You listened. That's good."
Shella didn't want to listen much longer. She wanted to forget for just a while that she was on her way to being godsworn. She wanted a physical release and a break from who she was being forced to be. "Do you, um, visit with septas often?"
"Not as often as I'd like. Hard to find a young one away from those old hens."
He leaned in, swayed, steadied himself, and kissed her. She barely responded. He tasted horribly.
"You haven't done this before," he observed. He groped for a flagon on a nearby table and loudly gulped down the bitter wine. He didn't offer any to Shella.
"No." It struck Shella that he meant at all but she saw no need to correct him. Playing the innocent appealed to her.
Mac grinned and nodded. "It's all right."
Shella made to undress. "Shall I?" she asked, casting an alluring look from beneath her eyelashes.
"No, leave it on." He fingered her head-dress. "I like it. Makes you look . . . clean." When Shella didn't comment, he went on. "Well, no point in waiting, right?" He nudged her toward the disheveled bed and pulled his tunic over his head, revealing a barrel-like torso littered with indistinct tattoos. He lowered his breeches. Shella leaned back and he shoved his hands under her skirts, gripping her legs and fumbling her smallclothes off. "You look proper now but you aren't. You aren't at all."
"I am -"
"You're not."
Shella was speechless. He glared at her. Then he seemed to reconsider. He stroked himself. He gave his erection an appreciative glance and nodded down at it. "Feel it." He grabbed her hand and wrapped it around his cock. "Never felt its like before, have you? Have you? No, because you're a septa."
"I'm not a septa yet."
"I know that," he said irritably. "You'll do, though, sweetling," he patted her cheek roughly.
His cock was short but thick. She avoided touching the thick hair from which it sprang. Drawing her hand over his inconsequential length, she let her fingers play lightly over his head.
"Not going to lie, not to a septa," he gave a little chuckle, "it'll probably hurt. But I'll help you, so I will, being as the septas in Seagard are so nice and pretty. So nice and generous and accommodating." An idea seemed to penetrate his brain. "You're a maiden. Maiden's gift. Maidenshead. Like the Maiden, right?" He laughed. "I like maidens and I like gifts. The way I see it, I'm giving a gift to maidens. A great gift." His eyes dropped to his cock again and Shella wondered just how drunk a man had to be to spew such nonsense with a straight face.
He caught her arm and pulled her forward. "Hey, come up here." Shella sat up. He put his hand on the back of her neck and pushed her face towards his groin. "Lick me."
Shella saw a pearly drop slide down his head and drip from the rim onto the threadbare carpet. She took him into her mouth. The salty taste of him was familiar enough but the musky scent emanating from his crotch made her want to gag. She let her teeth drag over him and he shoved her back. Normally Shella took pride in her performance but, as she was playing the maid and he was something of a lummox, she saw no need to waste her skills on him.
"Watch the cargo there, girl."
"I'm sorry," she said, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. "I've never done this before."
Mac seemed satisfied with that. "No, you haven't, have you? But today's your lucky day."
Shella cut him off. "Maybe you could do the same to me?" Gods, do something to me that feels good.
His bushy brows drew together. "Why? It's not like that for girls, septa. Maiden's curse. No pleasure from the act. Don't they teach you that at the motherhouse?" He tapped his stubby fingers against her shoulder and Shella laid down.
"So many skirts" he muttered, shoving the fabric aside. He palmed her crotch like he was vaulting over a fence post and then, gaining his bearings, worked a finger inside her. "That's the thing about maidens," he said conversationally. "Never wet enough."
Shella thought about her sodden smallclothes and the hopes she'd had for this encounter as he prodded her some more, his nail digging painfully into her flesh. "Ouch!"
"I'm not even deep yet."
"Try licking," Shella said again. "It might add some moisture."
The pig spat into his hand and rubbed it on her. Shella winced in disgust. "That feels nice," she lied. "Rub me again." The pent-up pressure was killing her. She longed for an escape that would not leave her arm aching, for some masculine attention and contact. She would leave as soon as it was over.
"Don't feel good to me." He heaved himself between her legs and looked down at her. "Look at you. All dressed. Head covered." He grabbed a breast hard. "All prim and proper-like but you're not a lady. You're a septa. A tight -" he pushed into her without preamble - "scolding septa. What do you have to say now?" He began to thrust, his belly squashing against her, pressing hopeless wrinkles into her skirts.
Shella gritted her teeth and tried to discern some flicker of pleasure. Find something attractive about him, she thought. Every man has an attractive feature. His skin was sticky with salt and he was sweating out the wine. She closed her eyes and thought of Paul. His features were blurred now in her memory, his need more prominent than his skill or generosity. Surely it had been better than that. Surely it was better than this. Mac grunted and pushed. "Not so good now, are you?"
Shella was bewildered. What is he talking about?
"Think you're better'n me?"
"I never -"
"Shut your mouth." He was grunting and panting. A bead of sweat dripped off his forehead and hit Shella's cheek. She flinched.
"No, don't you turn away. You look at me. You watch." He leaned back on his knees and slowed his thrusts. He tried to push down her skirts so she could see him penetrate her. Shella glanced at his face instead. It was red. He mopped away some sweat with the back of his wrist and fell forward again. He thrusted and screwed up his face as though in agony. Shella imagined she looked the same. His cock might have been a blade for all the pleasure it was giving her.
"What's wrong with you?" he asked between gasps of air. "You should be moaning like a whore. The others did. Grateful, they were. Eager to please. Not like you."
"I'm no whore," Shella said with effort.
Mac chuckled. "They all say that. But you're worse than a whore. You're a septa. A septa." He banged into her with each word. "Septas lie and tease and preach and judge."
"I've done none of those things."
"You will. You all do. But you remember. You remember what I said. You remember this," he plunged into her again, "and then you remember that you're not better'n any one of us. You're not. You're not." With a grunt, he spent himself inside her and then wiped himself off on her underskirt. "Not so prissy now, are you?" he said, rolling onto the bed beside her.
Shella instantly got up. Her legs felt dead from hanging off the end of the bed. She stooped to get her smallclothes and found she could not look at Mac. Her need had evaporated with her moisture and this had all been a waste. A terrible, ill-judged waste.
"Hey," he started to say but Shella snatched up her basket and stepped quickly to the door. She walked out of the room with as much dignity as she could muster though his seed was running down her leg.
"Guess you don't want the wine, then."
She wanted to slam the door but didn't want the attention it might bring. All her restraint earned her was the ability to hear him mutter, "Bitch," just before the door closed.
At first, Shella was angry with Mac. He could have been more considerate. He could have treated her with the respect due to a lady. Then she was angry with herself. Not for going off with a man she didn't know but for making such a poor choice. She wasn't entirely hopeless in the way of looks after all, she thought, straightening her spine. Mac had singled her out. Maybe you were just an easy mark, whispered a nasty little voice in her heard. She pushed that thought away and couldn't even allow the one to form that suggested her father had been right. Every time it tried, shame began to burn within her. She would not concede that her behavior was . . . well, it wasn't wrong. It just wasn't. If her father had left well enough alone, she'd be making love with Paul and might even have been married. But she knew that was a lie. Paul was just a good time until someone better came along. Someone with better prospects. And Mac was just a filthy sailor. And she had let him use her like a common whore. She'd told herself, on the way there, that there was nothing wrong with loving a man. The gods had made men and women for that purpose, hadn't they? But it had been a completely one-sided transaction. She'd been nothing but used and she'd allowed it and she didn't want to look at herself for a long, long time.
But she had to. And so did Septa Tilney. Shella's woman's place got red and itchy and she could barely walk for the need to scratch. After two days, she could take it no more. She sought out Septa Tilney and suggested that the change of weather had brought about some kind of infection. "I'm sure it's the sea air. I had a similar thing happen when I was a girl after a trip to the coast."
Shella could not keep her cheeks from flaming when she was examined. "I've seen this before," was all Septa Tilney said. "I can make you a salve but it will take a little time. Unfortunately, I just used up the supply I had on hand on some of the girls from the brothel."
Shella thought she detected a trace of judgment in the sister's tone but, so long as she was willing to keep Shella's condition to herself, she would endure her superiority. "How long will it take to heal?"
"I thought you said you'd had this before."
"No - I mean, I said I had it as a girl. I don't remember how long it took to get better."
"Several days, if you're faithful with your application. Apply it twice a day. And wash your hands," she added in a tone that made Shella feel contaminated down to her soul.
Shella wondered if the gods were punishing her but she knew her father had punished her first and now she'd done an even more thorough job herself for the salve stunk and she felt marked with sin for all to smell. It was a full year before she could respond to a man again and, when she did, it was to Sam, a handsome boy a couple of years older than herself with a nose that had been broken at some point and a shy, respectful address.
Shella had been laughing at something Sister Greenleaf said and, when she turned, she was looking into a pair of gray eyes. She started.
"I'm sorry," said the young man. "I didn't mean to scare you."
"It's all right. You didn't scare me. I just wasn't expecting you."
"I'm new here."
"To Seagard?"
"Yes."
"Oh. Where are you from?"
He named a small inland village Shella had barely heard of. "I'm Sam, by the way."
"Sister Shella."
"Like seashells?"
Shella smiled. "I don't think so. I'm not from the coast, either."
They chatted for a while longer, stopping only when Septa Gale trilled that it was time to pack up.
"Do you come here often? The sisters. The septas. Do the septas minister to the poor here often?" He blushed and Shella felt a tremble in her knees. She smiled at him just to see what he would do and he smiled back then looked down and turned an even deeper shade of red before raising his eyes to hers again.
"We're often near the market though not always in exactly this spot."
"I see. I've never lived near a motherhouse before. We have only a tiny sept in our village. Not even any statues of the Seven."
Shella nodded and he hurried on. "But I'm here now so maybe I'll see you again."
"I hope so."
She did see him again. After he'd come upon them near the dock, Sam found her again near the orphanage and again at the market. They talked each time. He was polite and friendly with the sisters but he always found a way to talk to Shella in semi-privacy. He didn't touch her or try to get her to touch him. He simply talked in his quiet way, seeming in no rush for the time to pass or to be waiting for someone else to come along. Sam seemed content in her company and, to Shella's surprise, she was content in his.
"I never asked what you do," she said after a few weeks, astonished that his livelihood had never crossed her mind.
"Right now I work at my family's fish stall but, one day, soon, I hope, I'd like to buy the boarding house and make it an inn. A nice one. Not like what it is now. The clientele can be a little . . . rough. Not that you want to hear about that."
"I already know about it," Shella said, then added, horrified, "I mean, through what people tell me. We work with all sorts."
"I didn't mean to imply you had first-hand knowledge. Of course you don't." He gave her a soft look. "You couldn't."
Shella actually blushed. Her heart beat a little faster.
He cleared his throat when she didn't reply. "It's nice of you, and the other sisters, of course, to do this." He gestured toward the collection boxes. "It seems you're always here."
Shella found she didn't want to lie to him. She didn't augment her role or interest. "The sisters like to be useful."
Soon Sam became a regular presence. Sometimes he was just delivering fish here or there but, even so, he would stop and say hello or, if he was extremely busy, he would just smile and nod. Shella found herself missing him when he wasn't there and keeping an eye out for him whenever she and the others came down the hill. Whenever the motherhouse was collecting for the poor, Sam made a donation. "If you keep this up, eventually we'll be collecting for you," Shella teased. Sam laughed and Shella admired his straight, white teeth. For as shy as he was, he laughed heartily, fully giving himself over to the enjoyment of the moment. It was such a clean, pure sound that Shella found herself longing to hear it again. She found herself wishing she could touch him and her heart flipped over when, one day, he took her hand and gently squeezed it as he handed her a blanket for the orphans.
It was a particularly sunny day when Shella was commissioned to run some papers into the town for Sister Neal, who was busy studying for her septas' exams. She rounded a corner and, to her very great surprise, nearly collided with Sam. He was just as surprised and asked what she was doing near his home. "Your home?"
"Yes, well, my uncle's home, but I live here, too. Would you like to come in? If it wouldn't delay you . . . ?"
"Where is your family?"
"At the stall."
The house was not large but it was clean and airy and had the touches of being inhabited by people who liked living there. As Shella turned to comment on the prettiness of the room, Sam leaned down and kissed her slowly. Her soul felt made of music. If she ever believed in the gods' power, she believed in it then. Shella felt love, actual love, and was overwhelmed by it. Neither of them spoke but somehow found Sam's bed in silent accord. He was careful. And thoughtful. And diligent in seeing to her pleasure before succumbing to his own. Afterwards, as they lay in bed, Shella glanced around the simple room and found she liked it very much. She wouldn't mind it being hers. She would leave the motherhouse and live here with Sam as his wife, Mother Stoutwall be damned. Sam and his family were respectable people so her father could have no objection.
As these pleasant plans swirled around in her mind, Sam sat up and took a deep breath. "I'm so sorry," he murmured.
"Whatever for?"
"You're a septa. I shouldn't have . . . I knew it was wrong but . . . you're so pretty and . . . and . . ."
"No. No," Shella said in a manner meant to be soothing. "There's nothing to be sorry for."
"Yes there is. You're a septa. A septa. And I defiled you!"
"What? No!"
Sam hung his head and couldn't look at her.
"I'm not a septa. Just a sister. And not by choice."
"Not by choice? It's the gods' choice and now I've interfered with the gods' will. I kept telling myself to stop going by the market. To stop seeing you. Talking to you. But I didn't want to. And now my weakness has caused -" he gestured vaguely at the bed on which they lay - "this!"
Shella made a last grab for the future that seemed so much better than the one for which she was destined. "I don't have to be a septa . . ."
Sam's face screwed up. "But you do. It's bad enough I've done what I've done but to lure you away from the Faith as well?" He looked at her, anguished. "Please forgive me."
Shella's throat was closing up. "I wanted this as much as you did."
"How could a decent sister want what I've done? Please. Don't spare my feelings. You have every right to be angry. I will make whatever reparations -"
"No, you will not," Shella said, getting up. "I was just a girl before I became a sister just as you were boy before you became a fishmonger. And now I'm a woman and you're a man and that's all it is. Sometimes you take the only path in front of you."
Sam shook his head. "I wish I'd known you as a girl but you're a septa, or will be one, and I can't come between a septa and the gods. It's not right. My family would be furious."
Shella knew she had to leave soon or else she would burst into tears. "I forgive you," she said. "And you should forgive yourself."
Sam gave her a doubtful look. She looked at him with regret and dressed and fled. When she returned to the motherhouse, she couldn't bear the company of anyone else. She hid where no one would think to look for her - in the library. The routine ground on and she sought out the activities that would allow her to be alone, preferably laundry so she could pretend her tears were sweat from the steam. It all seemed hopeless.
Weeks later Sam passed by with an armful of fish when she and the sisters were walking to the market and the surprise was stark on his face. That he avoided her usual locations was no shock but the embarrassment he clearly felt at seeing her made Shella feel that, once again, a future she might have chosen for herself had been ripped away. She hated the idea of becoming a septa even more now. She didn't want to be a septa. She didn't feel like a septa. The Seven were distant acquaintances to her and she didn't wish to know them better. She felt like an impostor. Worse, she was seen only as a sister and nothing else. She wasn't supposed to be anything but prim and proper and celibate and old and shriveled and boring and dull and at peace with all that. All she wanted was a comfortable life as the wife of a man who could afford to keep her well. Now she was just as anonymous as any cow in a field. Undistinguished. Interchangeable. Her head-dress threatened to choke her every day. She longed to rip it off and cast it aside. She'd trade this dreadful respect her father had purchased for her in a heartbeat if she could just be special to someone.
Things did not improve when Sister Mallin became Septa Mallin and her request to move to a lower terrace was denied. Shella felt certain Septa Mallin was spying on her for the head mother. Things degenerated further when Sister Greenleaf was found to be with child and sent away, disgrace lapping at her insouciant heels. Scrutiny intensified on Shella, who professed shock at her sister's wayward behavior though she knew good and well that Agnes had been having a regular thing with a tradesman in town. The head mother was not fooled, however, but, having received another generous donation from Shella's father, could not simply turn her out without hard evidence. Instead, she devised what would be a more fitting punishment.
Please, not a silent sister. Don't make me a silent sister. Not that. Anything but that. Never had Shella Mordane prayed so diligently or sincerely but she knew the head mother would not spare her. It was just the degree of intolerance that was to be determined.
When, at last, she was summoned to the wretched woman's chambers, Shella kept her expression neutral and her spine straight. She could not help but recall that final meeting with her father two years prior. She had not seen him since. The one time he was going to visit, he'd become ill and had to postpone. It's just as well, she thought. I would not want him to see me now.
"Sister Mordane, do not think for one instant that I believe your actions have been as innocent as you claim. Flirting with men in the village, how dare you? Your behavior invites mockery and derision of this sept. Your flagrance casts doubt on the Faith itself! I can see now that you must be a woman of the world."
Shella said not a word. Even the largest wave couldn't pummel you if you simply ducked and let it pass over, or so one of the sailors had told her.
"A man from the village has asked for my help. He is often away from home and his wife could use assistance with their children. He is too poor to pay us much but they are a family of good character and in service to Lord Mallister. You will go to this family and help their girls grow into young women of faith. I agreed only on the condition that they were satisfied with your guidance of their children. If they are not, well, there are other roads to penitence."
Children? Had her lips not been so thin as to be almost nonexistent, Shella might have curled hers in distaste. What were other people's children to her? This was going to be worse than silently disemboweling corpses. Stranger spare me . . .