Chateau of Desire (Chateau of Love Book 1)

by Monica Bentley

  The rest was typical of practice. After all, most of the Guard had been at it for years. They knew their weak points.

  As ordered, Harcourt took over organizing the watches. He often had in the past. However, oddly, he felt the need to go over the decisions that he made with Louis at the end of each day, just as he always did with the Master. Almost as if he needed the reassurance that he was making good decisions. Which was strange, since he was making the same scheduling decisions that he had in times past, so far as Louis could tell having heard his reports to the Master: This Guardsman worked better with that one. This one had trouble at home so he would be better used with a good backup, etc. m’Lord was in a choleric rage more often than usual these days, so such and such a Guardsman, being naturally cool-headed, was a better choice for manning the day chamber’s archway.

  In short, the meat and potatoes of mounting a full Guard in four glass shifts, all glasses of the day, all days of the moon. Harcourt even seemed to feel better being able to call Louis, “Sir.”

  For his part, after he got over the shock of it all, Louis settled down into the routine. Typically, during practice he had always stayed in the corner with the younger or newer Guardsmen. Now, he was the center of attention, striding back and forth, calling “Halt!” when needed to make a slight correction to a Guardsman’s bow pull, sighting or, in the afternoon to a thrust, a lunge, slice, or a parry. Because he didn’t make a big deal out of those corrections, the others didn’t as well. They seemed to accept them as a matter in kind and rubbed along as before.

  No, mounting the Guard and handling the training went smoothly, without interruption or any distractions or trouble.

  After hours, however, with the Master gone, having all this unfettered freedom suddenly on his hands, that’s where the trouble began. For some odd reason, he didn’t feel comfortable sitting at the tavern with the rest of the Guard now. Harcourt did. But Louis just didn’t feel right. So, he began fetching a jug of ale for himself from the kitchen when he got his dinner, always careful to give Phoebe a smile, then sitting on the bench outside their hut, much like he had seen the Master do ever since Louis could remember.

  On the third evening, Etienne had joined him. And that’s how it began.

  Taking a large swig, for courage Louis realized later, Etienne swore that now was the time to “do it!” Louis knew without speaking what his friend meant. Now was the time. The Master was gone. This was their chance. So, he merely looked over at his pudgy friend and let his eyes ask the question. “Who?”

  Etienne mouthed back, “Marguerite.”

  That made sense. The tanner’s girl had shown Etienne her large tits earlier. Or so his friend swore, even noting the nipples were pink. Which he did again now. Still, the tanner was a big man with very large arms. Louis wasn’t afraid of him, though. More it was the thought of crossing him. While the tanner’s job was looked down on, scraping fat off deer, cattle and, especially, rabbit hides day in and day out, his work was highly prized. m’Lord often gave rabbit mufflers as gifts to noblewomen for the winter months. Forest Brionde was prized for its rabbit fur. The coneys were known to grow a deeper, richer coat than found elsewhere in France.

  He would hate to get caught and find himself looking into the angry glare of m’Lord, the man who had just ordered the burning of an abbey with its monks inside for no more a reason than to spite the King.

  Louis explained his reservations.

  Etienne chuffed and took another large swig of ale. He looked outside the gate into the village where the tanner lived and wiped his mouth. He said, “Now is the time. Her father is in the forest with the hunters.”

  Louis blinked, astonished. “Why didn’t you--?”

  But his friend cut him off, excitedly. “Marguerite told me. And she winked, too! Just after practice.”

  Louis paused, then shook his head. “It’s too easy.”

  “Nay! Truly!” Etienne clucked. “m’Lord has given him the commission of a new winter’s cloak for m’Lady. The fur needed will take several coneys of the best quality. That’s why her father is in the forest, setting traps with the hunter where the best coneys are found. He’ll be gone all night!”

  Well, Louis, thought. That was different. He took another thoughtful swig and, realizing that Etienne was tipsy, he also realized that he was, too. Now, he knew why the Master preferred the lighter mead each evening, when the rest of the Guard drank ale.

  In any case, the moon was already rising. It was time to go. With a flourish, he finished his mug in a long belch to Etienne’s laughter and, feeling that the night was ripe, they set off.

  *****

  Knocking on the door of the tanner’s hut by the village river a few minutes later, however, Louis felt nervous. What if this were a trap? Glancing at Etienne, he saw the same look of worry pinching his friend’s pouchy cheeks.

  “Who is there?” Marguerite’s voice challenged from within.

  “It’s me!” Etienne whispered back. Louis nudged him. “And Louis!”

  “Who?” her voice answered with a saucy grin they could see through the door.

  “Come on, Marguerite, let us in,” Etienne pleaded.

  “Why?”

  They stared at one another, speechless. What do you say? You couldn’t be honest, could you? They shrugged at one another.

  “Did you bring me flowers?” she teased.

  Louis quickly scanned around the street and saw some in a window box a few doors away. He sprang for them as Etienne responded with a huge grin, “Of course!”

  “I don’t know,” she teased again. “You might hurt me.”

  “Of course we won’t,” Etienne protested in a whisper that Louis could hear while he was plucking the flowers and trotting back. “Please,” his friend pleaded, “We...just want to talk.”

  “To talk?” her voice was taking on a sing-song quality now.

  Etienne was shaking his head. “Yeah. We just...came by to say hello.”

  There was a long pause. Then they heard the bolt being pulled back.

  She opened the door. “Okay,” she said, her eyes larger than usual, her breath seeming a little short. “As long as it’s just to talk.”

  And she welcomed them in. Her tits, large enough for any day’s glance seemed to bounce with anticipation from within her smock.

  Louis presented her with the flowers, which made her glance quickly toward the house from which he had just gotten them. He kept a look of perfect innocence on his face, however. So, with a knowing smile, she gave him a peck on the cheek and turned to get a vase.

  Which made Etienne protest, so she pecked him on the cheek, too.

  She asked them to sit while she set up the flowers. A few moments later, she had served them with mead and set the flowers in a rough vase on the table. She made light conversation with them. Etienne kept squirming until Louis realized he was probably uncomfortably hard. For his part, he wasn’t. After the excitement of the walk over, the worry while knocking, the fear of getting caught as a thief, this sitting and talking was surprisingly routine. It was about as sexy as grinding a rapier’s edge.

  Marguerite was...cute he decided. A bit too heavy for his taste, he realized just now. In contrast, Coletta was...lovely. And the memory of that night made him burn with embarrassment a bit. He replayed the encounter, the touch of her fingers on his cheek. The smell of her perfume, the sight of her tits heaving within her velvet dress. Why hadn’t he...?

  An excited coo from Marguerite brought him back.

  He realized Etienne was keeping up their end of the conversation, talking about the weather and her work and rapier practice and the important work he was doing, edging the rapiers now the Master was away on a special mission for m’Lord. Louis almost started chuckling at how thick his friend was laying it on. But then he realized he could never mock Etienne. Not for anything. Still, after darting the occasional glance at him from time to time, Marguerite settled all her attention on his friend, leaving Louis free to thin
k about just what kind of a mess they had gotten themselves into. He wondered if they were in the wrong house and, suddenly, felt that this was all a mistake of some sort. Yet, he didn’t know how to get out of it.

  He suddenly felt very much alone, very much out of place, very much a piece of furniture in this encounter that was playing out before his eyes. His friend really had a thing for Marguerite. What she felt about Etienne, however, was hard to tell. There was something about her smile, coy one minute, sweetly warm and inviting the next, then coy again, that he didn’t quite trust. Almost as if she were about to dump a pail of night slops on them in the street below without calling out in advance.

  Eventually, he realized that Etienne was slurring and Marguerite was pouring his friend more mead – the third? fourth? He made a slight move and suggested that it was getting late.

  Etienne looked at him like he was cuckoo, saying, “No, ish’not.”

  Marguerite stood herself, saying, “Goodness, and I have those hides still to scrape this evening before father returns in the morning.”

  Etienne set his mug down and, grandly, stood and offered their help with the hides. Louis groaned inwardly. This was not the plan. Still, he didn’t think he could leave his friend.

  So, the next several hours, as Marguerite helped Etienne drink mug after mug of mead, through all the night accompanied by her loving attention and careful guidance “Oh, you missed a spot there! Watch out for the edge here! That’s right!” they scraped hide after hide after hide – deer, cattle, and coney – until they were coated with fat themselves.

  At some point, somewhere when he could just see a faint smudge of glow presaging the coming of the dawn in a couple hours, he looked up into Marguerite’s tits, the sound of Etienne’s snores in his ears. She was carrying a pair of pails one of which smelled of lemon or something.

  “Goodness, Louis, you’ve both worked so hard,” she said, that coy smile adorning her cheeks. “Perhaps you’d like some lemon lye to clean off the fat before father returns?”

  He nodded and, more annoyed than anything else, stripped off his blouse right before her and smeared the paste on his arms, neck and face. Then, she helped him wash it off, very slowly, with caressing motions that, were he not so exhausted, would have made him think she was ready for a good fucking.

  When he was cleaned, she placed her hand on his chest.

  This was not the new plan, he thought. His breath came fast, then he made it slow as he watched her eyes. They were a dark brown he could see. He had never really noticed before.

  Her lips curved into a shy smile, the first of the night. “You are very handsome, Louis,” she murmured and leaned into him, just a bit. Just a hint.

  He stepped back, abruptly. He couldn’t help it.

  Her eyes widened, then narrowed. She looked at him for a long, hard moment.

  Finally, she turned, snarling a “Take your friend and go!” and slammed the back door on their hut.

  Heaving an exasperated sigh, he woke up Etienne with a snort, got him somewhat cleaned up and half carried him home.

  *****

  A few hours later, looking presentable in his spare uniform if not feeling it, he announced that Etienne was sick this morning so they would forgo edging the rapiers for now and led them to the castle wall stairs to begin archery practice.

  Just mounting the first steps he heard a voice shout the old cry “’Ware below!” and too tired and confused to react got a bucketful of night slops on his head. The Guardsmen nearest him had skipped out of the way and were now laughing loudly at his predicament. Stunned, he wiped someone’s shit out of his eyes. What on earth!? Why dump slops here, of all places?! He looked up, ready to unleash his anger on whoever...

  Into the eyes – very cold eyes – of Twig.

  * 7 *

  Tristen made straight for the rendezvous with the band. The first nights were terrifying. Each unfamiliar sound scared him petrified and, once, he was ashamed to realize upon wakening, shitless. But, hardened campaigner that he was, a short time in a neighboring creek took care of the mess. Eventually, as the days passed, and he put more and more miles between them and Tempeste, he began to settle down.

  All too soon, he was at Saint-Mont, the rendezvous town. It was typical of Brittany, a town without a protecting castle and, therefore, without a protecting garrison. Sure enough, there was an aged knight asleep on a stool at what functioned as the town’s gate. Tristen nodded at the fool sitting at the knight’s feet, waving flies away from the old man’s drool, presumably earning his dinner. The shops lining the main road were the usual single story affairs: a mercer laying out his newest dyed fabrics on tables in front of the shop door, a butcher slicing up a pig for someone’s kitchen servant, probably the mayor given the quality of smock. Across the way, a tinker was pounding out the dents in a used pot to the watchful eye of someone’s wife. The town miller’s boy sat at a table surrounded by sacks of flour, bored out of his skull. In the distance, Tristen could hear the rhythmic clink, clank of hot metal being pounded into shape by the town blacksmith and made a note to check Destrey’s shoes.

  Ahead, after a few more huts and shops, he spotted the Silver Harp, the inn the Commander had named for their meeting. Summoning the stable boy, he saw to Destrey, careful to give the very appreciative boy a larger coin than usual, who gave them fresh hay in a cleaner stable, then trotted off to order him a room and some bread stew, and returned with a large mug of ale. Tristen had grabbed up a brush and, stripping off Destrey’s tack, set about a long, careful brushing of his steed. This had proved his first real lesson in horsemanship. Take time with brushing Destrey, and the mount repaid you in loyalty when you needed it most. In his first real battle, when he had actually engaged instead of pretending to, he had been quickly dismounted by a shrewd pike thrust from a British man at arms. Instead of galloping off in a panic and leaving him though, Destrey had merely trotted off to the side of the main battle. Tristen had found him placidly munching on grass in a small copse later, after he had paid the pikeman, and several others, in kind.

  Besides, he liked the quiet rhythm of brushing Destrey. It made up for the long days, however many they would prove to be, that he had been trapped in the Tower. The stable boy was watching him quietly, asking if he could polish up the tack. Looking the urchin over for a long moment to put the fear of a knight in him, Tristen finally smiled and agreed, but only if the boy did it in within eyesight. The stable boy eagerly grabbed a bucket of old neatsfoot and a stool and began to work the lard into the dusty crevices of the saddle. This was good, Tristen thought. Having grown up the kitchen boy, he had a natural affinity for those who earned their bread cleaning out slops jars.

  His mind drifted on to the subject of his room and his bed. He asked how many “companions” would be in his bed that night. The boy gave him a sly look. Tristen smiled in spite of himself and flipped him a small coin, saying, “Give it a good thwack with a broom or I’ll be giving you the same thwack tomorrow morning.” The boy grinned back and promised he would beat all the fleas out of the bedding. Tristen sighed at the thought of sleeping on a corn husk mattress, remembering how soft and fragrant Tempeste’s bed had been.

  But at an awful rent, he thought.

  He knew better than to ask the boy what day it was. He wouldn’t know. Tristen had never asked himself until he joined the band. And only then did he learn to count the way all the learned did: using the Feast Days of the church calendar. This happened so many days before or after such and such a feast. He also knew better than to ask whether the band had already met and departed because it would immediately mark him out as a condottiere. And if the band had left Saint-Mont on less than friendly terms, which was likely...

  No, experience taught that it was far better to sit in a corner of the tavern, slowly sip his ale and wait until the evening hours loosened the tongues of others.

  Which he did. The stew, served in a bread bowl was rich and savory, just what he needed. Feeling the ache of
hunger still within him, he ordered a second then not wanting to look out of place and feeling that he could manage a second ale, ordered that as well, paying out his coin. The tavern was filling up with the usual evening crowd. Tradesmen, easily recognized from the smears of fat, dye, blood, grit or otherwise marking their faces and hands, drank their beer out of pots in noisy groups at various tables, bursting out in loud laughter from time to time in response to some joke or story. The town elders bearing their marks of office in gowns of a finer fabric drank their mead from goblets with a quiet dignity at the largest table in the center, their heads bent to one another from time to time when a confidence was shared. The old knight at the town gate joined them at one point, to cries of “Sir Urich, a goblet if you will!” He did, but not before noting Tristen sitting in the corner wearing his leather armor. He gave Tristen a quick once over, then cast him a quick nod and sat with the elders. One of the tavern maids looked fetching in her tight smock as she delivered his second helping, giving him a teasing smile.

  But, after Tempeste, Tristen was having none of it. If he didn’t fuck for several years, he thought, he would be a happy man. He had to laugh out loud at that thought. Just as he was finishing up his second mug, Sir Urich arrived, bearing a third. Without asking, the knight sat and slid it over. Not sure what to make of this but determined not to let it grow into trouble, Tristen thanked him and introduced himself. Then, he made up some cock and bull story – inspired by Tempeste and designed to turn aside any talk of raiding in Aquitaine – about having just returned from a pilgrimage to Palais de la Cite in Paris to make good a vow to a lady.

  Not many people traveled very far he knew, but knights did. Sure enough, Sir Urich had been there after the shameful defeat at Crecy. So, Tristen let him talk about Paris, sharing notes with him and what he had seen. Then, ordering another round for the two of them, switching to mead for himself, he let the aged knight go on and on about “that day of woe” when he crossed swords with Sir Edward, the Black Prince of Wales. Tristen doubted that Urich got close enough to even see the Black Prince but he enjoyed the tale anyway. Knights were all the same – whether condottiere or the town sheriff – when it came to their tall tales of the battlefield.