The words hit me like a physical blow. Used publicly? What the hell does that mean? I knew Dyfri was treated awfully. But this doesn’t make sense.
“I’m sorry?” I manage, keeping my voice carefully neutral.
“The rhocyn business,” Morrison says casually, as if he’s discussing the weather. “Being forced to perform for the court’s amusement. Quite the psychological motivation for rebellion, I’d imagine.”
Perform. For the court’s amusement.
Through the cloud of horror, is the sinking realisation that Morrison knows this. That MI5 knew more about my husband than I did. That I needn’t have worried about divulging Dyfri’s secrets, because he had none. He wasn’t even permitted that dignity.
My stomach lurches, but I force myself to nod. “Quite.”
“Well then,” Morrison continues, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I’m barely holding myself together, “if your husband is genuinely interested in cooperation, I’m sure we can find ways to make use of his... unique position.”
The rest of the conversation passes in a blur. Morrison talks about intelligence gathering, about strategic advantages, about the importance of verifying Dyfri’s commitment to the cause. I make appropriate noises and nod in the right places, but my mind is stuck on those words.
Publicly used as entertainment.
The moment Morrison dismisses me, I’m pulling out my phone, fingers shaking as I search for Professor Whitfield’s contact information. It takes several tries to find the right number.
“Professor Whitfield?” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “This is Jack Caxton, Richard Caxton’s son. We met at the British Museum.”
“Ah yes, Mr Caxton.” Whitfield’s voice is coolly polite. “I remember our conversation. What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering... could you tell me more about rhocyn? The fey custom you mentioned?”
There’s a pause, and when Whitfield speaks again, there’s a note of academic excitement in his voice. “Fascinating subject, actually. The rhocyn system is one of the more disturbing aspects of fey culture, from a human perspective. Essentially, it’s institutionalised sexual slavery.”
“Sexual slavery?” He has said those words before, but now I know he means far more than I realised.
“Oh yes. Individuals designated as rhocyn have no legal right to refuse sexual advances from anyone of higher social standing. Which, in practical terms, means anyone and everyone.” Whitfield’s tone is matter-of-fact, as if he’s discussing crop rotation techniques. “They’re considered communal property, available for the entertainment and pleasure of the court.”
Entertainment. There’s that word again.
“But surely there are protections...” I start weakly.
“None whatsoever. In fact, public exhibitions are quite common. The court finds it amusing to watch, apparently. Rather like gladiatorial games, but with a different sort of combat.”
Public exhibitions. Public performances. For the court’s amusement.
I think I’m going to be sick. I had been assuming something along the lines of an escort. A courtier from human history books. Discreet. A veneer of respectability. But mostly I had been trying not to think about it at all. And nothing, nothing, like this had crossed my mind.
“Of course, combat is precisely how rhocyn status begins. How it is bestowed. When an individual loses a duel, the victor unbinds their hair and uses them, sexually, in front of the assembled crowd.”
My ears are ringing. A high-pitched whine that’s about to split my head in two. A white-hot noise.
“Mr Caxton? Are you still there?”
“Yes,” I croak. “Thank you, Professor. That’s... very educational.”
“Quite welcome. If you need any further information about fey cultural practices, please don’t hesitate to call.”
I hang up and lean against the wall, my legs suddenly unsteady. Publicly raped. Public exhibitions. Forced to perform for an audience. No right to refuse anyone.
Dyfri. My beautiful, brilliant, sarcastic husband, who flinches when people touch him unexpectedly. Who looked so amazed when I gave him a simple Christmas gift. Who looked so quietly delighted when his brother braided his hair.
How long? How many years did he endure that? How many times was he forced to...?
I’m moving before I consciously decide to, striding through the corridors of Number 10 towards our flat. I need to see him. I need to... I don’t know what I need to do, but I need to be near him.
