Chateau of Desire (Chateau of Love Book 1)

by Monica Bentley

  Sir Urich caught him out with the surprise question of who knighted him, something that the Commander had never asked. Before he knew it, Tristen blurted out that the Lord Brionde of Chateau Brionde had, in thanks for his service in the Chateau Guard. He winced inwardly but carefully kept a quiet, respectful smile on his face.

  Sir Urich nodded, then took a pull on his mug. “I’m not one to disrespect the lord of any chateau...”

  Tristen decided to end this as quickly as he could. “He can be difficult, true. Many lords are. Still, I am grateful to him for my sword, my charger, my armor.”

  Sir Urich nodded approvingly, then waved a deprecating hand, changing the subject.

  “You’d best be riding hard, then.”

  “Why is that?” Tristen asked.

  “Oh, you wouldn’t have heard, since they came up through the Loire,” Sir Urich replied, taking another swig.

  “They?” Tristen waited, hoping.

  “Bertrand du Guesclin’s band of adventurers, the rabid dog. They came through here not two Sundays ago expecting to set up shop.” Sir Urich grinned. “I sent them on their way, though, without so much as a by your leave.”

  Tristen’s breath caught, then taking a long look at the knight taking another long swig, he realized he was just fine. This liar of a knight hadn’t marked him out as one of du Guesclin’s band any more than he had set the Commander on his way. Had probably hid under his bed while the band was in town waiting for Tristen to show up, then came out when the band had moved on. Tristen snorted, but only inwardly. Tempeste had taught him caution.

  Still...

  “Ride hard?” he asked.

  Sir Urich set his mug down with a bang. “Christ, yes. They set out in your direction.”

  “My direction?” Tristen commented, confused.

  The knight started waving a hand in the air and, from his motions, Tristen could see that he was pretty drunk. “Brionde. With plans to burn it to the ground. Rabid dog.”

  *****

  He waited until the knight had been called back to the elders’ table, then he quietly left. In the stable, by torchlight, he saddled Destrey and struck out west.

  A few days more ride, a few more conversations without dismounting, using less caution because he didn’t care what they thought of him as he was just passing through, and he was on their track. He caught up with them just at the borders of Brionde. Knowing the band’s ways, he followed a little used track in the Forest Brionde and, whistling the birdsong of a lark, rode very slowly to avoid getting a sentry’s arrow. Soon enough, he heard an answering lark. He stopped, then, and replied with that of a robin’s call.

  And the sentry stood out from behind a tree, several furlongs ahead. Gaspard (!) was beaming at him.

  “I thought that was you!” he cried.

  Tristen cried out a loud laugh and trotted to him, sliding off Destrey to grab his friend by the shoulders.

  “Where in heaven have you been?” Gaspard asked, pounding him with joy on the shoulders. “We waited three days for you at Saint-Mont. The Commander was furious.”

  Tristen sighed. “I’d tell you, but you wouldn’t believe me.” He gathered up Destrey’s reins. “Where are they?”

  Gaspard pointed down the track. “Follow that until the large oak and then follow the sound of the stream.” Then, he stood back for a moment. “Come on! Give me something!”

  Tristen paused, considering. “All right. A tower, a witch and getting the life fucked out of me.”

  Gaspard exploded the forest with laughter, making several flocks of neighboring birds take wing in bursts. “You have not changed one bit! All right. I’ll get the real story after my shift.”

  “How was the butcher’s wife?” Tristen asked, suddenly remembering with a smile.

  “Nah. You’ll have to wait for it, as well. Get on with you.” Gaspard turned back to his post, his beaming grin so wide Tristen doubted any could miss it for several King’s miles.

  He did as his friend directed, following the track to the tree then listening for the sound of the stream and, before long, he could smell campfire smoke. He repeated his larksong for the camp sentry who recognized him with a hearty shout and a few thumps on the back. Which brought others. Since when did he get so likable, Tristen marveled? He didn’t think anybody liked him except Gaspard, who liked everybody. The Commander didn’t like anybody, so he didn’t count.

  But soon enough, he was leading his horse to the Commander’s fire and seeing one of the few smiles he had ever beheld on those craggy features. He was stunned.

  “Bout time!” the Commander merely said, however, while waving someone to bring Tristen a stump to sit on.

  Gaspard was one thing, the Commander another. Or maybe it was the shock of all the friendliness. Whatever it was, when the Commander asked, Tristen told him. Everything. The firefly, the tower, the stone block with its smoking cauldron, the goblet, the incessant fucking, his escape, learning where they were in Saint-Mont, everything but her name which, he was never certain why, he kept to himself. He thought he heard her chuckle when he made the decision to withhold it, which made him shiver, but he told himself that he was being silly and finished his tale. Just ending, he realized to his surprise that several of the band had quietly gathered nearby “working” on various tasks in order to listen. He wondered if they were having the same reaction as Gaspard. He also wondered what du Guesclin would say.

  To his surprise, the Commander merely nodded, seriously. “There is more in this world than the Church teaches us.” Then, giving Tristen a once-over, he asked about his charger, his armor, his health.

  These were routine questions that the Commander always asked a soldier who had been away. He replied that all were in excellent shape.

  “Good!” the Commander replied. “I have a task for you.”

  *****

  Life as a spy.

  Tristen was given the task of exploring his old home, the Chateau, then reporting back to the band. The state of the Guard, the defenses, weaponry, the location of the castle strongbox, the jewels – all the usual drill of intelligence gleaned. He would be paid in coin, of course. And, of course, refusal was not an option.

  Tristen didn’t know what he thought of that. His first decisions had to do with practical matters anyway. Destrey and his armor would be looked after by Gaspard. He borrowed a nag and worn tack from the Commander, stripped down to his leathers, hiding his coin. Wielding an older spare sword, he posed as a man at arms visiting the place he had grown up. His name? Remi, of course.

  He led the nag, walking through the familiar fields outside the village. Then, taking a deep breath, cautioning himself to respond only to the name of Remi, he stepped within the village limits, passing the first huts, expecting a challenge shouted at him with each step.

  None came.

  This was odd, he thought. He kept going, however. A passing tradesman he recognized approached, steering his empty cart. Clearly he had just delivered his vegetables to the castle kitchen. Tristen had helped empty that cart many a time. He took a deep breath and wondered how to handle this, marshaling his story about places he had been, battles he had seen and other things. Before he knew it however, the man was passing right by, his eyes downcast, even as Tristen was still struggling with the man’s name. Pierre, that was it! Of course he would forget, chiding himself. It was such a common name.

  Yet, as he drew closer to the castle gate, and saw more and more people whom he had known growing up, none stopped to gape at him, much less call out to him. Even the tanner’s daughter who clearly had grown a large set of tits, paused scraping a hide to stare right at him, a roguish, inviting smile on her face. Without a flicker of recognition in her eyes, however. But, then, he told himself, he had only recognized her because of her eyes and the job she was doing.

  Still, as he passed more and more familiar sights and sounds, even through the gate itself with nary a challenge from the two Guardsmen he easily recognized, he was forced t
o realized that he didn’t look at all like Remi had.

  He had to ponder that. But not too long as, from the ringing of steel on steel, he also realized that the Guard was at practice. His first real confrontation was a few heartbeats away as he prepared himself for some kind of encounter with the Master.

  However, the Master wasn’t there. Just some boy with golden hair who moved well, Tristen could see at a glance. He was running practice. He had to marvel at that for the boy was clearly younger than himself if only by a few years. So many puzzles that he almost forgot to count the Guardsmen. To note their state of preparedness. Their level of skill. Had something happened to the Master, he wondered. The Commander would be very interested to know about that!

  “Remi!” Her shout broke into his thoughts, and he barely caught the cloud of blonde hair that was tackling him. Anybody else, he would have sidestepped. With her, he happily caught her as they went down together, him throwing the nag’s reins wide.

  “Twig! What’s going on?” The boy was on them in a flash, picking her up off the ground.

  Twig. He had forgotten that name.

  She was blushing, then hugging him again. She was throwing question after question at him, growing more breathless by the moment. Where had he been? Why did he stay away so long? Did he have any adventures? Was he going to stay? Was he hungry?

  “Phoebe! Talk to me!”

  That stopped her. She looked at the boy, a coldness settling into her eyes. “Why, Louis, you going to punish Remi for coming back?”

  “Remi?” Louis was looking him over, noting the way Tristen was standing. One sword fighter appraising another. Tristen knew that look well. Which placed even more questions in the boy’s eyes.

  “Yes! In the kitchen.” Phoebe was staring at Louis, hard.

  “The kitchen...” the boy’s voice trailed off. He looked back at the Guard, who were waiting, also looking over Tristen with interest yet, he noticed, without recognition. Even though he easily knew almost all of them, could even place names now. He looked at Harcourt, the Master’s second but, sure enough, no flicker in the Guardsman’s eyes. Odd.

  Tristen thought he heard Tempeste’s chuckle again. He couldn’t be, he thought with a shiver, then refocused on Phoebe.

  Who was was taking charge. “Come,” she said, taking his arm. “You must be starving and let’s see to your horse.” And she led him right past the Guard to the castle’s stable.

  She wanted to take him straight into the kitchen afterward and feed him, but his new sense of caution abounded. Having been able to slip past the Guard without challenge, he had no desire to get into a fight with Adalene. So, waiting for the right moment which came quickly enough, he made another move. Phoebe, in her excited litany of everything that she wanted to tell him all at the same time, mentioned that she had just been on her way to the Hall to clear out any meat pies that the Guard hadn’t eaten today so that she could wrap them and keep them fresh for tomorrow. Setting aside the memories of how many of those pies he had filched in the days he was responsible for that errand, he suggested they gather a few of those and go up to the top of the castle walls. He would like to see how beautiful the land was, he told her. Even as he knew it would be an excellent opportunity to survey the defenses.

  Phoebe eagerly agreed and, without warning, grabbed his hand and pulled him up some stairs to the Hall.

  As he followed his mind began to whirl as surely as if Tempeste was arriving. Phoebe was lovely. Not as lovely as Tempeste, of course. But then nobody was as lovely as Tempeste, he thought. And, given that her beauty was partly enchantment, probably not even Tempeste was as beautiful as Tempeste, he had to grin. In any case, Phoebe was lovely. She was slight of build. Her breasts were sweetly beautiful, like her frame. Her eyes and her smile made him swoon a bit. He had to keep shaking his head when he looked at her because every time she spoke, he heard the voice of the scamp with her scabbed bony knees. Even her smock was prettier, certainly cleaner. And she wore a sprig of lavender in her hair which made her fragrant, particularly the way her head was moving back and forth, asking a question, darting a look at him, then asking the next one without waiting for an answer.

  As they moved through the castle to the Hall, it dawned on him that he had never taken this way. Would never had dared to. He had always taken the back stairs, that the servants were enjoined to. He wondered that Phoebe felt so free to use the same stairs, the same entrance as m’Lord and m’Lady. It reminded him of how little he actually knew about the castle, even if he grew up here. His life had been so narrowly circumscribed. He had thought about mentioning that to the Commander when given the assignment, but then, remembering that he had told the Commander that he was from these parts, had never told him that he had grown up as a kitchen boy in the actual chateau, he kept his mouth shut.

  As Phoebe kept talking, her voice never faltering, right now something about what great fortune Tristen had to arrive when the Master was away on assignment for m’Lord, taking the three most ferocious Guardsmen with him, Tristen made a note to ask more about that later as they were just entering the Hall.

  And, there, to his shock it dawned on him that the grandest room he had ever known growing up was little more than a jumped-up, smoke-stained, barn with too many dolphins decorating, nay crowding, the old, scarred furniture. Even the smaller halls of the Il de Cite were far grander than this. He had to chortle at the thought, suddenly realizing that all the hatred for Chateau Brionde and its occupants that he had taught himself to hold dear, to keep him warm on those cold nights when first venturing out into a very frightening world, all of it had blown away years ago.

  It was silent.

  Looking at her, he realized that she had stopped talking. She was just looking at him.

  He cocked an eyebrow in lieu of a question.

  She smiled. “You laughed.”

  “Oh,” he grinned. “I was just thinking of how grand many of the halls in Paris are.”

  “Paris?” she smiled saucily at him, which made his cock twitch.

  To his horror.

  He swallowed.

  She moved to the table and gathered up several meat pies for them, saying, “You’ll have to tell me all about it.”

  * 8 *

  She moaned softly. Her knees began quaking, so Tristen gently picked her up and laid her on a table in the Hall. Tristen’s head whirling, he kept going for he knew not what else to do. His tongue gently licked her labia up and down, up and down, then he paused to insert his tongue and broke into an involuntary smile as he heard her gasp. He pulled out and thrust again, feeling her hips start to move in tandem with his tongue’s thrusting. At this rate, he thought, he was going to be fucking her soon.

  It had begun on the top of the castle walls. They had watched the sun sinking lower in the sky, creating a lazy afternoon feeling, one that had brought back many memories for them. They used to sit outside the kitchen on the ground in the evenings, leaning back against the chimney stones, feeling the heat radiate out into their backs, gentling their aches from the day’s labor. It was a way to watch the sun go down without coming under Adalene’s eye. It was also a way to cuddle. Phoebe used to sit on her side, tucking her dirty knees under his while laying her head on his shoulder. Then, when her butt began to ache, she would switch to just leaning back against the stones, resting her head lightly against him. Sometimes when she would cry because Adalene had beat her really badly, Tristen would take her into his arms and let her run her snot down the front of his shirt. It was always sweet. It was always pure. It had made him feel loved.

  This, this was anything but like that, he thought. They shouldn’t be, but he didn’t know how to stop it. How to stop her. She was hungry for his tongue.

  When Phoebe had tired of his stories about the great Halls of Paris, she had asked him about his other adventures. He had very carefully stayed away from most of his tale, just letting her know that he “had learned how to fight with a sword from a knight” and that he had bec
ome a man at arms with a traveling band. That he had been to different places and, feeling her rest her head on his shoulder just like years earlier, he had thrown out, “I was even captured by a witch once.”

  And had immediately regretted it.

  Gone was the sweet, innocent warmth of the moment. Of those times all those years ago.

  Phoebe had turned to face him. “Was she ugly? With a big wart on her nose?” she eagerly asked.

  Before he knew it, he was responding, “Tempeste? No, she was--”

  “Tempeste?!” she cut him off. “You know her name?” And then she had smiled a roguish grin, the same one the tanner’s daughter had given him, he had realized as his stomach turned upside down and his cock had given another twitch. He had shoved that thought out of his mind. Fast.

  But she wouldn’t stop. “So....?” She had looked at him and that was when he realized how truly beautiful she had become. Gone entirely was the scabbed, dirty kitchen scamp of his youth. Phoebe was a young, vivacious, lovely woman.

  “How about you?” he had countered.

  She had pouted, just a bit, shaking her blonde tresses and, cutely, sweetly, taking one in her mouth to nibble on. “You first! You’re the adventurer!”

  He had protested at that.

  But she was up, rising to her feet. “And to think that I was worried about you...” her voice had trailed off. “Instead, you were seeing the world and crawling between the sheets with some luscious whore of a witch.”

  “It wasn’t like that!” he had tried protesting.