ON FRENCH SOIL
By T.S.Fesseln
Chapter One:'Unto The Breach'
The siege-fires burnished a halo in the night sky over Harfleur,
silhouetting the broken city walls and the dead and dying men upon them.
Within those walls, the sounds of battle still echoed through the streets as
Englishmen ranged through the cobbled streets looking for the loot that would
fill their pockets about that which the young King Henry promised.
Sir Edward de Valence lifted his visor as he rode through the narrow
streets littered with the bodies of the dead and dying, careful to make sure
that the injured of the enemy would not fight again. The ranks had broken
and the raping of the port of Harfleur had begun in ernest. He had even
dismissed his own men so that they could loot their share. He had another
mission in mind.
The House of D'Astier was where he had remembered it on the street of
wine merchants. Phillip D'Astier was a name that many a merchant of the
grape envied and hated. His methods were mercenary and cruel and his silver
graced many an officials' hand. His cogs doubled as privateers. His gold
could buy death.
And it had.
Edward's young son, Bruce, had perished in France while there on
business. Edward's gold bought him the information he needed to know:
Phillip D'Astier may not have held the dagger, but he had paid for it.
And now he would pay for it again.
The door to the two-story dwelling was broken in. As Edward
dismounted, he could hear the cries of rage and agony within. He gathered
his battleaxe and stepped through the darkened doorway.
Inside the small corridor, he found two of D'Astiers' hired men lying
dead in dark pools of blood. The face of one had been crushed and from the
ruins of his face, protruding teeth gave Edward an unsavory grin. The other
lay entwined in his own glistening bowels. The small corridor had open
doors to either side, one had a bright light that spilled out of it and lit
the men's remains.
Edward quickly glanced in there, seeing the ruins of a kitchen. The
other doorway opened to the main hall with it's dying embers on the hearth
and upset furniture. Another two bodies lay sprawled over the wreckage, none
which Edward recognized.
The cries of anquish could be heard coming from the solar. Readying
his axe, Edward rushed toward it across the great hall to the narrow doorway
from which he heard the clatter.
Entering the room, Edward could see the flames starting to engulf the
far side of the room and silhouetted against the inferno a three men and a
woman. All three had stripped the young maiden and and tied her
spread to a rough table. By the gargoyle grins and laughs of these rough men
of England, they had had their pleasure and now left the girl to be consumed
by the hungery fingers of flame that were quickly spreading over tapestries
and beams.
These men did not know what fortune laid tied before them.
Nor did they know that fortune would turn upon them.
The first man, still trying to tie one of his leggings, glanced up to
see his life vanish in a single blink. Edward's blade swung upwards,
catching underneath the roughs' chin and in a wide arc, shaving most of the
man's face, his scream gurggling though his blood. The second, frozen with
inaction as his mind still tried to puzzle what was happening, could only let
out a strangled cry of horror as Edward's axe buried itself into the man's
soft belly. The force of the blow sent the wretch teetering nearly in half
into the growing flames.
The third man had his fellows to thank for the few moments it took to
arm himself. He was a nasty fellow with bulbous nose and teeth like broken,
puss-colored stumps. Crouched and armed with a well-worn sword, his eyes had
a madman's yellow gleam.
"She's 'ur's if'n you want," he spat, smiling, "I's done 'er."
Edward remained silent and stepped toward the soldier, axe glinting red
in the growing firelight.
The rough giggled a bit, and tried to step away from the metal-clad
nightmare that had interuppted his fun. If he could win, he could still
relish the screams and sizzling skin of the girl as his precious flames
licked at her sex. That was all he really wanted.
A beam snapped under the caress of the flame, sending a firefly shower
of embers over the two. The rough shrieked as the sparks landed in his hair
seconds before the edge of Edward's axe. The blade cleft the rough's skull
with a wet crack and stuck there. The haft of the axe had split with
Edward's effort.
The fire had spread in moment to engulf two walls of the small room.
Hot plaster chunks rained down. The comedy of Dante could compare well but
Edward did not seem to notice, his mind locked onto the maiden tied to the
table before him.
Her nude figure was like molten bronze in the firelight. Her eyes wide
and dark, her cloth-gagged lips as rose petals, her neck slight and graceful.
The soft curves of her full breasts seemed to plead for his touch. Her belly
was as smooth and as flat as a stream-polished stone and her quim was cloaked
with a wonderful dark-furred patch. Her legs were long and lithe and his
desire for the daughter of D'Astier flared as she still tried to struggle in
her tethers and scream into her gag.
Drawing a dagger, Edward slit the cords binding her ankles to each of
the tables' legs, then pinning them together, cinched them tight. At the
head on the table, he did the same to her wrists, twisting them until they
were pinned behind the maid's back. Even as helpless as she was, the
bitch-child of D'Astier continued to struggle and fight as if she wanted to
perish in the fire.
It took no little effort to heft the slight girl over his shoulder and
carry her through what had become a pyre. What strained Edward was her
squirming and kicking. It took both his arms to force her out the of the
doors. Soon, he was outside beside his horse, the night air feeling like
ice on his heat drenched body.
His prize was still struggling, but her efforts were growing weaker as
the strength drained away from her body. Her screams had become faint mewls
of anguish and fatigue. With no little effort, he draped her over the pommel
of his saddle. He stroked her lovely, rounded arse; her quim peeking out
below like a plum ripe for plucking. But not, here, Edward thought as he
cloaked her with a looted tapestry.
He climbed wearily into the saddle and settled back into it's cantel.
He could still see his struggling bait in the outlines of the tapestry, but
if anyone should glance his way, her form would be hidden from sight.
The ride through the streets of Harfleur was marked only by the amblings
of drunking Englishmen and the cries of the dispossed French. The siege had
left both hungry and desparate and now only the victors could make what
little merriment they could. Weeks of being camped in bogs thick with flies
and summer stink had taken their toll. The King had ordered out the camp
followers and the wine the men drank had been fetid. It was no wonder that
their victory had become an orgy after the rich had been ransomed.
Outside the walls the night air did not seem as thick as Edward urged
his mount through the wooden pallisades built for the seige. The dark
skeletons of trebuchets
looked like empty gallows and the smell of fired gunpowder still cloaked the
air. The cannons were silent this St. Maurice's Eve, the port had
surrendered to King Harry.
There were few men in the old campsite, most of the men had moved their
belongings into the town and into what was now their homes. Edward would
soon follow but only after he made sure his captive was secure.
The baggage wagon that Edward had called home had become mired in the
soft ground until Edward knew it was not going to move. It's blues and
whites and gold had become stained and faded and the dray horses slaugthered
to fill the bellies of his charges. The was an untended fire dying and the
little else as Edward dismounted and tethered his horse. King Harry would
see to it that Edward got his share of the ransom for the king was indebted
to his household more than a few coin. There was no need for him to loot.
One of the few things he wanted was wriggling underneath the tapestry.
Edward pulled the covering off, brushed back the maiden's long dark
tresses and looked again into the face of his prize, Catherine D'Astier. Her
ebony eyes were wide and doe-like in their fear and her muffled pleas from
behind her gag did nothing but arouse Edward more.
He brushed her cheek, smiled, then went around to the other side to
lift her off the saddle. As he grabbed both legs, he could smell her
perfume, as heady and wanton as a mare in season. Her maidenhead had already
been sundered so his taking her would not now damage her value to him.
Besides, Edward thought to himself, it would bring him vengence to swyve the
daughter of the man that killed his son.
He carted her over his shoulder and brought her in to lay her amongst
his baggage. Grabbing her ankles, he bent them to meet her wrists and
knotted them there in a hogtie. He then rolled her over onto her back so he
could drink in her body again.
She squirmed and struggled, her breasts jiggling with the effort. Her
nipples were stiff and erect and her knees opened almost to invite him.
Between her legs and below her dark, thick nest, the slit of her quim showed,
swollen like ripe fruit. Her mewls behind her gag sounded like pleas and her
eyes showed both want and fear.
Normally, his squire would help him out of his armor, but he was no
where to be seen. Edward labored to rid himself of his armor but soon he was
undressed and kneeling over the helpless Catherine.
Edward's rough hands forced apart the knees of the girl before him,
pinning them back and exposing her sex. Her perfume was strong and he could
see she was already moist.
She struggled at the sight of his cock, trying to squirm away, but Edward's
firm grip pinned her. He eased down upon her and felt her warm, silken
muscles engulf him.
Slowly at first, then with more violence, Edward thrust into her again
and again. The sweet friction stoking Edward's passion and anger as did the
girl's moans. At first they were moans of anguish but as Edward thrust, they
became more amatory. Her knees embraced him and helped him with the rhythm.
Her hips came up to meet his.
Again and again, thrusting and stoking his fire until he felt the spent
boiling up his shaft and shooting into Catherine, causing her to shiver and
squirm without control. Her moans were of pleasure and when Edward tried to
slip out, she held onto him with her silken muscles and her thighs.
But Edward pulled himself from her and stared into Catherine's eyes
until she curled herself up into a ball. It was not long before she fell
asleep.
Edward wondered. . .
**************************END CHAP 1***********************************
If you would like to see this story continue, especially any Lady
Catherine's out there, please contact me at FESSELN1.aol.com. I will try to
post more when time becomes
available.
