Her Noble Lords

by Ashe Barker

  Both men stare at me. “You are Bessie’s granddaughter?” asks Ralf.

  “Yes. Bessie Turpin was my grandmother. I lived with her after my parents died of a fever and I would often help in your kitchen but I was sent away after she died.”

  Ralf frowns. “We were saddened by her death. She was a good woman, a kindly soul. And we ate well whilst Bessie controlled our kitchens.”

  “I know. You came frequently to the lower floors in search of sweetmeats. I would peep out at you from behind the door to the cellars but I do not think you would have noticed me. There was one time though, out in the bailey. It was raining and—”

  “And you almost ended up under my horse’s hooves,” interrupts Ralf. “I recall it now. I managed to avoid you, though it was by the grace of the almighty that you escaped that morn.”

  “I… I thank you for your actions. Many would not have bothered.”

  “Ours is a far-flung keep, ‘tis true but we do not routinely trample peasant children underfoot at Egremont.” He scrutinises my features with care. “Yes, I can see it now, though I confess I would not have recognised you. I regret that your return to our castle was not in more pleasant circumstances, little maid.”

  For me, it is sufficient that I have returned, whatever the reason. And now that I am here, I hope to remain.

  “I would prefer to stay here, if I may.” I turn to Sir Piers. “That is my answer, sir, to your question.”

  Piers nods. “I see. However, I asked two questions.”

  “I believe I have answered the first one, my lord. It is not possible for a serf to marry into the nobility. Not even here.”

  Ralf and Piers exchange a look but their silent communication merely baffles me.

  Ralf offers me a polite bow. “We must leave before too much more of the day is lost. You may remain here until our return or you may have the freedom of our keep. There will be people here who will remember you and Bessie and who will no doubt be pleased to see you back. You will find another of Lady Eleanor’s gowns in the bag we brought from Wellesworth…” He indicates the whereabouts of the leather satchel, on a chest below the window. “We will talk further on our return.”

  Chapter Seven

  The day is pleasant enough, if somewhat peculiar. My status here is ambiguous. I am at a loss to explain it, even to myself.

  My first stop, having donned the one gown remaining in the bag which Piers purloined from Wellesworth, Lady Eleanor’s fine amber satin and delicate slippers, is to make my way to the entrance to Mr. Belcher’s domain. I wish to thank him for his kindness to me during my incarceration. At my call, he lumbers out to meet me and expresses his pleasure at seeing my fortunes somewhat restored though I suspect he always had an inkling that I was not destined to hang.

  “Sir Ralf is recovered then?”

  “Yes, I believe so. Or very nearly. He is still bandaged under his shirt, however.”

  “The lad is strong as an ox. Ye’ll have done ‘im no lasting damage, I’ll wager. Did they beat you for it?”

  I nod and try an experimental pat to my posterior. “Yes, but it was not too bad.” I am amazed to realise that this is true. The switching was awful at the time but in retrospect seems less formidable. Even so, I will be at pains to avoid a repetition.

  “Ye’ll be leavin’ then? I assume ye to be a free serf now since ye’ve not been returned into my keeping. Nor have ye been set to work in the sculleries by the look of that gown.”

  I ponder that for a moment. “I suppose so. Sir Ralf and Sir Piers have said I am free to go, or I may join the service of this household if I choose to. I believe I might like to do that. Tell me, is Egremont a good place to be, for the likes of us?”

  “Aye, lass, we’ve not much to complain of. There’s plenty to eat and the lords are fair enough. Occasional skirmishes wi’ the Scots but nothing ter worry us overmuch. Ye could do worse.”

  “Will it not seem odd? That I am brought here as the countess, thrown immediately into your dungeon, then to emerge as a servant?”

  He shrugs. “Aye, perhaps. But we are a remote keep; we pretty much manage our own affairs. If their lordships say ye belong here, there is no one will gainsay that.”

  “I see.” I do not, not entirely but Mr. Belcher’s words bolster my tattered confidence. Maybe I can forge a life for myself here, in the shadow of the earl, a man I have adored all these years. If he and his brother offer me the protection of their home, in whatever capacity, I could accept it.

  My next stop is, naturally, the kitchens. I am recognised instantly by Agnes and Joan, now women of my own age, but who worked alongside me as scullery skivvies in the past. They are still working in the kitchens—Joan as an assistant to the cook and Agnes as a seamstress. The current cook glowers at us as we huddle around her huge oak table but I suspect my fine attire convinces her to apply a little leniency. She allows us to take a mug of mead each and reminisce for a few minutes about our shared childhood.

  “We missed you. Where did you go?” demands Joan.

  “I was sent as a servant to Wellesworth castle, in Gloucestershire. I became a lady’s maid.”

  Both appear impressed at my advancement. “So, why have you come back here then? It’s lovely to see you, to be sure but there’s no call for ladies’ maids at Egremont.”

  Agnes’ question is a good one. But I am not inclined to disclose the truth of the circumstances surrounding my sudden reappearance among them, so I mutter something vague about being a member of a party bringing news from Wellesworth.

  “Ah, right. That would be to do with his lordship’s wedding then?” Nothing much gets past Agnes, it would appear.

  “Wedding?” I am playing for time, to collect my thoughts.

  “Aye, He is betrothed to a lady from there. We had a feast to celebrate the happy tidings, not two months back.” Joan is equally well informed. Any prospect of keeping the truth hidden for long is a forlorn one, obviously.

  I chance a quick peep in the direction of the choleric cook. Her attention is elsewhere, berating the unfortunate stable lad who has just walked horse muck across her allegedly clean floor. I take my chance, huddling closer to my two old friends as I impart the bones of the story.

  “Lord preserve us, ye married the earl? Then stabbed him? I always knew ye were a strange one, Linnet but I never suspected ye of having addled brains. And he let ye live?” Joan is incredulous.

  “He did but I believed Piers would hang me. I still think he would have, if his brother had not survived.”

  “‘Tis a mercy the earl was spared then. So, ye are the new countess, is that the nub of it?” Agnes is pragmatic as ever.

  I shake my head. “The marriage will be annulled. I spoke my vows using another woman’s name. It is not binding.”

  Agnes peers at me, her curiosity piqued. “Is that what ye want, Linnet? To be unwed from our earl?”

  “No, of course not. He is—they are both—magnificent. But I am not a lady.”

  “Neither was their mother.” This from the cook, who has appeared behind us somehow and has been listening to my tale. “The old earl took ‘er captive on a raid across the borders. Led ‘im a right dance, she did, afore she finally agreed to stay here as his bride. Her family were crofters as far as I can recall, peasant stock like the rest of us. She was a wild one but a decent countess in the end. Raised two fine sons and a daughter.”

  “A daughter? I did not realise Sir Ralf and Sir Piers have a sister.”

  “Aye. Lady Cecily is older than her brothers by a good eight years or so. She married into the Darkenfields. From Penrith.”

  “I see.”

  “So,” she announces, her massive arms folded as though to dare anyone to challenge her assertion, “…the St. Johns do as they please. If Sir Ralf wants ye, he’ll have ye. Piers, too.”

  I can believe that, if the brothers’ approach to addressing Lady Eleanor’s objections is any indication. But she was a f
ine lady, bringing with her both wealth and influence. Lady Eleanor would have been a prize. The question is, does either of them have the least desire to be wed to a humble serf?

  And if so, which one might claim me?

  * * *

  “You are still here then. You’ll sit beside us at the evening meal, Linnet.” Ralf hollers his greeting and his command from the back of his horse as he canters across the bailey, a fine stag slung over his saddle. Piers’ mount is similarly laden. It would seem they have had a successful day.

  I manage a swift curtsy as the horses clatter past, then wonder if I should make my way to the earl’s private quarters to greet them, or find something to occupy me in the kitchens. Surely, Agnes or Joan will be able to loan me a suitable tunic to wear for menial work since Lady Eleanor’s satin is clearly not fit for the purpose. I consider my dilemma for several minutes, then acting on instinct alone, I make my way to the lords’ tower and to the solar on the third storey. I knock on the door and enter when summoned.

  “Ah, little maid. Please be seated.” Piers gestures toward the settle. “You are able to sit, I presume?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.” I believe I can, more or less. I accept the seat offered and arrange Lady Eleanor’s elegant skirts around my legs. “I… did you have a good day? The hunt went well?”

  Ralf responds, “It did, though we are both famished.”

  “I believe cook has prepared a rabbit stew and suet dumplings.”

  “You have been reacquainting yourself with our domestic quarters, then?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And?”

  “My lord?”

  “How did that go? Did your old friends remember you?”

  I smile at him, pleased that he should ask. “Yes sir, they did. It was pleasant. Lovely, actually. We talked and…” I pause, not wishing to cause any trouble. “I do not mean that they neglected their duties.”

  “I expect they may have but we can overlook it on this occasion. I hope you are now persuaded that you might remain here.”

  I fold my hands at my waist, linking my fingers to avoid fidgeting. I meet his eyes. “I would like to, yes.”

  “Excellent. That outcome alone justifies the loss of an afternoon’s work. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to bathe before I eat.” He loosens the leather jerkin which he wears over his shirt and strides toward the door to the bedchamber.

  I make a rapid curtsy. “Of course, my lord. That is, unless you would like my assistance?”

  Ralf stops, turns to regard me. “You are offering to attend my bath, Linnet?”

  My face is bright scarlet, I know it, can feel the heat in my cheeks. Nevertheless, I nod. “Yes, my lord, if you would find that pleasing.”

  “I would, Linnet. I would find that very pleasing indeed.” He extends his hand to me. I stand, walk across the room to him, and take it.

  Piers has been silent throughout the exchange. He follows us from the room.

  In the bedchamber, a tub is already half full of steaming water. Three servants, strapping men all of them, parade in and out carrying more pails of hot water. The bath is bigger than the one I used yesterday and I note the water is considerably warmer. The privileges of rank are no different here than they were at Wellesworth.

  “Brother, do you go first?” Ralf offers the bath to Piers, who declines.

  “Nay, I think not. It was not I who disturbed that boar then proceeded to stamp through the muck he left in his wake. You stink, my brother, and I am amazed our little Linnet here can bear to be within six feet of you.”

  “The perils of the hunt, that is all.” Ralf removes his jerkin and shirt, tossing them in the direction of a hovering manservant. I flinch at the sight of the broad bandage traversing his upper chest and shoulder. He loosens the knot holding it in place and unwinds it to reveal the wound left by my dagger. The injury is well on the route to being healed but still I gasp. The gash runs from under his arm and around toward his left nipple. It has been stitched neatly enough but will leave a prominent scar. Ralf glances at me, his eyes narrowing.

  “‘Tis nothing, Linnet. Ignore it, for I intend to.”

  His boots and breeches soon follow, then his braes. Gloriously naked and totally unconcerned, he ambles over to the tub and eases his body into it. The water rises perilously close to the brim but my attention is now riveted on his men’s parts.

  I did, occasionally, catch a glimpse of Sir Henry in a state of undress but never close up. This is my first proper view of the male anatomy and I find it to be quite wondrous. My fascination must be writ plain across my face because Piers laughs out loud from his vantage point, lounging on the bed.

  “I do believe our little maid approves. ‘Tis just as well she is made of stern stuff, else that cockstand you are sporting, brother, would send her running for her life.”

  “A bride should admire her husband. I believe Linnet has the makings of a fine wife.”

  I can only stare from one to the other. I find their casual acceptance of my presence here baffling, equally so the fact that Piers makes no move to allow his brother privacy. Not does Ralf appear to expect it. I must assume they do most things together, including their ablutions. Quite where I fit remains to be seen.

  “If you’ve done ogling my cock, could you find a flannel and the soap, please, Linnet? In that chest over there.” Ralf’s command brings me back to the matter at hand.

  “Of course, my lord.” I am accustomed to fetching and carrying so scurry off at once to do as I am bid. I return with the required items and kneel behind the tub. “Shall I wash your back, my lord?”

  “Aye, you can start there.” Ralf leans forward to grant me access. I moisten the flannel and set to.

  I work in silence for a few minutes, massaging soap into his shoulders and back. He has a fine body, this man I pretend married. As my hands sink below the water, I have an opportunity to admire the taut, hard buttocks, the firm muscles which ripple beneath his skin. He is tanned, as though he spends much time in the sun. Or maybe this is his natural colouring.

  I steal a glance at Piers. He is blessed with the same sun-kissed complexion, so I surmise it is a feature common to both.

  Piers watches my progress with undisguised interest as I move around to the front, still on my knees beside the tub. Ralf’s head is tilted back, resting on the rim behind him. His eyes are closed. I commence lathering his chest, taking care not to press on the wound.

  “I will not break, Linnet, nor will you hurt me,” he mutters.

  “No, my lord.” I continue my efforts with renewed confidence and not inconsiderable vigour.

  As I reach his waist I hesitate. Should I halt here? Or start my task again, this time at his toes and work up?

  “Only if you wish to, little one. It is your choice.”

  Ralf answers my unspoken question, giving me permission to explore if I like, or not, as I prefer. I retrieve the flannel which has fallen into the water and carry on my ministrations.

  Beneath the rippling water Ralf’s cock is solid, erect. I may be a virgin but serving wenches talk below stairs. I know this state to denote male arousal, which pleases me. I glance up to see he has closed his eyes again and appears relaxed at my touch. I nibble my lower lip for several moments, contemplating what I might do next. I allow the flannel to float to the bottom of the tub as I wrap my hand around his thick, hard manhood.

  Sir Ralf lets out a low hiss but does not open his eyes. A slight smile plays across his mouth but that is the extent of his reaction. I resolve to do better.

  I tighten my grip and slide my hand up, toward the wide, flaring head. Ralf lifts his hips a little, enough to raise his cock above the surface of the water. I see droplets on the smooth head but I am uncertain if they are from his bath, or if they come from within, from the slit which I now perceive at the tip.

  “Rub your thumb across the top, little maid.” The soft tone at my ear startles me. I had no
t heard Piers move from the bed and my attention has been fixed on Ralf so I was not watching the other man in the chamber. He is behind me now, offering encouragement.

  If the situation is bizarre, I choose to ignore that fact. In any case, it does not seem so. It feels quite natural to be here, with both brothers, pleasuring one whilst the other looks on.

  “Should I use both my hands?” I whisper the question, hoping not to sound too naive, too innocent.

  “That would be good. Grip hard at the bottom of his shaft and use your other hand to caress the head. Yes, like that.”

  I follow Piers’ guidance, swirling my thumb around in the fluid gathering at the tip of Ralf’s erection. He opens his eyes to regard first me, then his brother.

  “My thanks. Your assistance is appreciated.”

  Piers gives a low chuckle. “You are most welcome. I trust you would do the same for me?”

  They exchange another look. Something has passed between them, though I cannot decipher it.

  He murmurs his response. “I would, naturally, should Linnet desire that.”

  I twist my head to look over my shoulder at Piers, then back to Ralf. “I do not understand…”

  “Do not worry, little maid. ‘Twill be all right.” Piers cups my cheek in his hand and brushes his lips across mine. “Now, you have work to do here, do you not?”

  Perplexed, I return to my task. Under Piers’ expert guidance, I draw my fist up and down the wide shaft, intrigued by the satin delicacy of the skin and the unyielding solidity beneath. If anything, Ralf’s cock swells and hardens in my hands, twitching as I increase the vigour of my movements.

  “Leave the head for a moment, reach lower to cup his balls.”

  “Like this?” I do as instructed and Ralf lets out a groan.

  “Aye,” chuckles Piers. “I reckon exactly like that. Squeeze them in your hand, feel his balls moving.”

  I do so and Ralf opens his eyes. “Wench, you take instruction as well as you take a switching. A rare treasure.”