Saint Genevieve he was so gorgeous! Those honey-colored eyes, so warm, so full, so deep watching her from under those dark locks.
“Give in, Lela. Just this once. Give in.”
He always knew what to say to her. He was her first kiss. It wasn’t great, truth told. He had dribbled on her, making her surreptitiously wipe her lip afterward. Did it matter? After all his years at Court in Paris, at the Emperor’s Court in Prague, he had to be adept at the making of love. He probably knew all kinds of sweet ways to touch a girl.
Maybe he even did the male version of the Parisian Kiss! Was it possible? Men never did such things. She knew that. Or at least Katya used to laugh that men were afraid to. In any case, she didn’t need that because his kisses were now moving along her neck up to her earlobes. Such soft sweet kisses, nibbles. She felt her breath catching. His fingers were moving elsewhere, untying the laces of her gown, trailing their light teasing along her shoulders, caressing the back of her neck. Taking the time.
So different from the Walrus who came in reeking of ale, lifting his robe, throwing his hugely gross belly to one side as he struggled to find the teeny cock that he hadn’t seen in years. He couldn’t. Mounting the bed, snorting with lust, not even looking at her. Not seeing her. Just fumbling his way in, bruising her labia on the entry, then a few hasty thrusts and his pathetic cum. His groans, his falling on her, smearing her with his greasy sweat...
She woke, almost shouting aloud in fear, grasping the sheets in a panicked tangle. She wasn’t there anymore. She had been dreaming. Dimly aware of these things, Lela lay there, breathing. Feeling the heaving of her chest, her breasts. She clutched them, starting to tear up, then forced herself not to.
She sat up, disgusted with herself, trying to shake it off. On her night table were the usual goblets of water and mead. She took a long swallowing gulp of the water, feeling its comforting wetness soothe the anguished tight, dryness of her throat. Then, she picked up the mead and took slower sips of the heavier, sweeter brew.
She hadn’t dreamed of the Walrus in moons. Saint Genevieve, what did it mean? She felt robbed. Not a little annoyed, maybe even a little angry. She certainly was starting to feel the pinpricks of anger. She sipped her mead, thoughtfully. A dream, a very sexy dream, of Marcel working his way down to her pussy, only to have him turn into the Walrus?
Were the gods trying to tell her something? Trying to warn her?
Katya would know. She had always been fascinated by dreams. Would interpret them. For some time there, the two started every morning by having Lela relate what she could of her dreams, so that Katya could interpret them. The birds cawing in the skies or singing among the branches, the cows lowing in the fields, the wolves sauntering along the edges of the pasture, the storms lighting up the dark with bursts of lightning forking across the heavens, the tumultuous rains drowning the crops, filling the rivers. Anything natural in her dreams had been fair game. Later, Katya had prophesied, Lela would start to dream of men. What those dreams would mean, her friend’s eyes had sparkled, was best left up to her own interpretation.
She stopped thinking for a moment to remember Katya’s dark blue eyes, her white blonde hair, her large, milky breasts and brawny arms. The arms of a shield maiden, her friend would say, then get a sad look in her eyes that would take some time to go away, her fingers tugging on the brass ring soldered around her neck. Denoting her slavery. Bought in the marketplace in Avignon, by Lela’s father, as a nurse for his daughters.
So far as Lela knew, Marcel had followed through on his promise to search for her. An impossible search, she knew, so she had made herself not pester him with it. In truth, she was enjoying her freedom in Anjou so much, that she didn’t want to ask anything more of him on the rare occasions that he stopped in. Yet, as this was her third Sunday here, it seemed that it was becoming time to ask. She counseled herself to keep it light. She didn’t want to burden him. It was a search with such an unlikely outcome, anyway. She knew. She had tried. For years. When others of her age had spent their allowances on new dresses in Avignon, or new items of jewelry, Lela had spent hers on journeymen, making them promise to send back word if they saw or even just heard of a white-haired Viking slave with large, milky white breasts and dark blue eyes.
Some were only too happy to take her money, she knew. She would never hear back from them, even if they did hear of Katya. She gave it anyway. What else could she do?
She resolved to ask Marcel when next he returned. It was time.
And what of her dream, then, she pondered, taking a sip.
The male version of the Parisian Kiss. She sighed. Her fingers were straying down to her pussy lips, something she only rarely did in all her years with the Walrus. Only when her need was particularly great. She wasn’t ashamed of touching herself in that way. It was just that that manner of pleasure typically made her unhappy afterward. Until she forced herself to stop thinking about what she could not have. A dream lover.
Now, her fingertips lighting touching there, as her tongue tasted the mead, she let herself give in, like he had said in the dream.
Give in, Lela. Just this once.
Feeling guilty about pleasuring herself while thinking about him, when it was so obvious that she could never marry her childhood friend any more than she could marry John, the King would never let her, she...
John.
She shut out all thoughts of the Master and focused again on Marcel’s eyes, so thoughtful, so warm, so deliciously...
The pleasure was over-taking her. She took one last sip of mead, then set it down and slipped down in her sheets, opening her legs to him. Letting herself want him. Imagining his kisses on her neck again. Feeling a great sleepy drowsiness overtake her as she slowly, gently caressed her pussy, taking her off to sleep.
He was there now, in her room. He was watching her in the candlelight. His honeyed eyes burned for her, piercing her from across the room, his strong hands slowly stroking his muscular chest. Slowly running across it, moving down to his rippled abs, making her moan in need, in want, in longing. She wanted to be those hands. She wanted to touch, tracing the ridges of those hard muscles with her fingertips. She needed to touch him, to feel his strength, his warmth, his love.
Love?!
What!?
She refocused. He was slowly untying his breeches, his eyes still burning, his lips parting, the candles picking up traces of sweat trickling down his pects, his abs, down to... She could see that his cock was hard, pressing out the emerald green fabric from his thigh. Saint Genevieve, she wanted to see his cock. She knew it would be so hard, so big, so lovely, so different from the Walrus.
Don’t think of the Walrus!
She chided herself, looking for Marcel again. There he was, drawing closer now, moving across her night chamber, coming to the edge of her bed. Those abs, so close, just a touch away. She reached for him, saw his eager smile. Her fingers slowly, lightly caressed the hardness. She heard his soft sigh, she felt his need. She fondled the edges of his cock lightly, teasingly to see how that affected him, dragging this out, wanting it to last as long as possible. She wanted to hear him moan. She wanted to know what it felt like. Sitting up more, turning closer so she could reach, she cupped his manhood with her palm, through the cloth.
Please, Lela.
His soft, warm voice enveloped her as he moaned. Yes, she had made him moan! It felt so good. It felt so wonderful to know that she, too, could please a man. At last.
Would he please her?
His soft hands reached out to cup her chin, the way they always once had, as he sweetly kissed her, his breath warm, so fragrant.
She moaned herself. She couldn’t help it.
Her hands reached out to the top of his breeches. She pulled the folds of the dark brown fabric aside, her fingers searching inside to see what treasure lay within. He was growing larger. Harder. His cock was a thick, rigid pole, now. Saint Genevieve it was long. Maybe too long. Yet, she couldn’t stop. She needed it. Want
ed to taste it. Feel it. But, it was swelling. Too much.
His chest, too, was getting larger, taller, more muscular. The ridges of his abs were changing, getting harder, the valleys between them deeper, more pronounced. The arms as they enfolded her were growing thickly knotted with bulkier muscles. His hands, she felt on her back were scratching her with their hard calluses. Something was wrong. Something was different.
She kept her eyes down. She didn’t want to know. She heard the intake of breath, saw the hard muscles gleaming with war in the candle flame. And then she knew. She closed her eyes as his gruff tones captured her, piercing her.
m’Lady, what are we doing?
* 7 *
She awoke one morning to find Marcel sitting on the edge of her bed.
“Marcel!” she yelped, clutching the sheets to her chin. She looked around for her ladies-in-waiting but saw no one to reproach.
“Oh, please,” he smiled at her. “I was enjoying watching your slumber.”
She darted a glance at him, wondering if he was teasing.
“You’re very beautiful, Lela. You have grown into a beauty far more refined than our Avignon days.”
She scoffed at that.
“Destined to more than fulfill the duty of ornamenting the King’s latest favorite.”
She gasped, her hands rising to her cheeks.
“No, no, no!” he said, lifting a hand to stop her. “I was only teasing. There is no renewed Summons. At least, not yet.”
She sighed.
“You are wise, however, to expect it,” he shook his head. “I am.”
She thrust that unhappy thought aside. “What news, else?”
He smiled that quiet smile of his.
“I would ask how things are running here, yet, I see with my own eyes what wonders you have wrought.”
She chuffed.
“Nay, truly, Lela. Chateau Anjou is a world different from when I first lay eyes upon it. God’s tears! This morning, I walked into the kitchen to see the mistress reconstituting black diamonds for an omelette aux truffe! How in the world did you find Provence truffles in Brittany? Even if they are dried.”
She felt herself beam an impish, if still somewhat sleepy grin at him. “I sent back home for them. It was to be a surprise for you.”
“Home to Provence?”
“No, my kitchen mistress lays in a store of them at Brionde.”
“Ah.”
They sat a moment in silence.
“Well.” He rose, took a few steps toward the archway and rapped out, “Wine.”
She heard a bustle, then a lady-in-waiting rushed in, nodding to her, carrying a tray with her usual morning aperitif these days, two small glasses of a simple dry white pinot gris. Perfect to greet the day with.
He looked them over, smiled quizzically at her, then took a sip. He smiled more deeply and settled back on the bed. The maid, Ninon, a buxom lass of red hair and fair skin, blushed at him on her way out. Clearly she was besotted with Marcel. And why not, Lela argued with herself. His colors today were a more warlike dark blue. It suited him. His boots were spotted with mud in manly fashion. Clearly he had been up and riding early. Still, a last glance of longing from the girl at him made her grit her teeth. It made her want to go home. But Katya first, she reminded herself.
“So, what else have you seen of my work?” she sat back in her pillows, taking a sip.
“Well, the villa girl of Avignon has certainly grown up. You run the chateau – and your own from afar, I imagine – more easily than the headman here runs his measly village. No bedbugs at night. No dog shit from the hallways on my heels. Fresh rushes daily, fresh cut flowers in every room, the staff looking, and smelling,” he raised an eyebrow, “a great deal sweeter than when I first met them. Even bouillabaisse warmed for me when I returned late last night. Without the shrimp being stewed tough, I might add...”
She looked down, feeling herself blush.
“All in...what...two or three Sundays?”
She buried her pleasure in another sip.
“How do you do it? Lela, truly. Tell me. I have no experience running a chateau.”
“Well,” she grinned, mischievously. “Talk the King into the right girl and you won’t have to.”
He snorted at that thought.
“The King...” he started, and then dried up, frowning.
“Truly, Marcel. Just know what you want, then be gentle while being firm about insisting upon it.”
He scoffed.
“Firm and gentle,” she cooed at him, feeling her smile widen. Saint Genevieve, why was she feeling so girlish?
“Maybe. I certainly do not have your touch. I will say that.”
He stood and walked to her window. A morning wren outside sprang up in song.
She sighed happily. Hearing her, he turned with an inquisitive look. So, she explained that a few days ago, hearing of her desire for more songbirds surrounding the chateau, the groundskeeper had found and transplanted several bunches of goldenrod for her. Some would fail, he had cautioned, but enough would take to bring in some birdsong – as she knew they would, but thrilled that he had decided to do something so nice for her, a clear sign that the “Bitch from Brionde” as she knew they were calling her was winning over hearts, after all.
Marcel shook his head again, a gloomy overcast still hanging about him. Waking up further, she could see it now. “Yes,” he was dryly remarking. “And when the Bitch from Brionde returns there, then what shall I do?”
“Oh, Marcel,” she clucked. “You’ll be fine.”
“Maybe.”
He turned fully, leaning back against the wall, then finishing his wine. Setting it down, he asked the question that, she guessed, he had come to awaken her with.
“How much longer can you stay?”
Ah. She stalled, fidgeting with the sheets and blankets. These past weeks had been a welcome escape from the routines of her life. Yet, in truth, they had also helped her to see how much she treasured about Brionde. As much pleasure as she took in those small birdsong moments, when she realized that a staff member had come around at last, she was a bit tired of having to make an argument to begin with. She would have thought that the daily changing of the rushes in the common rooms would be obvious. Who wanted to live in a musty smelling set of rooms? Of course, she also would have thought that the advantages to smelling of lavender instead of merde would be self-evident.
Even the Guard here, she had often thought. She was so used to John’s exacting discipline. Brionde’s uniforms – the simple linen blouses, easily cleaned of the inevitable bloodstains, the dark brown tightly fitting breeches, the knee boots – all had a purpose easily grasped, all were expected to be as well cared for as their rapiers, no exceptions. And such tightly fitting breeches over such finely toned asses and thighs always provided a welcome source of afternoon entertainment for bored ladies-in-waiting. But the Guard here were slovenly, overweight, lazy. They rarely ever practiced. She had thought to mention it to Marcel, but decided that she was was unilaterally making enough decisions about the running of the chateau as it was. Instead, she forced herself to think up errands or simple tasks for her ladies-in-waiting to do so that they would take their incessant afternoon gossip elsewhere.
And, she might as well admit it, she missed John. She knew that she shouldn’t. That way lay madness. But, she couldn’t help it.
No, she corrected herself, sternly. She missed the fields. She was certain of that. She wanted to know how the early harvesting was coming along. Her own headman had a tendency to make speeches about the importance of hard work rather than actually seeing that it was done. And she wanted to see how many hides had been laid in while she had been gone. Brionde was known for its coney hides in particular, for the regional rabbits grew a coat unusually thick to ward off the chill sea winds. Years ago, one of her first triumphs at the chateau, she had suggested making a muffler of one for a duchess visiting one winter. The gift had made an instant impression. Brionde
mufflers had taken off as official gifts after that. The Walrus had only been too happy to let her take it over entirely. Just before the Summons had come, she had been idly toying with the idea of bringing several mufflers with her for the Queen and the duchesses and marchionesses who made up Court ladies-in-waiting. But there had been no time for the Messenger had insisted upon an early return. Now that she had the time, she had decided to go ahead with the project. It may not win her points with Jean le Bon, but it certainly would with his wife. In the tricky, and fluid, situations of Court, such small matters could really help. Look at Marcel, and how he well he had done, she heard her thoughts gathering pace, and then she realized that he was looking at her.
Watching her. Intently. Almost like a falcon, hungry to hunt.
She brushed a lock out of her eyes to see better. But, no, it was the same Marcel. His eyebrow arched in significance. His warm tones purring out, “Where in the Heavens did you go just now?”
She missed home, she thought with a pang. Even Coletta. Lately, a whispering voice in the back of her mind had been tormenting her with the thought that stupid jealousy had made her mistreat horribly her most loyal maid. Who might very well not be fucking John – though how that was possible, Lela couldn’t figure out. If their situations were reversed, she would be on her knees before John every night, taking in that massive cock of his. Was it massive?
Shaking her head free of such distracting thoughts, she replied, simply. “I miss home. I think things are well in hand here now, Marcel. However, I am hoping – though I know the possibility of success to be ultimately quite remote – that you have news of Katya.”
His eyes brightened at this. He sprang forward to her bedside, sat, taking her hand in his.
“I do.”
*****
He hadn’t mentioned it, for he thought that she had her mind on other things more crucial. Nevertheless, a number of days ago, he had finally gotten word back. Deep in Burgundy, almost in the Germanies, one of his riders had heard of a white-haired nursemaid from the Norselands. She was taking care of a petty duke’s children, having been sold to him for a pretty penny. The duke was willing to sell her, but only at large coin because she was so highly valued in their castle. The price was high enough that he had paused, especially because Lela had not mentioned her request again, so he had wondered if the feelings had been more borne of nostalgia, at the two of them seeing each other and pondering old faces from childhood. She was about to cluck at that, then reminded herself that she was the one who had refused to bother him with what she deemed a useless request.
Chateau of Longing Page 8