Concubine Affair , livre ebook

Title Page
THE CONCUBINE AFFAIR
Quig Shelby



Publisher Information
This digital edition published in 2014 by
AUK Adult
An imprint of
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2014 Quig Shelby
The right of Quig Shelby to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.



Chapter One
(Imperial China 1788)
‘Your Majesty: This is a pleasant surprise.’
‘My dear Heshen, I am not the little sparrow you had imagined,’ said the Emperor, Chien-lung. His eyes were red, set deep against his bright yellow box hat.
‘My apologies Sire, I merely meant it is refreshing to see you without an escort. Now we can watch the execution together.’
‘You are forgiven my dearest friend.’
They stood in the Palace grounds, a stone’s throw from the execution. It was mid-day, and revenge was the medicine for the sombre malady that had wrapped the Imperial Court in bandages.
‘But may I ask; where are your guards?’
‘It is not polite to hear the Emperor cry. Today I shall let the ling chi dissuade any rebellion.’
Ling chi, or the death of a thousand cuts, was reserved for treason, not love. But tasting the forbidden fruit in the Emperor’s harem was a deadly feast.
‘And what of the concubine?’ asked Heshen.
Chien-lung sighed. Would he let the woman who once soared in his bosom also be mutilated - alive?
‘Do you not find the slicing gruesome?’ asked Chien-lung.
‘Indeed, and the screams cut through my own flesh. But on this occasion I am warmed to see the Jesuit dog punished.’
‘You tried to warn me.’
‘It is not the fault of the son of heaven, but rather my weakness in desisting.’
The afternoon sun hung high above; their silk robes shimmered in the haze. The priest, Alain Fontaney, was tied to a wooden stake, muttering a last prayer. The executioner squinted, and looked once more at the hesitant Emperor.
‘Sire, do you doubt?’ asked Heshen.
‘No, I merely remember that once we were friends.’
With poisoned recollections, Chien-lung nodded. The executioner began, dazed with opium; Alain was given no such escape. The blade glinted, before turning bloody. Two soldiers stood stoic either side, hoping to impress.
‘Surely, he will pass out soon?’ asked the Emperor, the screams beating against their ear drums.
‘The executioner is most skilled,’ said Heshen, nodding his approval. ‘But will you offer Wa Yu the crimson poppy?’
The Emperor did not answer.
‘Surely she will face the same fate?’ asked Heshen.
And the sooner the better, he thought.
‘I know you think only of me, and the hurt she has caused. But if she can promise me silence I will send her into exile.’
Heshen lunged forwards, pulling a dagger from his sleeve. The tip of the blade halted at the youth’s neck.
‘I bring news for the Emperor,’ said the startled messenger.
‘Then you should announce your arrival from twenty paces, wretch,’ said Heshen, and he clipped the young boy hard on the side of the head. ‘Apologies Sire, he is from my wife’s family.’
‘Your Majesty,’ whimpered the boy ‘I bring news of Wa Yu. She has taken her life.’
Chien-lung’s legs weakened, the wind kicked from his sails. He clung onto Heshen’s arm.
‘How?’ he asked.
‘Hanging,’ said the boy, wary he would face the Emperor’s wrath on the other side of his head.
‘Majesty, the Empire is full of concubines worthy of your love,’ whispered Heshen.
‘But no one else can unchain my heart,’ said the Emperor. ‘Wa Yu has stolen it to her grave.’
‘Back to the litter, runt,’ Heshen shouted to his nephew, who was happy to scamper away.
Monsignor Jacques, the leader of the Jesuit mission, and Bertrand the priest, approached. They had been ordered to attend.
‘I am surprised you dare stand before the Emperor,’ said Heshen.
Bertrand was ashen, still shaking.
‘He has wronged both of us your Imperial Highness, but I hope you can find it in your gift ...,’ began Monsignor Jacques.
‘My gift is no more. But do not worry, your gun boats keep you safe,’ said the Emperor.
‘You chose the right profession,’ said a smirking Heshen to the lily livered Bertrand.
‘I am a man of the cloth, if that’s what you mean’ replied Bertrand.
‘Then perhaps they cut skirts from the same material,’ said Heshen.
The Emperor laughed.
‘Heshen come back with me, I need your company more than ever.’
‘I shall be honoured.’
‘Let us take our time, and walk back through the orchard.’
The two Frenchmen bowed their heads, certain their countryman would have muzzled his lust, if he had known his fate.
‘Any news of Yi, and Hui?’ asked the Emperor, twigs breaking under foot.
The lover’s accomplices would meet the same fate as Alain.
‘It appears they have vanished into thin air. But unless they are ghosts my men shall find them.’
A gust of wind felled two red apples onto the Emperor’s flowing yellow robe.
‘The lover’s spirit’s falling at your feet,’ said Heshen grinning.
He picked them up, and bit into one.
‘Sire?’ he asked, offering the less bruised fruit.
‘I have lost my appetite.’
Chien-lung looked at the approaching dark clouds, and held out his hand to hold. His palm was soft, smooth like a concubine’s, but his nails were long and thorny like some bamboo.
‘The priest once told me that he loved the rain. Perhaps it will clean the stain he has left,’ said Chien-lung.
‘He is either dead or fainted,’ said Heshen almost disappointed the wails had ceased.
But there was one name left on Alain’s lips, the concubine he would always love; Wa Yu.



Chapter Two
(Present day, England)
The sash window was fully open, and a light summer’s breeze swayed the Chinese paper lantern hanging from the ceiling; a fly was trapped inside, buzzing incessantly. Underneath a lifeless head tilted towards the red evening sky. A dressing gown cord enclosed the slim pretty neck.
‘Milly,’ said the voice a third time, louder, but still not wishing to shout.
He knocked again, and then cautiously turned the handle. The lock, like the hinges, needed oiling, and the door creaked open. Patient privacy had to be respected, but it was time for medication.
‘Oh my god,’ gasped Alain the nurse, dropping the small plastic tots, one holding tablets and the other water, to the floor.
Quickly he ran down two flights of stairs, and into the office. Margaret the care assistant was reading a magazine over her cup of jasmine tea.
‘Where’s the ligature cutter?’ asked Alain sweating.
Margaret rushed to the old wooden desk at the opposite end of the room, opened a black vinyl case, and handed him the cutter. She ran after him.
‘Who is it?’ she asked.
‘Milly,’ he replied.
‘Oh no,’ and her heart jerked.
Milly was a favourite, dainty, and courteous. She suffered nightmares from the past, and was in the small rehab clinic for opiate addiction.
As they got to the landing, another patient, Verity, was coming out of the shower. She glanced into Milly’s room, then with her knees buckling, propped herself against the scuffed bannister.
‘Verity, go to your room please,’ said Margaret gently, before following Alain into Milly’s room, closing the door behind her.
They dragged the bed underneath, and cut her down from the gibbet gnawed into the ceiling. Alain checked for signs of life, but it was plain to see she was lost. Margaret was crying.
‘She’s dead,’ said Alain.
Milly was in her mid-thirties, a voluntary patient at Treetops. She’d told Margaret all of her secrets, including the abuse, and now she just lay there; like the rag doll for which she’d often been mistaken.
‘I’ll have to speak to Verity. Can you call the doctor?’ asked Alain, whilst covering the body with a white sheet. The bed looked peaceful; there were no more death throes.
‘Yes,’ whispered Margaret.
All the blood had rushed out of her face. She almost closed the window, but on second thoughts left it open for Milly’s soul to escape.
Verity answered her door immediately; she needed someone to talk too.
‘Is she ...?’
She was frightened to use the word dead.
‘Yes, she’s gone,’ said Alain.
Verity was sat on the wicker chair dressed in her silk pyjamas; Alain left the door open, in case she cried rape. Each patient, there were eight in all, had their own bed sitting room.
‘She was such a lovely woman,’ said Verity, still shaking.
‘I know,’ said Alain, fighting the urge to wrap her in his arms.
The patients were voluntary, and could leave at any time; although suicide, like fleeing in the night, wasn’t recommended.
Treetops rehabilitation clinic was based in an old rambling Victorian house on three floors. Downstairs was extended to accommodate the group work.
‘I shall leave tomorrow morning,’ said Verity.
‘Well at least think about it tonight,’ said Alain ‘your treatment hasn’t finished yet.’
‘Oh I shan’t change my mind,’ she said ‘I never do.’
Verity was receiving treatment for alcohol addiction; a combination of therapy and medication. She had thick auburn hair, worn in the cutest bob, and unblemished porcelain skin. Her face was oval, with ruby red lips. Alain always resisted being drawn into her dreamy hazel eyes, but perhaps in a