Atrocious Immoralities

By Brynne Stevens

1613.
Without a family or a coin to her name, a dilapidated orphanage in the English municipality of Kaysford is all that Avis Papley has known in her ten years of life.
She's bound to open that locket around her neck. Charles Stuart I is bound to stray from the stable Protestant monarchy his family has forged.
Although the two paths seem exclusive, there is much that entwines Avis with the young Stuart heir, and Avis gains a power far beyond the realm of politics.
A choice that seems to promise safety and riches will lead to more danger than the young woman could have ever imagined as she takes journeys with curious people to lands where the dead are given second chances.

Atrocious Immoralities is an extraordinary story filled with forgotten history, romance, and fast-paced action with a dash of Celtic mythology. Readers who enjoy historical fiction and magical realism will be immersed in the Renaissance era with dialogue written in Middle English and a unique constructed language.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brynne Stevens
• Release date: Aug 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9798218044213

Brynne Stevens

Brynne Stevens is a young author from sunny California who writes about the fog of the British Isles. Atrocious Immoralities is her first novel. She is currently pursuing a degree in environmental science at the University of California, Berkeley.

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Atrocious Immoralities

Atrocious Immoralities

Atrocious Immoralities

Brynne Stevens

Brynne Stevens

Copyright © 2022 by Brynne Stevens

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. 

ISBN: 979-8-21804420-6 (Paperback)

ISBN: 979-8-21804421-3 (EPUB)

Where real-life historical figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work.

Cover design by Brynne Stevens

Mary, Queen of Heaven by Master of the Saint Lucy Legend, provided by Courtesy National Gallery of Art, Washington

Author photograph by Kim Halamicek

Editing by  Joanne with FirstEditing.com

First Printing Edition: 2022.

Published by Brynne Stevens

[e-mail]

brynnestevens.com

To my family, my cats,

and especially to anyone who

has dwelled on their past.

Contents

Dedication

photo insert

Newes from Scotland.

I Prologue

II The Duchess of Malfi

III Venerable Mistress

IV Royal Affairs

V The Boy Departs

VI The Outside World

VII Assumption of the Heir

VIII Made of Lace

IX Kingmaking

X Spellcaster

XI Splinters

XII Puritanical Piety

XIII Nouvelle Façade

XIV Cruor et Sanguis

XV The Galliard

XVI The Serjeant-Painter

XVII Guy Fawkes

XVIII Athame

XIX Blood in the Water

XX Cornfields

XXI Chasing Bounty

XXII Zealots Aflame

XXIII Ferdinand and Matthias

XXIV Sea Shanty

XXV Thicker than Blood

XXVI Crann Bethadh

XXVII The Living Forest

XXVIII Nariossel

XXIX Cleansing of the Soul

XXX A Final Ball

XXXI Serana í Deiridh

XXXII Epilogue

Newes from Scotland.

Declaring the damnable life of Doctor Fian

a notable Sorcerer, who was burned

at Edenbrough in Januarie last.

1 5 9 1.

Which Doctor was register to the devill,

that sundrie times preached at North Baricke

Kirke, to a number of notorious

Witches.

With the true examinations of the said Doctor and

witches, as they uttered them in the presence

of the Scottish king.

Discovering how they pretended to bewitch and

drowne his Majestie in the sea coming from Denmarke,

with such other wonderfull matters

as the like hath not bin heard at anie time.

Published according to the Scottish copie.

Printed for William Wright.

I

Prologue

September 23, 1589

Luck is a superstitious concept, yet something that never blessed Avis Magellan. It seemed she never got what she wanted or deserved, while the people she despised lived with everything they could fathom or need. This wasn’t just something she felt, but more of a verifiable truth that developed throughout her life. The situation she brought herself into this time was no different—she only hoped she could prevent others from facing the same reality.

Avis! her brother called in a panicked voice.

Her head whipped around to see Peter tumbling down, submerging himself in a pit which raged with scarlet flames. He was being piloted by a darkness, a mass of wispy black that dragged him further down. The stalactites hanging from the chasm’s upper reaches dripped water, causing a roaring sizzle when they connected with the fire below. As his screams echoed throughout the cavern, Avis’s eyes mirrored the motion of the flames.

She focused into Peter’s mind carefully, disconnecting from the chaos.

I have thee. Thou canst not leave me yet.

Watching her brother flail his arms frantically, Avis plunged into the flames. The ashes stung her nostrils and filled her lungs with a lingering scent of charcoal. Her body, engulfed in heat, grew numb to the burning sensation. She noticed small plumes of flame erupting from her dress. Gazing into Peter’s terrified eyes, she nodded sharply, and Peter found himself back atop the ledge without so much as a touch from Avis. She watched him roll back onto the intact stone, immediately realizing that her act of selflessness was causing her body to fall into the pit of fire.

Peter crawled to the edge of the stone and reached his arm out for her, which she narrowly caught. Only one arm was holding on to Peter’s, and her fingers were slipping more with each passing moment.

Avis, take hold of my other hand! He reached as far as he could, but Avis was not attempting to meet him. Her other arm continued to dangle. Their eyes met, and Peter’s eyes pleaded with her. She wanted desperately to reach for his hand but could not.

It would be easy enough to raise her arm and join with his, for Peter to lift her up and for the two to escape the cavern. But this couldn’t happen. She had to let go.

With her free hand, she reached into a small satchel on her side. From it, she retrieved a dagger. She gripped the dagger tightly and thrust it to the other side of her body, where it created a shallow cut in her side.

Avis! Peter screamed, his eyes glittering, wet with tears. She tossed the dagger over the edge weakly, where it fell beside Peter. Individually, Avis lifted her fingers from Peter’s grasp, yet he hung onto her for as long as his strength allowed. But his sweat gave way, and Avis slipped from his hand, falling into the seemingly endless flames.

The black spirit lingered in the air, quickly connecting with her as she fell. The mass was composed with many feather-like shards, and it wrapped itself around Avis until she could not move. The spirit dove with her in its grasp, taking her deeper into the flames until the root of the fire was visible.

The dark spirit hissed and released her, leaving her to tumble to the ground. The flames fully enfolded her, causing her clothes to deteriorate. She watched as her dress fell apart, and the hoop tore out of the frame. Her thoughts were frantic and racing. She allowed herself to let go, no longer feeling the flames char her body and smoke fill her lungs. Her knees buckled, and she fell back, her body sinking out of sight amidst the ravenous fire.

II

The Duchess of Malfi

February 8, 1613

Municipality of Kaysford, United Kingdom

Europe was filled with orphans. Life was short and painful, filled with disease and recklessness, loveless marriages, and death during childbirth. Feeble, foundling youth Avis Papley was no different from the rest.

She sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, alone, with nobody to pay her any mind. The sign hanging from the door reading Ockham’s Orphanage left a lump in her throat that would not dissipate when she swallowed. One window faced the street, and Avis spent most of each day sitting before it. Every time she peeked outside to see the free folk, the burgesses and citizens, she would remind herself she would get out one day. To wander unrestrained, each person pursuing their future independently. But Avis was locked into a fixed future of unwantedness, one that felt futile to fight. Of course, every other child was adopted in time; she was destined to be as well, for good people remained in the world, as she was told. The nuns running the orphanage recited this platitude, despite the vices that ran amok opposite their walls.

The orphanage’s main room was the only place the children were allowed, unless being guided into the chapel. It was a massive room, but poorly constructed beds took up almost all the floor space. There was hardly any light aside from what came through the window and from candles lining the walls and the filing desk. When the candles were burning, the room was filled with the lingering scents of wax and smoke. Avis had no possessions to her name aside from a silver locket she had owned for as long as she could remember, emblazoned with a fierce-looking dragon on the front and a rose decorating the back.

The primary caregiver was a woman they called Merdana. Nobody knew the truth behind her name or what it meant because no godly Anglican parents would name their child something so strange. Rumors spread amongst the older children about the wild life she had lived, traveling and sinning before turning to God in her older age. However, at the mention of her name’s origins she was silent, and the child who dared to ask repeatedly would receive lashings from the woman herself.

This situation was the only time one would find her doing the discipline, and one could tell she was filled with regret at each strike of a child’s forearm. She often left it to the other nuns, the ones with pale hair tucked into their wimples. Merdana’s hair was dark and coiled and always came undone, flying out from her veil by the end of each day.

Avis’s mind ceased to wander when Merdana dragged the young man Charles behind her by the wrist.

Thou must not disturb the women in the kitchen, boy, lest thou decidest thou do not want food. His hair dropped over his forehead, dark and wispy like hers. His face was twisted into a grimace.

Leave me a-alone. I am hungry, woman. D-does that offend thee?

Merdana gasped and slapped him on the cheek.

How darest thou refer to me as such, Charles. Do not forget thy place. Thou art just like everyone else here. She released him and brushed her palms on her apron. And thou canst never amount to much if thy stutter isn’t corrected. Hast thou worked with the others on thy poetry?

His face fell. Many emotions crossed his face, until he reached a point of utter contempt for this woman. Thou canst not f-fix me, Merdana.

Merdana left in a huff and returned to the counter at the entrance, where she kept a watchful eye monitoring the children’s games.

Charles was three years Avis’s senior but did not nearly behave as such. He was brazen and charming, but reserved. Nevertheless, he was sweet to young Avis. He flashed her a smile from across the room.

Avis stayed on the floor; her eyes still affixed to where the quarrel had just happened. Charles rubbed his flushed cheeks and approached Avis sheepishly. He sat down, attempting to make himself appear her size.

Good d-day, Avis.

Wherefore didst thou go to the kitchen?

He fidgeted with his ear. I hoped to g-grab some bread for thou, and the tiny one over th-there. He pointed over to a boy who could not be older than four and had concave shoulders.

I know f-food has been scarce. The nuns are h-having it all, even Merdana in all her p-plumpness. He puffed out his cheeks to make Avis laugh, but she did not. She lowered her face.

What is wrong?

Avis sighed. I am hungry too.

T-there will be food tonight, I swear it, Avis. He patted her shoulder and left to lay down on his bed.

Hours passed, and Avis remained entranced with the people outside. She could not imagine ever tiring of watching people and their different gaits, reading their lips as they had conversations. Sometimes she swore she heard their voices, not just by watching their mouths. When the sun set, she was less interested in the activity outside, and instead moved to her bed. It creaked as she lay down, rattling under her weight.

Charles’ bed was stationed at the opposite wall, where he lay reading.

Upon noticing Avis’s drifting gaze, he moved over to her, carrying his book, and sat at the edge of her bed.

What is it?

C-canst thou read?

Not much.

He opened the book to the first page, despite having his thumb placed halfway through. Wouldst t-thou like m-me to help? It’s simply the best p-pastime. I think thou wouldst l-like to read. My father thinks p-performing plays improves my s-stutter, alas.

She smiled widely. That would be excellent.

She lifted her legs and curled the brim of her dress under her knees so Charles could sit more comfortably.

He pointed at the book.

"T-this is The Duchess of Malfi by John W-Webster. I am not a teacher, but I will t-try. I can say the lines and t-thou canst follow the words as they c-continue on the p-pages."

He stood next to her bed and assumed the stance that a laughable character actor would when they made their entrance. The surrounding orphans gazed directly at him, some giggling at his expense.

Thou dost not need to read the words? Avis asked.

No, my father had me m-memorize Antonio’s lines.

She giggled, then squinted, focusing on each word as it escaped from his mouth. She tried to follow with the book but became enraptured with the way words formed from his lips. The sharp consonants and rolling vowels made her think of the movement of flame, from flickering sparks to dancing heat.

I admire it: In s-seeking to reduce both nation and people to a restoration’d order, their really apt king begins at domestic . . .

Charles, thy stutter! It does improve when thou performeth.

He blinked. I-I had not noticed. Thou h-hast reason.

Couldst thou help me read each word? I was too entranced with thy performance.

He chuckled and returned to sit next to her on the bed, helping her to pronounce each word. She did not need help with most definitions; her perception was always sharp and noticed context in conversation. Charles quickly discovered what a vast vocabulary she had, despite not being literate, and expressed his gratitude for her being such a receptive student. She continued on her own in speaking aloud, Charles watching her with admiration.

Their reading lesson was cut short when Merdana appeared in the hallway before the main room and rang a bell.

Children, come get thy supper! she cried out like a goose.

Charles rose to his feet and beckoned for Avis to come.

A line formed in front of Merdana, the orphans patiently waiting to collect their scraps. Each child would be given a piece of bread and a half cup of broth. Charles and Avis stood together, but Avis watched as Charles did something different from the daily routine. He waited his turn, grabbed his food, gave a quick gramercy and ducked out of line. He stood to the side for a moment, as if simply waiting for Avis to get her food. As Merdana handed Avis her serving, she could not possibly have noticed him sneaking past to the basket of bread that sat on the counter connecting the kitchen to this hallway. He grabbed two loaves and remained there until Avis left, as Merdana’s attention returned to the next child and gave them a blessed rest. He blended in with the other children, leaving the line as soon as he returned to the main room, heading towards his bed with the bread tucked in his ragged shirt. Avis was sitting, tense on the edge of her bed, expecting Merdana to rush at Charles and strike him at any moment. But he remained there, motionless, until he watched Merdana turn around to grab more bread. Hastily, he snuck back to his bed and emptied the bread into his pillowcase. A smile tugged at the corners of Avis’s lips, and Charles gave her a wink.

They ate their given meals in silence, but with a knowingness that made them feel connected through space. Sleep was comfortable that night when they were guaranteed food the next day.

III

Venerable Mistress

Avis awoke uncomfortably, feeling a pressure against her neck that had not been there the night before. She lifted her head and patted the area, finding a lump in the pillowcase. Of course, it was the bread. She took a few ravenous bites and set it back down on her pillow. She looked over to smile at Charles, but he wasn’t in his bed; in fact, nobody was in their beds. All the candles and wall-mounted lamps were snuffed out, but it seemed like the smoke still lingered. Startled, she stood up awkwardly, wandering down the hallway to see where everyone had disappeared to. She continued until she saw the illumination from candles behind the chapel door.

She pushed it open to see all the orphans in prayer, kneeling on the ground with their heads against the earth. The orphanage nuns stood at the podium, their heads bowed.

Her entrance awakened the room. Every head turned to face her; some of the children’s cheeks were tear-stained. Her body was frozen.

Avis. Leave or join us, called Merdana with a twinge of irritation.

She nodded and took up a spot on the floor, resting her head on the cold wooden planks. Charles glanced at her with his head tucked against his knees, his eyes contorted.

Merdana cleared her throat. We are mourning the loss of Alfred today. When we lose an orphan here, it is truly stated that everyone feels their absence. And Alfred was a . . . dear child.

A cry erupted from someone sitting in the front of the room. Alfred was the boy with the concave shoulders, the thin arms, the weak voice. The one Charles wished to help whenever he stole food.

Alfred’s passing leaves poor Winnfred alone, here.

The crying grew from Winnfred, his younger sister.

Merdana’s voice grew and echoed in the small space, God rest his soul.

The chapel seemed to swell whenever Winnfred let out a wail, the walls contracting and breathing amongst the distant silence. The power of her was enough to make Avis weep, and she was not ashamed to have cried. Avis felt as though she had heard Alfred’s pleas when he was alive, asking for food and treatment for his ailments. Charles listened to her quiet sobs and looked at her, frowning.

There will be a funeral next week. Today, ye all may continue to pray and mourn Alfred in thy orisons or return to thy beds. Merdana sighed and left the room, the nuns following her.

The children slowly rose to their feet, including Charles. He came to Avis and tapped her on the back as she remained on the floor.

It’s going to be all right, Avis. He was sickly.

She lifted her head and wiped the tears from her green eyes, standing up next to him. They returned to the living quarters in silence. He decided against disturbing the troubled girl any further and lay down to read in his bed. She did the same and began fidgeting with the locket around her neck.

She removed it from her neck carefully so as not to tug her delicate hair. This locket was her perpetual companion. It was around her neck when she first passed through the orphanage doors. It was tucked into her dress collar every time she went to chapel. Many people had examined it, curious about the strange design. She always passed on the message not to touch it whenever someone approached her, due to some distant memory of not being allowed to open the locket.

Avis had held out for this long. Any reasoning for her to keep the locket closed escaped her. What’s held in a locket is nothing harmful or dangerous, surely. It must contain a picture of her parents, the folk who left her stranded. She could not decide which would be more devastating: finding out her parents were cruel and dropped her on the streets, or that they were loving souls who died too soon.

Either way, most of the children in the orphanage already had the answers to this question. Children like Alfred could still remember every detail of the day they became an orphan. He was left in a basket by his father, the result of an estranged marriage. Avis wanted to know these answers in her own life.

She looked around to see if anyone was watching. Nobody was, but they were active and moving about. She slipped under her light blanket and hid her hands.

Thou shouldst not open it until thou art older, child, she remembered someone saying.

Whomever it was in her head, whoever had once said that, wasn’t there anymore. It wasn’t their locket, so it was her decision to make. How old was old enough to open it? None of her memories had the answer to this question.

Believing herself matured, she gave in and slid her finger across its sleek edge and opened the locket. Her hands shook as she fumbled with the opening, her knobby fingers slipping over the slick metal. As gently as possible, she opened it with her thumbnail, and a small piece of paper fell to the mattress. She quickly picked it up and unfolded the old paper with the respect and care of a bookbinder. It was covered in intricate script. Words that Avis realized she could now read, between lessons with Charles and her own endeavors to learn.

To the venerable and excellent Mistress Avis Papley,

Ye own this locket; consider, I beseech thee, that thou art the reincarnation of Avis Magellan, my dearest and most revered sister. This may seemeth strange but pay heed to mine advice. Mine apologies for not being there to tell thee in person, but unfortunately, I have now departed this good earth.

Since thou art Avis’s reborn form, she passed her abilities onto thee. Thou wilt find that thou canst speak to others without opening