Elena's Conquest

by Lisette Allen

  ‘She’s ideal for our purpose’ he said curtly. ‘She claims she was a novice in a convent - a convent that was harbouring rebels. She’s yours to train, Isobel.’

  ‘And yours to reward, my lord’ murmured Isobel de Morency. A hungry green light gleamed in her eyes. ‘Shall I go to her now?’

  Aimery nodded curtly. ‘Yes. And send Hamet to me.’

  He didn’t need Isobel to remind him about revenge. The bleak anger rose in his throat as he remembered.

  Last year, while garrisoned in York, Aimery’s younger brother Hugh had taken a beautiful Saxon woman as his mistress. A golden witch. She’d ensnared Aimery too, persuading him to keep their mutual passion a secret from his unsuspecting brother. Aimery had despised himself, and worshipped her, even forget­ting Isobel for a while.

  The woman had led them into a trap - both of them. She’d been working for the Saxon rebels, all the time. When York was taken by the Saxon army, Hugh had died in captivity, while Aimery had escaped, scarred for life by the cruel sword that had split his cheek in two.

  Since then, Aimery had vowed that the Saxons would pay for the death of his brother. It was his own personal mission of revenge; of which King William, who had entrusted him with this northern outpost, knew nothing.

  Elena lay back, dazed, in the warm, scented water of the bath tub they’d brought for her. Her freshly washed hair, spread like damp silk around her white shoulders, gleamed in the soft candlelight. She didn’t understand any of it. She had spent the remainder of the journey to the castle on the back of a horse; a quiet palfrey, roped to one of the guards, who’d been so respectful that he’d scarcely even dared to look at her.

  They’d reached Aimery’s stronghold of Thoresfield at dusk. Originally a wealthy thane’s stone manor house, it had been strengthened in haste by the Normans last year in order to guard the dangerous route north, and to protect its garrison from the rebels and bands of outlaws who haunted the vast forest. It had become notorious. As the convoy of captives was led through the wide gates, Elena heard the ragged line of slaves whisper in fear; then the roped wretches were driven into the torchlit courtyard of the castle by burly guards, and driven off to the thatched hovels that lay clustered within the palisade.

  Once, she caught sight of the Saxon man, whom she’d tried to help in the forest - the man who’d stayed with Father Wulfstan. She felt her heart give a little lurch as the blond Saxon man turned to smile at her, and she was glad he’d survived.

  Then Elena waited breathlessly in the courtyard, deafened by the shouts of the soldiers and the jangling of horses’ harness, her heart beating wildly. This was to be her home.

  She’d expected to be lined up with the other serfs, but instead they’d brought her in here, into the very heart of the stronghold. Through the huge, raftered hall they led her, with its great fire forever burning at one end; up the stairs, along the gallery past the Breton’s living quarters into this room, which she was told would be hers.

  After the bare meanness of the little convent, even this tiny chamber was luxury. The maidservant who awaited her had helped her off with her ragged clothes, exclaiming with pity over her torn, bruised feet and her chafed wrists where the chains had been. Then she helped her to step into the wooden tub.

  Elena, still dazed by everything that had happened, lay back when the maid had gone, and revelled in the sweetly-scented soap and the delicious sensation of warm water lapping at her skin. She had never had a hot bath before. At the convent they washed every morning using buckets of cold water from the spring, and harsh soap made from wood-ash and lye. This was bliss. The small but private room was hung with tap­estries, had a fire burning in one corner, and a hide curtain to the window. There was a narrow bed, covered with wolfskins as blankets, and real wax can­dles on the walls, not the crude, foul-smelling tallow they used at the convent.

  She frowned and bit her lip. Perhaps everyone was wrong. Perhaps Aimery le Sabrenn was truly a kind man, who intended to help her. After all, hadn’t he punished that evil man, Mauger, for attacking her?

  She shuddered suddenly, remembering how they’d left his limp, beaten body roped to the tree. Aimery le Sabrenn - kind? She must be in danger of losing her wits! She swallowed hard, thrusting the Breton lord’s disturbing image from her mind, and began to soap herself, luxuriating in the warm water. Her body was bruised and aching from the long ride. Exploratively she ran her fingers along her calves and up along her smooth, slender thighs. Her small breasts lay buoyantly just above the surface of the water; she soaped them carefully, and lapped the soothing water over their tender tips.

  Suddenly, she remembered the puzzling noises that the unseen woman had made last night in the darkness, and frowned. At the same time, strangely, her nipples tingled and darkened, and as she touched one inquisi­tively, a pleasurable little shock arrowed down towards her flat stomach. She caught her breath and did it again. A vague, yearning ache flooded slowly through her relaxed limbs, and the warm blood rose in her cheeks.

  She bit at her lower lip thoughtfully, and stroked her swelling breast. The Breton’s low, compelling voice echoed in her brain: ‘You have much to learn, little Saxon …’ With a blush of shame, she snatched her hand away.

  At the convent, they’d been told it was a sin to touch their bodies. The younger ones slept in dormitories with older nuns to keep an eye on them, and they had to sleep with their hands above the coarse blankets or they were beaten.

  Closing her eyes, Elena lay back, and her hands wandered down to her inner thigh. They were so bruised from the long ride. Perhaps if she stroked them a little, it would soothe them. Her palm, by accident, grazed the soft mound between her legs. Her body quivered and jumped. She did it again, her eyes wide open with surprise. Her little triangle of womanly hair was light golden, like soft down; she fingered it, and her hand slipped lower, exploring the strange, folded flesh in that secret place. She caught something with the tip of her finger - it felt like a tiny, sensitive bud -and a sudden, delicious sensation flared, spreading a melting heat into her stomach. She snatched her hand away quickly, but her cheeks flamed, and a little pulse beat wildly in her soft throat.

  She jumped with shock, sending ripples of water over the edge of the tub, as the door that divided her room from the gallery was pushed aside and a woman glided in.

  Elena thought that she was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen in her life. She was small and slender, with glossy dark hair and perfect, creamy skin, and a kind smile. She wore a green silk gown that matched her wonderful, dark-lashed eyes; it was girdled to fit her body tightly, pushing up her small, rounded breasts, while the skirt flared out in rich swathes from her hips to brush the ground.

  She was carrying a silver goblet in her hands. On seeing Elena’s blush of surprise, she came softly towards her and knelt at he side, with a rustle of silk and perfume.

  ‘My dear’ she said, in a low voice, ‘don’t be afraid of me, I beg you! My name is Isobel, and I’ve come to look after you. You poor thing, what a dreadful ordeal you must have suffered! How I feel for you …’

  Elena tried to sit up, but the lady put out one exquisite jewelled hand, restraining her. There is no cause for alarm! Lie back - relax.’ By accident, it seemed, her little fingers brushed Elena’s exposed breasts. Elena let out a tiny gasp; the woman heard it, and smiled to herself.

  ‘Here,’ she said, holding out the goblet. ‘Drink this. It has medicinal properties. You will find it soothes you, relaxes you.’

  Elena, forgetting to be ashamed of her nakedness at those soothing words, gazed hypnotised into the woman’s spellbinding green eyes, took the goblet and drank deeply. It was delicious, tasting of honey and sunshine, and strange, exotic fruits. Almost immedi­ately her body was filled with a flooding sensation of languor. She gave a blissful little sigh and leaned back against the side of the tub, her eyes closed.

  A smile flickered round Isobel’s mouth as she studied her carefully by the light of the glimmering can
dles. Aimery was right. The girl was astonishingly beautiful for a Saxon peasant, with that sweet, heart-shaped face, and the full, curved lips, and the glorious golden hair that cascaded round her shoulders and curled into little tendrils where it was damp.

  And her breasts! High and firm, they darkened deliriously into tiny rosebud crests. She was young, surely untouched. Isobel licked her lips and drew in her breath sharply. The girl stirred and her eyes flew open.

  ‘Let me take the goblet,’ Isobel said soothingly, taking the vessel from the girl’s nerveless hands. ‘And then let me finish washing you, my dear. You must be so tired -’

  And, before the girl could protest, she picked up the scented soap and the washing cloth, and began, with light, circling strokes, to lave at her shoulders.

  Elena felt light, as if she were floating. She felt exquisitely calm and carefree after that wonderful heal­ing drink. This woman, so beautiful and kind, was truly her friend.

  Isobel’s busy hands worked carefully at first, so as not to disturb her. She washed her shoulders and arms with gentle thoroughness, as a maid would have done.

  But then, her white hands soft with soap, she slid her fingers round Elena’s ribcage, and slipped them upwards to caress her soft, virginal breasts.

  Elena gasped, and went rigid. Her eyes, which had been slowly closing with the heady effect of the wine, flew open in alarm.

  Isobel said softly, ‘Relax, my dear. Let me bathe you properly. You have no need to be ashamed of your beautiful body. After all, you are a lady of the castle, are you not? And this is what fine ladies do to one another.’

  Elena nodded dumbly, because she couldn’t speak. Isobel was kneading her nipples so slowly and exquis­itely that the pleasure melted her and set up hot, churning sensations in her belly. She felt her breasts swelling and tugging, aching for some nameless release. Oh, what was happening to her? Her breath was coming rapidly and she could feel her cheeks burning with shame. She had to escape, and yet she didn’t want this beautiful lady to stop. Her jutting nipples danced beneath Isobel’s soapy caresses, and she felt a sweet, blissful ache in the soft, secret flesh between her legs. She suddenly thought of Aimery the Breton and quiv­ered, as if his scornful eyes were watching her coldly. Her mouth went dry, and she felt herself ache for Isobel’s cool hands to continue their work, to soothe her throbbing breasts, to -

  Isobel stopped. She had watched the young Saxon slave’s sweet, tormented little face, watched as her lips parted tremulously and her thighs rubbed against one another in an effort to sooth the exquisite need. She was thrusting her breasts involuntarily towards Isobel, trying to find those cool palms again. Definitely time to stop, decided Isobel, before she took her beyond the brink. Aimery would be angry if she went any further.

  Isobel sighed. It was quite obvious that this stupid, naive girl was totally ignorant about her own body -had never even pleasured herself, brought herself to a feeble, solitary orgasm. How angry Aimery would be if he missed her first one.

  Isobel was aware that she had probably overdone the wine too. She prayed that the girl would stay awake long enough for their purposes.

  Reluctantly, Isobel de Morency got to her feet. The girl watched her, obviously shaken. Her vivid blue eyes were hazed with sexual longing.

  ‘Come along, my dear’ said Isobel a trifle sharply. Time to join the lord Aimery.’ Isobel was excited herself now at the thought of Aimery waiting for them. She called the maidservant, and watched as Alys dressed the sweetly-scented Saxon slave girl in a silk chemise, fine stockings that were gartered above the knee, and a pretty dark blue gown of softest wool that matched her eyes. The bodice was laced at the front, like Isobel’s, and the finishing touch was a lovely silver girdle tied round her waist. Then Alys helped Elena to buckle on some dainty little shoes of dark red leather, and finally brushed out her long golden hair and let it hang loosely, a shimmering gauze around her shoulders.

  Isobel, surveying the bewildered Elena in her new finery, suddenly didn’t feel quite so pleased with Aim-ery’s latest acquisition. The girl was truly beautiful, more beautiful than perhaps Isobel had realised at first. Her skin was ivory-pale and delicate, not like the nut-brown hue of the other Saxon serfs. And she was young - several years younger than Isobel de Morency.

  Isobel frowned. But she could cope with it, couldn’t she? Aimery needed her - she inflamed his blood. No other woman could satisfy him, because he grew bored with their adoration and their desperate, clinging ways. Whereas Isobel was useful to him, because she under­stood his need to use and humiliate these stupid Saxon girls who became his slaves. For that was all the wench was - a slave - and she’d be reminded of that soon enough. Isobel would see to that.

  Only once had she lost him for a while, and that was to that Saxon witch, Madelin, who’d all but destroyed him.

  ‘You look quite lovely, my dear Elena,’ Isobel said graciously. Elena overwhelmed by her new finery, smiled shyly up at her, and Isobel took her by the hand.

  Aimery was waiting for them in his private chamber. Usually he ate in the great hall below, with his soldiers and retainers, but tonight he’d had food brought upstairs so he could dine alone. He’d almost finished, and the remains of the feast - roast fowl, succulent venison, white manchet bread and pork with honeyed apples - lay about the table.

  He dismissed the waiting manservant when Isobel came in with Elena, and stood up. ‘Be seated at the table,’ he said courteously to Elena, extending one firm, well-shaped hand. ‘And take what you want to eat.’

  Elena gazed up at him, speechless. Aimery le Sabrenn, the vile beast of rumour, at whose very name the elderly nuns used to cross themselves, was actually smiling at her. And as he smiled she realised, with a little jolt that made her heart pound, that in spite of the cruel scar he was the most devastatingly handsome man she had ever seen. His smile made her feel faint as his thin lips twisted. She sat down suddenly in the chair he indicated and stared at the table, her senses swimming. Isobel sat down too, opposite Elena.

  ‘There is spiced venison here, or perhaps you would prefer the chicken?’ the Breton offered graciously, push­ing a dish towards her.

  Thank you, my lord,’ muttered Elena, not able to meet his eyes. ‘But I am not hungry.’

  ‘Some wine, then?’ He thrust a goblet towards her. Elena grabbed at it and drank thirstily, because her mouth was suddenly burning dry. She put it down when it was empty, and closed her eyes as the sweet liquid trickled down her throat.

  When she opened them, something had happened. Aimery had sat down again at Isobel’s side; and she, Elena, might as well not have been in the room. Most of the candles had been snuffed out; only two remained alight, glimmering from their iron sconces on the wall. Shadows leaped from the log fire, bringing to life the hazy, mysterious figures on the tapestries that adorned the bare flint walls. Her head swam. Aimery and the lady Isobel weren’t even touching. But there was some­thing about the way they looked at each other …

  Elena felt her pulse racing, her blood pounding thickly with the wine she’d drunk. She gazed in horri­fied fascination, unable to tear her eyes away as she saw how the Breton was dipping the sweet red grapes in his wine and dropping them, very slowly, between Isobel’s red lips. The lady accepted them with pleasure, gazing all the time into his strange silver eyes; then, as he slowly inserted yet another grape, she nipped at his hand with her perfect white teeth, and caught his flesh between her lips, and sucked and sucked. Aimery smiled slowly, and Elena watched in dazed disbelief as the tiny tip of Isobel’s tongue caressed her lord’s lean, sun-browned finger.

  Elena caught her breath and leaned forward in her chair, her limbs strangely on fire. The soft silk of her chemise tantalised her scented flesh. She clenched her hands.

  Isobel looked at her and smiled. Then she gazed into Aimery’s eyes again and slowly, very slowly, she unlaced the bodice of her beautiful green dress and slipped it down to expose her white, perfect breasts. They gleamed with the milky white
ness of pearls in the soft candlelight.

  Aimery dipped his finger in the wine. Completely ignoring the wide-eyed, trembling Saxon girl, he circled his moist finger round each of Isobel’s nipples in turn, totally absorbed in his task. Darker and larger than Elena’s, the delicate buds of erectile tissue stood out proudly to meet his sensuous caress. Aimery paused, watching, then reached out both his hands to cup her full breasts together. Isobel shuddered. Then, as Elena watched, hypnotised, the Breton lowered his head as if in homage, and took each of her breasts in turn into his worshipping mouth. Elena could see his sensual, curved tongue licking and circling the quivering flesh. She saw how Isobel threw her head back, her eyes closed, her breath coming in short, ragged pants as she gripped his shoulders with a sudden, fierce hunger.

  Elena felt wave after wave of hot, shameful emotion washing over her helpless body. She knew that she should turn and run. But she couldn’t move. She felt her own heated blood surge and pulse as Aimery’s mouth devoured the lady Isobel’s tender breasts. An almost unbearable ache was rising down at the pit of her taut stomach, and her own swollen breasts seemed to be thrusting against the confines of her tight bodice, the turgid nipples hot and painful. Oh, she thought, with a sudden flood of shame, how cool the Breton’s cruel mouth would be against her own burning flesh! He was teasing Isobel now, his firm hands lightly spanning her waist; she could see how his tongue was darting and flicking at her thrusting, creamy breasts, while Isobel writhed and panted in his embrace. Elena gripped the edge of the table, and a tiny moan of longing escaped from her parted lips.

  They both heard her. Aimery stopped his exquisite torment of his lady; raising his head, he turned slowly towards Elena, and smiled his slow, crooked smile. Isobel lay back in her chair panting, her lovely face flushed and contorted, her body still quivering. As if -as if he had hurt her. But he hadn’t, surely? Elena’s small face twisted in bewilderment.