by Georgia Fox
People would hear.
Good. Let them all hear. She would gladly couple with her husband in front of them if he wanted.
Ami knew then that she would never get enough of this man and there was nothing she would ever deny him again
****
She sat facing him, her thighs on either side of his hips, her cunny sheathing his sword fully on every downward motion, releasing it again on each lift. He held her bottom, guiding the pace, moving her up and down. Stryker licked her nipples when she presented them for his mouth, her elegant hands cupped around those splendid orbs. Offerings from the gods, he mused.
His lady wife was enjoying herself. He knew now because she smiled.
Opening his mouth wider, he took her right breast in and suckled like a babe at the teat. She had the most perfect breasts he'd ever thrust his cock between. Her skin was still sticky where he'd rammed his cock earlier, fucking the valley made when he pushed her tits together with his hands and she lay on her back. Her breasts were just full enough and soft enough to jiggle, but not too large to sag as she grew older. Remembering Rolf's advice to him, he complimented her on their beauty and she laughed.
"I'm glad you like them," she muttered, slightly flushed.
"When you nurse my babe, they will be fuller, even riper," he told her.
"I suppose so."
Stryker shyly confessed that he looked forward to sucking them then too, sampling her milk.
"You get ahead of yourself. I am not with child yet."
He grinned cockily. "You soon will be, Ami." Thus he set about ensuring it was so, laying her back on the fleece and thrusting, worshipping her tits with his tongue, lips, and even his eyelashes, until she screamed with pleasure and her cunt squeezed and pulled on his spurting cock. He thrust again, even harder, pressing on the gate of her womb, and felt the warmth of her body meld with his. Silk to steel, rose to thistle, lady to barbarian.
****
By the evening of their neighbor's Yuletide feast at Lyndower, the snow had melted somewhat and only a few fine dustings had fallen since. They rode together across the moor with a gift for Dominic Coeur-du-Loup's castle—a large red and gold tapestry throw which was actually part of Ami's furnishings brought with her on her travels. She was happy to give it up. After all, as she said to Stryker, they could not go empty-handed to the blessing feast.
As Elsinora had mentioned, there were several high-ranking members of the Norman hierarchy in attendance. Guy Devaux, Lord of Wexford, a rich property to the east, was there with his young Saxon wife Deorwynn. Their marriage had been quite a scandal a few years ago. Then there was Renard De Robynet, one of King William's favored knights, who had brought his wife Jisella along—a beautiful, mysterious, silver-eyed lady who could apparently commune with spirits. And finally there were faces Ami recognized at once—her cousin Emma who had married Raedwulf of Wexford, the Lady Deorwynn's brother. Raedwulf, or "Wulf" as he was known, was one of the husbands to whom Ami was once sent. He had, of course, turned out to be in love with her cousin Emma instead.
Thankfully, Ami could now think with a smile, holding Stryker's large hand in hers and squeezing tightly.
There was also her uncle to be faced. Giles Du Barry arrived with great pomp to assess the viability of her match to Stryker Bloodaxe and decide whether or not he would abide by his agreement. The vile man enjoyed moments such as these, when he thought he held power over people’s lives and happiness.
"You look ... pale, Amias, thin and drawn," he sighed, sitting in a great carved chair in the hall at Lyndower. “I am not sure this place suits you. It is too wild perhaps."
"You are wrong, sir. The place suits me very well."
He raised a thin eyebrow. "If you are sure."
"I am."
His shoulders heaved. "I do not know. Perhaps we might yet find better for you. The Duke of Montagu has just lost his third wife. He is amenable to meeting you, and he can provide far more for you, niece."
"No. Thank you." She was quite done with being passed around. "I will stay here. And since I have missed my courses already, I very much doubt the Duke of Montagu will wish to take me on, with another man's child flourishing in my belly."
"Already?" He sneered at Stryker. "You wasted no time."
"Indeed I did not. You no longer have your niece's maidenhead to barter. I saw to that."
"How ... gallant." Du Barry tapped his beringed fingers on the arm of the chair. "Well, Bloodaxe, had you waited to impregnate the woman I could have taken her off your hands and sent her elsewhere." Clearly he'd found bigger fish for his net since he sent Ami there.
"I don't want her off my hands," Stryker replied.
"But circumstances prevent me from offering you the full dowry as arranged. I'm afraid I—"
"I care not, Du Barry. I would not take a sou from a man who beats a woman. If I ate food bought by your coin it would choke me like a mouthful of thorns."
Ami was shocked. She'd never heard anyone talk to her uncle thus.
Neither had Du Barry. He sat straighter and his tongue flicked out over dry lips, like that of a serpent. "I do as I please with a woman in my care. Much as you do, I'm sure." His heavily-lidded gaze swept Ami with prurient curiosity. "She requires regular punishment for her bouts of defiance, as you will know by now."
"He does not need to punish me," Ami spoke up mischievously. "He has other ways to make me behave."
Stryker, transparently trying not to laugh, held out his arm. She took it, curtseyed to her uncle, and they walked out together.
"I thought you needed my dowry," she whispered from the corner of her lips.
"True. I suppose I'll always be poor now. Shall we ask for that tapestry back?"
Ami smiled. "You are not poor. We are not poor. We are the richest two people in the world."
****
They walked up the hill to join the other guests at the half-finished castle of Dominic Coeur-du-Loup. There was a bonfire, mulled wine and a roasted, suckling pig—all successfully chasing away the winter chill. The stars were bright that evening, pricks of light in a velvet robe of midnight black.
"Your favorite color," Stryker observed. "One day I shall have a gown made for you, peppered with pearls like stars and we shall remember this night."
She planted a kiss on his cheek. "Thank you, my love." But Ami had a feeling she would never forget a single evening in his company and would not need a new gown to remind her.
The little monk from Exeter—the same who had officiated at the marriage—now gave the blessing over the new castle.
As the circle of folk stood around the bonfire, Ami noticed that Jisella, Renard de Robynet's beautiful wife, had walked away from the others and was kneeling on the snowy earth.
Ami walked over to her and saw that she was digging through the layer of snow and into the hard ground with a sharp spear of flint. When she asked why, Jisella looked up with tears caught in her lashes.
"I am leaving a mark for Remy's spirit to find when he comes home."
"Remy?" She shivered, drawing her mantle tighter around her body as a strong breeze suddenly flew up from the sea and tugged on the fur-trimmed hem.
"My husband's brother. A fine soldier and a good man. I loved him." Jisella unwrapped a silk scarf and showed her a necklace inside it, made of horn and some sort of metal. "This belonged to Remy. He left it with me for safe-keeping the last time he went to battle. He said he would come back to fetch it." She folded it up again with great reverence and placed it in the hole she'd scratched into the hard earth. "He never did come back, but I know he will. One day. Now he has a place to come home to."
While Jisella spoke, her husband strode across to her. He stood a while beside Ami. Renard de Robynet was a quiet, reserved fellow, but there were tears in his eyes too as he watched his wife fill in the shallow grave she'd made. "Why here?" he asked her, reaching down to help her to her feet.
She looked up at the stars. "It felt right, Renard. You see th
e moon there? He always liked to say he would ride to the end of the world one day—"
"And touch the moon," her husband finished for her. "I remember." He turned to Ami. "My brother, Remy, was lost in battle. His body was never found to bring him home."
"I'm sorry," she said. "He must have been special to you both."
"He was."
The other guests had walked up from the bonfire and now they all stood together looking up at the stars, wondering how far they were away, discussing whether such a distance could ever be crossed.
Stryker folded an arm around his wife's waist and held her close. "I don't need the stars," he whispered. "I have you, my lady."
Ami looked out toward the cliff edge, her attention caught suddenly by a wispy flutter momentarily balanced there in the dark. Was it a woman? It was over in the blink of an eye, the image vanished. But she heard a cry as the wind picked up and pulled on her mantle again with icy fingers. "Listen, Stryker," she whispered. "I hear her screaming."
"Hear who?"
"The Witch of Cynndyr. The one who stabbed her lover and leapt to her death over the cliffs."
He laughed softly and gave her a squeeze. "Worry not. I won't let her get you."
Ami glanced again in the direction of the cliffs, looking for another sign of the ghostly figure, but she was gone.
Chapter Eight
Many, many years later...
The Cornish Coast, this afternoon.
How did we get here?
She had an awful feeling someone would be dead by the end of the weekend. Then, after a couple of red-herrings, the indomitable Miss Marple would wander in with her knitting and solve the crime, much to the chagrin of the local police. Not only could the variety of odd characters slouching around the place have walked right out of Agatha Christie, they didn’t really belong anywhere else. Where had they come from? she wondered. Even more importantly, why did they have to choose this weekend to stay there, when it was supposed to be her peaceful "retreat", a chance to clear her head, stare at the sea for long periods and otherwise hide from civilization?
The main room of the Inn—optimistically named ‘The Library’—was stuffed full of faded chintz, ratty old books that no one had opened in half a century and tired, stained lampshades, but the windows had a priceless view of sloping lawns that dropped off, rather abruptly, to a cliff edge and the bristling sea below. That was probably the edge over which someone would be pushed eventually, she mused, taking a quick assessment of her fellow guests to decide which one would have the honor. Someone colorful and loud, against whom every other soul present had a bitter grudge, later to be revealed. With her track record, she would be a lead suspect. Better get an alibi.
A few faces looked back at her as she came in out of the rain; some avoided all eye contact. Shiftily. Those were the ones to watch out for.
"Raining out again." The receptionist, who was also the breakfast waitress, popped up from under her desk like a Jack-in-the-Box on speed.
Was that a question, or an observation? In either case it was redundant.
"Yes. Just been out in it." Can’t you see I’m wet?
"Been out for a walk, have you?"
No, I was looking for freshly disturbed earth and signs of a struggle in the azaleas. When she smiled it hurt the corners of her mouth. "What time does the bar open?"
"Not till six."
Did she look that desperate that the girl had to add "not till"? Couldn't just say "six"?
But oh, shit. Another hour? As it happened, yes, she was pretty damn desperate.
"Staying in for dinner?"
"I … probably." Moving toward the stairs, planning a smooth retreat to her shoebox room, she saw the poster on the notice board. Now she recalled seeing copies peppered all around the small village and as her eyes finally read the words printed there on scalding neon pink paper, her heart sank. So much for peaceful retreat. How could she have forgotten about that? "There’s a play this weekend? In the hotel grounds?"
"That’s right. It’s an annual Shakespearean event. Our busiest weekend! Hope the weather improves or it’ll be a bit wet out there." The receptionist laughed merrily, presumably at the idea of other fools getting soaked. "Taming of the Shrew. It’s only an amateur production—local people, but they’re very enthusiastic. And it’s always packed! Lots of fun, even if it's just for the forgotten lines and falling props. You’ll see."
No, I won’t.
"I hope you don’t mind me asking…" the receptionist chirped abruptly, leaning her elbows on the desk, "…but haven’t I seen you somewhere before?"
She felt her bones shrink, her veins snap and recoil, in a desperate attempt to disappear. "I don’t think so." One foot before the other. That’s it. Left, right, left. You can do it. Just like a normal person.
"But I could’ve sworn … hey, wait a minute … didn't you used to be that writer?"
As if she didn’t hear, she kept walking up the stairs.
"Aren’t you the one that stabbed her husband—that actor?"
For possibly the one thousandth time in six years, she corrected that statement. "To be accurate I grazed him with a lemon zester. It was barely a flesh wound. Had he not bought such cheap and shoddy cocktail tools, I might have made a bigger mark."
The girl’s mouth opened a few seconds before sound came out. "Oh."
Composure regained, she swept up the stairs, head high. Bette Davis couldn’t have done it better.
****
She opened her window to let in some fingers of fresh, cool, wet-tipped air and then fell back onto the bed, sinking into the saggy mattress. Well, the news would soon spread. Within half an hour, the other guests would all be apprised of her identity, reminded of the incident and gleefully rehashing the entire weary affair.
Some would smugly report that they’d known all along—that they recognized her already. Others, being British, would claim themselves "above" tacky, celebrity gossip and act as if they knew nothing about it, neither did they care. But they’d listen anyway. What else was there to do in this place, since it was raining—forever—there wasn’t even a television and every jigsaw box was labeled with a warning "incomplete set"?
Tomorrow, the local amateur enthusiasts would descend on the grounds with their makeshift stage and what would probably turn out to be a very damp production of William Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew. That might take minds off her presence for a bit anyway.
How could she have forgotten the annual play that brought a larger than usual crowd of tourists to this tiny, picturesque place? Maybe, just maybe, she hadn’t forgotten at all. There had to be some reason why she suddenly dropped everything and came down here, all alone, telling no one. Four days ago she was stepping out of an airport and into a car heading for the Savoy hotel. How the figgity fuck did she get here from there? That could be the title of her autobiography.
Through the open window she could hear the soft shiver of the sea and the gentle, insistent patter of rain on stone and soggy grass. Surely the earth couldn’t absorb much more water.There had to be a sun out there, somewhere behind the steel-grey clouds. Is this how the world would end—washed away into the sea?
The phone began to shake in a violent salsa. Her phone. She’d almost forgotten she had one, but she must have turned it back on this morning, accidentally.
"Finally!" A voice snapped at her down the crackling line. "Where the Hell are you? We’re supposed to be having dinner tonight. I’ve got people coming in to meet you. I hope you haven’t…"
"I can’t make it. I’m sorry, something came up. I’m not even in London."
There was a brisk, angry, irritable pause. "Where are you? I’ve been trying to reach you for days. You're always bloody disappearing."
She sprawled across the bed on her back. "I’m taking a break. I’ll call you … later. Promise."
"A break? A break where? What is going on with you?"
She sighed heavily, staring up at the ceiling cracks and wat
er stains. "I’m fine. I haven’t been kidnapped and I’m not having a nervous breakdown. Nor am I drowning in a vat of malmsey. I’m just having a vacation. Like normal people do."
"But you’re not a normal person."
"Thanks."
"You know what I mean." He groaned, his exasperation blowing down the phone like a gale force wind. "And you didn’t tell anyone where you were going."
"That’s the idea. I need time alone. I've decided to write my memoirs."
"Fantastic!" She could hear traffic horns in the background and imagined him marching down the street, elbowing people aside, holding a hot coffee and summoning a taxicab at the same time. "Do you know how many hoops I jumped through to get you this meeting?"
"You’re the best agent ever."
"And you’re the most frustrating, ungrateful client…"
"I’ll call you later."
"This is not the way to be taken seriously as a writer."
"Goodbye. And since I'm writing my memoirs, I suggest you start collecting blackmail money." She dropped the phone to the bed and rolled over, sniffing the faint mustiness of the chenille cover. What she needed about now was a nice stiff martini. A dirty one.
Taken seriously? God Forbid. She couldn’t even take herself seriously.
The sound of a hammer hitting damp wood with rhythmic thumps eventually dragged her to the window. Down on the lawn the stage was being assembled for tomorrow’s opening night performance. Despite the rain.
It really was beginning to look more and more like the scene of an Agatha Christie murder mystery.
She heard a woman laughing and squealing. Leaning further out she saw two people running across the gravel of the small hotel car park. They'd just left a fancy, mid-life crisis sports car. They made a haphazard course toward the entrance, so caught up in one another—like a fictional couple in a cheap jewelry store ad—that he left his driver's side window open. Someone would have wet seats later, she thought grimly. Serve him right for being a prick. Only a prick would drive a car like that.