Chateau of Longing

by Monica Bentley

  She wiped her cheeks, made to get up, while apologizing. Yet, his hand abruptly chopped the air, motioning for her to sit. Without a word, she obeyed. And, then, to her great surprise, he knelt before her.

  Taking her hand in his scarred, rough ones, easily swallowing her delicate fingers with his fist, he caressed her palm, lightly, surprisingly gently and only once. Then, he softly returned it to her lap.

  He was looking down. He spoke. “m’Lady. I am a-worried about two girls.”

  Not knowing what else to do, she nodded.

  “One will be a harlot if not given a demanding task. The other will be beaten to dust if not looked after.” Then, he had told her of a tradesman’s daughter named Coletta whose breasts and hips had come in early, “far sooner than her head” he said.

  Lela had to smile at that characterization. It made the Master interesting to her. Most men she knew would have found a way to attend to Coletta’s needs in some other fashion.

  “Is she trustworthy?” she asked him.

  He nodded.

  “Send her to me. She may make a good lady-in-waiting. And the other?”

  He told her of Twig, a bony, starved-thin waif of a child whose mother had been killed in a recent raid by condottiere. She had found work in the kitchen, but Adalene, the kitchen mistress was “too heavy with the hand that chastiseth” he said.

  Lela shook her head. She didn’t quite know what she could do about that. Take on a lady-in-waiting of her own choosing, particularly a rescue, such as in a stray pet? That made sense. That was in her power. But to upbraid the kitchen mistress – one of the most respected staff in the chateau? That was something entirely different.

  He waited. His knee must be growing tired, she realized, and for an instant, she had the wicked thought of seeing how long she could keep him kneeling. Katya would have. She was sure of it. For the thrill if nothing else.

  But she needed a friend. And a scary Guardsman so gruff she doubted she would ever get two words out of him about Sicily would have to do. She looked up at the moon for inspiration and, as angry as she was with him, was suddenly struck by her father’s uncanny ability to negotiate, well, anything.

  “What does she need?” Then, realizing what she had just said, she corrected. “The kitchen mistress.”

  He blinked at that, his lips pursed in thought, yet saying nothing.

  She tried a smile. “What does she want then?”

  He snorted at that and looked away. If she wasn’t sure, and it was certainly too dark to see, she would have thought that he was blushing.

  “You, perhaps?” she took a stab.

  He looked down again, for several heartbeats. Then nodded.

  “Tell her to stop beating the child so much.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “She’ll listen to you.”

  He chuffed.

  “Then let her give you a Parisian Kiss from time to time.”

  He looked at her in confusion.

  Blushing herself now that she was saying it, she muttered, “A blowjob.” Katya had called them that. Had described them, how to do one, and how much men liked them.

  She repeated, “The kitchen mistress will listen to you then.”

  He was looking down again. Well. Was he going to turn down free blowjobs? He was not married. Didn’t have a sweetheart. He was a topic of endless gossip for that. She had even heard her ladies-in-waiting whisper about his supposed staying power, heard from market girls.

  Lela was really starting to wonder about this man.

  So, she asked. “What do you need?”

  So swiftly that she blinked, he answered, “Better meat pies for the Guard.”

  Just as swiftly she found herself wondering about it for weeks afterward, she replied, “You shall have it.”

  He sat, then, curling one foot under his butt. His finely toned ass, she mused with a wistful sigh, then shushed those thoughts. But not before one peeped about gently running her fingers over those curves.

  He was saying nothing. And that was just fine. They sat for several more moments in silence.

  He let her. He didn’t rise. He didn’t make a noise as if he should be going. He didn’t even, courtier-like, suggest that she should return to the Keep for her safety or warmth or something like that. He let her.

  So, she ventured. “I’m failing my father.”

  He nodded. Another surprise. Not that the Master knew, she snorted. Everybody knew. No, it was that he would give her the gift of acknowledging her failure so openly, so honestly. So gently, she thought, noting that he was keeping his eyes on the ground. Gently. What she needed most now.

  She teared up and struggled to keep those same tears of out of her voice. “I’m so unhappy here.”

  He sighed. A deep sigh. Then, he rumbled, “Change things.”

  “How?” her broken voice went up a few notes. Louder than she intended.

  Inside the hut she heard a rustling. Damn! Why did she have to be such a fool?! Why couldn’t she just...!

  “To bed,” the Master barked out.

  The rustling quickly ceased. It must have been Louis, the Master’s ward, she realized. A tavern boy that the Master had recently take under wing. She knew it wasn’t a market girl because her ladies-in-waiting gossiped that Louis had to sleep outside on this bench whenever the Master was having a girl over for the night. Staying power. She wondered about that and shushed her wayward thoughts again. Focus!

  After another several heartbeats of silence in which she hardly dared to breathe, the Master grunted out, “You are m’Lady.”

  Now, she was chuffing. In disgust.

  “I don’t have that power.”

  He grunted again, the same words, more decisively. “You are m’Lady.”

  She had to think about that.

  In the meantime, she abruptly decided to go for all. Why not? She was being sent back to Provence in shame soon anyway. It was only a matter of days.

  “A lady who doesn’t satisfy her lord.”

  He looked away at that, out the Gate. For the first time, she realized that there must be Guardsmen out there, on duty outside the walls. She stiffened at the thought of them hearing. But, seeing that the Master didn’t look alarmed, relaxed. What did it matter?

  “It is your duty, m’Lady.”

  Stung, she sucked in some breath to protest. She should have known. Some friend! What was she thinking? Feeling more a fool than ever, she wondered what to say, one retort tumbling over another, as she struggled to find a way to gather up her dignity and leave.

  And then she heard, “Once a month. It is the tradition.”

  Amazed, she looked down at him and saw his lips quirk into a smile before he looked up at the walls, checking the sentries it appeared.

  Once a month, she thought. I can handle that.

  She darted in to kiss him on the cheek – making him gasp – and, with a smile, rose and walked away. Not quite able to keep the swing out of her hips.

  That one conversation had marked the change in everything. John was right. She was m’Lady. There was no other. Coletta had met with her the next day. John was right again. Coletta was a natural tart, already enjoying her ability to hold a man’s eye and scheming to keep it as long as possible. A girl like that would be raped before next Feast Day the way she was going. Lela had the other ladies-in-waiting give her a thorough cleaning, then a thorough tutorial in the care of fabrics and a noble person’s body. She would always be a handful, Lela could see but, resolving that Katya had always been one – was one now in the Heavens no doubt – Lela thought she could work with her. Besides, Coletta was a rescue. Having learned what the fear of being sent back can do to a girl, Lela resolved to rely on that same fear in Coletta should ever she turn seriously troublesome. Then, too, it would quickly prove nice to have someone she could actually confide in, who feared being sent back should she ever divulge what m’Lady had said.

  Over time, who knew? Perhaps with a little more seasoning over a few
harvests, Coletta could become her personal lady-in-waiting, senior to the others. In the meantime, Lela resolved to use the girl as a shield to ward off anything undesirable.

  As for the kitchen scamp, she never heard another word about it. Which was good. Because one could only ask for so many changes at once. And, after her conversation with the Master, she decided she could no longer suffer Breton cooking. Not without a few dishes served a week from Provence, anyway. She sent home to her mother for recipes and spices, including several chilis of different varieties. Then, she quietly set them before a mystified Adalene and her staff on the kitchen’s large chopping block, explaining that it was better for m’Lord’s health if the changes were made. If the changes were not, she had emphasized with a glint in her smile, perhaps others could be. Adalene took the hint immediately with a hard swallow and went to work. Among the staff, Lela spotted the urchin, standing behind a thin boy, looking rather starved himself. The waif was chewing on a lock of dirty hair, her thin cheeks smeared with charcoal and tears, clearly from a recent beating. Only so many changes at once, Lela resolved, giving the astonished girl a private, encouraging smile on her way out.

  As for the Walrus, she knelt to tradition.

  Once a month.

  On the moon’s brightest night, she let him know during dinner that she expected him to visit. She dowsed herself in as much perfume – sent straight from Paris – as Coletta and the girls could waft on her, thought only of John’s eyes, John’s muscular shoulders and arms, John’s abs (spotted once during a rapier practice), John’s sweet ass and John’s gruff voice while the deed was done.

  It only lasted a few moments anyway.

  * 2 *

  Watching a butterfly flutter from one wildflower to another in that fragrant meadow, Lela realized with a jolt that her first conversation with John had occurred over seven harvests ago. Almost eight.

  Not a lifetime, of course. But a span. Long enough to see her grow into an accomplished countess who knew all the ins and outs of running a large chateau, its accompanying village, and the environs beyond. Dinners beyond number with guests ranging from nobles of all stations – dukes, duchesses in all their arrogance and levied petty slights – marquesses, marchionesses with their attempts to be arrogant – counts and countesses with their fruitless efforts to display some sort of superiority even as they were all too aware they bore the same title.

  The King, Queen or Dauphin coming to dinner was beyond question. Chateau Brionde didn’t rank highly enough, and that suited Lela just fine. The closest the royals ever came was the market city Rennes or the regional capital Nantes, and that was trouble enough. New dresses for her and her ladies-in-waiting, new livery for the servants, and the inordinate headaches of getting John to order the Guardsmen accompanying to wear the livery that she had ordered for them. (He absolutely insisted that the uniforms restricted freedom of movement, thus making security more tenuous.)

  And, it went without saying, several entirely new outfits for the Walrus. In the early years, she had made the attempt to tailor them somehow to hide some of his bulk. Eventually, she just gave up and chose not to hear the jokes made at his expense by other nobles at these gatherings. She did insist on the latest colors coming out of the dyers of Paris and the Flemish artisans of Bruges. It gave the other nobles something to be jealous of and, as a result, kept their mockery to a minimum.

  Dinners beyond number, driving Adalene to distraction with new recipes sent straight from Paris, read to the kitchen mistress by a Franciscan that Lela had found begging by the road one day and decided to take home as a sort of lucky charm for the chateau. He didn’t mind. He was being fed regularly now and given a warm, dry bed in the lower levels of the Keep. Lela did, however, draw a line at his attempts to woo some of the servant girls to his cot.

  Disputes beyond number, finding the middle path between the extreme egos of the Walrus and the village headman who routinely swore that he would refuse to carry out this or that order unless he were given such and such. Disputes with the Walrus – well, not really – more just politely nodding as he vented about this or that or such and such until he had tired himself out, assisted by occasional drops of arctic root that she kept in a small tincture jar at the serving table. Knowing the root from her homeland, Katya had prescribed it for Lela’s father years ago. With the Walrus, several drops in his umpteenth goblet of wine for the evening usually made him drowsy in time. Disputes within the Keep or without, between servants on the stairs, between tradesmen of the village, between the kitchen and the Hall, all to be mediated with endless patience and an encouraging smile.

  About the only part of the chateau that ran smoothly was the Guard. John would not have it any other way. True to her word, Lela had made the arrangements – including hiding the spike in cost – of providing the Guard with heftier meat pies. She was surprised to find herself having to over-ride Adalene’s objections about putting more beef, venison, chicken, pork in the pies. But a few pointed hints about keeping the Master happy did the trick. The heftier meals allowed John to run his Guard harder, faster, longer, ruthlessly. Which also had the unforeseen benefit of keeping her ladies-in-waiting endlessly entertained during the afternoons when she found their endless gossip insupportable.

  Almost eight years since that conversation. And how few conversations since! Each one treasured, endlessly repeated until, like fabric handled for too many years, it seemed to fall apart entirely. And change into something else. Such as those many, many daytime fantasies and nighttime dreams about being held by those incredibly muscular arms. Caressing that long brown hair, almost the same chestnut brown as her own tresses, that he wore tied back as he insisted all the Guard did to keep their sight clear for swordwork of blinding speed. Of running her hands, her fingers up and down the backs of those thighs, tracing the curve of that hard, tight ass, making herself weak with desire until she had to caress herself into her own sweetly soft orgasm and, at last, fall to sleep.

  As for the Walrus. Numbers didn’t lie. Eighty-five times. She knew because she notched a board that she kept by her bed as soon as he left her night chamber each time she did her duty each month. That she never grew pregnant was a surprise to no one. Least of all her. It didn’t matter. For as much time as he spent fucking the servants, one would think that he would have given birth to an army. He hadn’t. Just twelve or thirteen, depending on whom one believed. In any case, all became wards of the chateau, given daily tasks to perform as soon as old enough.

  And if her father’s entreaties for a child had faded over the years, it was all to the good. Her younger sister, Abelia, was only too happy to outdo her in this regard and earn their father’s lasting approval.

  For now, sitting in that meadow, smelling the flowers, watching the masons drop another large block of freshly cut granite into place at the top of the walls – she could just hear the loud thunk from here – all was as it should be.

  The Walrus was gone. Killed by one of du Guesclin’s men during the sack, a Sir Tristen who made Twig blush whenever Lela mentioned him. Of course, the kitchen urchin had grown up these last years, blossoming into the truly beautiful Phoebe, sweetly gentle to everyone except those moments that Coletta cast her eyes in the direction of Phoebe’s beau, the Master’s ward, Louis.

  John never forgave himself for the sack. Indeed, after he had gone through all the Guard, those alive anyway, charting out everyone’s movements to learn from it, he came to the dazed conclusion that his ward, beardless Louis, had done what was necessary to stave off disaster until John and his three best fighters had, miraculously, returned.

  Never again, he swore, would he trust the defense of the chateau to those found wanting. Louis had given clear, even prescient, orders to the Guard to fight off the attack. One problem, the Guard refused to take his orders as he was so young. Following his lead in practice while the Master was gone was one thing. Staving off attack, something else entirely. John issued his correctives, not even bothering to ask permiss
ion. He hadn’t needed it, Lela felt her eyes narrow to an amused glint at the memory of the worst offenders being hung from the top of the outer walls for three days upside down, their shit and piss running down their bodies into their eyes, their mouths, their hair. Only to be cut down and endure several more weeks’ taunting by the entire village and chateau as former Guardsmen who had abandoned their posts. Only to be allowed back onto the Guard after they were made Louis’ slaves for one final week. To encourage the habit of obedience John said.

  The boy had been too soft on them, of course, as the Master had predicted. Prompted by Lela, as a result, Phoebe cheerfully devised several of the worst tasks imaginable, baby-bump notwithstanding, keeping them running hard for seven days and nights without sleep.

  In the end, Louis was officially made the Master’s Second, in a moving ceremony held in the Hall, accompanied by John’s gruff speech about the boy’s heroism, uttered so bashfully that few could hear it, until Lela took on the task of repeating it later in her own, impromptu address. Also accompanied by Phoebe’s sweet tears.

  Yes, all was as it should be. Except...

  The Summons should be coming soon. She knew that. Chateau Brionde may not merit a duke, yet it was too valuable a prize to leave in the hands of a woman. The Summons would come soon. She would take John, she decided, fingering a dark orange poppy at her knee, knowing that it was for her own selfish reasons. Louis may yet be young, but Phoebe beside him would keep the chateau safe.

  In truth, she was looking forward to the journey. It had been two harvests since she had been able to get away from the chateau. And that had been to the sea, to Nantes, entertaining the royals. She wondered what lay between here and Paris. John will know, resolving to have a talk with him soon.

  Not soon enough. As she was wending her way through the meadows back down to the chateau’s fields, she saw a rider coming at a leisurely trot, carrying the fleur-de-lis standard aloft in his saddle holster. It’s twin triangles fluttered behind him in the wind. She couldn’t see the lilies on the flag at this distance, of course. But, she recognized the shade of blue with its bright splashes, three of them, of lemon yellow. Brionde’s standard was of softer hues. Besides, who else could it be?