Chateau of Passion

by Monica Bentley

  Nevertheless, a challenge had been laid, answered and now must be honored.

  Tristen forced his mind past yet one more witch’s chuckle and laid it to rest at the feet of whatever the gods of war should desire.

  Striding up to the Commander, Tristen laid one hand on the hilt of his rapier, and lifted another while bowing with a simple flourish.

  “Don’t bother, you useless whelp!” du Guesclin barked out.

  Keeping his face turned to the ground it was all Tristen could do to avoid breaking out in a wide smile. The Commander barked only at those times that he chose not to bite.

  Tristen straightened with a simple, “Sir.”

  Brusquely jerking a nod at him, du Guesclin moved away from the knot of soldiers. Following him, Tristen saw beyond his shoulder the Duchess de Berry wearing a face that wore in alternating flashes that chased each across her face: resentment, excitement and sheer lust.

  Turning to face him, the Commander rasped out, “I ordered you to keep him from turning the lads into corpses, not to make him one.”

  Tristen pursed his lips for a moment, struggling almost in vain to choke down a cheeky reply. The lust of battle was in him. He could feel it. It was making his heart hammer. His limbs were growing liquid. Eager to move. To dominate. To kill. His fingers were thick with blood, flexing, hardening, ready to draw. He stared down at them, forcing himself to calm, at least for another moment.

  He replied, “May be my opponent finds it easier to bluff his way through a duel than actually sit down and craft a battle plan.”

  du Guesclin chuffed. The left hand on his sword hilt was moving, its fingers beating out a rhythm. One Tristen had seen before. The Commander was bemused. He didn’t know whether to punish or hail. Tristen waited.

  They all waited. On the Commander. Tristen kept his eyes on his own hands, flexing. Hardening, thickening, beating with his heart. Flexing. Tristen swore he could pick out the Duchess’ panting in the crowd of heaving breaths surrounding them. After all, he thought with a whimsical turn, he had heard her pants before.

  “You pink him. Nothing more.”

  du Guesclin’s boots moved away as Tristen nodded obeisance.

  Smoothly pivoting into an en garde, his eyes caught a cloud of white blonde hair some distance away with brawny arms cradling a child swathed in pink, and the largest breasts he had ever seen. Captivated, just as he sensed the Duchess’ eyes following his glance to those enormous teats, he just missed the Commander’s rapped out order, “Begin!”

  Almost.

  For Sebastien had darted his rapier into a lunge just before the Commander had spoken. Right? Oh well, Tristen sighed, not really minding. All in a day’s work. Time was slowing down again. He could feel his heart beating out a rhythm as enthralling as those breasts not too far distant. What was it like to lick them, he wondered. To suckle them? Saint Denis! What a joy!

  He was drawing a circle with the tip of his own rapier, sliding a parry that – with a flick of his wrist – threw the Burgundian’s sword wide. Just a King’s Inch or two. But enough. Still thinking of that cloud of white hair, wondering what those brawny arms could do – could they hold her up, for instance – her thick hands pressing down on his hips as she thrust herself up and down, up and down his swelling cock? Maybe? Still thinking of those milky white breasts and the flashing dark blue eyes above them that he could make out now, he abruptly decided not to end this so quickly. Instead, he slipped one foot past Sebastien’s left hip and prepared to circle entirely around...when he looked right into the cold eyes of the Commander.

  Sighing, he pivoted quickly enough to flick the tip across Sebastien’s ass, pinking him, lightly.

  The Burgundian howled with rage.

  Tristen could feel, rather than hear, du Guesclin’s annoyed tapping of the fingers on his hilt.

  “Enough!”

  Tristen sheathed his rapier while turning back to follow the Commander and learn what punishment awaited him. A hot flash seared through his shoulder. Without thinking, he stepped through, spinning and drawing to parry the late thrust into his armpit before it could be completed.

  Well! Impressed in spite of himself, he prepared to dispatch his opponent no matter what his orders.

  “Cease, damn you!”

  He froze, du Guesclin’s harsh command ringing in his ears.

  A low murmur among the crowd had started. A restless muttering. Tristen noticed several looks of awe directed at him from the people. Not least those dark blue eyes, he smiled. As well as the Duchess’ stare, he caught, thinking hard. None of those admiring looks were directed at Sebastien. Far from it.

  “He moved falsely! You all saw it!” Sebastien’s anxious cries strove to override the growing whispers, assuage the dark glances thrown at him.

  Yet du Guesclin was angry with Tristen. Really angry. He didn’t even have to look at the Commander to understand that. Hurt, and not a little indignant given the Burgundian’s last thrust, Tristen sheathed his rapier again while glowering at the floor.

  Moving to the Commander’s side, he heard the muttered rasp, “ I expect better, boy.”

  Choking down a reply, he nodded and followed du Guesclin through the crowd, Sebastien’s shouts, growing indignant now in the face of the slowly swelling murmurs, following them.

  * 5 *

  Tempeste roared out her orgasm but continued pumping up and down on Aluin’s cock, watching his eyes very carefully. Loving this moment, that moment when the pleasure became so intense for the boy that his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he almost passed out, she never failed to savor it. In years past, before capturing Tristen – her one, true love – the knights she had captured, no matter how strong, no matter how brawnily muscled, had always stopped thrusting just after their cumming began. It had never occurred to her that a man could draw out the delicious sensations of her waves of orgasm by continuing to thrust long afterward. Not until Tristen, anyway. She had asked him once how he managed to keep going. Panting, almost frantically, he had muttered something like “I keep my mind on the task at hand like the Commander says.”

  (Which had made her think du Guesclin must be a tremendous lover. However, subsequent viewings through her portal, such as just before the sack of Brionde, quickly put that fallacy to rest.)

  Slowing to a stop as Aluin’s moans died out, she reflected on his changed form. He had opted for golden skin today, which was much nicer than the sky blue that he had chosen for the last week. His honey eyes, which were dark brown a few days earlier, fluttered. Even his formerly lank, sparse hair of dingy brown was now a full head of rich, curly golden locks. He had been having fun, that much was clear.

  After shamelessly enjoying his new cock for a few days, Tempeste had begun to feel a bit sheepish about what she had done to his body without asking permission. But, then, how could she? It’s not like he would have understood what he would have been getting into, anyway. At any rate, right about the time that she could see that he was really beginning to enjoy their endless fucking, she began to feel guilty about ruthlessly taking control of his body in that manner. However, not wanting to return his cock to its former, puny size, after pacing all night one long, dark period – asking herself relentlessly what Enchanteur would do – she decided that it was time to teach Aluin his first spell. PiatsoNe, the shape-shifting one. She taught him how to elongate his pinky nail. He passed out several times from the acute pain that he was causing his left hand. But she was impressed to see that, as soon as he came to, he doggedly went back to work at it.

  All too soon, after several days try, he had turned his left appendage into a finely muscled hand with thick, stubby fingers. It looked comically out of proportion to the rest of his arm, so she suggested that he work his way up. And he had. His left arm complete, she suggested mirroring the effect with his right one. Which he also did. She noticed then that the changes were coming sooner, which really intrigued her.

  Soon, all she did all day was watch him work. Wa
tch him learn. It was fascinating. She found herself wondering if this was what it had been like for Enchanteur in her early days, when she still had gone by her birth name of Jeanne. Aluin flailed and failed, sometimes spectacularly, sometimes with a wild wail of bewildered panic that aroused her pity enough to make her step in and help him. She had even lent him her mirror – the one that Enchanteur had taught her to make with silver nitrate and lye – though she was a bit disgusted to see that the boy’s efforts slowed down after that as he spent so much time simply staring at himself in the looking glass. Nevertheless, she kept watching him work, watching him fail, watching his delight when it was clear that he had succeeded, watching him think. Watching his mind grow. She found herself positing all kinds of odd ideas about how his mind must have little traffic wardens like at the Great Market in cities such as Rennes or Nantes or in the Il de la Cité. The thoughts just showed up, much like peasant farmers in their carts to sell their wares, and were directed to their proper destination, much like designated market stalls, by the traffic wardens. This technique did not work, so the traffic warden deemed it a bad one and marked it for destruction. That technique did work, so the the traffic warden marked it for storage and later repetition or even emulation.

  As the days became weeks, she noticed that Aluin was clearly fashioning his body into the emulation of some other person he had seen. Perhaps a strong man in some village or at some carnival, who made his daily bread picking up calves and throwing them over his shoulders. She let him. She also noticed that he had a poor understanding of the beauty inherent in proportion. She considered for a few hours teaching him the wonders of Thomas Aquinas – much to her shock she was actually finding some use for the medieval ascetic – and his inquiry into proportion, beauty and how the mind of God was revealed in each. But decided against it. She wasn’t sure that Aluin would get it. She also wasn’t sure that she could explain it. Enchanteur might have been a complete pain in the arse, but he had been an excellent teacher.

  Besides, she didn’t really like the way the boy was getting so fascinated by his own beauty. It kept reminding her of the classical morality tale of Narcissus. Years earlier, as she had noticed how the gentlemen at Court stared longer at larger bosoms than smaller ones, she had briefly considered enlarging her own. She had, just a bit, more out of curiosity than anything. It had felt odd all at once with more weight in front of her, making her a bit off balance. She wasn’t sure that she liked it, but decided to let things ride as they were. Enchanteur, of course, had not noticed the tiniest change. In any case, she soon lost interest in the whole subject and had moved on. No, wash her hair with lavender lye or treat her skin with a rose cream both of which she made herself. That seemed in keeping with the typical flow of the day. (Not that she had been recently, or even at all for quite a while, she suddenly realized with a pang.) But alter the features she had been born with? That seemed a bit...overdone, she thought. She wasn’t sure why, but watching Aluin admire his muscular golden abs in the mirror just now, she marked that question for later consideration and returned her attention to his head.

  It was a pipsqueak head. Much smaller in proportion to the vastly muscular body that he had sculpted for himself using PiatsoNe. Indeed, it was so far out of proportion to the rest of his body that she had chuckled out loud upon first seeing it. Aluin, however, had been too entranced to notice, distracted as he was with his new chest, complete with newly enhanced trapezius muscles along the top of the shoulder stretching along the collarbone to the neck. (She had had to think for a long day before remembering the classical Greek term for the muscle. But, as Enchanteur had at one point made her study Hippocrates’ Corpus alongside illustrations of Phidias’ sculptures – which had made her think seriously of strangling her master in his sleep – it finally came to her.)

  Her initial inclination was to step in and correct the boy’s error, just as Enchanteur used to. But, remembering her vexation with that method of instruction, she decided to wait for Aluin to figure out the mistake in proportion by himself. As the days passed however, and he moved from shape-shifting his body into changing its coloring – after he had begged her for the TingeNeRe spell that matched one object’s hue with another – she realized that he might very well not understand.

  There were moments, such as now, when she felt oddly guilty about letting him go about looking so awkwardly, comically absurd like that. Yet, there were other moments where, for some reason that she could not place her finger on, it merely felt safer to let things remain as they were. So, again, she let it go.

  Regardless, all this self-indulgence on his part was having an effect on her. It made her want to wash. With a twirl, she moved herself up into Tristen’s room. She flung open the archway door to the rich sound of birdsong in order to bring up some water and wood when she was suddenly appalled at how dingy the room had grown. Even her dresses hung lank, dusty, grease-smeared. The silk bedsheets and velvet coverings, long ago a sapphire hue, now stained almost to black. The walls stank of a dusky white and green mold that had sprung up the room’s entire circumference. The table, the goblet from which Tristen used to drink, was covered in dust. The brightly colored gems decorating the flagon were now dull, the silver tarnished a dark gray. And to think that his lips had touched it. Repeatedly! Abruptly ashamed of herself, she set about the hours long task of cleaning up.

  Years earlier, she had learned that using her mind worked quite well for simple tasks such as chopping wood, carrying water or daily washings of her clothing. When it came to more complex tasks such as deep cleaning and, it appeared, minute repairs, however, there was no substitute for the detailed attention and care that only the fingers and the eyes provided. Thus, while lifting firewood and water up to the chamber to put on the boil was accomplished in moments, washing everything would clearly take some time.

  Besides, the back of her mind carped, didn’t she deserve some punishment for dishonoring his memory?

  *****

  “Hello?”

  She irritably wiped away some tears – brought on by the painful thought that she was currently washing out the last remnants of Tristen’s smell from the bedsheets – and turned to face the boy.

  “What do you want?”

  He was standing on the landing, just outside the archway, looking through the open door. His muscled shoulders and abs oddly not sexually enticing for her today. His pipsqueak head atop the gorgeous hunk of manflesh looking more absurd than ever.

  “Can I help you?”

  She was stunned into silence at that. She briefly considered flinging him down the stone stairs that encircled the Tower as they rose to this top chamber. She even smiled a moment at the thought of making his pipsqueak head bounce on each one all the way down. But, her smile freezing, she realized that Tristen would not approve. The boy had offered assistance, after all.

  “To do what?”

  “Clean. Scrub. Rinse. Dry. Iron. I’m good at it now. You taught me, Mistress, remember?”

  She blinked at the honorific. Aluin had never used it before.

  “Get some lye. Lots of it. You can start on the floor.”

  *****

  Exasperated with the boy the next day, and against her better judgment, she taught him the moving spell, Alajistu. He had tripped while carrying some freshly washed dresses out, down the winding stairs to hang and dry in the wind. The dresses wound up in a particularly noxious mud puddle and had had to be redone.

  At the time, the image of tearing that gorgeous body – which was now colored lime green – limb from limb flashed briefly through her mind. Instead, the memory of Tristen’s glance calmed her, the sound of his quiet “Shhhh,” that was his own, one, magic spell, calming her as she heard it in her ears. He used to use it on her when she was having a very bad night, with horrifying dreams of being left by her father or even her mother. Tristen would hold her gently, but firmly, tightly pressed against all his delicious hardness and whisper that “Everything will be okay.”

&nbs
p; Instead, she taught the boy how to move a pine cone. Alajistu was a difficult spell to master. Or maybe she had found it difficult to master since it was the first that Enchanteur had ever taught her. In any case, for some reason, Aluin found it difficult as well. Or maybe he simply got so flustered as she kept losing her temper with him. Right at those moments that she heard Enchanteur’s voice in her head maddeningly reminding her that spells were better cast when the mind was calm. Whatever the reason, mastering the spell wound up interrupting their work for several days to no avail. Curiously, that made her feel better. Why, she could not say. In the end, after seeing nothing beyond the occasional jerking back and forth of the cone, she finally gave up and made him carry everything by hand, as before.

  Who knew how many days later, they were sitting at the table in Tristen’s room. The table fairly gleamed with new polish (made with heated beeswax mixed with lard). As did the chairs. The flagon shone as well from a severe rubbing with a polish (made of hartshorn, or ground deer antler tips, mixed with vinegar) that cut through the tarnish. The bed was freshly made, the sheets and coverings now their old rich sapphire hue. Her velvet dresses with matching slippers all carefully washed and hung around the walls. The iron pot was full of water, firewood neatly stacked in and next to the fireplace, ready to be used. A wren piped happily outside the freshly washed window, now open to the scents of a sunny afternoon.

  “Why do you hide behind the mist?”

  That was a surprise.

  He looked at her, then down at the table, nervously.