The Marechal Chronicles: Volumes I, II, and III (An Erotic Fantasy Tale)

by Aimelie Aames

  "That is very understanding of you," said the nobleman as a young man bustled into the library carrying a platter of silver cups and a pitcher.

  Lord Perene walked briskly over to him, not saying a word as the servant placed the wine service on a small table in the corner.

  Before the young man could take up the carafe, Lord Perene struck him with his closed fist, a short, chopping blow that put the young man instantly to his knees. His look was one of surprise before his eyes rolled up and he crumpled the rest of the way to the floor.

  The Marechal's jaw muscles bunched tightly and the scar that snaked like a lightning strike along his cheek and down his neck whitened. The odor of urine filled the air.

  "Would you look at that," said the gray haired nobleman, an almost frantic smile on his face. "The idiot pissed himself."

  Melisse tried to make herself small in a corner of the steamy kitchen. The noise of pots and pans clanging and banging, the cooks shouting to one another as the kitchen boys hauled in crates of vegetables, all of it, the confusion and the tumult was a comfort to her. Familiar, happy sounds. Sounds she had known all her life.

  "Melisse! What are ya doin' there, girl? M'lady will be ripe to pitch a fit if yer not there to dress 'er."

  Mathilde's cheeks were bright red and her nose held a drop of sweat just at the end. No matter how she turned her head about, the drop just dangled there, defiant. Her old smock was dusted in flour and Melisse could see some of it in her hair, mingling with the gray and giving her ten years more than poor Mathilde deserved.

  "She sent me away, Mathilde. She said I was boring her, " Melisse replied. Out of habit, she raised her voice to be heard over the sounds of the kitchen. It was another reason that she loved being there so. She could come close to shouting when the kitchen was full of noisy cooking men and women. Nowhere else did she feel at liberty enough to dare speaking just over a whisper. Her mother had taught her well.

  "Sent away or no, she'll be screamin' bloody murder soon enough. And us, shorthanded already."

  A few minutes earlier, the gardener and the stableman had come in to the kitchen, dragging young Oscar between them. He was slumped like all the air had gone out of him and Melisse had watched, frightened, as they slapped him awake.

  He came around eventually, his head still lolling loosely, before he caught Melisse looking at him and gave her a lopsided grin. She had seen the blood at the corner of his mouth and the tooth Lord Perene had broken. Someone laughed and said he had been lucky not to have choked on it.

  Mathilde sized up what needed done as the old veteran of the household that she was. "Ruthie! Get over here and never mind those lettuces."

  Ruthie, knowing Mathilde was not one for indecision, dropped the wilted leaves she had been stripping away and took up the great wooden spoon at Mathilde's place.

  "Mind the stew, Ruthie. It's got nothing but simmering to do now, but it'll need stirring or it'll stick and burn, turning the whole unfit for m'Lord and his guest."

  She undid her apron, dusting herself off as well as she could, "Melisse, I'll go upstairs and get the lady dressed. She'll keep her hands to herself if it's me before her, I'll wager."

  Melisse supposed she was right. Mathilde's youth was long past and there was little risk that her doughty figure would interest Helene.

  But at Mathilde's next words, her heart sank.

  "We're stretched too thin so yer'll be goin' to wait on m'Lord and the Marechal. Keep yer eyes open and yer mouth shut. Do as yer told and do it quick and all should go well enough. Lord Perene always appreciated yer mother and I don't see as how he could hit the daughter. Leastways, not in front of a guest, I mean."

  The Marechal swirled the wine in his cup, searching for a little more body in its depths. Sadly, he doubted he would find anything more, no matter how much air it was shown. The Lord Perene was known to be a rich man, but his wine was as insipid as his demeanor.

  They had removed themselves to the library as servants rushed in to clean the mess in the reception hall. The Marechal himself had proposed it, intrigued after having heard of Lord Perene's library and its selection of rare and specialized oeuvres.

  A fire had been quickly laid in the library's hearth and the servants busied themselves with the less than customary idea of serving dinner in the manor's library.

  The reason for the Marechal's coming was seated before him, at a great table of oak in the center of the room. Books bound in various leathers and reams of parchment had been swept away while Lord Perene's son looked about him vacantly, the corners of his mouth stained red. The color was high in his cheeks and his eyes turned lazily in their orbits.

  "As I was saying, Marechal. It is with no small thanks that we welcome you here to our house," said Lord Perene. His back was to the Marechal as he appeared to examine the shelves of books before him.

  "Now that my son is of age, entering his name into the official registers as my heir is of great importance to me. All that I have shall pass to him, with no means of disputing his claim once we have your seal upon the appropriate documents and they are filed at the prefecture in Barristide."

  The Marechal replied, "Rest assured, Lord Perene, the proprietorship of the Perene family line shall be in good hands. But, setting aside these official matters, I confess that my interest in coming here is in no small part one of curiosity concerning the reputation of your library and the works collected here.

  "I have heard rumors that you've had the good fortune of finding something relating to Urrune and its most famous denizen...."

  The nobleman scowled and said, "Which is why we have been honored by your presence rather than one of your undersecretaries. I see. And to think that it is not quite the importance of our family that has brought you here after all, but merely a matter of...books."

  The Marechal stood up then, placing his wine upon the table, and then bent low at the waist in a sweeping bow. His height was great for a man of the region making his effort all the more dramatic

  "It was not my intention to offend you, Lord Perene. Neither you, nor your house. As it happens, there have been a series of grisly murders to the south of here and the local magistrates have been perfectly ineffectual in rooting out the villain behind them. They had sent word for my aid some weeks ago, so it seemed reason enough to pass by here in order to give you my personal attention before continuing southward.

  "And, yes, I have a weakness for books. Particularly, historical works of the region."

  As if he had heard only one word of the Marechal's explanation, the bleary eyed lord's son said, "Murders? Just how grisly are they?"

  The Marechal's scar jumped under the bunching muscles of his jaw.

  "Apparently, the victims have been found fully clothed, yet each had been expertly skinned."

  Lord Perene turned around then, his gaze falling upon his son, and said, "Olivier, I'll thank you not to speak until spoken to. You've been drinking. Anything worthwhile you might have had to say has been washed down your gullet."

  A door to the library quietly opened and closed in a remote corner and the Marechal saw a young, mousy woman in servant's attire standing there. Her hair was tied back in a severe, no nonsense bun, and she kept her eyes cast downwards. He noted that if there was one remarkable thing about her, it was her perfect ordinariness, a resolute manner of appearing unnoticed and invisible.

  But the lord's son noticed, saying, "Melisse. How wonderful that you're here. Please come sit on my lap and distract me from all this boring talk of books and papers."

  The Marechal saw her face redden and, it seemed to him, that if she could have made herself even smaller, she would have. She did not reply to the lord's son, only curtseying slightly before walking dutifully over to take up the wine pitcher. She served the Marechal first and he smelled apples and lilac at her passage.

  As she filled Lord Perene's cup, he said, "There's a good girl. I was always pleased with your mother's service, Melisse. It's a shame that a fever should h
ave taken her."

  Melisse only mumbled, "Yes, m'Lord", before moving on to Olivier.

  His own cup was still on the table and he made no move to offer it to Melisse. She leaned past him for it and he encircled her narrow waist in his arms.

  Her face flaming red, she said, "M'Lord, please!"

  But, the drunken young man only laughed, saying, "Oh, Melisse, I've seen how you look at me from the corner of your eyes, when you think no one notices. I've seen that and more. You might just have well written it in a formal invitation, dear girl."

  The Marechal set his cup once more upon the table, and none too lightly, before bringing his own gaze to bear on that of the young man. He said nothing, but he was a man of considerable physical stature and the threat written in his eyes was clear.

  Olivier swallowed, then let go his grasp upon Melisse. Shaking, she filled his cup and set it down quickly, before stepping back to her place by the small door through which she had come.

  The thought that she would like to turn and flee through that small door in the corner was clear to the Marechal. That she held to her duty and stayed instead had more courage to it than anything he had yet seen in the house of Perene.

  Lord Perene looked from the Marechal to his son and back again, a look of disgust spreading across his visage. He turned then, back to the shelves of books and reached up to take one down, its binding cracked under the weight of centuries.

  "So, books of history. Even more specifically, a history of Urrune and who else, if not the famed alchemist of Urrune...."

  The Marechal's eyes opened wider and he strode over to the nobleman's side.

  "So, it is true. You have Bellamere's recounting of the legend of the alchemist," breathed the Marechal. His focus had become even more intense as he took in the brittle pages being turned in the hands of Lord Perene.

  Despite his displeasure of a moment earlier, Lord Perene smiled in his pride.

  "What's more is that the text even includes a name for one of the principles in the legend. It cites the apprentice as being a certain Etienne St. Lucq, and that he and the alchemist were inseparable from all accounts. I believe it is the only mention of anyone's name in all known accounts, in fact.

  "However, Bellamere was certainly quite mad, I'm afraid. But, yes, the tome is his. It is surprisingly lucid when one considers what is described here. The Alchemist's alliance with witches and the fruitless search for life unending. All of it coming to the devastating end of the Alchemist and this St. Lucq personage in a violent explosion that is even today thought to be the reason that his tower lies there, in ruin."

  Narrowing his eyes, Lord Perene asked, "Have you seen it? Urrune is not that far from Barristide, as I recall."

  "Yes," replied the Marechal, "I've had occasion to pass through the region. The tower is there in a tumbled heap and not a blade of green grass grows within half a league of it.

  "The local folk believe it a cursed place, all the life sucked dry and apt to stay that way for centuries more, they say."

  Lord Perene closed the book, a quizzical look on his face.

  "Even after all this time, nothing grows there?" he asked. "Why it seems quite impossible...these events date to three centuries in the past."

  The Marechal nodded, "Nevertheless. Be it three hundred years, or six weeks ago, nothing lives in the environs. Apparently, the calamity that destroyed the alchemist and his tower continues on in some fashion."

  Lord Perene motioned for more wine while he considered the Marechal's words.

  "Most remarkable," he murmured as Melisse hurried over to fill his cup.

  The Marechal saw that despite her timid mien, she was confident and self-assured in her service. She went to the nobleman with quick, light steps and poured his wine without spilling a drop.

  As she went to resume her place in the corner of the library, Olivier seized her by her ample hips. Unbalanced, she lost her grip on the silver wine pitcher and upended most of its contents down the young man's front.

  He snarled and caught one of her breasts in his hand as if it were a fruit and wrenched it viciously. Melisse screamed and in a flash, she struck his face open handed with a cracking sound that echoed in the room.

  The Marechal held his own cup, his knuckles whitening, as Lord Perene shouted with a voice that had become almost girlish in tone.

  "Melisse! Get out, get out now...get out of this house. And you, Olivier, my heir, » the word twisted in his mouth, "you are a drunken fool to behave like this before an honored guest. You seek courage in a wine cup, except that this time you have fallen down among the dregs...my son. »

  The small servants' door in the corner slammed shut as a white faced Melisse fled.

  An instant later, the library's principle door opened and in walked a young woman as graceful and elegant as the young man was slovenly and dull witted.

  "Ah," breathed Lord Perene, "A breath of fresh air to sweeten a moment turned sour. Marechal, my daughter, Helene."

  She was reed thin with what was surely luxurious, blond hair that had been carefully done up in an elaborate coiffure. Pale skin as a perfect counterpoint to her full, red lips, only to finish with green eyes worthy of the most aloof feline.

  Seeing her wine soaked brother sprawled loosely in his chair and her father, his severe expression only now softening as she took in the room, she curtseyed deeply before the Marechal.

  She smiled, revealing small perfect teeth that reminded the Marechal of child's mouth, except that the smile of this young woman never reached her eyes.

  "Marechal, I am pleased to make your acquaintance. It would seem that my brother is enough at ease in your presence to jest...in his way. So it would seem that I shall find my own ease as quickly, although my humor is, perhaps, more subtle than his."

  The Marechal bowed low, as before, and Helene took in his large, square shoulders that hinted at well muscled arms hidden within his loose chemise.

  "M'lady Perene," he said as he straightened.

  " 'Demoiselle', Marechal. At least, that is, until my father finds a suitor for me worthy of association with House Perene." Her brother snorted at this, as though he found her words preposterous.

  Helene ignored him, continuing smoothly, "But, please, Marechal, do me the honor of my first name," she replied, her smile growing wider.

  "As you wish...Helene."

  She paused, then, waiting for the Marechal to answer in kind. At his silence, she turned lightly away, toward her father.

  "Oh, father, please smile for me. Is it not for a marvelous occasion, the naming of my brother as heir, that we are here? Surely this is cause enough for good humor and light hearted talk."

  Lord Perene smiled then. It faded quickly, though, as he said, "Yes, the naming of an heir...a cruel, foolish boy. Would that you had born differently, Helene. That would be reason for celebration."

  The Marechal saw her smile widen ever more and despite her beauty, could not help but be reminded of a serpent. A grinning animal remorselessly opening wide its maw, preparing to swallow down its prey.

  The clamor of the kitchen was even worse than before and Melisse quickly slipped through the bustling cooks to find her small corner not far from the wood fired stoves.

  Mathilde was back at her stew pot and saw the young woman pass by as quietly as a ghost. When she turned to look at her more closely, she saw that there was more to her that was ghostlike, as white as her face had become.

  "Melisse! There you are, again, come back and back like a stubborn cough. What's got the color wiped clean out of you, girl?"

  Melisse swallowed and said, "Lord Perene sent me away, Mathilde."

  "Aye, that's plain to see. But why are you so pale?" the older woman replied.

  "I slapped m'Lord Olivier and then his father told me to get out of his sight and out of his home. Oh, what am I going to do, Mathilde?"

  The dam broke and Melisse's tears flowed freely. Mathilde shrieked, "Ruthie!" dropping her wooden spoon and came over
to dab at Melisse's tears with the hem of her apron.

  "There, there...t'will be alright, Melisse. His lord didn't mean it, not really. He knows his boy is too fond of the red and if you hit him, it was surely deserved.

  "The trick will be just to keep you out of sight for a a day or two and afore long, Lord Perene will come 'round, I know it."

  The concern in Mathilde's eyes was as genuine as Melisse's fear, and she held onto the cook's words as tightly as she could.

  "Tell me, Mathilde...where shall I go?"

  "To start, Melisse, take a turn at dumping the slops bucket. The slops boy ran off a week ago and we've all had a hand at carrying the thing 'round back. You take a turn and then you take your time and instead of coming back here when yer done, go find a warm corner in the stables. I'll send word that yer coming and they'll take care that yer well and safe, dear."

  And then, being the cook that she was and wanting to help in the way that she understood, Mathilde brought her two golden brown bread rolls, still steaming from the oven, their interiors layered in apple purée and autumn spices.

  Melisse ate them, nearly burning her tongue before Mathilde gave her a cool glass of milk, as if she were a child and not a woman of twenty one years. But Mathilde knew her business and Melisse could not help but smile back at the worried cook as the rolls and milk had their desired effect, comforting her in a way that no words ever could.

  Melisse slipped through the kitchen's back door, all the warmth, noise and delicious smells at her back. The manor's grounds were quiet before her, the close clipped lawn strewn in dew and the glow of the manor's interior did not travel far into the surrounding darkness.

  She held the heavy bucket, doing her best to keep the foul thing, filled with rotten vegetables and other noxious things, away from her skirt as she made her way to the back of the manor and the pig enclosure there.

  The fallen night was calm with only a small breeze to rattle the few dried leaves stubbornly holding to their branches. She tried to keep her eyes on the pathway around the manor when, from the corner of her eye, she saw it.