Elena's Conquest

by Lisette Allen

  ‘I beg you, sire, if you have any justice in you at all, then you will let me go! I was not one of the rebels, I swear. What possible use can I be to you? Let me go back to the convent where I belong!’

  The Breton watched her oddly, his hands on his hips. His harsh face, twisted by the scar, was suddenly lit up by a gleam of lightning. She shivered at the look in his cold, glittering eyes.

  The convent is no more,’ he said softly. Elena cried out in anguish. He went on quickly, ‘The nuns were spared, they will find refuge elsewhere. But you are no nun, Elena, and contrary to your own belief, you will learn to be a good deal of use to me, I think. You see, at my stronghold of Thoresfield you will have a new mistress - the lady Isobel. She will train you in your new tasks and Hamet, my faithful servant, will help you to learn. There is much you need to know.’

  Elena’s face jerked wildly from one to the other. They were smiling at each other as if they shared some dark secret. Wild with sudden fear, she twisted in her chains, but the shackles cut into her soft skin. She stumbled to the ground, and the Breton’s grey cloak twisted around her body. Aimery knelt to restrain her struggles. She trembled at his touch, feeling a sudden wild heat blaze through her as his palms grazed her shoulders. His hands were almost gentle …

  ‘Lie still,’ he said in his low, compelling voice, ‘and learn to accept what you cannot change. That will be your first lesson for tonight.’ He stood up and said abruptly to his servant, ‘Guard her well, Hamet. I’ll be back soon, when I’ve arranged Mauger’s punishment.’ Then he was gone. Elena lay still, her heart thudding, because for one wild moment, a moment of utter madness, she had wanted the Breton to hold her in his arms.

  Hamet sat cross-legged with his broad back against the turf walls of the half-ruined outhouse, watching the helpless girl. A tear glistened on her pale cheek, but she glared at him defiantly. Hamet was sorry for her; she must be so frightened, yet she was full of courage; few people spoke up against the lord Aimery. He wanted to help her, but Aimery had told him not to touch her, and Aimery was his master, the person who had rescued him years ago from a stinking dungeon in Messina, where the Normans were fighting the Moors. Hamet had sworn to devote the rest of his life to the Breton. Le Sabrenn, they had called him then, even his enemies, when he was a lowly mercenary living by his sword - Aimery the swordsman.

  ‘Don’t touch her,’ Aimery had said. Hamet didn’t. But the aching in his loins intensified as he drank in those soft curves wrapped in his master’s cloak. He remembered that glimpse of beautiful white flesh, and softly stroked himself beneath his tunic, his dark face intent. ‘It’s all right, little Saxon girl,’ he murmured in his own language. ‘It’s all right. I won’t touch you. I won’t harm you.’

  The rain thudded on the thatched roof and the thunder rumbled across the forest. He watched until she was asleep, her slight body released at last from fear and tension. The storm had moved on. Hamet got up quietly and went across to where she was lying. He moved the cloak, just a little, and then adjusted her torn dress so that one small breast was revealed, its pink tip soft and innocent in sleep. Then he sat down again at her side and reached beneath his clothing for his already stiff penis. Slowly, ecstatically, he began to bring himself towards orgasm, whispering endearments as he gazed at the sleeping girl.

  She was so sweet, so pretty, with her curling fair hair and her creamy skin. Once, he stopped what he was doing to reach out and touch her tender little nipple, but she shuddered in her sleep and he stopped, in case she woke. He sighed and thought of what the lady Isobel would do with her, what she would let him, Hamet, do with her if he was patient. His member jerked and stiffened anew at the thought. He closed his eyes, rocking softly and crooning to himself, as his feverish hands brought his erect penis to a shuddering climax at last.

  When the throes of his ejaculation were over, he still stroked his dark flesh gently, lovingly. He was happy now. And so would this gentle girl be. He, Hamet, would make her happy.

  Carefully he rearranged the sleeping girl’s cloak. Then he sat by the door to wait patiently for his master.

  Back at the stronghold of Thoresfield, in one of the candlelit upper chambers, Isobel de Morency also waited for Aimery le Sabrenn, only with rather less patience than Hamet the Saracen. Weary with pacing up and down her room, she moved yet again to the window and pushed aside the piece of oiled hide that curtained the narrow embrasure. Then she looked out into the courtyard below, drinking in the warm evening air, as if it could settle the restless craving in her blood.

  There was the usual activity for this time of night. Sentries, sullen in the sultry night air, were posted around the palisade that surrounded the stronghold and its outbuildings; smoking torches fixed into iron holders gave a shadowy light for some late travellers arriving from the south. Grooms rushed to hold their dusty horses, and two off-duty young soldiers lounging against the armoury wall looked up with idle curiousity from their game of dice. Then one of the soldiers saw Isobel, up at her window, and his gaze, frankly admir­ing, warmed her. She watched him appraisingly for a moment, then turned away petulantly. No. Too coarse, too common. Oh, when would Aimery be back?

  Isobel was wrenched by a sudden, hungry longing. He’d only left yesterday, riding into the wild country to the north, because there had been reports of rebel activity again. Only yesterday, but already it seemed too long! What did other women do during these long, hot summer evenings when their menfolk were away? Embroidery, she supposed, or some insipid music-making on their shrill lutes. Isobel’s full, ripe lips curled in scorn. She smoothed her beautiful silk gown round her hips, and fingered the circlet of pearls round her neck. Aimery had bought them for her in France, from a merchant who travelled regularly to Constantinople for silks and spices and precious stones.

  It was so hot, even at this late hour! Perhaps there would be a thunderstorm soon, and she would be able to watch the lightning playing above the dark line of the forest that surrounded them - anything to relieve the monotony of this place without Aimery. Sighing fretfully, Isobel flung herself across the white linen sheets of her wide bed and reached for the jug of white wine that her maid had left for her. She poured a refreshing draught into her silver goblet and remem­bered when she had first met Aimery.

  It was nearly five years ago now. Her old, nearly impotent husband, the Baron de Morency, had hired a band of Breton mercenaries to fight in some petty skirmish on the borders of his land. Aimery le Sabrenn, illegitimate son of a poor Breton knight and a French serving maid, was the leader of those mercenaries. As soon as she saw him, Isobel wanted him, badly.

  She sipped luxuriantly at her wine, still cool from the dark cellars beneath the hall. Aimery had it imported specially from France for her, knowing how she couldn’t bear the sour English ale. She stretched languourously and leaned back against the soft pillows that were filled with goose down. Aimery le Sabrenn, the swordsman, his own men had called him admiringly. She remembered how the Breton had first looked at her, cool and challenging, as she sat beside her husband at the high table. Her ripe breasts tingled pleasantly beneath the silk of her green gown at the memory. Thoughtfully she unlaced the fastening of her bodice and slipped her hand inside her white chemise, coaxing both her darkening nipples into a pleasurable stiffness with her fingertips. Already, the sweet wine was start­ing to course warmly through her blood.

  There was a knock at the door, and her maid came in. ‘Was there anything else you wanted, my lady?’

  Isobel’s slanting green eyes spat venom at the inter­ruption. ‘Nothing. Go away! And, Alys, if you disturb me once more - ‘ Alys beat a hasty retreat as Isobel sank back onto her bed. The candle flame, disturbed by the draught from the door, flickered crazily on the tap­estries that adorned the bare stone walls. Isobel closed her eyes.

  If she couldn’t be with Aimery, she resolved silently, she’d rather be alone with her desire on this hot, sultry night.

  Her jewelled fingers fluttered slightly on the so
ft swell of her breasts. Oh, Aimery. She remembered their first night together, and parted her warm thighs softly beneath the rustling folds of her silk gown.

  It had been hot, then, too; a velvety night in late summer. Isobel had found out from her maid that Aimery was alone in one of the guard rooms, attending to his armour. Isobel had pulled a hooded mantle over her thin chemise and run from her chamber under cover of darkness. The Breton was there, as her maid had said. As she entered the dark little room, he’d had his back to her, but she could see that he was polishing his long sword by the light of a guttering tallow candle. Isobel had stood very still, enchanted by the sight of him. He’d removed his soldier’s leather tunic because the night was so hot and was wearing only his cloth leggings and deerskin boots. Isobel felt her heart thud­ding painfully as she drank in the wide-shouldered beauty of his body in the candlelight; the tanned, heavily-muscled yet graceful torso laced with silver sword scars; the lean hips, the long, powerful thighs. She wanted to run her fingertips over every inch of his warm, exciting flesh.

  Even now, at the memory of that first night, her lips parted in a soft little groan. Her fingers trailed along her open thighs, gently caressing the smooth flesh above her silken hose, reaching up carefully to touch those tender, private parts that she knew would be swollen and moist already. She ran her small, pointed tongue over her lips.

  When Aimery had turned round to see who his visitor was, Isobel had thrown back her hood, so that a mass of glossy black hair spilled out over her shoulders. The Breton had smiled, his strange grey eyes glittering, and Isobel had stopped breathing, because he was so beau­tiful. He’d said nothing - that smile had been enough.

  He’d walked slowly towards her and removed her cloak. Slipping her white chemise from her shoulders, he let it fall unheeded to the floor. Then he bent his head to take each of her ripe breasts in his mouth, feasting on their luxuriance, laving and suckling with his tongue as she thrust them more and more urgently towards him.

  Her breasts tingled anew at the memory. As she sprawled on the bed, her fingers stroked her tender clitoris with increasing urgency. Suddenly, she cupped the pulsing mound of her femininity with her cool palm, feeling how engorged the flesh was. It wasn’t enough - oh, it wasn’t enough! She needed something thick, and firm, and satisfying …

  Her eyes heavy with desire, Isobel slid impatiently from her lonely bed and searched purposefully in the carved wooden coffer that contained her robes. At last, with a little sigh of satisfaction, she drew out an object wrapped in soft chamois skin. Slowly she unwrapped it, and drew out a long, coiled whip. Smiling, Isobel poured some scented oil from a small glass phial into her hand, then ran her palm up and down the long leather handle until it was slick and moist. Then she curled herself back on the bed, resting her shoulders against the pillows. Her tongue glistened between her white teeth as she parted her legs and began to slowly and sensuously stroke her pouting vaginal lips with the firm leather shaft. It glided sweetly across her already-moist flesh; her cheeks became softly flushed and she uttered a little sigh of contentment.

  She remembered, then, how Aimery had barricaded the wooden door of the guardhouse. How he had spread her discarded cloak over the straw-covered floor, and lowered her naked body upon it. Isobel, already quivering with uncontrollable desire, had reached out desperately for him as he crouched over her in the candlelight. She’d covered the rippling muscles of his chest with kisses, run her hands wonderingly over the iron hardness of his forearms; and when he released his manhood from the constriction of his clothes, she’d gasped and felt the blood burn in her cheeks. She’d let out a little cry, and rubbed her soft thighs against the coarse silk of his body, begging wordlessly for his embrace.

  At first he’d teased her, rubbing tantalisingly at her yearning entrance with his throbbing phallus, until she’d pleaded with him for mercy. Then, her pleas had become little guttural cries of delight as he at last impaled her, slowly easing the whole of that wonderful length into her quivering, juicy hips, only pausing to let her feel it properly and grip it deep within her hungry loins. He toyed with her then, sliding the pulsing shaft slowly out again so that Isobel had cried out with loss; only to thrust it back in, oh so deeply, as she clutched at his shoulders and gasped out as the approaching ecstasy built up inside her like an unstopp­able flood.

  She’d climaxed quickly, too quickly that first time, because she found the merest touch of him so exciting. She still did.

  Now, alone on her bed, her breath coming in short, agonised gasps, she guided the thick leather handle of the whip longingly into her yearning vulva. Her inner muscles clutched with relief at the slick, hard shaft; the trailing lash tickled tantalisingly along the soft flesh of her inner thigh. Her straying fingers coaxed her sweetly engorged clitoris, as she imagined Aimery plunging himself deep within her, filling her, satisfying her …

  Isobel rolled convulsively onto her side, her hips thrusting desperately against the long, solid shaft, as her whole body went into spasm. With furious fingers she slid the leather whip hungrily into herself, over and over again, as waves of pleasure engulfed her shudder­ing body. Aimery, oh Aimery.

  She lay back exhausted on the damp linen sheets, her legs splayed, the smooth leather disappointingly cold and unresponsive within her still pulsing vagina. Frowning, she soothed her aching breasts.

  It wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough, without him.

  When Aimery had left France for England with Wil­liam of Normandy’s motley, land-hungry army, Isobel had decided to leave her husband and follow him. Society had disowned her, but she cared nothing for that, as long as she could have Aimery.

  Then, at Hastings, when the battle hung in the balance, Aimery had caught Duke William’s attention by rallying the mercenary cavalry on the left flank as they hovered on the brink of retreat. When the duke was unhorsed, and the cry went up that he was dead, it was Aimery and his men who swung to surround him, standing firm against the wild onslaught of the Saxon shire-levies as they thundered down the hill towards the French army.

  Duke William, now King of England, had not forgot­ten him.

  Was it really only yesterday that Aimery had left the castle? Already it seemed so long. He’d taken his troop of soldiers northwards, after the Saxon rebels who were rumoured to be still in league with the Danish fleet that hovered off the English coast. Isobel had known better than to protest at his absence. After all, hadn’t her lover been rewarded with lands and wealth in order to defend this northern outpost for his king, this isolated strong­hold, Thoresfield, that guarded the ever-dangerous route between London and York? Isobel understood that Aimery was first and foremost a soldier, who had sworn allegiance to King William of England. But how would she survive without him? No-one compared, as a lover or a man, with Aimery le Sabrenn.

  At least she had his return to look forward to. Rearranging her sadly crumpled gown, Isobel stretched lazily across the bed to pour herself some more wine, cheering up at the prospect. Perhaps her lord would bring back some captives, some young Saxon women, for his own pleasure. And for his own bitter, secret revenge, which only Isobel knew about.

  She moistened her lips, freshly aroused at the pros­pect of training new prisoners. As she moved she felt the whip handle, still satisfyingly firm, nudging at her yielding thighs. What she needed was warm, hard flesh.

  Isobel gave a rueful sigh and creased her smooth forehead in a frown.

  It was no good. She would have to find someone else for her pleasure tonight. Her eyes half-closed, she began to make plans.

  Chapter Three

  In the woodcutter’s cottage in the heart of the forest, Elena, utterly exhausted, slept. As she slept, she dreamed her dream again; only now it was vivid, almost real. The tall man on horseback dismounted, and came slowly, purposefully towards her; she ran gladly towards him, longing for his embrace, but she could not see his shadowed face, and she wanted to, so much …

  She woke an hour later with an instinctive
cry of fear as she glimpsed the big Saracen still watching her from his place by the door. He had fixed a smoking torch into the hard earth, and it cast grotesque shadows around the little hovel. With his dark skin and exotic features, he frightened her almost as much as his cold, scarred master. She tried to move her limbs, and bit her lip as the iron fetters reminded her of her captivity. The Saracen, seeing her awake, slid softly to his feet and padded across the damp earthen floor towards her.

  She shrank back from him instinctively, but he held out his hand in a soothing gesture. The lord Aimery says that the chains can be removed now. If you promise not to run.’ His voice was soft and curiously rhythmic, almost - kind. Kind? She must be losing her mind - how could these men, her enemies, be kind?

  She said, in a low voice devoid of emotion, ‘I promise not to run.’

  What was the point in trying to escape? Even if she managed to get away from here, the forest was not her friend. These wild northern wastes of England were full of starving outlaws, fleeing from the recent destruction wrought by King William and his commanders on the northern rebels. If she tried to flee, she would starve, or suffer an unknown fate at the hands of desperate Saxon runaways.

  And, Aimery le Sabrenn had promised that she wouldn’t be hurt. Elena knew it was madness, but somehow, she trusted him.

  The big Saracen was surprisingly gentle as he released her from the chains. The huge, sinewy muscles of his forearms glistened, and he frowned in concentration as he undid the locks. He smelled musky and masculine; Elena had never seen a man with skin of such a dark, sunburned hue, though she had heard of such people. She blushed to think of his flesh being such a strange colour, every part of him.