The water seethed for a moment, then calmed. She poked at the embers glowing beneath what some might have called a cauldron and murmured a few words she had learned at the knee of her grandmother.
The front door creaked open and closed and the floorboards followed suit as Nestor ambled into the room, wiping at his forehead with a handkerchief.
"How I hate burying anything, dear wife," he said. "It just seems so circular a thing to do with far too much perspiration involved."
"Shhhh!" hissed the old woman.
Seeing the iron pot, one that was normally stored away deep on a back cupboard, Nestor closed his mouth around his next words.
When his wife was about her divination, he knew that it was never for want of a good reason. Portents were what called to her and when she went to the trouble of it, there were foul things afoot.
She leaned over the water, peering deeply into its surface as bits of ground leaves churned about. Nestor heard her whisper in a language that he had heard many times, but in which he understood nothing.
A sound began. The old man would have liked to say that it came from the steaming water, but for the fact that it felt as though it came from inside his own head, deep between his ears.
It grew swiftly. A keening, musical sound like that of flutes played by sainted men walking with bloody feet over hallowed ground, but in that melody there were notes that cut like knives. An infinite sadness that ebbed and flowed, speaking of death and of despair.
Capucine pulled herself back from the water, her eyes flying wide as she threw a heavy piece of cured leather over the cauldron.
The sound was muffled and as she rasped out other words, ones that made Nestor's skin jitter and his jaw clench tight, the sad melody dwindled to blessed silence.
"Capucine," he whispered, almost too afraid to cast his trembling voice into the now quiet room. "What was it, my love? What did you see?"
She turned to him and he saw that she wrung her aged hands, one within the other, over and over. Her voice shook as she said, "Husband, pray that it pass by us in its haste. Pray that it not remark two old hearts beating behind these thin walls.
"For should it not, what comes will be the end of us. Its white purity holds blades that will scythe us down like wheat, our very souls but chaff before its fury."
Nestor swallowed, unsure if his wife was still in the throes of her divination. He hoped instead, and in weak selfishness, that she was and that her words were meant for some other poor folk about to meet their doom.
"Now be still, my husband. It is not far now and moves swiftly."
He did not dare to utter another word, instead walking softly to his woman and put his arms around her.
Nestor did not know why they should deserve such a fate, for the simple act of assuaging a traveler's thirst. But, he had lived long enough to know that life promised nothing of justice and that if he should die this day, at least it would be with his wife in his arms. Which was something, after all....
~~~
The Marechal signaled to a serving girl for another cup of wine. His table was strewn with dented pewter cups that tipped and rolled as he shifted upon an uncomfortable chair.
He had drunk deeply and did not yet consider the deed finished as he tried to wash away the dust of so many roads that clung to him like guilt. His vision remained clear, though, and he scanned the dark features arrayed before him.
There were merchant men, some more successful than others with straw wrapped carafes and grey metal cups before them. Others contented themselves with the pale yellow ale brewed on the premises, drinking it down in cracked wooden bowls.
Prostitutes meandered from one table to the next, smiling and nodding to the men working so hard to get drunk. When one chanced to catch a man's eye, she would plunk herself down beside him or, even, perch upon the hapless fool's knee as she did what she could to ply him with her charms.
The Marechal had waved away more than one as they worked the room. He was the newcomer and no doubt the women judged him by the quality of his clothing that there was money to be made if the man could be lured by their wiles.
For now they contented themselves with others, but their heavy eyes slipped back to the large man with the scar upon his face, patient and waiting until the wine did its work to lower his guard and loosen his pursestrings.
The Marechal was not duped, though, and resolved to drink his fill. He could not remember when last he had slipped from sobriety to inebriation, or even if he still could.
The servant girl threaded her way through the crowd, expertly dodging grimy hands reaching for a feel as she passed by, her hips swayed and the tray balanced over her head on one hand moved in gentle counterpoint.
She arrived with her mouth moving slightly and the Marechal guessed that she was tallying his cups.
"M'sieur, ye started fair enough with that shiny coin of yers, but it'll take another if ye mean to git yer head turned 'round," she said. She smiled and the Marechal noted that she still had all her teeth, that her life as a barmaid had not yet taken its toll.
"And will this do, then, for you to keep the wine flowing?" the scarred man said while holding up another shining coin, only this one glinted yellow and not the dull silver of the last.
The girl's eyes went wide and the Marechal continued, "Its more than fair, to be sure, and with it I expect a room for the night, as well. With a clean bed and as far removed from the commercial activities of this establishment as possible."
Seeing her brows wrinkle as she tried to work out what he had just said, he said, "I mean that I want a quiet room and one that doesn't share a whore's wall."
The girl nodded and took the coin with enthusiasm from the Marechal's outstretched hand.
She set down yet another pewter cup filled near to the brim with a red wine so dark the Marechal might have thought it black and not burgundy. The flavor was rich and acidic, of Maurish origin he guessed, aged little and meant for drinking fresh.
He found it well enough and as he took the cup into his hands, the servant girl gave him an appraising look and said, "And, if M'sieur would like summ'un to warm his bed, there be t'other girls than tired out whores who'd be willin'."
He glanced up at her as she lingered next to him. She was well built and sturdy, appearing to be cleaner than most of the people in the auberge.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"Harnei, M'sieur...and if ye decides it'd be to yer likin', ye have but to ask anyone and I'll come to pass some time."
She turned briskly away, her skirts swirling as she went, and the Marechal watched, amused, as her hips swayed once more, only now her movements were exaggerated, daring the scarred man to look away.
A quick glance back over her shoulder, to reassure herself that he still watched, and then she flounced off, called to her service once more.
Perhaps a bed this night warmed by a young woman named Harnei, the Marechal mused.
If there were an advantage to sleeping under the stars, he had to admit that he noticed it less that he slept alone when rocks and stubborn tree roots did their best to rob him of a good night's sleep.
Being alone. It was what he had known for so many years now, it had become a way of life. He knew that it weighed upon him, as heavy as any of life's burdens, lost in his own solitude.
There were passing moments, burning hot and bright for the space of an hour or two, only for him to see the back of the woman as she went away as they always do. Their faces blurred in his memories, so many women known for but a few moments becoming one woman, one that remained forever a stranger and ever hastening to leave him.
And then he saw her. It was when they all did.
The door opened letting in a faint glow of evening light, then it shut again, quietly, as a woman stepped into the crowded room.
She was not tall, nor otherwise remarkable, but her presence engendered a wave of turning heads that washed across the room. Her chin was held high and her dark eyes smoldered
with confidence as she walked through men who fell silent, forgetting the ale lifted to their lips, their eyes riveted upon the slight form as she moved with hips that rolled deliciously as she walked.
Long black hair fell past her shoulders and her skin was the pale color of cream. The Marechal and his eyes trained for details took her in as she sat down at a table opposite his own on the other side of the crowded room.
He watched as the serving girl, Harnei, went to the woman, bending low to say something. The woman shook her head slowly and the serving girl stood up straight, shrugging her shoulders before hastening to another table where empty cups were clattering to the floor.
The Marechal tried to look away, thinking that the woman was as ordinary as any other, but his gaze was drawn back to her over and over. There was something there, something about her and the supreme confidence in her gait that spoke to him.
As he watched from his dark corner, he noted her oval visage, delicate in some ways, robust in others. She was an amalgam of light and dark, colors running to shades of grey and it only served to make her more beautiful.
And, that, the Marechal had to admit, was what she was. Of an extraordinary beauty that was all the more because it lay barely hidden under the surface, a sense of strength clothed in just enough sadness that rendered her exquisite.
He decided it was also because she did not know. She was unaware of the beauty that hid within her, which only led the Marechal to the mystery that was the confidence exuding from her in every gesture.
She was sure of herself in a way that he had only seen in foolish men, too confident of their brutish strength or too habituated to leadership inherited but not truly merited.
But hers was a self assurance that did not appear unfounded, although why that might be, the Marechal could not say. Only that it was the calm, steady attitude of someone who held the mastery of her destiny firmly in her hands.
People around the Marechal began to stand and mill about. The auberge had become warmer, the air thickening. The scarred man glanced to the brazier not far from him but the bright red coals there had slumped down to grey white lumps that should not have provided any heat.
Still, people fanned themselves as perspiration ran down their necks. The bosoms of women sparkled like dew as rivulets coalesced to pool between their breasts. Men licked their lips, mopping at their foreheads with handkerchiefs as they watched the whores swaying among them.
Soon there were those who shed their shirts as their sweat ran. Even the Marechal was moved to unbutton his doublet as he watched men and women move to brush against one another.
At first, it seemed to be by error or simple awkwardness, but bodies began to press tightly against one another and the Marechal heard sighs and groans punctuate the low murmur of the room.
He saw women straddling men's thighs, shifting their hips back and forth. He saw men's eyes rolling like horses gone wild, their trousers swelling at the crotch.
Then, her eyes locked onto his own and in them he saw a flash. It could not have been recognition, because he did not know her, but the flash was there all the same and now she was the one who did not look away as she stared back at him.
With a nod, she motioned to the stairwell, there where a steady stream of whores and clients went to mount the steps leading to bedchambers never intended for sleeping.
He stood up to find the serving girl, Harnei, standing in his way. He stepped to the side and she moved with him, perspiration beading upon her face. Her lips were swollen and red, her blouson studded by two nipples surrounded by damp aureoles that rendered the fabric all but transparent.
The Marechal pushed her aside, as gently as he could, and heard the woman moan as she tried to cling to him. But, the scarred man only had eyes for the dark haired figure disappearing up the staircase and did not notice he was being followed.
He took the stairs two at a time, despite the rising temperature of the auberge, and at the top of the staircase he saw a shadow slipping behind a door that did not quite close shut.
The Marechal followed, making a deliberate effort to calm himself, to master the fire building within him. He slowed his steps as walked down the corridor and took deep breaths of the heavy air.
The door opened at his touch and he stepped into the dark interior. There was no light, not even a candle but he felt her there, a sexual presence that provoked him, that excited him.
There were no words and he needed no light to guide him to her as his hands found the heat of her being. He touched her upon her shoulders and then traced the outline of her body, first reaching up to a graceful neck that led to the soft skin of her face, then his hands swept down to caress her lightly ribbed sides and on to full, voluptuous hips that were meant for a man's hands to hold.
He brought his head to her neck, moving his lips ever so lightly along the path traced by his fingers just a moment before. Her skin was like silk, her scent clean and fresh, hinting of apples and lilac.
She moved under his touch and warm, wet lips found his as they embraced in the darkness. The Marechal had known many women, if most had been but fleeting experiences, but the touch of this woman twisted his guts and made his hands tremble like leaves upon a tree.
He might have believed himself a young man once more, about to make love for the first time, his body abuzz and vibrating at the least sensation. Her tongue slipped between his lips to tease and play against his own. He responded in kind, momentarily forgetting his hands, all his attention focused upon the sweet taste of her upon his lips.
Then it was she who took his strong hands in her own to guide him to her full breasts. He hefted them and ran his thumbs across large nipples that tightened into erection at his touch. With reluctance, he dropped his hands down, searching for where her chemise began so that he might free her of her clothing.
She stepped back from him and he heard faint rustling, a woman's quiet laughter, then there was soft, bare skin in his hands and he hesitated no longer.
In a single, smooth motion, the Marechal dipped down to pick her up in his arms and strode upon strong legs to the bed among the shadows.
She sighed as he lay her upon the coverlet and he wasted no time in stripping his own clothing away.
The Marechal eased himself down to her and long thighs opened, welcoming him in the way given to women and his answer was gentle refusal.
Instead, his lips found her nipples and he suckled at them as a child, feeling the body under him arching and small hands flying to his neck, to cradle his head with a sigh. He slipped his head in between her breasts, searching for her scent of apples and lilac, finding only the delicate odors of a young woman and the salt of her perspiration.
She rocked her hips upward, urging him to mount her with his body, but the scarred man would not be hurried, preferring to draw the moment out before exquisite release.
He lifted himself off her body and used his tongue and his lips to map the contours of her belly. The terrain was firm yet yielding and as he flourished in concentric circles about her navel, the scent of musky arousal made his nostrils flare.
She shifted beneath him with near silent whimpers and finally, the Marechal brought himself to bear.
His hips dropped into line with hers, then he pulled back and down to find her humid depths. The head of his cock slipped gently into her folds, the thick humidity enveloping him in heat.
The Marechal held himself from plunging forward, choosing instead to draw himself back only to slip upward to caress the velvet kernel that rose to greet him. She moaned aloud then, the sound almost familiar to him, then he pulled back and with frank determination dove into her depths.
She clasped him to her in an embrace of thighs and arms. He rode her in long, heavy strokes, using his massive arms and legs to their best advantage.
They moved with an easy familiarity that soon reached its frantic peak. Her fingers dug into his back, her knees drew up as she brought her heels down to his buttocks, clinging to him with what
must have been all her strength.
Her desperate efforts as her passion climbed high carried the Marechal forward, enjoying himself in a way that he had almost forgotten. He thrust into her not just for himself, but for her as well, and with a smile that was lost in the darkness, the scarred man remembered what it was to truly make love and not just the sweaty contortions leading to physical release, quickly forgotten and insignificant.
He felt himself on the brink, but withheld himself, never breaking his rhythm, willing himself onward so that she might find her pleasure with his cock deep inside her.
Her heavy breaths came faster then, mingling with whimpers that turned to full throated moans. Her hips bucked against his own, almost to the point of pain as bone butted against bone, but it only made the Marechal grin all the wider.
Then, with a jerk, she lifted up off the bed, her spine curving back, her legs stiffening in perfect stillness, all poised, all balanced for one perfect instant before the avalanche.
He felt her then, her cunt seizing in tight around him and then her legs flexed in heavy spasms that held him tight as he rode her.
His determination crumbled as her orgasm took her from him and the Marechal felt himself drive forward, harder and faster, until with his breath hissing between gritted teeth, his scrotum drew up tight and his cock grew rigid to the point of bursting. Her small hands were holding his sides and the Marechal came into her, galloping like a fleet stallion upon a desolate moor, he pounded into her, his cock spraying into her warmth with undulations that matched her own.
He sagged slightly as his cock continued to jerk with the tremors of his orgasm, and then he heard a familiar voice say, "Well, we done warmed yer bed a'right, I should say."
In that instant it came to the Marechal. The scent of apples and lilacs. He had marked it once before, in the library of House Perene, as the servant woman, Melisse, brought him his wine.
Her hair had been done up in a tight coiffure unintended to be comely, but practical as befitted the life of a servant. He did not recognize her with those long locks tumbling down her neck, but more than this, he did not recognize the woman he had seen in the manor, one who shrank from the gaze of others. One who visibly wished to make herself as invisible as possible, not wanting to be noticed.
The Marechal Chronicles: Volumes I, II, and III (An Erotic Fantasy Tale) Page 11
