The Caledonian Race: A Pulp Adventure (George Glen Series Book 2)

by Richard Bergen

  "Actually, no. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't bad, but also kind of like with any man."

  "How many men have you had?" I asked, a little irritated.

  "Well, before William asked me to marry him, I had already been quite active in the haylofts and beds of the Château de Morante. I was much more cheerful and fun-loving then than I am now. No stable boy was safe from me. Once I even had a little affair with a maid, mon petit Cécile. She was a bit younger than me and very inexperienced, but all the more curious. We gave each other the most intense moments in secret. You reminded me a little of her when you came to me in Longhill. That's probably why I wanted you so badly."

  My jaw dropped. "I reminded you of a girl?"

  "Yes, you were very pretty under all that dirt. That's a compliment."

  "Pretty? You mean effeminate," I incensed.

  "That kind of thinking is beneath you, George. You're not here with your Guardsmen friends. You don't need to come out the badass fighter. And when I say I think you're pretty, it's a compliment, not an insult."

  "It's okay," I placated Isabelle and myself. The thought of Isabelle getting it on with a small employee continued to buzz around in my head. The initial annoyance at the comparison gave way to my vivid imagination. I imagined their youthfully swelling breasts touching, searching fingers stroking through freshly sprouted hair. Isabelle had played with this maid, dominated her, touched and kissed her in places that were considered forbidden. She had taken the active part, I was sure of it. "You want to be the teacher again. That's what you're about, isn't it?", I analysed her thoughts. "You don't like me taking charge and making you submit to me. You like to be in control. Isn't that right?"

  Isabelle approved with a nod. "You're pretty smart for a future soldier."

  "I am no longer a future Guardsman. I'm your servant and nothing more. So help yourself to me, Isabelle! I will let you." At this, I spread my arms wide to demonstrate my defenselessness.

  Isabelle laughed and then sat down on my knees with her legs spread. She was still wearing the panties. Her thighs were covered by white fabric, while her bottom and her black dimpled delta lay naked and unprotected in front of me - a wonderful image. In this posture I could admire her pendulous peaches while her interest was in my tightening middle.

  "Fifteen years," Isabelle now groaned with a smile as she watched me take on my full size. She brought her index finger to the tip of my nose. "That's the third time now, if I haven't miscounted. I am truly impressed. And he almost seems harder. How do you do it?"

  "I don't do anything," I panted heavily. "You do it all by yourself." Feeling her lustful gaze on me without her touching me made me furious.

  Now she came up higher, so that my organ slipped between her pussy, but she didn't let it advance any further. She chafed against the underside of the shaft, slowly driving her pelvis back and forth. I felt the damp dew wetting her dark garden. Isabelle knew exactly what she was doing. She was using me to stimulate herself in those regions that gave her the most pleasure. I reached out, magically drawn to my Baroness's swaying apples, and cradled these fascinating wonders of nature in the palms of my hands. They felt incredibly soft yet heavy. The tips of their dark, grainy nipples became rock hard as they felt the touch. Gently I rolled them between my thumb and forefinger, causing Isabelle to inhale heavily. Like me, she was overexcited and sensitive. I felt dizzy with all the wonderful feelings and had to close my eyes.

  "I love you!" I groaned as she finally let my cock slide deep inside her. Her pelvis continued to move smoothly back and forth. I enjoyed the overwhelming unison of our bodies. "I ... love you. I love you!"

  Briefly I opened my eyes and saw Isabelle looking at me full of warmth. "I know," she breathed as she made no move to get rid of me. "I love you too, George."

  ***

  The next morning I woke up alone. I had slept well for the first time in days, only noticing in passing how John had come back in the middle of the night with the tickets and mentioned the name of the ship, the Morning Star. Then I had slumbered in the big bed like a baby. Now, as I was gently tickled awake by the morning sun and found myself alone in the room of the guesthouse, a queasy feeling crept over me. I looked around. Isabelle's side of the bed was neatly made and covered as if she had never slept there. There was also no sign of John, who had slept on a cot next to the door. I jumped up and dressed frantically. My clothes were still lying next to the bed where Isabelle had pampered me yesterday. Hastily, and without fastening all the buttons and laces, I threw on my clothes, grabbed my rapier and rushed out of the inn into the street. As I stormed towards the harbour, I was still thinking of the dreams I was having during the night. Dreams of being Lady Isabelle's servant and travelling with her through France. Everything had felt so right. Even thinking about it now in the light of morning, it still felt right. Why should I serve a king for whom I was just replaceable cannon fodder and who didn't even know my name, and not a baroness who regularly let me into her bedchamber? What was better about that? Nothing at all! Only the fact that I alienated the Guardsmen and let Richard down pissed me off a little. But sometimes in life you just had to think of yourself if you wanted to find happiness, as I had found with Lady Isabelle. But where the hell was she?

  Hectically, I stormed down the sloping streets to the dock. When I finally reached the harbour between fishermen mending nets and loudly complaining merchants, it was already too late. I could only see the stern with the squiggly lettering Morning Star as the large sailing ship passed the breakwater and headed towards the open sea. No passengers were visible on deck, but I knew for sure that Isabelle was on board the ship. Deep in my heart I felt it.

  I was so angry and frustrated that I shouted out loud, which got me some strange looks, but I didn't care about the other people in the harbour. There was only one person in the world I cared about and that person was on board this ship and about to leave me. The anger in my heart gave way to deep pain and I began to cry uncontrollably. I just couldn't help it. A veil of tears soon covered all my vision. Not wanting to cause further offence, I ran to the pier and climbed the stairs to the top. The galleon was still a distant shadow. The sails billowed in the wind and drove the ship out of my reach. A cold wind blew in my face. Winter was just around the corner, I could feel it more and more every day. What had happened? Why had Isabelle left me? I rummaged in the pockets of my coat for a handkerchief and immediately found what I was looking for. I used the white cloth to wipe the tears from my eyes when I noticed a very familiar smell. Irritated, I unfolded the piece of fabric and recognised finely worked lace, two separate trouser legs joined by a narrow belt and the squiggly initials I.M. on the waistband.

  Isabelle had given me a parting gift.

  P A R T * T H R E E

  The race

  Chapter 27

  My grey mare dashed down the muddy road at breakneck speed. Again and again I gave the actually very good-natured animal the spurs, because I was in a great hurry. I had only two days to reach London in time for the end of the second test. It had taken us four days to reach Dover by stagecoach. I had to cover the same distance in half the time or I would miss the meeting at the 'Breeze' and my own future. On either side stretched the marshy meadowlands that extended south from Southwark. I began to hope that I would reach the meeting in time after all.

  After Isabelle had left me, I had rushed back to the inn to look for something like a farewell note, but apart from a small purse, Isabelle had left nothing behind. Gradually, however, I had realised that her panties had been her note to me. Isabelle didn't want me to bury my dream of the Guard just to live the life of a lackey in France. Nothing else would I have become there. Her actions had turned out to be completely selfless. When I had realised this, I had quickly set out to acquire a horse and make my way back. On the way, I had pondered what had probably encouraged her decision. Had it been the incident at the 'Clam', my brief battle against the Puritans in which I had fervently defended the King's reputat
ion? Had it been the fact that she loved me too much after all to use me merely as an occasional fling? And what had been the meaning of this move at our last encounter? Why had I been allowed to linger in her womb? Did she want to have a child by me or reward me in a special way? I could not explain it to myself. I tried to rid myself of the melancholy thoughts.

  The first buildings came into view. I recognised church spires and in the distance the glittering waters of the Thames. Soon I found myself on the bank, where I paid a ferryman for the crossing. Passage through the dense crowds of London Bridge would have cost me crucial time.

  I disembarked at Coldharbour. From here it was only a stone's throw to the 'Breeze'. The bells of Saint Paul's were ringing. The tenth hour was approaching. I quickly sat up and pressed my heels into the turnouts of the surprised animal, which immediately stood up on its hind legs and wildly rowed its front legs in the air, then it was already blasting through the familiar alleys of the harbour district. I found it hard to get my horse back under control, so wild had I made him. But before the church clock struck a tenth time, I had reached the small square, jumped off the mare's sweaty back and hurried to the blue and white door. Now, as I brutally pushed it open, I was greeted with a muffled silence from the taproom. It took me a few moments to adjust my eyes to the darkness, then I saw that all the tables had been moved aside, making the room seem much larger. Gathered in the middle of the room were the aspirants who had also successfully completed their undertaking - I counted two of them. Behind a table, like a tribunal, sat Vincent, Edwin, Wilbur and Stephen Fletcher. The latter looked at me disparagingly. "That was indeed a last-second appearance, George. You almost got disqualified."

  I nodded humbly and joined the others. Richard looked at me incredulously and with wide eyes, but said nothing. Amos patted me on the shoulder. Now Fletcher took the floor again. "Now that we are complete, let's go to the scoring. Where are your trophies, men?"

  Amos made the start and pulled a pair of spotless white panties from a pocket. Wilbur waved his hand impatiently, whereupon my blond competitor immediately handed over the panties. Wilbur unfolded and looked at it carefully. "Very nice. Fine lace, the initials S.C." He passed it to Edwin, who looked at it with interest. "French lace, unmistakable. The fabric is the purest silk. Must have cost a fortune!" Now it was Vincent's turn, who also looked at the love pledge respectfully and then surmised, "S & C, Madame Solange de Chevreuse, sister of Marie de Rohan-Montbazon. My respect, Amos. And that, although you don't speak a word of French."

  "At least I don't speak it," Amos interjected with a smarmy grin.

  The Guardsmen liked this answer and simultaneously drummed their fists on the table, which Amos visibly accepted with glee.

  "Now for you, George!" demanded Wilbur, which prompted me to hand him my love token as well, which I did only very reluctantly, it being my only reminder of my beautiful baroness.

  "Also very nice lace, but an English work, I should think." Wil handed the panties on. I would have liked to snatch them from him again. Now Edwin looked at it, who seemed to be somewhat proud that his protégé had succeeded. "The initials are also very nicely done. I & M. Possibly Ilea MacNamara or Iesha Monroe?"

  I shook my head. Was Edwin trying to wind me up? He knew exactly which name the initials came from, didn't he?

  "Give it to me!" demanded Vincent, who was now studying the panties in detail. "English work, but French style. I think it belongs to a baroness of French descent."

  Now he dipped his nose deep into the soft fabric and sucked his lungs full with relish, as if tasting a fine wine. Then he looked at me almost solemnly. "And worn in the last forty-eight hours. Congratulations, George. From what my nose tells me, you must have had a lot of fun. Isabelle de Morante, if I'm not mistaken?"

  I immediately turned bright red, looking down at the ground in shame, while the Guardsmen had gone into bawling and laughing. Only Stephen Fletcher kept his composure. This whole affair seemed a little beneath him.

  Wilbur was the first to catch himself. "Now for you, Richard!" he exclaimed. "I suppose the fact that you are standing here before us means that you have succeeded. Hard to believe. Let's see what you've captured, then!"

  Richard handed over his panties with a sour face. Wilbur unfolded it. "Ah, a large size, I see. The lace is a little less elegant than the other ones. I see the initials there, R.B." Following Wilbur, Edwin now looks closely at Richard's trophy. "Quite a rough fabric, but clean and well made. The wearer seems to be a natural at amorous things, a mature, horny wench with a little more zeal than talent. And that smell ..." Edwin sniffed at the garment. "That smell does seem very familiar. Allspice, a hint of rosemary ..."

  "Give it to me!" demanded Vincent, snatching the panties from his hand. Exploring, he sniffed at the fabric and finally gleefully exclaimed: "Roast chicken à la Rahel!"

  Now all heads turned to the chubby landlady, who had stepped out of the kitchen with a tray of chicken. She swallowed hard and looked hesitantly at her husband Brawley, who had been sitting in the background all this time, listening to everything. " Whaaat?" he cried out. "You're cheating on me?"

  "There's ... I can explain!" the landlady stammered, completely perplexed, but Brawley had already risen and snatched a cast-iron frying pan from the wall, with which he now charged at Rahel. She screamed. The tray with the chickens flew through the air and all the delicious poultry flew to the floor. Then she ran shrieking from her husband and rushed out the door. We could only watch in disbelief as Brawley furiously followed his wife with the pan.

  "A real lady-in-waiting, no question!", Vincent now laughed at the top of his lungs and the men joined in the bawling. Even Fletcher couldn't help the boisterous merriment and fell in booming. Through the small windows we saw the massive giant chasing after the plump lady cook with the frying pan.

  "You're lucky Brawley's rage isn't directed at you," I grinned next to Richard, punching him good-humouredly in the side.

  Now Stephen Fletcher demanded silence again. The men obeyed. "Now that you have passed the second test, it is time for the final one. The last test may sound the simplest, but it is by far the hardest. Every autumn, most of the Scottish Guard meets at Dunnottar Castle in Scotland. This meeting has a long tradition. At Dunnottar we have been training our young people for generations. Your simple task is to get there. Each of you will receive a sealed letter which you must deliver to John MacThomas, the captain of our garrison. Whoever does this first will be our new recruit this year and will be trained as a Guardsman, it's as simple as that."

  As an underscore to these words, Wilbur pulled three sealed envelopes from his doublet and handed them to us across the table. The stationery was cream-coloured, the wax seal showed the King's coat of arms.

  "But be very clear," Fletcher continued loudly, " there is only one who can win the Caledonian Race. That's the simple rule. Only one!" He let his words hang there for a moment. "So that you also know where you actually have to go, each of you will be given a map, plus three shillings and a good horse. That should be enough to get you as far as Scotland. But to make it not too easy for you, we have prepared a little inspiration for you." Stephen now roared loudly, "Dunter!"

  I had a sense of foreboding. Through the door stepped an enormous hulk into the taproom, whose very appearance made each of us three aspirants tremble. He must have been a full head taller than Brawley. He wore a rust-coloured cloak. At one belt were two long daggers, more like short swords. A huge iron spike hung over his shoulder. His boots were also shod with iron. Over his shaggy, wild hair sat a hood that might once have been white, but was now encrusted with old, dried blood. The grey eyes in the worn, hard face looked at us with cold curiosity. The full beard was already streaked with grey. He approached us menacingly, a huge tankard of ale in his hand.

  "This is Dunter RedCap," Stephen explained. "Dunter will be your nemesis. He will haunt you not only in your dreams but also in life in a very tangible way. He will now receive three g
old coins from me."

  Stephen had stood up and was now counting out three heavy coins from a cash box. Each one would be enough to live carefree for a whole year.

  "Could you imagine what Dunter received these gold coins for?"

  "A coin for each of our letters?" speculated Richard.

  "Almost," Fletcher replied, "a coin for each of your heads."

  Chapter 28

  My throat throbbed with excitement. I had actually been aware that the third test could not be about an easy race, but why did our lives have to be on the line again straight away?

  "Dunter will now finish his ale in peace. Then he will be on his way."

  Indecisively we stood around. I had just finished a tiring two-day ride. It couldn't all be true. I could have fallen over on the spot and slept.

  But as we watched Dunter put on the big tankard of ale with relish and begin to swiftly empty it, we realised that this guy would certainly not take very long to empty the big glass. So we took our legs in our hands and rushed out into the street as if on fire. We had quickly pocketed our map and money.

  Three Guardsmen with saddled horses were waiting for us in the yard, and we quickly mounted the horses. Now there was no stopping us. We dashed out of the square. Only Richard, who was the last to mount, headed for Rahel, who was still exhausted and fleeing from her sweaty husband. He reached out to her at a gallop and pulled her onto the horse behind him - a masterstroke, I thought. A few blocks later, we stopped briefly to talk.

  "You can lower me down here! Brawley will soon see sense," Rahel said to Richard. I watched as he reluctantly put her down, not without first forcing a passionate kiss on her. The buxom landlady blushed. "I wish you every success." Then she addressed us, "Take good care of each other!" She turned around and had already disappeared between the rows of buildings.