Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE – Chateau of Passion
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Tower of Lust
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She was giving in again. She cursed herself as his soft lips tenderly caressed her nipples. She loved that feeling. She knew that he didn’t mean it. She knew that his heart was not nearly so gentle as his lips, his fingertips would suggest.
Yet, she couldn’t help it. If only the one true love, the one whom she truly wanted would return her affections.
Besides, this felt so good. His tongue was moving down her her belly now, tickling her as he went. Would he? Would he lick her pussy? No man does anymore. If any ever did. Only in the legends, whispered among young girls around a campfire at night or among her ladies-in-waiting in the dark, silk-clad corners of her night chamber when they thought her asleep.
Would he? He was drawing closer.
His tongue paused to touch the hip bone of one thigh, dancing around. Jerking, she felt her pussy leap up at him, to her embarrassment. She needed it so. Not him. No, she wanted her true love. But she couldn’t help herself. She jerked again as he moved closer to her labia, to her nub.
Oh, why wouldn’t he respond to her so?
* 1 *
Lela stooped to pluck a cup-shaped flower, white petals with a golden heart in the middle. What had Katya called it? Ane...anemo...anemone. That was right. Katya had said that they grew in her snowy homeland. Katya liked them for that very reason – they reminded her of home.
Lela decided right then and there that she liked it because it reminded her of Katya.
Her one, true friend. Carried off by the condottiere, the armed brigands, flooding Provence in southern Francia those days. Lela always remembered that night with a shiver. He, his bloody teeth glinting in the night, or so she always remembered him in her nightmares. He had seen her, screaming frantically for her father, trying to get away. He had seen the silver braids worked in her hair. She had seen his eyes run right over them, his fists clenching the reins of his war charger harder. Had ridden straight for her until, without warning, Katya had stood in his way. Then, his horse rearing, his greedy eyes had fastened on her friend’s huge breasts, milky white in the moonlight. He had snatched Katya up without a thought, thrusting aside Lela’s belated attempt to stop him with flick of his quirt, sending her sprawling on the muddy ground and in her own tears. Until she had had the brains to crawl behind a wheelbarrow that was lying on its side.
She never forgot Katya. Others prayed to Saint Genevieve, the patron saint for the women of West Francia. Not Lela. She prayed to Katya. Her friend, captured from the cold and icy lands so far away in the north, had become a valkyrie. Lela was sure of it. Her friend had become a goddess who rode on the winged horses of the sky, soaring over battles, plucking the souls of those warriors about to die just as they suffered the killing stroke. And carried them to Valhalla to drink mead, eat sides of beef, and sing war songs forever. They even...
Lela blushed at that thought.
Late at night, they used to talk of men. Of their cocks, hard and soft, large and small. Their hips hair, bushy and full. Their tongues, sweet as the devil and just as dangerous unless, Katya had smiled, “a girl was wanting.” Lela had smiled back thinking of Marcel, the handsome mayor’s son of neighboring Avignon. He had jet black hair and a smile that made her knees weak. A girl was wanting...
Smiling at the memory, she wondered what had ever happened to her childhood crush. Something about Marcel being sent as a royal hostage of Avignon to Paris. She remembered envying him being able to see the great cathedral of Notre-Dame with its amazing wheel stained glass windows, or rose windows as some called them. Or the great halls of the guilds of Paris, with their soaring arches in even the smallest of buildings, designed to emulate the great cathedrals of Francia. Or the University of Paris, on the left bank of the Seine. Even in Avignon, she had heard of the university, usually cursed in disparaging terms for its wild ideas that bordered on heresy. The great Franciscan monk Bonaventura had taught there. As did the great Dominican Thomas Aquinas. Rumors abounded of the way their most dedicated students would storm the rival teacher’s classroom, upending tables to create a riot and disturb the lecture. Then, go on to some local watering hole and drink themselves silly. Or worse, Katya used to smile... It had all sounded like so much fun. Well, she thought, wherever Marcel wound up she was certain it was a lot more exciting than the family villa of her youth.
She paused outside in the fields of Brionde and looked up at the chateau. She sat in the meadow to watch it for a while. Her attendants – Guardsmen all now, for John insisted on it – flowed along with her, more silent than any river, any stream. Never saying a word. Always watching. Not out of fear for her vexation, she knew, but for “the Master’s.” As she sat, they stopped, facing outward as John had trained them to.
The chateau’s rebuilding was proceeding apace. It was half a year now after du Guesclin’s band of condottiere had sacked the palace, killing Henri-Phillipe or, as everyone had called him, “m’Lord.” She had preferred the term “teeny-dicked Walrus.” John had been away at the time, sent by m’Lord to burn to the ground a Cistercian abbey in remote Provence. This terrifying act of sacrilege was part of m’Lord’s ongoing power struggle with the King. Lela had stopped paying attention after that, still stunned in horror at the thought of all those monks dying, leaping, burning from the walls, as m’Lord had ordered. That the abbey was her dowry, brought to m’Lord in marriage, only made her angrier, for it affronted her pride. Nevertheless, as the glasses passed that awful afternoon since learning of the news, her pride vanished leaving only naked fear for the kindly, gentle monks she had visited a number of times before making the long trip northwest to Brittany and her marriage in Chateau Brionde. The thought that they could die, roasted alive, all their beautiful manuscripts burned, all the help that the abbey gave to surrounding Provence villages wiped out...!
When she had sent for the Master out of desperation late that night, he had responded. On bended knee, as she experienced – not for the first time – the strong desire to caress those muscular shoulders and the hair he wore long, John promised to get the monks out before setting the fire. Then, as her entreaties continued, he grudgingly promised to set a fire that could easily be put out. Shaking his head, he had left quickly after that, before she could ask for any more betrayals of m’Lord’s direct orders.
He had taken his three fiercest Guardsmen with him on that long journey to the southeast, all the way to the Mediterranean, where she had grown up as a girl, in the shadow of the rival popes of Avignon, flinging their useless and much ignored writs of excommunication at the so-called “true” popes in Rome. Who were flinging just as many right back.
Nevertheless, marginal as they might have proven in terms of political power, the rival popes had built the Palais des Papes in thrilling Avignon. It was her favorite place in the thriving city, and she had often begged to see it when her father journeyed in from the villa for business with the city elders. The Palais des Papes, or Palace of the Popes, was the largest building she had ever seen, maybe even the largest that anyone had seen. Her father certainly thought so but, as a wealthy farmer and landowner, it was true that he had not traveled much. The Palais had hundreds of beautiful sculptures, of muscular men with rippling muscles of marble and hard abs that – only when others weren’t looking – she ran her fingers over again and again. To touch their cocks,
well, that was out of the question for the daughter of such a wealthy man. Her father may be a commoner – something m’Lord had never let her forget – but he did have his expectations about how his children should behave. Besides, there were also the sculptures of women, all done in the classical Greek style, Katya had told her. They had small breasts, “royal breasts” Katya had called them. Always with a significant look at her young friend, who blushed with pleasure at the thought that her small breasts had some use after all.
The tapestries were equally magnificent. There were several versions of a princess holding a unicorn in her lap, a story she absolutely adored. There were many of handsome knights on their fierce war chargers, hacking the heads off dragons or other knights. There was even a copy of the famed Bayeux Tapestry – over two hundred King’s feet long – which detailed the story of William the Conqueror’s invasion of England from Normandy, complete with the comet in the sky overhead proclaiming his victory in advance. “Or so William claimed,” Katya had always purred with a wink. She used to love telling the story about how the Conqueror tripped, climbing out of his invasion boat when stepping on his first English beach. He had fallen on his face! Yet, thinking quickly, he had jumped to his feet, claiming, “See! I have seized Angle-land with both hands!”
Katya was fascinated with the old stories, particularly of Normandy, or “Norsemandy” as she liked to call it, for it was founded by Vikings from her homeland. William the Conqueror may or may not have been descended from Rollo, the legendary Viking who was given Normandy by the King after sacking Paris. It didn’t matter. That his army had the requisite amount of Viking blood thumping in their veins to conquer the British isles was plain.
Katya was full of stories of her arid, frozen homeland that always sounded so odd when Lela listened to them among the hot, fragrant climes of the sunny Mediterranean. Her favorites were often of the women, such as the legendary shieldmaiden Lathgertha, or Lagertha as some called her. Lela would beg Katya for stories of Lathgertha – how she killed her husband, the legendary Ragnar, in a jealous rage, or how she was going to kill him for cheating but forgave him because he gave her so many sons, or how she just walked away one day after being fed up with the myriad ways he disrespected her, impressing the gods so much they made her a valkyrie instead. So many stories. So many legends. Which were true? Did it matter?
When she had first heard of shieldmaidens, Lela had dreamed of becoming one. However, as she had grown older, and it had become quite clear that her father intended her for marriage to some noble – duke, marquess or count, since a king was out of the question – it had become equally clear that a life spent learning the way of the sword was out of the question. Katya had mollified her with the thought that nobles have their important tasks in life, too.
Thus, a few harvests after Katya had been taken, and long after most of her tears for her friend had dried, Lela found herself betrothed to a man she had never met, Henri-Phillipe, Count of Brionde who lived far away in the north in a region called Brittany, peopled by those who called themselves Bretons. About the only consolation to this arrangement was that she might actually get to see Norsemandy for it lay just to the north. Maybe even meet someone descended from the legendary Rollo. It would bring her closer to Katya in some way.
It had taken her the turning of one hourglass to conclude that m’Lord was a twit on his only visit to her father’s villa. And one glass after that for him to brutally break her womanhood, leaving behind whatever paltry semen he could within her as he returned north. They had yet to take their vows together. Her mother had shushed her complaints with the admonition to be “the daughter your father has raised.” Lela barely knew what that meant.
She did know what Katya would do, slice the pig’s throat in his sleep their first night together. She resolved to do the same, even though she had no knife nor any way of procuring one. What would a lady of a chateau need with such a weapon? She didn’t even have a lady-in-waiting to ask the favor of silently procuring one.
Enter John.
Tall, muscular, incredibly gorgeous thighs whose sight occupied Lela for many, many glasses wondering what it would be like to be surrounded by, gripped by, thrust into by. Dark, piercing eyes that seemed to look deep within her on those rare occasions that she was allowed a private audience with him. Very few words. Almost frighteningly few words. And those only expressed in the brusquest of tones. So much for getting along with him! At least at first.
He was said to be of England. Of Dover with its white chalk cliffs that, on a bright day, one heard you could see across the sea from Norsemandy. That he had followed knights on the Crusades to the Holy Land. That he had spent a great deal of time in Sicily, a frequent resting site for the crusading armies. She had never been to Sicily, but her heart had warmed to this Master of the Chateau’s Guard even before meeting him. Instinctively, she knew they would get along, someday, if only because he, like her, had spent years under the hot sun of the south. She presumed that he had liked it. In the meantime, she kept her distance.
Brionde, she found to her utter disappointment, was a great deal cooler than she was used to. She always seemed to be cold. Could never warm up. Moreover, the forest’s colors were different. There were all wrong. Not that she would ever get to ride among them, as she had so frequently at home. No, she quickly learned, ladies of the chateau remained inside. All of the time. They had duties to perform. Servants to overlook and, if needed, to chasten. Cleanliness to inspect. Slovenliness to condemn. Knitting and embroidery to do. She hated knitting! And while she loved the results of embroidery, she had always avoided it like the plague at home. Even hawking was out of the question for ladies here.
After a few weeks of this, a small voice told her that she was failing her father. She could tell from the whispers that began to accompany her, the down-turned eyes that greeted her wherever she walked. She liked no one. She couldn’t help it. Even the Brionde dolphin flying in its royal blue on the bright yellow flag above the chateau she had quickly learned to despise the sight of. m’Lord was intolerable. The day of her arrival, he had tried raping her again. But this time she was ready. She complained of having the head-ache from her travels and, when he persisted, pretended to gag as if she were about to vomit. He had quickly left after that. Immensely relieved at the result, she performed her sham the next night. And the next. And the next. Finally, she heard whispers that he had gone back to fucking the maidservants of the chateau.
At least that made life somewhat easier. Other aspects were not. The daily cooking quickly became a daily burden to choke down with a mustered up smile. She had always delighted in the simmering, spicy hot dishes of Provence. Katya had teased her about growing fat before her time because she ate so much! (So, they would go for longer rides to wear it all off.) Such flavorful treats was all she had ever known. Brionde’s cooking was bland. Not a chili in sight! So bland as to be almost tasteless. She quickly imagined that she were a princess trapped in a castle by a dragon, such as in one of Katya’s stories, force-fed tasteless gruel daily.
Even the fashions were off-putting. They wore so much clothing here, so many layers, so much wool. And they were shapeless! She much preferred the free-flowing, saucy lines of Avignon.
Convinced that her ladies-in-waiting were spies reporting back to m’Lord, she got rid of them as quickly as she could each day, spending glasses all by herself, wandering the inner walls of the chateau. She contented herself with observing the daily life of the chateau and the village just outside the Gate. She enjoyed watching the Guard’s morning archery practice on the top of the walls until the Master had realized that her presence was sending too many shots wide of the target. (Miss the target and the offending Guardsman had to immediately run all the way down to the ground to fetch the arrow.) The Master hadn’t had to say anything. His hard, fierce look at her turned her bowels to water, and she had gone away. After that, she contented herself with only watching their afternoon rapier practice, from a window in t
he Keep, several levels above the practice yard. Their muscular, sweaty chests and rippling thighs revealed in their dark brown, tight breeches during a lunge never failed to divert.
For a while.
As the weeks went by, in her mirror, she saw a face growing gaunter. Sadder. She knew she was failing her family. She was growing more and more sure of it each day. If she were sent home to Provence, she imagined that she would be sent in shame to a convent. Her father wanted a noble grandson so desperately. He wanted a coat of arms to claim as his own. Earned the old-fashioned way. He didn’t want to have to buy one. He despised the merchants in town who were doing so. When drunk, he had dreamed out loud about it incessantly. She had been proud to listen to him. How he had figured out how to expand his own father’s small holding, then add to it, then add further lands to that, until he had stopped working in the fields altogether and had hired a steward to manage the lands for him. He had needed the time to dream up new ways of growing his holdings. With those dreams had come the coat of arms desire. She had been so proud of him.
How she had missed so clearly that she was intended to bring him that coat of arms by fucking a dick-less Walrus, she could never quite make out.
Yet, there it was.
One night, in a drunken rage, m’Lord threw his goblet at her head, screaming, “I’ll give you the head-ache! Or I’ll send you back!” There it was.
Not able to sleep that night, she had wandered the walls until she had followed the steps down to the ground. So tired she could barely think, she wandered across the Guard’s practice yard and, spotting the bench in front of the Master’s hut, made for it. She sat upon it and, looking up at the moon, realized that her eyes were swimming with tears.
Until his door opened. Silently. For there he was.
“m’Lady.” His gruff voice hacked out the title.
Chateau of Longing Page 1
