On French Soil
T.S. Fesseln
Chapter 10 "A peaceful and sweet retire"
Catherine listened to Edward's breathing, her head rising and falling as
she rested it on his chest. She had not realized it, but she missed this
Englishman's flesh; the rough down of his chest against her cheek, the slick
musk of his labors, the rumble of his heart inside him like the gallop of a
stallion. All these things strangely comforted her as she laid curled, still
bound, beside this English knight. How she wished her wrists were not tied
behind her. She so wanted to run her hands over this knight's breast and
cradle his sleeping form to her bossom.
Sleep eluded Catherine. It was like a songbird whose song one could
hear yet cannot find it's singer. She was tired and being here against Edward
filled her with an ease that she had never felt before, yet the events of the
night and the past few days kept her mind awake as well as the warmth stirring
in her quim.
Edward stirred a bit beside her, his arm reaching around her.
"Are you awake, my dear ransom Catherine?" Edward said in his gruff
french.
"Yes, Englishman, my lord, I am."
Edward smiled, his strong arms bringing the slight Catherine closer to
him. The french captive looked up at Edward with her dark eyes and smiled.
"What, pray tell, are your thoughts?" he asked. His fingertips began to
trace lightly over her smooth back.
"It is not my position to say, my lord. I am, by-the-by, your ransom;
to do with as you will."
Edward grinned at this. The game was afoot and his coney still was
baiting him. It was now a game of words with Catherine.
"And if it was my will to know your mind, dear ransom, would you then
tell me?"
"I would not. I am your ransom. My flesh and my blood are yours to do
with as you will, but my souls is still mine and Gods. You cannot force a
thought from me just as you cannot crush milk from a butterfly, my lord."
Edward thought on this a bit. He sat up and began to untie the binding
about Catherine's wrists.
"You are free to go, my butterfly."
Catherine looked in Edwards' dark hazel eyes.
"You play me a simpkin, my Englishman lord," Catherine replied.
Edward kept silent, his arms crossed across his chest.
"You know what lies for me beyond these walls of stone," Catherine
continued as she stood up beside her bed.
"What, pray tell, my dear ransom Catherine, lie beyond these walls. .
.your precious Mother France, whose bossom you will go to with open arms,"
Edward smiled as he looked upon her slender, marble-like form glistening in the
morning light. A cathedral angel made flesh.
Catherine's eyes narrowed, "I need not remind you, English knight, of
what evils lurk out there for one such as myself. Unescorted and without a
single piece of silver to my name, I would be little but a scrap of meat
amongst hungry wolves."
"A very lovely scrap, yes," Edward grinned.
"I am your ransom, English Knight," she continued, "You cannot shirk the
responsability to this. . ."
Catherine pointed to her breast, ". . .your ransom! You took me and now
my life is in your hands."
The grin had disappeared off of Edward's face. Indeed, Catherine was his
ransom, even though his feelings towards this fiery daughter of D'Astier were
growing more binding with each hour. He was bound by the rules of war to keep
his ransom safe until her ransom was paid or until it was not paid. Edward had
not even sent word to Philip D'Astier letting him know that his daughter was
now in the hands of one Edward de Valence. In his passions, Edward had almost
forgot the reason why he had searched for Catherine in the ruins of Harfleur.
Catherine looked directly into Edward's stern, hazel eyes.
"I am your ransom, my dear English knight."
Outside, the mists that clung to the grey morning like ghosts over a
grave, slowly letting loose the ground. A pale sun greeted the both besiegers
and the besieged. A column of smoke still cloaked the second tower from the
night's fire. The men awoke and coughed and cursed and spat and itched and
prepared themselves for another day, The victory of the past few days lost in
the daily routine of war. Death still breathed in the smoke.
Richard had not gone to bed. He walked slowly through his retinue and
though he saw their faces and heard their voices, they were like a far away
tolling of a bell. His tired mind was thick with thoughts that he knew better
than to have. Edward de Valance, his lord, had done much for Richard,
including shedding his blood for Richard. There was nothing that Richard would
not do for this man. However, this ransom of his, this raven-haired beauty,
was unlike any woman he had know and the thought of her heated his loins.
Best not to think on it, Richard, thought. Another day of siege was at
hand and the second tower should soon be taken.
"Life is to short, my dear Richard, to be so dark," a warm lilting Irish
voice said to him.
"Margery?" he replied.
"It looks as if you have the weight of many a capatpult stone upon your
brow, my dear lord sergeant," Margery smiled as she got up from her spot, an
emptied keg. In her hand, a ceramic mug.
"It has been a hard siege, Margery."
"To a woman like me, dear Richard, whose son is still carrying a
sharpened sword, everyday of this cursed war is as hard as an iron helm."
Richard looked around to see if anyone had heard, "I would speak
silently of this, Margery. King Harry's work here is blessed by God."
"I know, my dear Richard. At times I think this is an atonement for the
sins of my flesh."
Richard hugged the redheaded washer woman close to him and whispered,
"You have been a comfort to me, Margery, more so than any stone saint staring
out from a cathedral niche."
"You should not say such things, my sergeant. It is ill favored."
Richard did not smile as he looked down at Margery, "My soul is already
burning and will continue to burn long after the I die."
Margery read the pain in Richard Corfe's blue eyes. She had seen it too
many times before. They were the eyes of a man to whom singing arrows and
slashing blades mean as much as a stroll through a meadow ripe with spring.
Richard's eyes had seen too many men scream and cry and curse at their own
mortal wounds. Richard did not know how to wash the blood from his hands.
"Come," she said.
Margery lead the sergeant through to a where she had made her tent, inside
the skeletal remains of what was once a bakehouse. Now all that remained was a
stone chimney and oven and a few blackened timbers. Her tent, stained and
patched from many years of travel in Wales and Scotland as well as there in
France, was almost as welcome sight as Richard's own home. By his hand, she
pulled him inside and without a word, began to slowly undress him. With each
lace she untied, every clasp she unbuckled, the weight of the world seemed to
slip away from Richard. That was what a woman does best, Margery thought to
herself.
It was not long before Richard's armor and weaponry lay in a pile along
with his shirt and leggings. Margery's skilled fingers and palms began to
caress and knead his weary muscles as he lay on her sheepskins. The lay of his
back was very familiar to her. She knew the curves and ridges. She smiled at
the memories of past couplings with this man whose chest was as smooth as a
newborn but as solid as a hornbeam.
Margery began to undress herself and it pleased her to see the effect it
always had on Richard.
It was not like with Edward, whose hunger was more of that of a hungered
wolf, rather it was like that of a graceful dance of swans upon a mill pond,
slow and lingering, wanting to savor each moment as it passed. Margery watched
his eyes wander over her heavy breasts with their petal pink nipples and travel
down the flat of her belly to her lush nest of reddish brown curls. There
Richard's eyes rested as Margery walked over to the man-at-arms and cradled his
head to her womb.
Richard breathed in the scent of Margery and he began to nuzzle at her
soft coney. His lips met with her soft curls and, as Margery parted her
slender legs, his nibblings trailed lower, caressing her quim with gentle
kisses and licks.
Margery felt his warm, rough hands upon her buttocks and soon, Richard's
hands and fingers began kneading her flesh and drawing her nearer to his
tongue. Already, she felt his rough licks upon her swollen sex. They were
like little, warm licks of flame, igniting the tinder of pleasure in her womb.
She was already letting out little moans of pleasure and his tongue delved
deeper within her, touching her pearl and send showers of sparks rushing
through her. It was all she could do to remain standing; her fingers running
through this man's straw blonde hair.
Richard guided her to lay down upon the skins and he now knelt above her,
looking into her green eyes. His lips met hers and their tongues danced around
each other in a slow dance. His hands now gently brushed over her pale
nipples. Each touch was like a flame of bliss.
The man's warm kisses left Margery's lips and continued as he kissed her
cheek and neck and shoulders. Richard's lips and tongue then caressed
Margery's stiffened nipples, adding fuel to the growing fire within her.
Little moans leaked from her lips. Richard's rough tongue and lips attended
themselves to each of Margery's bosoms, going from to the other and then back.
And then Richard stopped.
Margery opened her eyes to look into Richard's. He gave her a slight
smile before continuing his downward path of warm kisses over her smooth belly
to the soft forest of curls below. Richard could smell her incense, a scent
for powerful than any censers. Richard gently lifted her legs over his
shoulders and rested them there before holding her hips and lifting them so
that her tender folds bloomed before him.
His tongue began to trace through Margery's petals, slowly and firmly.
Each lick sent more flames of bliss searing through her soul, engulfing her
more and more. She tried to press her hips further to his lips, but his hands
remained firm, holding her in place.
The redheads' struggles with her passion hardened Richard's ardor for this
woman.
Richard stopped his attentions.
"Noooooo," Margery moaned, "Prithee, do not stop, my lord sergent."
Richard smiled a bit as he rolled the washerwoman over. WIthout a word
he grasped her wrist gently but firmly and began to wind a leather thong around
them, binding them behind her back.
For Margery, this was unexpected from Richard, whose company varied
little from coupling to coupling. This was more like lord De Valence than is
was Richard, yet there was the familiar gentleness as the tied the knots around
her wrists and then her crossed ankles.
He gently rolled Margery back over.
Neither Margery nor Richard said a word as they gazed at each other.
Richard then bent down and kissed Margery again, this time, with a bit more
heat. His tongue seeking hers out in a passionate dance. His rough hands
found her breasts and began kneading her stiff nipples anew. Her being
helpless only threw more wood onto the passionate pyre that was growing within
her. Richard's touches and caresses and nibbles on her skin fanned the flames
so.
Margery moved more and more beneath him; a storm made flesh. Her wide
hips bucked up at him and her kisses were born of hunger. He slipped his legs
between hers and knelt above her, her bound legs embracing him; spurring him on
with her heels.
Richard slid into her.
Margery felt him fill her with his swollen member, thrusting into her a
feeling of wholeness and bliss that she could not hope to describe. Richard's
thrusts into her were at first slow and deep. She tried to move him to a
quicker pace, but he would not go but his own speed. Building in speed slowly.
Her pyre of bliss was growing more hot with every push. Her moans were load
and wanton and drove Richard to go faster as his own pleasure began to boil in
his shaft.
Faster and faster, Margery's pyre began to erupt into pure joy as his hot
seed flooded her and filled her. Roar after roar of heated bliss engulfed her
until she just collpsed from being crushed under the fiery waves.
The land was not so unfamiliar. Geoffry Potterson had foraged around
Harfleur during the months of the seige and he had at least a good knowledge of
its' stands of forests and its' gentle hills. The grasses were now dry and
dead as he made his way towards a hut he had remembered earlier, not too far
away and within sight of the ruined remains of the town. Geoffry's mind was
filled with fears as he crept through the pre-dawn fields. How would he get
home to his wife and furrowed plot of land he called home? He was not a man of
coin and satin. That is why he had come to France and it's promise of plunder.
King Harry's war would bring more than just a few coin into his pouch. It
would bring him a wealth he had never known.
Had Geoffry had smelled the woodsmoke coming from the hut, he may have
turned away. However, his nose was a gristly ruin of reddened flesh and dried
blood. One of his eyes was swollen shut and he could still taste the blood
from several teeth that the sow of a woman had kicked out.
Geoffry never saw the crossbow bolt that pierced his shoulder. All he
felt was a searing pain as the force of the bolt spun him around. As Geoffry
looked down at the shaft protruding from his chest, a second pierced his back.
"Arrrrrr!," Geoffry screamed as he dropped down to his knees.
"English dog!" a voice spat in French from behind dying man.
Geoffry looked around, feebly trying to draw his falchion with is
blood-slickened hands. Behind him were four men-at-arms, two of them bringing
to bear the crossbows they had just spanned. The others held out their blades.
The men carefully approached the wimpering Geoffry. Smiles caressed two
of their faces. Geoffry had stopped trying to get at his weapon and fell onto
his side. The pain was too much. He could barely breathe and blood gurgled
from his breath.
"Are you from Harfleur?" one of them asked, his English words thick with
French.
Geoffry nodded.
"Are you English?" the man asked again and again Geoffry nodded.
"We will help you if you answer a question or two, English. My surgeon
is not but a few paces away and he will attend to your wounds. First, have you
seen a beautiful young lady within the Harfleur's walls. Her eyes and hair are
like mine, as dark as a ravens."
Again, Geoffry nodded.
"Is she still there?"
Geoffry nodded his head. The pain was branding through him and he could
barely draw a breath.
"Do you know her name? Is it Catherine?" the man asked again.
"Yeahhhhhhhh," Geoffry hissed, blood gasping on his own blood.
The man nodded.
"Slit his throat," Bois D'Astier said in French and one of his men
stepped over the curled Englishman and with a quick swipe, ended Geoffry's
pain.
**************************END CHAP 10**********************************
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