She took strength from that thought and turned away, releasing the burning tree. She ran away from all of them and the life that had been hers. In the end, she found that it was not so difficult.
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The Marechal Chronicles: Volume 2, The Hunter
The interminable evening with Lord Perene had finally ended and the Marechal found his bedchamber quite comfortable, if not somewhat cold. He undressed quickly, down to bare skin, and slipped between the many layers of quilts and blankets laid upon the baldaquin bed.
He blew out the candle at his bedside and stared in the darkness at the low red coals upon the grates of the fireplace. They had been hurriedly dumped there and not long ago. He doubted it would do much to warm the room and wondered mildly if he should have kept his shirt.
Choosing not to move instead, he considered the words of Lord Perene earlier, just before the man's idiot son affronted the maidservant.
It would seem that I must read those passages written by Bellamere before I continue south, he thought. Details that would be of little notice, even to a collector accustomed to sifting through the words of rare texts, might be hidden in the recounting of the tale. Already, there was the name of St. Lucq mentioned, and for that alone he determined that he must find some means of reading those pages. It would be delicate and would call for subtlety as Lord Perene would laud it over him, no doubt looking for some means of exacting a price. He would need to be prudent with his request. Or, perhaps, manage the thing without their notice.
A small noise just outside his door drew his attention. The fine line of light from the corridor, at the base of the door, had begun to grow larger in tiny increments.
Then, a diaphanous shape filled the doorway, making no sound, much as a phantom might move. Except that this phantom let out a small hiss stepping onto the cold flagstone floor, shutting the door behind it, then glided across the room to come to rest at the Marechal's bedside.
Bemused, he said, "Helene. Have you come to check on the comfort of your father's guest?"
She replied, "Ah, you have not yet found sweet repose, dear Marechal. I fear that the room is too cool for a valued person such as yourself.
"Will you permit me to apologize?" she asked and then, without waiting for him to reply, her thin night robe dropped from her shoulders. In silhouette, he could see her rigid nipples and slim, smooth waist, just before she slipped under the quilts beside him.
He said nothing as she nuzzled in close to him, bare skin upon bare skin. Hers was cool, dry, and soft in a way that reminded him of the ripe skin of an afternoon peach, freshly picked from the branch.
"Isn't this better, Marechal? I had thought to send the servants for a bed warmer of hot coals brought up from the kitchen ovens, but then I thought of a better solution, a more intimate answer to the chill evening air."
Her voice was softer than the blankets and she paused, waiting for him to fill in the moment, but he said nothing, nor did he move in the slightest.
Her hands found him and touched his chest, searching, until she found the line of the scar that started at his jaw. She traced its lightning strike shape, lingering at his collarbone, before continuing upward to caress, at last, his cheek.
She turned herself half over, draping a leg across his thigh. He could feel her downy hairs below brushing against his leg, promising warmth in its velvet confines. Her hand drifted back the way that it had come, her touch light across the muscles of his torso, still following the jagged track of a scar that did not seem to end.
With a brusque movement, he seized her wrist in a grip of iron. It was sudden and when she jerked back in surprise, she discovered that he did not move in the slightest, as if her wrist had been encircled by an oak that refused to bend in the wind.
"What do you want, Helene? I watched you this evening and could see the gears turning behind your eyes, all that you see caught up in the clockwork of your thoughts.
"I doubt that you do the least thing without some well considered motive."
She smiled, casting her eyes downward, demurring for the moment. She turned away from him slightly, the loose curls of her coiffure slipping from their braided confinement. Her neck curved gracefully in a way that she knew men found captivating, supple and elegant in its charm.
The Marechal's grip loosened upon her wrist and she slipped smoothly from his grasp only to place her hand upon the well defined muscles of his abdomen. There she found fine hairs that descended from his navel, coarsening and thickening under her searching fingertips, until she reached lower still, her fingers spread wide, to the hair between his legs, letting it fill the spaces between them.
She held him and he was rock hard, as rigid as his grip had been a moment earlier. He reached out to her, touching the outline of her side and the ribs that would show just under her silky skin. He brushed the side of her breast before taking it into the palm of his hand. She was not an overly endowed woman, a perfectly delicate equilibrium showing in her noble bloodlines. The light frame and structure of her body reflected in her delicate breasts, tipped with small nipples. He had no doubt that in daylight they were champagne pink in color and that her breasts as exquisitely formed as the finest crystal goblet.
He rolled her nipple between forefinger and thumb, thinking of how she had grown very still, even while holding him firmly in her hand under the quilts. She laughed lightly as he squeezed before she pushed his hand away.
She lifted up the quilts and then dived away and underneath them, her elegant body graceful in its every movement. Instantly, the Marechal felt warm, humid breath before she closed her lips around him. Her tongue danced around the tip of his cock, light as a feather, from one side to the other in small circles that took his breath away. It was nearly too much and he had to steel himself from pulling back and away from her.
Sensing him and the tension in his legs, she changed the dance of her tongue, skipping as lightly as ever before coming to rest firmly under his head, where her tongue flattened and pressed him with an amazing firmness before lifting up every so slowly in a long, single stroke that stopped short of the tip.
Despite his self control, his desire of self mastery, the Marechal groaned in pleasure.
He felt her smile then, believing that she had won, before she took him entirely inside her mouth, descending in luscious full movements, accompanied by a tongue that danced as if fevered.
Her hand slipped around his sack, cupping him, then she held two finger underneath it and pressed firmly. Inside her mouth she could feel him growing fuller under the pressure of her fingers, his tumescence heightening as she continued her fervent rhythm.
The Marechal reached out to her, to run his hand along the inside of her thigh, searching for the velvet hairs he had felt earlier. Finding them, he touched her lightly, only to find her cool and dry. In the same moment, she came to a sudden stop, her mouth suddenly less welcoming as she let her teeth rake down the side of his shaft. It was just short of unpleasant and the Marechal read the warning in her breath.
She twisted her buttocks from his grasp, then returned to the rhythm of her mouth upon him. She fondled his balls, returning her fingers to press again and again just below, where the root of his erection began before giving way to his anus.
What game is this? he asked himself, then decided that he would see it to the end.
Her tongue lapped at him and danced, and with a heave of his long thighs, the Marechal thrust himself into her mouth, matching her rhythm, daring her to back away. She came back at him with force and did not hesitate to take him even deeper.
The faint glow in the hearth had fallen down to mere embers while the two of them broke into fine sweat. The elegant, fine lips of a noblewoman held him, and despite him, she was his match. She did not release him, nor did her tongue tire of the deep lapping strokes at the underside of his cock, until the Marechal could contain himself no longer, biting down hard, his jaw clenched, then the breath hissing out from between his teeth as the vein
s just under the skin of his hips lifted, as the motion of his abdomen stilled, tensing in the instant. He rose up off the bed, his back arched, and came hard into her mouth. He came like the lashes of a whip, striking out at the nobleman's daughter, yet she was his match and took all that he had to give.
She slipped out of the quilts, stooping lightly to the floor for her robe, and put it on before turning back to the Marechal.
"My father grows old and my brother is a fool, so our future falls to me and the small measures at my disposal. What I want is protection for my family...for my house, Marechal. You are an influential man, so I have offered what I have to give. I trust in your honor as a gallant man that you shall not forget it."
She padded lightly to the chamber door before letting herself out.
The coals in the hearth had fallen to ash. The Marechal frowned as he remembered her smile and the way it did not reach her eyes...even if he had to admit that he no longer felt the chill air.
A scream pierced the morning air, cutting it cleanly in two. The Marechal would have had some trouble saying whether it was a man or a woman, as high pitched the scream was in its horror.
He raced down the corridor, buttoning his trousers distractedly. The sound had not been far even if all had fallen deathly quiet in its aftermath. He turned a bend and saw a door ajar at the corridor's end. Just within were Lord Perene and his daughter, their faces ghostly white.
The Marechal stepped inside the bedchamber and saw the object of their attention. The Lord Perene's heir, his son, Olivier, was lying across a bed, his bare chest punctured by any number of wounds. The young man's eyes were wide and his face locked in the rictus of pain of his final moments. The Marechal saw that he was as unmoving as a statue, all life fled.
His instincts as a man of the law of the realm began their inventory, methodically taking in the details he would need. He noted the small, bloody handprint on the doorframe, almost childlike except that it was positioned too highly.
He stepped closer to the bed as Lord Perene grated out, "Oh, my son...my poor boy." His voice was hoarse and strained. The Marechal thought the scream might have come from him.
"Who found him?" he asked.
A moment's hesitation, as the normally poised Helene's eyes flicked to those of her father before the nobleman answered, "My daughter did, Marechal. My darling Helene found her brother there, cut to ribbons."
She said, "We had planned to go riding this morning. I waited for him and thought that perhaps he'd overslept, so came to wake him. And, I found him. Like this."
The Marechal saw that she was wearing what could be considered riding apparel, her skirt divided lengthwise in the current fashion of noblewomen preferring the control of the horse over customary sidesaddle riding. Besides this, he saw that she wore well made leather gloves, certainly appropriate for riding on a brisk autumn morning. Her eyes widened as his gaze went from her small, gloved hands to the bloody print at the door, but she said nothing, nor did she volunteer to take them off.
"Yes, yes...there, Marechal, at the door. Do you see it? There is all the answer you need. You saw her strike him last night. We both did. That low born scum slipped in here to cut my son down while he slept. Marechal, I demand that you do your duty." Lord Perene’s voice shook with emotion.
The Marechal said nothing while he took his time, looking about the room, taking it all in, before turning to look pointedly, unblinking, at both the young woman and her father.
"Well, what is it, man?" asked Lord Perene in exasperation.
"Nothing," replied the Marechal, "...for now."
The dew was still sparkling on the lawn as the Marechal stepped out the kitchen's back door. The woman behind him, heavy set and kindly, a cloth in her hands, twisted it in her worry for Melisse. She had told him that she had last seen Melisse when she had sent her to empty the slops in the pig's enclosure. That she had been told to spend the night in the stables afterward, until Lord Perene calmed himself.
Except that the maidservant never arrived in the stables. None of the manor's staff had seen her after Mathilde had sent her on her way.
The Marechal walked the flagstone path that wound around to the back of the manor house. At a bend in the path, he saw a large kettle on the ground. Coming closer, he saw that it was full of vegetable peelings and other cast offs from the kitchens.
Strange, he thought,why leave this here, unless…
He looked about him and then remarked the fine trace of footsteps that had pressed down the grass, dimly visible upon the dewy lawn. Following them, the Marechal walked down to the wooded edge of the lawn's limit. As he arrived, he heard a shout and saw Lord Perene come stomping toward him, rigid in anger.
The Marechal ignored him as he looked around, searching for some further sign of the servant. Seeing nothing else, he followed the forest's edge, thinking that he would circle around before heading into the trees on the trail of Melisse.
He did not have far to go before he saw a small pine with a blackened patch on its trunk. The breath hissed out of him as he drew closer to the tree and as the nobleman arrived just behind him.
"Why aren't you on your horse pursuing that filthy woman? I tell you, I want her head!" he shouted.
And then Lord Perene saw what had drawn the Marechal's attention. A handprint branded into the bark of the tree. The small handprint of a woman.
"Witchcraft! A witch has been hiding in my household and now has killed my son!" he screeched. The Marechal was more than ever convinced that the scream that had awakened him this morning came from the father and not the daughter.
"You'd do well to calm yourself, sir. As you say, I am bound to my duty. Leave me to it, then."
The Marechal cast about him, looking for anything else that might help in finding Melisse when he what he next saw took his breath away.
At the base of the tree were footprints burned deeply into the ground as if it had been done with glowing hot iron and not the soft tread of a young servant woman.
Then, it was plain before him as he followed the burnt steps that lead across the manor's lawn. The grass has been crisped and blackened down to the soil. They led south and as he followed them, the stride of the branded footsteps lengthened more and more in what he knew to be someone who had broken into a run.
Only the distance between each footfall swiftly grew to inhuman proportions, lengthening the distance between them until finally there was one last burnt step in the grass and then nothing else. The Marechal cast about him, walking a broad arc while sweeping his gaze from side to side. Except that it seemed as though whoever had made those branded steps had simply vanished.
Turning to the nobleman, he said, "Lord Perene, please have my horse saddled and laden with victuals for several days at least. It seems that I shall be cutting short my visit here."
He said it not without regret as he thought of Bellamere's text and the tantalizing details awaiting him just a short distance away in the manor's library. Details that would have to wait until his return.
"Yes, yes," said Lord Perene, "I ordered it done before even coming here to see what distracted you so. I felt sure that the wench would have fled and that there is no one more qualified than you to track her down."
The scar over the Marechal's jaw tightened and loosened as he chewed over his thoughts. He wanted each detail of his stay carefully etched in his memory.
A stableboy led his horse down to the two men, moving as quickly as he could.
The Marechal collected the reins before hoisting himself into the saddle.
"This will likely take some time, Lord Perene," he said, scanning the morning horizon. Then he turned the horse opposite the direction of the burned steps. He knew he would do best to cut cross country, avoiding most thoroughfares frequented by local travelers.
"Marechal!" shouted Lord Perene. "You're going the wrong way."
Pulling up, the Marechal called back to him. "As you say, Lord Perene. There is some witchery at work here and to
take up its path, I am in need of aid."
The nobleman marched up to him once more, "But my hounds are at your disposal, sir."
"Your hounds would avail nothing, Lord Perene. The aid I seek lies to the north, even if I am loathe to seek it.
"However, I shall hunt her down. I shall do my duty as Marechal de Barristide. And, I promise you, Lord Perene, I shall come back here, with the truth at the heart of this affair firmly in my grasp. And, that justice at my hand will fall without remorse upon the guilty."
The Marechal remarked with some satisfaction that Lord Perene had no answer to this, his face whitening under the Marechal's words.
The Marechal spurred his horse northward as he turned the morning over in his thoughts. There were details that troubled him. And not the least of these was that Mathilde told him that she had not seen Melisse after sending her out to the stables. However, as something quite unusual for the kitchens, the kitchen woman had seen both Lord Perene and then his daughter, come by to ask after Melisse that evening, as if concerned for her.
A servant woman's revenge. It seemed too easy for him as he thought of the nobleman and his daughter before the young man's death bed, the two of them visibly shaken but dry eyed just the same.
For now, though, he had no choice. It had been a very long time since he had last seen Her and he had hoped that it would stay that way.
Except that She was his only hope of picking up the trail heading south, one that evaporated into nothing at the lawn's edge.
Despite himself, and the morning sun warming him as he rode north, the Marechal shuddered. She was his only hope, but She had a price. And he knew it would cost him dearly...
The air crackled around her. To Melisse's ears it sounded like dry leaves trodden under foot, only the sound was enormous, as if there were an entire army marching through a dying forest. She could see only dim shapes in the ash filled darkness that obscured nearly everything. And what she saw filled her with terror and she was thankful her vision was not clearer.
The Marechal Chronicles: Volumes I, II, and III (An Erotic Fantasy Tale) Page 4