As soon as Lady Constance entered the Norman hall, Fulke fell upon her like a parched man in search of drink. He roamed her curvaceous form with avaricious hands and freed her of the fine veil and wimple about her head. Loosening her plait he sank both hands into her mass of soft tresses, capturing her mouth with his own. The eagerness in which she repaid his kiss forced his simmering hunger to boiling heights.
Spying the trestle behind her he whirled her round, bent her over its top beam, and yanked up her skirts. Bowing over her back he licked her ear the exact moment he sank a finger into her. “You’re ready. Good, for my ache at present is too great to delay with love play.”
The lady whimpered at his words. Freeing himself, he slid between her swollen folds to the heat beyond. Powerless to governor his fierce hunger, he plied her with violent thrusts, wrenching unending cries from her. Squeezing her large breasts through the layers of her gowns, he cursed—he burned to stroke her silken flesh, to pinch her nipples till she screamed.
These scintillating notions forced the pressure in his member to shoot forward. He growled as his seed spewed forth into the burning, slick, flesh nested about him. Wheezing, he left the lady’s body and stumbled backwards to a trunk. Slumping down, his short tunic covering his yet ravenous manhood, he hung his head.
Something brushed his knees.
Opening his eyes he saw the lady’s skirts enveloping his lower legs, her booted feet near his. Ashamed at his having taken her with such aggression, he could not lift his head. While he might take Adele in such a manner he could not help deem one such as Lady Constance deserving further than what he had just supplied.
Clutching at her green skirts, he pronounced, “Pray…I beg pardon, lady. I should not have…” He could not even bring himself to say the words. Then she was kneeling at his feet, her hand softly raising his head, compelling him to meet her gaze.
“Should not have done what, sir?” Her voice was whisper light and soothing to his conscious. “Bestowed that which I yeaned for?”
When she bent her head and kissed his neck, her hand stealing under his tunic to his erection, to his stones, Fulke sucked in a breath of disbelief. His impression of the Lady Constance had always been of modesty. But what her lips and hand were doing was anything save modest—they were downright bold.
Shivering, he lifted her green surcote up and off. Her brown cote followed. When she kneeled in only a plain chemise, she likewise rid him of his tunic. Without that garment to hide his erection it stood out between them, long and thick-veined, its large head slightly wet with the lady’s lingering juices.
The second she bowed her head and drew the glossy knob between her lips, Fulke was lost. Coupling with her had been one thing, but this… For a man to have a woman indulge him thus was something of an erotic treat, and the fact that it was being performed by such a one as Lady Constance rendered him as mush in her possession.
Shuddering, whimpering, Fulke clasped his hands about that dipping head, unable to tear his eyes from the soft lips encircling his rod, descending and ascending again and again and again. His climax arrived promptly. Flinching the instant he came a feeble groan seeped from his mouth as she imbibe every last drop that spewed into her mouth.
Panting, his Adam’s apple bobbing, the Lady Constance straightened. She stood and straddled his lap, her yieldable flesh enveloping him to the hilt. He moaned and wrapped his arms about her. Their lips met as she began to ride him. Both their kisses and their movements were languid. This pleased Fulke, for he suddenly wished to express how gentle he could be. When he tugged the bodice of her chemise down and suckled one of her puffy nipples, he did so with unhurried care. Her hands in his hair were soft and her whimpers of delight faint and melodious. When their zenith of ecstasy was attained, there was no frenzied end or voluble cries of elation between them, only a breathless burst of fire that died down as fast as it had erupted into pleasant, mellow embers.
They stayed as they were—their arms wrapped round each other, her cheek at his temple, his at her neck—for a tiny, sweet span. When she finally vacated his lap, regret flashed through him. Disregarding it he stood and straightened his braise. Bending, he picked up his tunic and put it back on. His clothing all aright, he assisted the lady with her own. This done, he noted how she patted her unconfined hair. His lips curled a little. “Here,” he offered in a hoarse voice, “let me.” Turning her he plaited her hair with deft fingers.
“It is an odd talent…for a knight to possess.”
Finishing the braid he snaked a hand around her to take the ribbon she’d retrieved from the floor and tied it off. “My mother taught me…prior her death. I was to use the skill to properly coiffure my sister’s hair.” The lady’s flat response was evidence to her discomfiture at not having known of this part of his past.
“Oh.” She turned to face him. “I…er…was not aware that you had a sister, Sir Fulke.” Collecting her veil and wimple from the floor, she fingered their fineness as she peered up at him. “Where does she reside since your mother has gone? Is she wed?”
The usual pang came into Fulke’s heart at such talk of his sister. “My sister—Emma—she died of a fever, my lady, afore she had a chance to attain her tenth summer.” He noted the sympathy hasten into the lady’s eyes even before she could express it in words.
“Forgive me, sir. I did not mean to pry. But I am truly grieved for your loss, nonetheless.”
Before Fulke could tender thanks for her kindness she was thanking him for his assistance with her clothing and hair and strolling away to the secret trapdoor. Acting upon the hankering to have her again, he called out, “Shall you come this night, when the castle sleeps?” She ambled back to him. As one of her soft hands encircled one of his, she rose on tiptoes and kissed him.
“Yes,” she whispered against his mouth. Then she was gone.
Staring at the trapdoor concealed by the connected rush mat, Fulke considered why meeting Adele had never produced such a sense of vertiginous like that which currently saturated him to the core. Leaving the Norman manor house in a kind of daze, he returned to his private quarters that he might tidy himself for dinner.
EIGHT
To avoid the pull Sir Fulke had upon her attention, Constance blocked-out his presence there at the high table by focusing upon her herring tart and trencher of mawmney as if it they were scrumptious delicacies not enjoyed often. In the end, her goal was achieved, for she was famished, having not eaten anything that morning. When she finished, draining her tankard of hippocras to its last drop, she stood. “Brother, I would excuse myself that I might continue a project I have been working on.”
“As you will, Constance,” said Richard.
Grateful, she proffered him and his wife a respectful curtsey, noting Sir Fulke’s glance in her direction. Reading the ardor there in his eyes she essayed to withdraw from the dais as gracefully as her quaking legs would allow. Glad her servants were still at table she situated herself in the window seat of her chamber and took up her embroidery.
Having finalized the marigold blooms that morning after her stint with Ermine and Hawise, she rummaged amongst the things in her basket for the thread she would use to create the next part of the scheme. Coming across a skein of silk thread dyed brun, her mouth crescented. The thread was the same shade as Sir Fulke’s hair and eyes. Fancying that his sister’s coloring had been the same she threaded her needle and began creating the letter she envisaged in the chosen spot.
A while afterwards, Judith came in and sat to assist her. At one point, the old woman craned her neck to view Constance’s work, inquiring who it was for as the letter being created was plainly not a “C.” “It is to be a gift,” Constance confessed, her eyes never rising from her task.
* * *
Meanwhile, Fulke was in the outer ward with the castle’s freshest pages. “A capable rider has only to use his thighs to communicate with its mount. Unless necessary, the reins should be employed as a guide rather than a tool in whi
ch to yank your beast mercilessly in the direction you require.” He stroked the rouncey at his side upon its smooth neck. As it was a gentle creature, he usually utilized him when introducing pages into the art of riding. “Of course, an ill-trained beast will respond little to whatever method you chose to exercise control over him. That is why you must also learn how to choose well-trained mounts.”
Marching over to the youngest page, who was six, Fulke lifted the boy up and onto the back of the chestnut. Taking a few steps back, he raised his hand. “Take up the reigns, Edwine. That’s it. Now, use your thighs to nudge him forward as I have instructed. Good. A bit more…” Taking a few steps back, Fulke heard the sound of wagon wheels progressing from the main gatehouse. From the corner of his eye he caught the sight of red hair as the sluggish vehicle passed him and his pupils by, drawing his attention. His stomach curdled at the sight of Adele sitting next to Elmar the leather worker (the man had gone to deliver some of his goods to his brother to sell in Burlefurd), her smile in his direction visible even across the widening distance between them.
Under normal circumstances, Fulke would have answered her grin with an inward one, for he was a private man. But the circumstances surrounding their relationship had changed, and that former inclination had vanished along with his ingenuousness concerning her character.
Cringing at the notion of meeting with her again, Fulke reverted his attention to Edwine, his visage bleak.
NINE
Sending his pupils off, Fulke led the rouncey back to the stables. Leaving him in the care of one of the stable hands, he strode up to his private quarters. Fetching the hanging pitcher from the wall he trekked back down to the knight’s hall to have the pitcher filled with his daily allotment (that morning, the container had still held drink from the previous day) of beer. The task was usually performed by one of the younger pages, but in the midst of all the new things they were put to learn, it was not uncommon for simple things like filling an allotment jug to slip their minds.
Preoccupied with thoughts of forgetful pages and their lot, the impassioned conversation going on in the knight’s hall hit Fulke like a punch to his belly upon entering.
“You’re mad, man! Sir Richard would be a fool to let his lady sister marry so beneath her again. She might not be the comeliest of females, but she is the kindest and most genteel of ladies. And she deserves a husband of her own station.”
The fervent exclamation had come from Sir Walter, a senior knight there at Folstoc. Eying the man with new respect, Fulke sauntered over to the castle butler’s assistant sitting near his charge—a good sized cask of beer. His back to the men at the central table, he handed his allotment jug to the assistant. His attention seemingly focused upon the boy as he opened the tap to let the beer flow, his ears listened to all.
“I’d not mind a tumble with the Lady Constance,” stated Sir Arnold, another seasoned knight who was friends with Sir Walter. “Always did appreciate big tits and lovely round hips. And those succulent lips!”
There was a sudden, loud scrapping upon the stone floor as someone bounded to their feet. Fulke glanced over his shoulder to see that it was a livid Sir Walter.
“Shut your filthy trap, you! I’ll not stand for such conceptions of her ladyship! Do you heed?” When Arnold exploded into laughter, others joining him, Sir Walter left the hall in disgust.
Like everyone else, Fulke knew that Sir Walter’s temper would die down and he would be back to his usual convivial self in no time. So, it was not alarm for the man’s angst in which Fulke departed the little hall but disquiet over his words. From the day he’d been introduced to the Lady Constance, Fulke had ever held her in high regard. It had been this vast esteem for her that had stimulated his anxiety over Adele’s outrageous whim to have the lady take part in their intimate meeting. And even after his baser instincts had obliged him to partake of what the lady had been so willing to give, he’d returned to the castle with a heavy conscience. Subsequently, when he’d taken her in silent rage against Adele’s decision to persist with her wanton behavior, he’d shoved his scruples to the back of his mind. Now, following Sir Walter’s rant, they slammed to the fore.
Back in his chamber, he set his full jug down upon the small trestle table there and sat down. Being the head knight, his chamber was one of the few that had a fireplace. As it was summer, there was no reason for a blaze. On balmy evenings as these, an oil lamp was enough. In troubled stints such as this, he preferred the dark.
Damnable bastard! You should’ve never dared to lay your hands upon her in the first.
Sighing, he poured himself a drink. He’d always understood that women like Lady Constance were too high for such as him, a bastard born. No matter that he’d achieved the position he currently held, he should have never permitted himself to touch such a treasure. Never!
Believing there was nothing else he could do save terminate this thing that had sprang up between him and Sir Richard’s sister, disappointment, unlike any other he’d ever experienced, swathed him. There’s nothing else to be done, he reasoned again, as if to convince himself. You must do it. You must!
It was in this saddened, but determined, state of mind that Fulke heard the door of his chamber open and close hours later. He shifted round in his chair to find Adele sashaying towards him. When she sat in his lap and wrapped her arms about his neck he simply sat there, despairing over his decision regarding Lady Constance, repulsed by Adele’s presence.
“You were missed at supper, sir.”
Fulke’s skin crawled when she nibbled upon his ear. Pulling his head free of her unwanted touch, he asked in a hard, flat tenor, “Did not your cousin furnish you with enough of what you sought?” Shock registered in Adele’s mien, halting her in whatever she’d been about to say next. Knowing of her character as he did, he was positive she was about to try to use his awareness of her true reason for visiting Burlefurd to her advantage.
Sure enough, she snuggled closer to him, purring, “Since meeting you, Symond will never again be enough to satisfy me, sir.”
At her openly acknowledging her lasting carnal relationship with her cousin, Fulke jumped to his feet, pitching Adele down to the floor in a heap of blue skirts.
Her anger engaged, she stumbled to her feet, scoffing, “Why this treatment, Fulke? I—”
Grabbing hold of her arms, Fulke shook her. “Why this treatment? Did you really suppose I would remain your lover now that I know I’m not the only one you accept between your thighs?” Loosing her in disgust he gave her his back.
“Well, why not? None of the others cared!”
Whirling around, Fulke took Adele’s left arm in a vicious grip and towed her to the door. Hand on the latch, he bent his head and stated in a menacing whisper, “And that is where you went amiss, my lovely little whore, thinking that I am like all the others.” Jerking the door open he shoved her out and slammed it in her face.
TEN
When the natural light had faded Constance and Judith had moved to sit at the trestle table that held an oil lamp burning with three wicks. It was at this new station, hours later, her servants away to bed, that Constance cut the thread she had been plying, set down her needle, and tied-off her work. Taking up her shears again, she snipped the threads holding her project in place upon the embroidery frame. Setting both the frame and the shears down, she extracted the dangling threads from the square’s border. All finished, she raised the decorated corner closer to the triple flame lamp to view it better. Finding the end result of so many arduous hours to her satisfaction, she sighed.
Setting the square down Constance left the table to undressed. Going over to the shelves situated above a different table, she took down the tiny beaker of marigold oil she’d brought back with her prior to going off to meet with Sir Fulke earlier that day. Pulling out its stopper she poured a small amount into her palm, set the beaker down, and rubbed her hands together. After infusing her skin with the aromatic oil she set the beaker back in its place, donne
d her chemise, and pinned her cloak about her shoulders.
Folding up the precious linen square, she placed it into the snug bodice of her undergarment and left her chamber. Creeping through the antechamber so as not to wake Judith and the other girls, she stepped out into the corridor and absconded down to the stairwell and onward to the secret passage.
Ascending into the old hall, Constance parted her lips to call out for Sir Fulke. He startled her when he abruptly exited the shadows. He took her hands in his and led her into the light below the window. Thinking that he was eager for her, her mouth bowed as she rose to her toes to kiss him.
“My lady. There is something we must discuss.”
Heeding how the seriousness of the knight’s tone matched the tilt of his eyes, Constance lowered to the soles of her feet, her own eyes expectant now.
“This cannot carry on, my lady. It was erroneous of me to have allowed things between us to venture this far. You are a lady deserving only of the highest treatment. All I shall humbly seek of you henceforth is your pardon for the slip in my scruples.”
Having heeded only that he no longer wished to see her in so intimate a manner, Constance swallowed hard as her body threatened to cast up the accounts of her belly. Dropping her eyes she withdrew her hands from his. “Oh…I see,” she replied. Without meeting his gaze again, she added, “Your request for pardon is unwarranted, sir. What transpired between us was sanctioned by myself as much as by you.” Staggered by this unexpected twist in their affair, her retreating step was dispirited. Reaching the trapdoor she remembered her gift. Delving past her cloak she extracted the folded square of linen from her chemise. Returning to him, she took his hand and place the gift into his palm, saying in a listless voice, “Here, I made this for you.” Then she turned and departed.
Constance trudged back to the castle, the inviable dagger now embedded in her heart twisting. Once gaining the safety of her bedchamber she took off her cloak, got into bed, and closed her eyes, tears rolling down from beneath her shivering lids.
The Modest and the Bold Page 4