Guardsmen of the King: A Historical Adventure Novel (George Glen's Adventures Book 1)

by Richard Bergen

  "George," she began slowly. "Have you ever wondered why I go to such lengths to teach you to read and write French?"

  I was disturbed, not knowing what she was getting at. "I thought you wanted a comprehensively educated servant, Milady," I replied thus.

  "That is true, mon jeunot. But I am concerned with more than that. I have often told you how much I detest this barbarous country. Those were not empty phrases, George. I find England uncultivated, ugly and utterly repulsive. If only you could see France, the sun-drenched hills of Gascony, Bordeaux, Lyon or even Paris. I swear your eyes would glaze over and your mouth would open in amazement. But I'm getting ahead of myself. My point is that I want to return to this land. When I came here many years ago, it was only for the sake of my husband. When he died, he left me alone and defenceless in this desolate part of the world."

  Although I knew it was not proper to interrupt my mistress, I did so anyway. "Why don't you just return to France if you pine for your homeland so much?", I asked frankly.

  Isabelle gave a bitter laugh. "If only it were that simple for once. As a woman travelling alone, it's not easy here. I was attacked by highwaymen on the way here from France, by unsavoury characters who made unseemly offers, and it was only thanks to the protection of my husband that I arrived in Longhill in one piece."

  "Why don't you take John as your protector? I'm sure he would help you on your return journey."

  Milady gave me a big look and smiled at me. "When I travel with a man, I must be able to confide in him without limits. I do not give John that trust." She paused. "But I give it to you, George."

  I was suddenly petrified with happiness. "Does that mean you want me to accompany you to France?", I asked cautiously.

  "You've got it, mon petit ange."

  "But I am still a child, Milady. How can I offer you protection?"

  Now she smiled. Her right hand went to my chin and lifted it gently. "We have plenty of time, George. You'll see, it won't be long before you're a man."

  ***

  Late in the evening, long after Lady Isabelle had gone to bed, I looked out of the narrow window of my room. In the dim light of the moon, I saw the gate of the stables open and a rider glide out into the night.

  John had taken the pied stallion, the most enduring animal among Milady's horses. I gazed after him as he headed purposefully towards the path and disappeared from my sight. Although I was exceedingly tired, I could not fall asleep that night. Again and again I looked out of the window into the cold, forbidding moonlight and wondered what was going on down there in the village. The uncertainty of what was happening was terrible and I asked myself again and again if I had made the right decision. Although John had more or less volunteered to teach my father a lesson, it had undeniably been me who had given him the idea. What if John lost out in an argument and Martin hit him? How would I be able to live with that guilt?

  I sat on my bed, stared out the window and waited and waited. The more I fought the plaguing remorse, the more it filled me. There was nothing I could do about it. And the longer John stayed away, the more the certainty grew in me that my father had won the battle.

  I watched the moon shining brightly and relentlessly down on the castle and the miserable village until it was veiled by slowly moving veils of cloud. Mixed in with this process was a low, pounding sound that grew louder with time. I jumped to the window and saw John returning on his stallion. I noticed nothing about his form that indicated injury. As I was, barefoot and dressed only in a nightgown, I pushed open my bedroom door and ran down the long corridor to the stairs. I tried to be quiet so as not to wake anyone, but it was more important for me to be able to hear John's story quickly. I left the castle through the main door. My bare feet sank into the snow, but that was secondary now. I had to see John. As fast as my legs could carry me, I ran to the stables and found John there, who was unsaddling the pied one.

  When he saw me, he grinned involuntarily. "My God, you can't wait to hear my report, can you? You'll catch your death of cold in this snow, George."

  He didn't look very ordinary either, though. There was blood on his lower lip and a large dark stain covered his right cheek. Noticing my gaze, he said dismissively, "That's nothing compared to what I gave him, George."

  "Tell me!", I demanded as my feet slowly began to ache.

  "All right. You did tell me where your parents' house is, George. So I made my way there purposefully. I rode down the village street, listening to the all-night bawling from the pub. When I reached the last corner of the village and went to your house, I wondered if he was at home at all. So I quietly opened the window cover a crack and peered inside. It was softly lit by a fireplace in the middle. Above it hung a large cooking pot in which your mother was preparing something. She is very beautiful, by the way, your mother.

  However, your father was not present. So I assumed he was still in the village tavern getting drunk, as every man in Longhill does every evening. But eventually, I suspected, he would stagger home. Then I would ambush him and give him the punishment he deserves.

  So I retreated into an alcove between two houses, from where I could watch the path unnoticed, and waited.

  Since your parents' house is far away, the person who walked past me was bound to be your father. It took half an eternity before I finally heard voices. I left my secret slipstream and looked up the road. There I noticed some staggering figures coming out of the tavern, saying their goodbyes loudly and scattering in all directions. Three men came down the street in my direction. I was already afraid that I would find your father only in company, but the men split up. Two disappeared into nearby houses and one staggered on in my direction. When he crossed my path, I faced him fearlessly. He looked like you had described him, tall, strong and dumpy. To be sure, I asked him his name. When he said it, I was sure. I grabbed the slouching, staggering figure by the scruff of the neck and pushed him into the dark corner where I'd waited for him. I punched him in the face. His attempt to fight back earned me the swollen cheek you see now. But I hit him in the face a few times with my fist until the few teeth he had left fell into the snow with a gush of blood. He whimpered for his life, but I kicked him in the stomach until he could only wail. He lay on the ground completely shattered. Seeing him lying like that, I had a nice idea. I took his left arm by the wrist and said: 'A most respectful greeting from George shall I order'. As I did so, I struck the forearm against a stone and it broke in two. It was a terrible wound. The bone was sticking out and blood was pouring into the snow. Your father cried out in pain, but I held my hand over his mouth and said: 'If you touch your beautiful wife again, you bastard, I'll come back and break your neck.'

  I left him in the snow, got on my horse and made my way back here."

  He looked at me triumphantly, but I was in no mood for joy. "You really said my name, John?", I asked incredulously.

  "Of course I did. What would have been the point of all that action if he didn't know where it came from?"

  "I don't think that was such a good thing," I said slowly. "My father is struck by incredible stupidity. I fear he is too limited to understand your warning. I even fear he will go home and vent all his hatred on my mother."

  "How could he, with that broken arm and that pain?"

  I saw that there was something to this argument and decided to let the matter rest. The more I thought about it, the stronger the feeling of satisfaction grew inside me. I only wish I had been there.

  Chapter 9

  The next morning I was not awakened by the screeching of a rooster, as usual, but by a hand gently yet consistently shaking my shoulder.

  I sleepily opened my eyes and recognised Josefine standing anxiously beside my bed.

  "What is it?", I asked in a mat voice.

  "The sun has long since risen, George," she said, "You overslept."

  No wonder, I thought, given the fact that I had spent half the night awake. I jumped up and dressed as quickly as I could, enthusiastically throwi
ng myself into my duties. When I met John during Madame's morning ride, he looked similarly shattered as I was. His dark patch had turned blue and he looked at me from dark-rimmed eyes.

  I had forgotten to ask him for secrecy, so I did so now. He assured me that this was a matter of course for him. He had told Milady that the bruise was from an unfortunate fall, which she had taken from him. I expressed my gratitude to him and spent the rest of the day, as I was accustomed, with work and French lessons, but with the difference that I thought of my parents almost constantly. I imagined father struggling with his broken arm, that he was incapable of beating up my mother or causing her any other suffering. And I tried to imagine my mother's reaction. Surely she would find it difficult to hide her joy.

  As for the French lessons in the afternoon, I noticed that Madame had dropped almost all distance towards me. She almost no longer treated me like a lackey, but like a son. The prospect of finally having found a companion for her return to France inspired her. She laughed often and touched me constantly. I was more than confused.

  ***

  That evening I was in bed quite early, but again I had trouble falling asleep. I had the vague feeling that I had made a huge mistake by letting John beat up my father. It was as if only by doing so had I lit a spark that would make a fire blaze. Not even in my worst nightmares, however, could I have imagined the actual extent of this fire.

  After lying awake for two hours, my eyelids began to feel heavy. I was delighted that my tiredness was finally taking over when suddenly the bell in my room struck. I jolted up. My first thought was: 'Milady has never called me to her this late before'.

  Since I had to respond immediately to a bell signal, I lacked the time to dress properly. In my nightgown, I opened the door and stepped into the hallway. I was startled when I suddenly noticed a figure. It was John, who was just standing at Josefine's room door. She had opened it and I could see through the crack in the door that she was only covered by a thin gown. They both stared at me in surprise, but I simply walked past them, down the stairs to Madame Isabelle's chambers. I opened the door of the dining room, passed through the next salon and knocked gently on the door of her bedchamber.

  I heard her call for me to enter, so I opened the double door and entered the room. Dim light from several candles brightened the room slightly. Lady Isabelle sat in her bed in a light sleeping robe and looked at me.

  I made a deep bow and asked, "Vous désirez, Madame?"

  "So you come in your nightgown?" she asked, raising her eyebrows slightly.

  "You rang, Madame. So I came without further ado."

  Her eyes passed my figure. "That's good, mon jeunot. That is the proper attitude. Sit with me!"

  I was puzzled by this intimate invitation. But she was my mistress, so I did as she asked and took a seat on the edge of the bed.

  "You are surely wondering why I am calling you to me at this late hour, George, and it is quite a valid question. The answer to it, however, is as simple as can be. I can't get to sleep. Maybe it's the full moon or these long winter evenings. In any case, I thought it would be a good time to continue the French lessons."

  I said nothing in reply and just looked at her from the side. I wondered if she was aware of how tightly her nightgown pressed against her breasts. Was she doing it on purpose?

  Suddenly I felt her hand pressing gently against my shoulder. Milady leaned a little towards me and spoke more softly now. "Not only in terms of language are the English downright barbarians, but in other areas French culture is far superior to them. Can you imagine what kind of areas I mean, George?"

  "No," I said truthfully and turned to face her fully. In her bent-over posture, her cleavage no longer hid anything.

  When she noticed that my attention was focused on her décolleté, she lightly pushed her shoulders back so that her breasts bulged in all their fullness against the tight cloth.

  "Can you imagine now which areas I mean, mon jeunot?" she whispered.

  When I looked at her with my mouth open in amazement and couldn't make a sound, she had to smile involuntarily. "I understand, George. You don't have any experience in this field yet. I can't blame you, given your youth. But it is a distinct pleasure to me that the first experience you will have is of a cultured, french nature." She took my hand and said, "Come all the way to me, George!"

  Today I could not tell whether I moved towards the bed of my own free will or whether I was pulled by Madame. A battle of fear and curiosity raged inside me. What was she going to do to me? What could she possibly have in mind for me, I asked myself.

  "You really are very pretty, George," she said as I lay in bed beside her. She had leaned on her right arm and was looking down at me. "Have you ever seen a naked woman?" she asked me directly.

  I denied this question, which was true, except for the parts of my mother's body I had seen when my father had taken her by force.

  "Would you like to see me naked?" she continued bluntly, and while part of me felt like a trapped animal, another part nodded.

  I saw her incredibly slender white hands move to the ribbons of the robe and open them. The cloth slid apart like a drawn curtain and I spotted the uncovered breasts. They appeared to be very large, but of course I could not judge, as I lacked any comparison. Her skin was perfectly smooth and pale. Only the tips of the breasts shone slightly pink. She turned onto her back and I followed the graceful swaying of the two curves.

  She took my hand and guided it against her bosom. I reached out cautiously. The unfamiliar softness and warmth amazed me and deep inside I heard a repeated voice that resisted this act.

  But this voice was very quiet and Lady Isabelle did not hear it at all. Instinctively I felt my immaturity as she revealed herself fully. I registered with bafflement that between her broad hips was a nest of black, frizzy hair that contrasted against the white skin.

  I recoiled a little, for I had never seen anything like it.

  "What's wrong?" asked Lady Isabelle.

  I asked her why there was hair at this point and it resulted in her laughing out loud. "Oh, George!" she groaned between bursts of laughter. "Mon petit jeunot, that is perfectly normal. Soon you too will be covered in hair there."

  I didn't believe her, but while I was still thinking it over, Milady pushed my nightgown up and looked at my lanky, thin figure. Her hand went between my legs, groping for the organ I normally only used when nature commanded it. I was surprised when she stroked the smooth skin above and said, "A lot of little hairs will grow here soon."

  I felt myself at her mercy and suddenly had the urgent desire to escape from this bedroom. "Milady!", I stammered. "May I go?" In a further embarrassed reaction, I felt the object of her interest suddenly rise and swell.

  "You're not going anywhere," Milady said, reaching for the erect pecker. Her hand encircled it and slowly rubbed up and down. I find it hard to describe the emotional alternation of desire and unwillingness I was in. But the desire to get back to my room overweighed the pleasure. I just didn't feel ready for whatever she had in mind for me.

  "Do you know what follows now, mon amour?" she whispered in my ear.

  I denied again and by now I felt I could do nothing but just say 'no'.

  "Touch me!" she demanded. "Do whatever comes into your mind with me. I swear I'll let you."

  "I just want to go to my room," I admitted.

  Isabelle's brow furrowed. "You're not at all interested in what's waiting for you between my legs?"

  "What's waiting for me there?" asked the curious part of myself.

  "Find out!" she demanded.

  Somehow I suddenly no longer yearned for my room. I bent over her lower body and had a close look at her black curled triangle. My long hair fell on her belly and I noticed how she suddenly opened her thighs wide and pulled them against her body. And so I spotted an longish slit under the dark bush, part of which opened slightly. Moisture wetted the soft curls of her pubic hair like dewdrops on the morning grass. An enticing
scent flowed towards me. I was surprised, but Isabelle explained that this was natural and that this opening was made for a special part of me.

  She touched me between my legs and the almost painfully stiff thing stretched hard towards her hand. I could no longer think clearly, only see and feel. I saw her swaying breasts beneath me and felt her fingers gently grasp my throbbing pole and move it into position. Suddenly I felt moisture and warmth. Following an impulse, I pressed myself firmly against her underbelly. With a slipping sound, I slid completely into her warm nest. It was pleasant in there. She pressed my body up against her once more as I was about to slip away and I noticed how this bouncing intensified the sensations. Her right hand gently caressed my buttocks, holding them in place. Her other hand was now resting on her dark little fur and her fingertips were frantically massaging the top of her slit until she rolled her eyes, moaned and jerked. I was worried, afraid I had hurt her, but she quickly calmed down, looked at me with glazed eyes, licked her lips and reached between our bodies to play tenderly with my testicles. This action now completely disinhibited me. Again and again I moved back and forth between her spread thighs until I suddenly had a very strange feeling. It first concentrated completely on my lower abdomen, but then rose up like a wave and washed away all thoughts, all concerns from my mind. For a moment - which passed faster than the blink of an eye - I thought I could see the stars with happiness.

  Then it was over.

  I withdrew from her and suddenly felt used, as if I had done something dirty, something disgusting. I quickly pulled on my nightgown and remained sitting on the edge of the bed, turning my face away from her. "What was that?", I asked quietly, with a slight uneasiness in my stomach.