Everybody Loves A Bard (Raxillene's Rogues Book 1)

by Max Keith

  He ignored her this time. “What sort of visitors? I like to know the kind of people I’ll be playing for.”

  “Oh no,” Gitsey went on, finishing with the towel. “You’re our only guest right now. Though there has been an old priest about quite a bit lately.” She patted his buttock. “Sit down. I’m to do your hair next.”

  When he sat, he found himself on a shelf under the water, using the warm and slippery Gitsey as a seat cushion. And when next she spoke, her mouth was right alongside his ear. “You’re quite a skinny man,” she pointed out, throaty, with breath that smelled of rosemary. As well she should know; she’d been running her hands over his wet body for fifteen minutes. He was very conscious of her bare legs spread wide alongside his thighs, of the way her soapy breasts nestled against his back. “It’s not entirely unattractive, but on the whole I think you look better with your clothes on.” She dipped a hand briefly downward, checking to ensure he was still hard. “No offense.”

  “None taken.” Her fingers trailed through his long hair, the air around them rich with the scent of whatever she was smearing against his scalp; it smelled mostly of fern and some sort of fragrant oil, along with a hint of char from the ash. “You were right, Gitsey. You’re very good.”

  “Thank you!” She fluttered her lips dryly across the back of his neck, tightening her legs slightly. “I pride myself on my good service.”

  “Um, is there a reason you keep touching my cock?”

  She laughed richly at that, slapping his shoulder affectionately. “What do you think? I’m a healthy young girl with normal appetites. Why shouldn’t I touch a cock now and then if I want to?” She did it again, this time dragging her fingers up high to tweak his head. “I’ve always liked the way men look when they’re hard. And it makes conversation so much less awkward.”

  “If you say so.” Cashel gritted his teeth; the wily little bitch was doing an outstanding job of keeping him at a simmer. “It just seems… well, unnecessary.”

  “You’re not complaining.” It was a statement. “And why would you?”

  “Because I’m starting to grow a bit impatient,” he replied, laying his head lazily back onto her shoulder. “As I think you know.” He rested his hands on her legs, letting them creep upward.

  “Ooh.” She nipped at his ear. “I suspect her ladyship might just want you that way; it’s not every night she so quickly invites a mere bard to stay in the southern bedchamber. But surely, sir, it’s your own fault if you cannot control yourself around a mere serving-wench.” She’d been ignoring his hair for some time now, both hands low and tight around his shaft, stroking lightly but insistently.

  “Mmm.” With great difficulty, Cashel recalled himself to his duty. “So, if a priest is coming over, I suppose I should avoid my sexier songs.”

  “Why?” She was tugging quite freely now, the fingers of one hand snaking confidently underneath to play with his balls. “He seems… well, not like a priest. He’s not holy, you see. No blessings or anything like that. In fact,” she reflected, sighing when his thumbs wormed along the tops of her thighs, moving in little circles, “he acts more like a mage, but with that fucking daft silver hat.” She chuckled when he found her bush. “You’re pulling my hair.”

  “You’re pulling my dick,” he pointed out. “You’re getting off lightly.”

  She nipped again at his ear, her tongue finding its way inside. “At least one of us is getting off.”

  “And the priest’s boy? The one I saw right before you came to fetch me? Anything I should beware of?”

  She laughed hot in his ear. “Boy.” She paused, her hand corkscrewing slowly, waiting while his thumbs wriggled toward her vagina like otters. “Almost there…” she giggled.

  Cashel’s arms were becoming cramped. “The boy?”

  “Is not a boy.” She sighed then, her breath moist and gusty past his ear, as the slowly cooling waters of the bath gave way to hotter, more slippery wetness around his thumbs. Gitsey’s breath caught, but after a deep-breathed pause she was able to collect herself again. Cashel shifted his ass gingerly on the marble seat, his position very awkward. “A girl like me knows,” she sighed, pleased, “when another woman enters the room. A rival, if you will.”

  Cashel stilled his thumbs. “Scandal!” he exclaimed quietly, his penis raging in her hands. “A priest in company with a woman!” They continued for awhile, playing gently with each other as the soap dried in his hair, the water tepid and still smelling of mint and fern.

  “Hmm,” she said at length, fitfully shifting her hips. “You can stop now, Harlin. Out of respect for my tender years,” she added dryly.

  He flexed his arms gratefully, leaning back again as she rubbed lazily at his shaft. “You cannot possibly tell me you came,” he said, in full bard mode now; he was an entertainer, after all, and though he always tried to leave his audience happy, he couldn’t believe he’d gotten her there so swiftly.

  “I have a boyfriend,” she pointed out sweetly, her fingers still busy at his balls. “It would hardly be proper to let some singer take advantage of me in a bathtub.” She kissed his neck. “However kind he’s being.”

  Her body was warm and vibrant behind him, and Cashel felt he was in desperate danger of falling asleep. “Your boyfriend is a fortunate man,” he sighed wistfully. “And a very clean man, too, I’ll be bound.”

  “Clean, yes. A man, no.” She rubbed once more, briskly, and then let her fingers trail back up Cashel’s body and back into his gummed hair. “He’s no older than I, I’m afraid. You’ll need to go underneath the water. Can you hold your breath, Harlin?”

  “If I can’t,” he smiled, turning within the circle of her legs, his penis red and firm, “you’ll need to dive in and fetch me.”

  “My mistress would, indeed, be displeased if I allowed you to drown.” She winked. “She’d surely flog me.”

  “We can’t have that, on a body so fair,” and so saying Cashel hopped off the ledge and dipped all the way down into the filthy water, turning a lazy circle once he was under. The water, already cloudy with the filth of the two of them, suddenly went impenetrable with the muck that he shook and brushed out of his hair. Ah, but it was a thrill to be clean! The bard was a fastidious man by nature, and life in the Realm was difficult enough for a man like that; still, the past few days, caked in dung and surrounded by fish-stinking savages, had been a sore trial. The bath was heaven; the company of a naked, fetching girl was a nice addition, and the information she was giving him was even better.

  Strange that Gitsey and Alorin Kaye both had come to the same conclusion about the priest’s companion. The “boy” had been a step away from Cashel in the Lady Wennowes’ foyer, and he’d detected nothing feminine about him. If he was a woman, he reflected sourly, she must be the only one for miles that didn’t stink of pussy. Though that might just be a measure of how horny he’d become lately, and as the thought came to him he paused, suspended in the water, and looked with interest through the murky water at the space between Gitsey’s legs, dark and mysterious; sensing his attention, she spread wider for him until, his breath failing at last, Cashel rose spluttering out of the water.

  “See anything interesting under the water?” she mocked him.

  “Nothing I haven’t seen before,” he smiled affably, drifting back toward the waiting girl. She sat calmly, her wet nipples clear of the water and on full and pleasant display as she spread her arms behind her along the steps. “I thank you, miss, for your kindly attentions.”

  “Perhaps you can repay me later,” she winked, letting the pause deepen while his mind worked and his penis tightened yet again. “With a song, I mean,” she grinned. “Now stand up so that we can dry off. I’ve got your bedchamber to set in order, and you’ve doubtless got a meeting with m’lady’s paymaster.”

  “The ill-favored Captain Spavige?” He did as she requested, his cock at last drooping back down toward the surface of the water.

  “Ill-favored? That’s putting
it mildly,” she whispered, rolling her eyes. “No, I speak of her mage. Ledley Tighe is his name.” She was turning to climb the stairs, her naked ass shifting and swaying with her unconscious sexiness right before his eyes as she reached high to see whether her hair had gotten wet. “He’s not a dangerous one,” she added, half-turning so she wouldn’t need to speak loudly; he’d noticed her glance up toward the windows. “Have you seen her ladyship’s bodyguard yet?”

  Cashel assumed she was speaking of the brutish warrior with the hammer, but since Harlin hadn’t met the man he shook his head. “Some sort of crossbowman, perhaps?”

  “Oh no.” Thick blankets waited on a bench at the top of the stairs; Gitsey took one, then turned to wrap him. “Brasher is no archer. You’d know him if you saw him; he’s at least twenty stone, all muscle and cock. He likes me to bathe him, and even though he’s very nice to me I worry every time.”

  “For your virtue?” He let her drape the blanket over his shoulders, then watched as she took another one and knelt, straight-backed and high-breasted, to dry his legs. She glanced up and rolled her eyes.

  “No. He’s married, and apparently quite faithful. It’s just difficult to wash such a large man without running out of soap.” She winked again at him as she patted gently at his crotch. “You know by now that I like to do a good job when bathing people. It’s awkward when I run out of soap.”

  Cashel sighed. “The trials and troubles of a chambermaid,” he mused, trying not to look obvious as he peered around for his clothing. “I hesitate to ask,” he began slowly, “hoping not to cause offense to such a capable and willing young lady, but I cannot help but notice my clothes have disappeared.”

  “Of course they have.” She whisked the blankets away and eyed him critically. “One does not put on filthy old clothes after one of my baths. I’ve a robe for you until we get to your room.” She squinted at his chest near the right nipple. “My. What an interesting scar.”

  He paled. “This? No. An accident; I merely slipped and fell on a stick.” All true, if by slipped and fell one meant was shot by and by stick one meant bodkin-pointed arrow. That one had nearly killed him, and would have if Aimee had not been right at hand to deal with it. He shivered at the memory; Poildrin Franx had been concerned about enchantments on the arrow, but with aim like that the archer hadn’t needed anything like that. Drinn, of course, had killed the archer most loudly.

  “Very well. Your robe, Harlin.” The garment was of loud red silk, thick with Imperial embroidery in swirling patterns. “It belonged to the late Lord Wennowes; it’s quite clean.” She began methodically drying herself, showing no embarrassment at all as she dabbed at her bush. “I must say,” she added with a quick smile, “your thumbs were doing fairly well. But we can’t spend all day playing.”

  Cashel winked back. “And you’re attached already.”

  “I am. But it’s hardly a betrothal yet; I’m not sure I like his penis enough to marry him.”

  Cashel watched her slide back into her gown, still admiring her. “You’re very direct, Gitsey.”

  “What?” She blinked innocently as she stuffed herself back into her bodice. “Surely it’s important for a woman to know if she likes her husband’s prick, no? Why should I pretend otherwise?”

  He chuckled and shook his head. “After you, Gitsey. Shall we go to my room?”

  “Well!” She blew him a kiss as she passed; gods, Cashel pondered, this was just his sort of wench. “Who’s being direct now?”

  He swatted her on her prodigiously swaying rump, then followed it into the house. The sun was sinking behind them as they passed along a narrow, twisting corridor with fresco work on the ceiling, in the Imperial style. “The west bedchamber,” she announced briskly, her hair leaving a trickling waterfall down the back of her gown. “That’s where m’lady sleeps. Then, the privy.” She looked pointedly back, still walking backwards. “That’s for her. She does not wish to share a latrine. I’m to mention that especially.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I aim to keep you out of trouble, Harlin. You’re a curious man, and I’ve got a mind to bathe you again.” Those violet eyes flashed, and she turned a corner into a small but airy room, the late-summer breeze wafting through two windows. A pecan tree swayed lazily outside, reminding him of the way the girl’s ass moved when she walked, her weasel-body quivering so delectably. “And here, sirrah, is the south bedchamber. I do apologize for the mess.”

  Cashel looked around. The place seemed spotless. On the floor lay his little sack of clothing.

  “You’re to get dressed, Harlin, and then to go to meet Tighe. Then, to the salon to play for m’lady’s tea. If you come back before dinner, the room will be ready for you.” The girl frowned, looking down at his bag. “Shall I assume you’ve got something clean in there?”

  Cashel smiled thinly. “I shall manage.” He’d already spotted his knives, laid out neatly on the bedside table. Somehow, them being there was more troubling than them being missing. He debated whether he should pick them up as the girl stooped over and busied herself at the bedstead, straightening the sheets. “Ah, were you going?”

  She looked back over her shoulder in genuine surprise. “Did you not hear me? I’ve got to get the room ready.” Then she understood, her mouth loosening into a mischievous smile. “You’re shy again. It’s delightful, but unnecessary; I’ve scrubbed out your asshole. It is difficult for me to believe watching you dress will be too scandalous for my young eyes.”

  She had a point, naturally, so Cashel swallowed his apprehension and turned to close the door. The robe he left on the floor after he undid the belt, grateful that his cock was at last soft; that was liable to change, though, if the tempting Gitsey remained bent over. The curves of her rear looked nearly as good clothed as they did naked. Letting out a deep breath, he crouched to rummage for some clean kit.

  “Ah. You’re presentable at last.” The girl had paused to study his groin, grinning nastily. “I should advise you, Harlin, that if you’re one of those men whose dick pops up unpredictably, a codpiece would be a wise addition to your wardrobe while in this house.” She chuckled. “We’ve got standards to maintain, sirrah.”

  He sighed ruefully. “I was thinking the same thing earlier, though alas! I seem to have left mine at home.”

  She frowned as she tucked in a corner of the duvet. “I’d suggest one of old Lord Wennowes’, but I assume a man would be sensitive about wearing a dead man’s cock-sheath.” She peered back down at him, considering. “Besides, he was too small for you.”

  “Thank you.” He pulled on a pair of bright scarlet breeches. “Did you bathe him too?”

  “Heavens no!” Gitsey laughed long and hard. “No, indeed. He used to come upstairs and fuck me. It’s how he died, actually.”

  “No!”

  “Indeed. It was just a few months ago. He had a heart attack, the poor fellow, while on top of me.” She shrugged unhappily. “I hadn’t even gotten there yet, though in truth he never really could make me cum.”

  “Pity.”

  “Yes. Old Jespa the washerwoman helped me haul him downstairs to his bed, and I don’t suppose Lady Wennowes ever figured it out.”

  He was buttoning a gold silk doublet as he spoke. “He was older than she, I take it?”

  “Oh yes. She married him for his money. Not for his politics, surely; he was a committed Royalist. He might have been, oh, seventy years? A bit more?” She shrugged. “M’ lady is barely thirty. He still had a fairly reliable cock, for all those years. Never did give m’lady a child, though.”

  “Pity,” Cashel said again. He pulled his hose on, awkwardly since there was nowhere but the bed to sit down, and Gitsey noticed.

  “Shall I help you with those?” She didn’t wait for an answer, kneeling before him again and running her hands up his calves to get the stockings straight. “You’re certainly not unattractive in that costume of yours,” she mused, and then she gave him that wicked smile again and boldly grab
bed his penis. “Nice and tight where it needs to be,” she observed.

  “Stop that!” Cashel did not need to walk into a tea-party with tented breeches. He shook the girl off to the mocking sound of her laughter, then stepped into the soft suede boots he’d brought for occasions like this before creeping self-consciously to strap his knives in underneath his sleeves. He frowned over at Gitsey. “Old habit,” he explained lamely. “You’ll keep silent about these, I hope.”

  “Certainly,” she agreed, getting back to her feet and brushing nonexistent dust from her knees. “Old Jespa will have put them there, though, and she’s a talky old bitch. No matter, though; with knives like that, you can simply cut her tongue out.”

  “You’re impertinent.”

  “You’ve noticed, at last.” She shrugged. “It would be doing the whole house a favor. Old Jespa pisses everyone off. She can’t even do the laundry properly.”

  “Then why does her ladyship keep her around?”

  The girl shrugged again. “She was m’lord’s first wife. It amuses Lady Tallora to keep her in her place.” She grinned. “Welcome to the house, Master Harlin. We’re in for interesting times here, I think.”

  * * *

  When at last, exhausted, the bard lurched through the bedroom door and stumbled toward his bed, the owl already lurked in a pecan tree outside. It saw quite well in the dark, of course, so when it flapped loudly to the window and peered inside it knew Cashel was very much alone. It waited patiently on the sill, its golden eyes seeming to flare in the dark, until the bard roused himself enough to try to figure out the catch on the window.

  “Fuck,” he grated, trying to get his numbed fingers to work; it had been three solid hours of playing, though in fairness Tighe the mage had offered a very decent wage for it. Better yet, the dour blue-hooded man had given no indication of recognizing in the foppishly dressed bard the stinking, deceptively agile vagabond he’d pursued through the metalsmith’s district the day before. At last the copper latch came free, the heavy glass window swinging open on greased hinges, and then the bird, after a careful pause to remind Cashel who was in charge, hopped nimbly to Cashel’s bed and flexed its talons to leave a carefully waxed wad of paper on the duvet. The bard sighed; was everything tonight going to require the use of his fingers? The wax crumbled at last, and he groped for a candle and a match.