Dunyazad: Tale the Fifth

Entertainments - the Knights Templar - magical iron - a demon - Great Tom's view - Perpetual Virgins - Sir Harry's gold - unsavoury alleyways

I know I dozed, briefly, before waking to find myself as Thornton once more. The sisters were still asleep, tangled together with me on the bed; they would possibly be looking for some explanations, by and by. Something about poppy extract in their tea might serve. Not just yet, though. Dee was nearby in a long scarlet robe, busy laying out sturdy wool and leather clothing for me. A selection of tools and weapons were stacked along side. I began to carefully extricate myself from the fleshy -- and slightly sticky -- bounty that surrounded me.

"It is time, my lord, to secure our wealth. Get dressed!" she said with a laugh. "Last night while you slept I was busy. I reassured your Lucy of your regard for her," -- Ha! I knew it! -- "And then got our Peter's blood running before he and I prepared the deep vaults for today's ... entertainments."

The way she said it, I suspected that 'entertainment' might be a misnomer. In the event, I was right. Within the hour we were unlocking the iron door in the cellar we had come in through not so many days before. Torches in hand, we were on our way back into the catacombs beneath the city. Without Dee I would have taken an age to find the path, but as it was I was soon creeping along the top of the rubble that had been intended to block the rear entrance to our treasure. She, of course, had preferred to turn to smoke, leaving her robe a crimson puddle at my feet, rather than reduce herself to crawling.

And then I was back in that cavern - awestruck yet again at the sights within.

Not least was Dee herself, gloriously naked and wandering about looking at various baubles (which, as before, she often seemed to recognize). Stopping before one of the tombs, she beckoned me to her and pointed. 'Jacques de Molay' was carved into the foot of the stone. On top lay a gilded, but otherwise corroded, suit of armour. I remembered the legend -- that when the trumpets called at the end of time, the Knights Templar would be resurrected fully armed and ready to serve.

"This one was grandmaster of the Order. My fat Benedetto" - that is to say, the pope who had previously been her master, or rather thought of himself as such -- "once told de Molay to be sure to take my ring should he die. Fools. If Benny had made me love him, I would not have succumbed to the urge to wander away in search of pleasure, and he needn't have ever died. And Jacques failed to do as he was told, or I would not have lain here imprisoned for so very long."

As it happened, I remembered this Templar's name from my studies. The French had grilled the man over hot coals. It had taken him a long time to die; he should have taken the ring. How his charred remains had been recovered, brought here, and presumably decanted into this dress armour to wait for the ultimate summons, was just one more mystery.

"Not that I regret my new lord, naturally." Perhaps I'd looked a little unsettled by the demise of her former suitors, because Dee punctuated this last comment by thrusting the points of her steely nipples against my chest. Then, with the most alarming combination of coy and wanton, she began to undress me.

"Would you like me to show you what I did to our Captain of the Guard to make the poor man pass out? Our sweet Peter, flat on his muscular back, right there amongst those emeralds -- and still with his fiery spear locked tight inside me. I caught his fall thus, and held his hips up off the gem-stone strewn floor with my nutcracker." By this time she was holding my neck and rubbing said 'nutcracker' against my straining cock, forcing it against my belly.

Well, what would you do? The invitation, as I understood it, was to grip her plump bum, hoist her over my eager willie, and to drop her -- thereby lodging my engine deep in her belly. I accommodated her, of course - if I had learned anything in the past few weeks, it was that it was only polite to humour such requests. I marched her around the cavern for a while, and I must say that the echoes of her shrieks of delight were most impressive, if a little uncanny.

Then, as if we were conversing across a dining table, she asked, "Do you suppose your Holy Father knows about this horde?" Given the circumstances, it took me a moment to realize she meant the current pope. She answered for me, "No -- because he would want it for himself."

It was no great slur on the incumbent on the Throne of Peter to agree that it was unlikely he (or his many predecessors) could ignore such wealth.

"So," she calmly continued. "These men we fight are indeed the successors of the Templars of old, though your books say they were broken." I was impressed both at the extent of the library our brothel must possess and at Dee for having delved through it. "They are pursuing their own designs. Benedetto knew of their secret heresy to his faith, though it suited him to ignore it. They believed their leaders continued the bloodline of his prophet-king Christós. Perhaps it was even true -- that sot Herod was never very good at tidying up after himself," she mused, turning back to the tomb. "And all that time they kept their treasure hidden. I think perhaps their idea of resurrection is different than the one Benedetto professed."

It was then that we heard a distant, horrible scream through the doorway that led back to the church. I shuddered at the sound, and thought of the spiked pit. Dee must have known they were coming. God knows what they made of her orgasmic yowling.

"They know you were able to make your way from that crypt to this vault," she continued, unmoved, "and so they are finding their way here at last, after long years, either to remove this treasure, or to do as we ourselves plan -- reseal this place. We'll help them decide. Put on that armour."

She took a hand from the back of my neck to wave toward the gear piled on de Molay's vault. It was left to me to reluctantly lift her free of my still rampant peggo and set her on her feet. This was clear evidence of magic -- fear should have wilted me when first I heard the intruders.

Of course it would have taken far too long to dress in armour, but a mail shirt and grieves over my clothes gave impressive results in the gloom. The long sword I lifted was a wonderful thing, like something from the tales of King Arthur. It gleamed faintly in the torchlight. The tall shield still displayed a painted red cross that was the twin to the insignia I had seen on the equipment of the men who had tried to kill me ... and which was doubtless worn by their fellows who were still determined to do so. Have I mentioned how little I enjoy that sort of thing?

As a finishing touch, Dee lifted the helmet that lay on top of the stone, shook out some ash, and set it on my head. The thing was plainly made, for such a prominent knight -- a simple bucket with a small guard plate over my nose. "One last thing," she whispered, and tilted her head to kiss me hard. "That should do," she said with a laugh. Being Dee, she held up an obsidian mirror that had been conveniently nearby, so as to share the joke.

I couldn't help leaping back a pace -- blazing red eyes glared back at me from the skull ensconced in the time-ravaged helm. "Christ!"

"Not really," said Dee. "Nor yet shall I be mistaken for such." As she spoke, her body twisted and her face stretched. Soon she stood before me as a proper demon: red skinned, cat-eyed, hump backed, sharp chinned, horn topped, and fearsomely ugly. Still female, mark you -- her slack dugs and sharp-toothed sex attested to that. Oh, and she sported bat wings. I fervently hoped she hadn't transformed into her own true shape.

She pointed toward the main entrance from which we could now hear the yelling of our pursuers encouraging one another on, and said, "Now we charge." This was accompanied by a shockingly wicked grin, and I ran -- as much from her as toward our no-doubt better armed attackers.

We met them at a corner only ten yards or so beyond the treasure chamber's doorway. It was hard to tell how many men there were, since the passage was narrow. But the blind panic we instilled in the leaders, and the confused rush to escape, were gratifying.

Dee howled like a banshee, and we gave chase. Another was claimed by the spikes, but most -- perhaps a dozen -- were making an amazingly rapid withdrawal. I was beginning to think this was dead (as it were) easy, but when the passage widened slightly, half of the Black Mantles chose to make a stand. They abruptly turned and blocked the tunnel, with three kneeling in front of the others, proposing with their Spencers to present volley fire. Although unfamiliar with the tactic, Dee voiced approval at the courage of men facing in the gloom what they must believe to be a demon and a skeletal knight. I, on the other hand, was inclined to throw myself on the ground, but the first three bullets took me full in the chest before I could act.

There was no sensation of impact, just puffs of dust and armour splinters as the sizable rounds passed through me. They never even slowed my onward rush, and nor did the next two volleys which followed in rapid succession. It wasn't until I had closed and struck down two of their number (for they had no bayonets, or room enough to properly swing their weapons as clubs) that they broke. I daresay I looked even more like a visitation from hell at close range than from afar.

As they ran Dee just said, "Ahh - this is the place", then stopped me up by my collar. She plucked a Lucifer (appropriately enough) from my breaches pocket and bent down at the base of the wall to light a powder train which neither I nor the Black Mantles had noticed. It led to a bricked-up opening close by, and disappeared underneath into what must have been a side room packed with ... shit.

It was not actually merde behind the wall, of course. My thought process had just made the appropriate deduction when all hell broke loose with a vengeance. The brick wall vanished, to be replaced with a glimpse of fire, which in turn was followed by a hammer blow that propelled us both in the direction of the fleeing Black Mantles.

I found myself airborne and tried to catch my breath. Having last been impersonating a walking corpse, I had no breath to catch, but I hadn't remembered that. Not that it mattered. I was hurtling down the tunnel while around me boiled turbulent fire and debris, and I thought, well that's it then -- I really am dead. No ceremonial thumbs down from the emperor of the cosmos, either, nor a grinning skeletal escort (not unlike myself, just then, but that I lacked a scythe). I would receive a fiery dispatch direct to Hades.

Except, it soon dawned on me that it didn't hurt -- no pitchforks pricking my posterior and, perhaps more to the point, no burning flesh. In fact, I was utterly formless. Barring the enveloping flames, it was more like my notion of limbo. Only a smallish improvement, you might suppose, but I could also sense the presence of Dee nearby. And even though I couldn't actually see her, I somehow knew she was not the hell-spawn apparition that would have been right at home hereabouts, but the beauteous and lustful version. This offended my meagre grasp of theology, and it finally occurred to me that I had never wondered where she went when she vanished. I still didn't know, but apparently I was there with her.

And therefore still of this earth, more or less. I was aware of being tumbled along the passageway with the smoke and debris of the blast, and abruptly propelled out into the grim crypt. Then, I was drawn along further by another force -- Dee. The stone stairway, the upper chapel, and a crack in the grimed stain glass window passed in rapid succession, then open air and bright sunlight, rooftops and finally, the soaring heights of Saint Paul's.

There the world shimmered slightly, and I found myself sitting naked on a stone ledge above the golden gallery -- which is to say, perched on the 'lantern' about three hundred feet higher off the pavement than I was normally accustomed to loiter in any attire. Beside me, laughing, sat the equally undraped Dee, now restored to her beautiful human form.

In my defence, not everything terrified me; however, High Places were normally on that list. Yet my first thought (after registering that my butt was seriously cold) was to wonder if the elderly matron on the viewing balcony thirty feet below would happen to look up when I commenced to roger my lover.

Probably not - smoke was pouring from the little church several streets distant, and I could already hear the fire brigade coming. On the other hand, Dee could make a serious racket of her own, and my erection had returned along with my body. There was barely room on our ledge to manoeuvre, but I managed to grapple aboard her while keeping a leg cocked around one of a series of odd stone posts seemingly provided expressly for the purpose -- that purpose being to keep both of us from going over the side.

Just as well, too. Dee was as randy as I was after the thrill of being blasted here -- and consequently she thrashed and twisted and suckled with gusto. Between the precarious thrusting and grinding, and the constant swapping of bodies, it was hard to keep track of all our bits. And for what it's worth, I'm here to tell you that spurting into the wind is no more successful than spitting -- presupposing you are keen to be shed of the discharge. In the event, the extra lubrication was welcomed.

By and by, much refreshed, we put our minds to what was to be done next. Presumably the passages between the church and the treasure chamber were blocked, at least for the time being. And hopefully the chamber itself had not also collapsed. Apparently, Peter - our sapper and in-house cocksman - was reasonably sure that the destruction would be contained. So the task at hand was to remove the lolly in the midst of a seriously stirred up hornet's nest. Obviously a convoy of covered carts leaving the neighbourhood was not going to go unnoticed.

On the shorter term, there was the question of the bitingly cold wind. We were just about to set to for another warming bout of rumpty tumpty when Great Tom began to bang out the noon hour from the nearby clock tower. The row at this range was loud enough to nearly put me over the edge after all, but Dee just laughed and ducked through an archway to an inner service stair.

Following her down, I rubbed my chilled sides and called, "Can't you just magically conjure something?"

"Of course," said Dee. She proceeded to crawl out of a small access doorway to the visitor's gallery. Putting my head through, I admired Dee's glorious bum as she unfolded herself. With a luxurious stretch, she stood tall in front of an old man who was presumably accompanying the woman I had glimpsed earlier from above. "Pardon me," Dee said, her hair streaming in the icy wind. "I seem to have mislaid my garments."

His eyes drifted down past her stiff nipples to her goose-bumpy thighs and back upward, lingering on her bald pubis and plump slit in both directions. Having confirmed her complete lack of raiment, he just nodded.

"I wonder, "she continued, "whether I may be so bold as to ask if I could borrow your leisure coat? Oh, and your overcoat as well, for my friend ..."

As it happened, only my head and shoulders were visible through the portal -- having just been treated to a view of Dee's magnificent arse myself (to say nothing of the tantalizing juices leaking down the inside of her thighs) I had a fresh bone and preferred not to expose it.

Not that the poor fellow even noticed me. Dazed, he stripped his coats off and handed them over. I believe he would have continued to surrender the rest - vest, tie, collar and more, but his missus appeared from around the corner. Perhaps she had glimpsed us making the two-backed beast after all. She simply smiled as she gave us good morning, then hooked her arm in that of her dazed and coatless husband and cheerfully led him away around the balcony.

Thus garbed, we slunk down the many stairs and across the transept to leave by the south doorway. The way was clear enough until we were back into the full light of day. It had been quiet enough in the cathedral, but out on the street we were far less likely to blend -- or, more exactly, Dee and her gleaming bare legs would stand out.

I, on the other hand, could probably pass as a tramp (albeit one with a stolen overcoat) ... or, on closer inspection, a meat-flasher.

Dee crossed the road toward the river and ducked down a nearby lane. Stopping in front of a tiny confectioner's shop, she swung around to study ... what, exactly?

"We're going the wrong way," I pointed out.

She gave me a pitying look. Which was only fair - the direct way back to The Catacomb (that is to say our newly acquired brothel, as opposed to the passageway below the church we had recently been propelled from) would have taken us past the still smoking edifice.

"If anyone survived the fire, they will tell a tale no one will believe," Dee explained. "Regardless, our opponents will have to reassure themselves that there is no other entrance. And they know your London is riddled with shafts and tunnels. Their Lord Oakley himself has passed through our client's entrance."

I expect I paled visibly. Yesterday Dee had managed to discover that his Lordship was the leader of the buggers who hunted us.

"Relax," she said. "It is only one of many underground pathways of which they are no doubt aware. We will take a circuitous route to our staff entry. Follow me." With which she opened the door of the shop.

"For sweets?" I asked.

"This is the establishment known in the trade as Sister Mary's House of the Perpetual Virgins," Dee said, nodding pleasantly to the smiling shop girl. "We have urgent business with your mistress, my dear, of mutual benefit. If you would be so kind ...?"

The girl looked us over with a professional eye, and returned Dee's nod. "But of course, my lady. Follow me."

We emerged an hour later, having been well fed and outfitted with such clothes as were available -- reasonably well fitting shirt, vest and trousers for me (I chose not to ask how they had come to be left behind), and a prim girl's school outfit for Dee. Even though she had subtly shifted her apparent age downward to match, her curves overfilled the costume in a manner slightly obscene. Still, she also had a matching fur-trimmed jacket, which left me both the coats acquired from our gallery friend. With the addition of a dapper walking stick under my arm, we looked more or less respectable -- a young man escorting his sister, perhaps. Fresh purses had also been supplied for contingencies.

Having circled west and north, I began to notice a number of large humourless gentlemen. They stood out all the more for the wide berth the street people gave them. (In truth, Dee's bearing even as a schoolgirl would have had created the same empty space but for the pennies she was unobtrusively distributing.) Some of these men simply scanned the streets, while others moved from door to door with notebooks in hand.

Dee had no sooner plotted a route to avoid the most of them, when an imposing man abruptly stepped into our path. He was tall and broad, but did not seem to fit the mold of the questing Black Mantles. For one thing he wore a fashionable morning coat and gloves and, while he had the bearing of a soldier, he was older than the others, perhaps fiftyish. Although darkly handsome, he also had the flushed face and leer of a man who liked his drink and women.

Dee would do him with bells on, I thought -- and that mental image gave me a stiffy. I was right, too (possibly excepting the bells). Before the man could speak, she said, "Cost you a sovereign, Gov, and you'll think it a bargain."