The Masque of the Red Devil Read online

  The Masque of the Red Devil

  By L.E. Thomas

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2020 L.E. Thomas

  ISBN 9781646564019

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  The Masque of the Red Devil

  By L.E. Thomas

  The castle has always been an imposing place, Catrin thought with a shiver as she climbed the steep hill, the chainmail of the armed guards clinking on either side of her, emphasising her plight.

  As she approached the impressive façade, to allay her fears, she recollected how the stout gates used to be opened wide to the village on the feast days such as Christmas and Easter. All the folk, rich and poor, grand and humble, crowded into the great hall for a public celebration. This was aided by plentiful bread and meats, beer and mead and the presence of a bard or wandering minstrel or two.

  But then the old lord; hale, hearty and in the prime of his life, died suddenly of a strange fever and his nephew arrived from afar to take his place. And everything changed when Lord Antonio came.

  Unease had spread as the fortress’ portals remained firmly shut for the familiar Christian festivals. There were private festivities held instead. The villagers knew this as they could see the guests pass by on the only road up to the castle. They were all grand folk, parading past on their steeds and in their carriages. But these celebrations, muttered some of the older folk, were at ungodly times. Dark whispers began to spread about evil practices.

  Now, the only people from the village to brave the castle entrance were the village maidens. Lord Antonio sent down his armoured soldiers to collect them without warning. Rumour had it these guards were foreign mercenaries.

  The village noted that girls disappeared in a steady stream specifically for these celebrations. The guests would arrive and a lass or two would be summoned. A few returned quietly to the village, but never spoke of what had happened in the castle. Their eyes slid away as if in shame and they shook their heads at any questions.

  One man, Tomas, stood up to the command and would not let them seize his daughter, Mari. He was a big man, armed with a cudgel and his strapping sons beside him with their hoes and scythes. The men-at-arms turned on their heels and marched back up the hill. The village was in suspense, nervously gladdened by the open act of defiance.

  But the next morning, they awoke to find Tomas’ cottage gone, as if from a fire in the night, although there were no flames seen and no scent of burning. Where the dwelling had been was just scorched earth and the family was all gone, suspected by magic. There was no further resistance from that day forward.

  And now it was Catrin’s turn. When the guards had appeared at her humble family home a bare half-hour before, it was almost a relief as the fear had been hanging over her for so long. She knew she was more than eligible, being of marriageable age with her delicate features and slim figure, her long, dark hair falling almost to her waist.

  But Catrin had a secret. She and her swain Elis had been meeting discreetly, as nowadays courtship could not be openly conducted with the droit de seigneur so strongly enforced. It was presumed that any unmarried girl must be a virgin ripe for the strange festivities in the castle. The only young women who were safe from Lord Antonio’s roving eye were those with a visibly swollen belly and a man to claim as husband.

  So she and Elis had walked their separate ways out of the village and met in the wood. There, in safety, screened by the trees, they kissed and planned their future together. Both brimmed with joy as they lay amongst the bluebells, the colour of Elis’ eyes, as they exchanged words of love and fidelity.

  That was not all they exchanged, as plighting their troth was not just in words but also in deed, a few sweet, snatched times. Catrin had missed her courses and hope leapt in her that they had made a child to bless their union and seal their life together. But the guards had come for her before she could be quite sure.

  As she and her armed escort grew ever nearer to the grey stones of the castle, the great doors of the keep opened smoothly as if by a mysterious force. She sat dully on the cold bench in the guardroom, ignored momentarily, now she was imprisoned behind solid stone. She felt numb.

  Eventually, she was led by a liveried servant into the great hall. For a moment, it almost seemed like she had returned to the old happy days of celebration and feasting. There were guests seated at three tables of differing lengths. No food was served on the cloth-covered boards but a plentiful supply of drink that seemed to flow from jugs that did not require refilling.

  She stood quietly where she had been left, just at the side of the door, so she could regard the whole pageant before her unobserved, to stop her legs from shaking. As her eyes adjusted, she realized what jarred in the scene before her.

  The trestle tables were covered in coloured cloth; one blue, one orange and one red. The blue table was the longest, almost the whole length of the great room, the orange shorter, and the red table smallest still. Catrin guessed this was reserved for the most select of the revellers.

  The guests were also co-ordinated in the same way, all uniformly arrayed in the colour their table dictated and all masked. For so many people, the hall was strangely quiet, as the guests barely spoke and then only in murmurs. There was a strange hush and an undercurrent of febrile excitement.

  Every so often, a servant would enter the hall to select a specific guest, or even a couple, whispering in their ear. The guests would rise from the table, checking that their masks were affixed in place. The servant led them to the far end of the great room up the steps and along the gallery towards the solar where the old lord had slept.

  But this private chamber now seemed to be divided, with the same strange arrangement of colours. Catrin noted a blue door, then one of flaming orange and the door at the far end of the walkway that led to the old lord’s private chapel was blood red.

  She became so accustomed to this parade that she was almost surprised when they came for her. She had watched a servant go to the red table and summon a man and a woman. But instead of leading them to the dais, they all came towards her.

  The couple were finely attired in their red clothing and both were masked. As they approached, they seemed like supernatural creatures. The man wore a mask that covered the upper part of his face, with a long protuberance bulging over his nose. The woman’s mask was a delicate scrap of red silk, through which her eyes gleamed at Catrin.

  “Follow me,” the woman said sharply, in a cultivated voice.

  She swept out of the hall, the servant
courteously opening the door for her and the man falling in behind Catrin. Thus trapped, Catrin could do nothing but follow the woman. She wore a filmy overdress that flowed over the rich brocade of her red gown and drifted like smoke over the flagstones. Catrin tried to get her bearings while being led to an unfamiliar part of the castle.

  As they turned a corner, there were blue double doors guarded by two of Lord Antonio’s mercenaries. Obviously, another entrance to where the guests in blue were escorted to, Catrin mused, when her guide turned sharply and opened a door, ushering Catrin in wordlessly.

  The door shut behind her. Catrin was alone in a cramped space, but considerably more comfortable than in the guard room where she had been left to kick her heels. This small chamber had a few comfortable chairs and small tables scattered about it, as well as a large looking glass, dominating the room.

  Catrin sat and waited, trying not to let the flare of anxiety claim her. After some little while, the couple returned, unmasked, revealing heavy middle-aged features. Why, Catrin thought with relief, these are not conjured spirits after all, but merely discontented nobles.

  Over both arms, the woman was carefully carrying a bolt of cloth of shimmering paleness, both masks dangling from her wrist like a red stain on the pure white silk. The man, who Catrin took to be her husband, came in behind her carrying a jug of wine and a couple of goblets.

  The woman carefully laid the garment on a couch, and gesturing to Catrin ordered impatiently, “Put this on!”

  Unfortunately, her spouse seemed all too eager to gaze at Catrin. He sat weightily in a chair pouring himself a glass of wine looking at Catrin with an obvious leer as if her disrobing was to be his entertainment.

  The woman turned to him, saying sharply: “We don’t need you here! She is to be saved for the ceremony, not squandered on the likes of you.”

  She hustled him out of the room, snagging the jug of wine from his hand. As she closed the door, the fine stuff of her overdress caught. She tugged at it, muttering under her breath as the fabric came free. She removed the garment impatiently and plumped herself down in the chair her partner had just vacated.

  She filled her glass to the brim, saying dismissively, “I suppose you’re used to dressing yourself.”

  Grateful to be without a lecherous audience, Catrin quickly stripped off her simple frock and shift and picking up the sleek material of the gown, she slipped it over her head. It slithered coldly over her body.

  She stared at her reflection in the mirror. She had never worn a dress so fine or so uncomfortably revealing. The fitted sleeves with their long points falling from her wrists were conventional enough for what she knew of the fashions of fine ladies, but the neckline was slashed to the navel. This deliberately drew attention to her firm breasts peaking proudly on either side of the deep V, her slightly swollen nipples prominent from the chill touch of the fabric.

  If this were not obvious enough, there were two long slits up the front of the floor-length skirt, revealing flashes of her bare, slim thighs at her slightest movement. Despite showing so much flesh, she looked oddly virginal, her face pale with uncertainty and her long dark hair falling loosely down her back, framing her striking image. Dear God in heaven, she thought. It was like a wedding gown, if she were to be married to the devil.

  She shuddered, suddenly repelled by her reflection, and as she turned, she saw that the noblewoman was slumped in her chair, snoring softly. In her state of terror, she wondered what sort of devilish concoction the woman had been drinking.

  She picked up the goblet, the liquid in it trembling viscously. Is it blood? She thought with a sense of horror. But when she sniffed the contents, it was nothing more sinister than heavily brandied wine. She took a sip to calm her nerves and the chill started to abate.

  At that moment, the possibility of escape occurred to her as she was temporarily unguarded. She must act quickly as it would be only a matter of time before she was summoned to take part in this licentious ‘ceremony’. She thought hard.

  If she put on her own peasants’ gown she would be easily identified, but her revealing wedding gown equally marked her out as Lord Antonio’s chosen sacrifice.

  Her eye fell on the puddle of red gauze that had fallen on the floor beside the unconscious woman. At least wearing that, I might be mistaken for a guest for a few minutes until I find a way out, she thought.

  She slipped off the beautiful gown without a second thought and threw on the overdress. It was open at the front, just caught up with a buckle just under the breasts. Glancing in the looking glass, the rise of her uptilted breasts were visible through the fine fabric, but they had been equally so in the white gown. This was no place for false modesty.

  But what made her blush was that her womanhood was fully on display, the dark curls at the apex of her thighs clearly revealed.

  There was a soft thunk behind her as a mask slipped off the sleeping woman’s wrists. Picking it up, she saw it was the mask the man had worn. The over-enlarged nose now looked more like a cuckold’s horn. Strange, she thought. But that gave her an idea.

  She quickly positioned the mask in place over her pubis and tied the strings around the swell of her hips under the red chiffon of the gown. The effect was startling with her all too feminine breasts and a male appendage between her legs. She looked like a comely hermaphrodite like in the tall tales told by winter firelight.

  What would complete her disguise? She looked around hurriedly and saw another mask on the table near the woman, placed so it seemed to be staring straight at her. Catrin looked at it in puzzlement. She could have sworn the other mask had still been on the woman’s wrist and was much smaller than this one.

  She picked it up and the inanimate object seemed to throb in her hands, urging her to slip it on. It was a full mask, which would cover her head completely, with only a space for the eyes and a slit for the mouth set in a curving grin at the front. Excess fabric hung at the back like a shoulder-length veil.

  Heart beating fast, she pulled it over her face, hiding her hair by bundling it up behind her neck. The mask seemed to mould to her features like a second skin. She felt ridiculous for a moment, her body gleaming palely through the sheer red fabric, the absurd tumescence between her thighs, face covered with shiny red satin; an obvious imposter.

  Then some consciousness seemed to slip down from the crown of her head; a red mist, a heat, sliding down over her face to her neck, seeping through her chest. Her breasts became two firm aching points, as the sensation rippled over her rib cage. But when it reached her belly, it hesitated, as if it had touched something inviolate. Golden light seemed to ripple from the centre of her body and the red mist subsided.

  A strange sense of purpose filled her. With one last glance in the mirror, she went to the door. It opened without a telltale squeak and the woman’s heavy breathing did not falter. In the corridor, her mind hesitated while her body moved towards the guarded blue entrance.

  Instead of jeering at her attire and groping for her semi-naked body, the sentries were frozenly transfixed. The doors opened without their aid and Catrin saw one of the mercenaries cross himself and mutter, “God save us all,” as she swept past him.

  This section of the solar had been enlarged and transformed into a cerulean ballroom. A large crowd of couples were dancing in their blue attire, neatly arranged in rows, and then moving around each other in the courtly symmetry of a country dance.

  There was no music she could hear but the performers were unfaltering in their steps. Part of her was troubled by the eerie strangeness of this masquerade, but somehow, she joined the dance; bowing to a lady, circling steps around a gentleman, moving faster and with more energy than the other dancers, who appeared trapped in ever-constant circles.

  As she whirled with the masked dancers, some features or the way a person moved seemed oddly familiar, and she half-recognised a girl or two from the village as she capered her way swiftly up to the far end of the room where the orange doors opened for
her.

  When she glanced behind her, the revellers were still rotating to their unheard tune, but the garments of those whose hands she had touched were now tinged with purple.

  She walked through the doors and stopped as she took in the vista before her.

  “Another kind of dance indeed,” an amused voice said in her mind as she looked at the mass of exposed flesh in the room.

  Ornate orange garments had been discarded in a lustful frenzy, the floor scattered with them, as bared bodies writhed over them. The walls were painted orange to reflect the chamber’s lascivious purpose. And yet, the players remained masked as if keeping their faces covered added to the erotic frisson.

  “I like this masque,” the voice said conversationally as Catrin’s hand reached out without her volition to caress the muscular straining buttocks of a man eagerly humping a woman.

  At her slightest touch, the man seemed to gain more energy in his frenzied coupling. Catrin walked around the room, apart from, yet integral to the scene. The part of Catrin that remained the innocent village girl was shocked to the core but she was aware of the other’s presence. There was a sense of knowing amusement as they watched man on man, woman on woman, or three or four parties of either gender sharing debauched pleasure.

  It was as choreographed as the dance in the room before, patterns of bodies seeming to blend with gasps of lust and satisfaction. Again, through the masks, some features seemed familiar.

  Is that Ceri? she wondered, watching a young woman lap eagerly between another’s parted thighs. As she looked, more partakers of the panting, writhing melee of salaciousness resembled girls she had known from the village.

  Her presence seemed to encourage the pitch of feverish need in the room as she walked through it, pausing at one undulating group or another. Tweaking a hard nipple, stroking a finger down the line of a bared back, squeezing the soft flesh of a fully parted inner thigh. The lightest of touches seemed to urge the lechers on.