Chapter Eight Silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies
ON FRENCH SOIL
by T.S. Fesseln
Chapter Eight: "Silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies"
Catherine D'Astier finally closed her eyes and let her tired and satiated
body fall to sleep still captive within Edward's tight bindings; her wrists
cinched behind her back, her ankles bound together and that wicked length of
thong that still rubbed between her still swollen petals every time she moved.
The last rampage of pleasure that raged through her weakened her enough that
sleep was an easy breath away, like a heavy cloud that drifted dark over
herself. Catherine's dreams crept into her mine like a poacher in the forest
and were both wanton and frightening.
Catherine dreamt she was Edward DeValence's wife-servant, being there for
whatever needs he desired of her. She was not just a mere wife and woman of
the household, but a woman who would do anything to please her goodman. They
were in a castle somewhere in a dreary countryside that she imagined England
would be. She watched out of the rippled-glass window as a storm thundered and
the rain chattered against the panes. She was naked and bound as she stood in
front of the window, her wrists manacled behind her back and her ankles cuffed
also. There was cloth ball between her lips so she could not say a word to the
English that was her master and lover. The window's imperfect reflection
showed to Catherine her lovely, lithe form. Her skin the color of polished
ivory, her hair long and as dark as a raven's wing; her eyes as soft and dark
as a doe's. Her breasts were not large nor small but befitted her slender
form. Catherine was, she knew, a very desirable woman.
Catherine saw Edward in her dream, sleeping on their bed, his broad back to
her. The sounds of his sleep were familiar and comforting to her and so longed
to feel the warmth of his body next to hers but her chains prevented her from
moving into the bed with him.
She struggled a bit and felt the same, powerful shudder of pleasure
rippling through her as another thunderclap erupted outside. Catherine knew
she needed this English knight to ease her lustful thirst and she knew that if
she was in bed with him, Edward could preform the blissful magic he was so good
at upon her.
But the chains held her before the cold window.
Catherine looked in vain to try to find where the chains were bolted. They
were loose about her slender ankles, their length locking her iron anklets
together. She could not see her iron manacles locking her wrists behind her,
only the cold feel of their metal unyielding to her wishes. She felt as if she
should be able to take small steps to Edward's bed, but it was as if her feet
were anchored to the cold, stone floor.
Catherine tried to tell Edward of her desire for him, but the gag muffled
her words and did not waken her English knight.
With every passing moment, her desire for him grew and she could not come
to him.
Another roll of thunder roared outside, the lightning flashed in the black
sky.
Catherine desperately searched for what kept her chained here. Her
struggles became frantic and she whimpered behind her gag. She could feel the
tears running down her cheek. . .
"Catherine!" a gruff voice bellowed.
The captive woman looked up and saw the sturdy form of her father, Phillip
D'Astier, a sneer scarring his grey bearded face.
In her father's gauntleted hand, the end of her chain.
In his other hand, an unsheathed sword still dripping with gore.
"Come here!" he growled and yanked on her chain.
A lightning flash distorted his raged face, twisting it into a gargoyle's
foul visage.
Catherine shook her head and yelled "No" into her gag but nothing came out.
Her terror was a better than any gag of cloth. She could feel him yanking on
her chains, pulling her toward him, the metal of her cuffs growing hot and
painful as she tried to get away. . .
"You WILL come here, Catherine!" Phillip spat.
Red ichor continued to flow from the sword, pooling on the floor like the
blood of a beheaded man.
Catherine tried to scream to Edward but he continued to sleep, unaware of
her father and his evil intent. She thrashed and kicked and threw her head and
cried great sobs as her father yanked one last time and she fell against him.
His armored hands grabbing her arms violently. . .
"Catherine!" he yelled.
"No, no, please no father!" Catherine cried uselessly into her gag.
"Catherine wake up," a more tender voice came from above her.
Catherine awoke to find she was looking into the most wonderful dark hazel
eyes she had ever known, the eyes of her English knight, Edward de Valence.
"You are having a dream, dear Catherine," Edward said in Catherine's
native French tongue, "You have nothing to fear while I am here."
Edward's large arms embraced Catherine to him and he slowly rocked his
captive. Catherine wept with both pain and joy, remembering vividly her dream
and now the comfort of Edward's arms. She wanted to tell this English so much,
to declare her love for him but the gag he had tied between her lips muffled
and mutated her sobbing words. All she could do is cry gently into Edward's
chest.
Edward held his captive; his Catherine until her tears stopped and she was
limp and asleep in his arms. He could feel every breath of hers; every little
movement against him. Her skin was warm and smooth to his touch as he gently
ran his fingers over her hip and down her side. Edward could feel himself
stirring again at the sight of this woman so much like his departed Eleanor,
yet there was differences too that made this woman bound before him as heady as
unwatered wine.
Eleanor never was this passionate towards Edward. She cared for him and
was a dutiful noblewoman but Edward knew deep inside that she did not love him.
She was very beautiful and gifted woman and he was glad that he was not there
when the plague took her life. He had seen too many bodies marred by the
bulbous purple sores to want to imagine what Eleanor might have looked like in
death. He wanted her pristine in his mind.
Catherine stirred against him, turning onto her side and settling her
firm buttocks against Edward's now hardened self. There was still the smell of
her passion on her and her fingers twitched a bit, tickling Edward.
Margaret had left, leaving the dress she had modified for Edward. He
would dress Catherine in it before he left her. It was a deep red with long
sleeve that would be knotted fashionably. She had sewn the arms against the
bodice and a pair of manacles in the sleeves. It would allow Edward to take
her in public yet make sure she did not leave his side. She would still be a
captive yet not appear to be. The only problem Edward could see was silencing
her for she did have a wicked tongue.
Edward glanced out the window. The sky was a darker shade of grey. Night
would come all too soon and Edward needed to leave.
The English knight was about to wake is ransom up when he had second
thoughts. He wanted her to be this way when he came back in the early morning
darkness. He would wake her then and enjoy her company again before dressing
her. Quietly he slipped out from beside her and eased out of bed, leaving her
bound and sleeping soundly.
The canon belched forth another fiery spew with loud report, bathing it's
gunners in it's unholy light briefly before the cold darkness enshrouded them
again. Richard Corfe saw his commander, Edward de Valence striding over
towards him, dressed in his coat of plates and visorless sallet.
"'Tis cold as a Marches'winter, m'lord de Valence," Corfe said he met
Edward.
"Indeed, my dear Richard," Edward looked into the pale blue eyes of his
sergeant and saw the fatigue there. He needed this man too much to kill him
with the burden of these two towers, "Go rest your bones with a wench or two.
You know where we are lodged at."
"Yes, m'lord," he said tiredly. Richard knew better than to argue with
Edward, "However you must know that the Earl of Dorset is amongst our works,
m'lord."
"Thank you, dear Richard, now go and relieve your men also. The gunner's
that rested during daylight will take over."
Sir Thomas Beaufort, the Earl of Dorset, Edward thought to himself, a good
man with a solid skill at war but the youngest son of John of Gaunt was always
a cursed paycock. The Earl of Dorset was much more at home in the stone halls
of the court where his armor always gleamed. Being in the field did little to
his dampen his fiery temper; it only tended to fuel it. A brave man to the
point of foolishness.
Edward eyed to two towers whose round walls were now pitted and cracked
but still held their occupants in safety. No one ventured within bow range of
the towers and so far, only three men had been wounded by arrows spit from
them.
"Pray now, de Valence, how do you plan to take these two shrews?" a stiff
voice said from behind him.
Edward turned around and saw Sir Thomas Beaufort standing behind him, in
full plate armor polished and his colors brightly shown.
"My Lord Dorset," Edward bowed.
"Those twin ladies will be hard to break," Sir Thomas said, "I am glad
you are the one that will divest those French of these towers. It will take
time to repair, I fear."
"Indeed, my Lord Dorset."
"So, how now, de Valence, pray tell me how it is you will take these twin
towers?"
"I will first take the one on the right, My Lord. I have enough reeds
and hay from the roofs of destroyed houses and from their fields that I will be
able to pile it around both and set fire to it. The wet hay will burn smoky
and I hope to drive the defenders out of their warren. I will continue to fire
upon the one on the right, my Lord, but only those cannon I know whose aim is
true. Rafts full of the tinder will drift up from behind and array the faggots
and straw around the tower while the cannon keep the occupants' eyes."
"What of the other tower?" asked Sir Beaufort.
"I will silence my cannon against it and let those French within think the
attack is upon them. They are weary and spirit heavy, I should think, my Lord,
and the need to keep constant watch upon their tower will drain them even more.
They cannot see what we do to her sister tower, my Lord."
Lord Dorset nodded, his keen eyes taking in the scene before him and
imagining the results of de Valences fine work.
"Continue, de Valence. The plan is sound," he said, "use as many men as
you need. I need you to break these bitches for His Majesty. He cannot plan
ahead unless we know Harfleur is firmly in our grasp."
"The towers will fall, my Lord Dorset. You can tell good King Henry that
he will have these towers in two days time."
"I will," said Sir Thomas as he turned and walked away from Edward.
The work had already begun on Edward's plan of attack. Several small
boats and rafts had been filled with straw an awaited Edward's command. Soon
the guns upon the left tower would be silent while the one's on the right would
continue their assault with lesser powder to make sure none of the men laying
the hay would be killed by their own guns.
The night was clear and cold, the rain having left everyone damp and of
ill mood. Edward's breath looked like a wraith in the night air. He nodded
his head to his sergeant in charge of the hay and then to his man in charge of
the cannon on the left. Nor more would they belch their destruction at that
tower tonight.
Every roar was now against the right-hand tower. A rock shot shattered
against the stonework with a loud snap, like a dry bone being cracked in half.
There was little for the English knight to do but watch his plan unfold.
He trusted his sergeants with doing their assigned tasks and though he watched
over them, he did not hover over them like a raven upon a kill.
Edward drew his cloak about himself.
The knight was already missing his captive Catherine.
Maybe he should not have left her bound as he had, he thought to himself.
She was indeed frightened by her visions and he would not be there to calm her
if she had them again. He recalled how he had found her, bound and raped by
three base men as a fire was beginning to sweep through the house.
Catherine had wanted to die there. If Edward had not come seeking her,
she would have had her wish.
Edward had not really thought about that night. It seemed a lifetime away
even though it had been only a day or two. He had seen other woman do similar
things, sacrificing themselves to the army's invading. Perhaps their tears had
driven them mad.
Edward had suddenly got tired of war.
When Eleanor died, everything changed for him. He volunteered for every
campaign. Life on the Scottish border helped him deal with her death with
every sword thrust and spear lunge. His manor house was as feared as any and
he made sure he would have his revenge upon anyone violating his stock and his
wards. He inspired the men around him and they would die with him anywhere and
it was these men that Edward brought with him here to France. . .
The burden seemed to overwhelm him now as he stood, cloaked and alone in
the cold night.
The faggots and straw around the base of the tower was being piled
hurriedly and soon Edward would have to give the sign to silence the guns
briefly so they could finish their work. Spare nothing, he had said, pile all
the straw you can and it was being heaped high.
It was time. He raised is arm and dropped it. The guns fired their last
shot and were silent.
Hopefully, for the first few moments, the French within will think that
the guns a reloading but soon the silence will let them know something was
amiss.
It was but a few heartbeats before the French arrows began trying to spit
Edward's men at the base of the tower.
A man screamed as an arrow pierced his back and he collapsed on his bundle of
straw. Another fell like a rag, limp into a pile.
But the work continued. The ring around the tower grew.
It was enough.
Edward raised and lowered his arm twice to signal the throwing of the oil
pots upon the straw.
Tens of small pots arced toward the hay as the last of Edward's men ran to
their rafts or back to the guns. The pots looked like so many falling stars.
Some dashed themselves against the tower in an eruption of oil and sulphur and
tar. Others crack uselessly on the ground before the hay. But a few landed in
the hay and spilled their fiery burden into, starting the smokey pyre.
The smoke began to embrace the tower in it's curling. wispy fingers.
Edward could picture what was happening within. The smoke would start to seep
into the rooms in a slight haze that would slowly build. The guards would
start to cough and gasp in the smokes stranglehold. They would seek the
comfort of the open arrowloops only to find the night obscured by the foul fog
of the pyre. Men would collapse, gagging like trout upon the shore. Some
would die as others would feel their way down the stairs to the door to fight
or surrender.
This is what would happen.
More hay was piled up into the fire.
Edward waited, his cloak about him, thinking of his captive.
Catherine's dream were now filled with lustful images of her coupling with
her English knight as he bound her to his bed and she made no attempt to escape
his ropes. She could feel his hands upon her, his touch more rough than
before, roaming her body like hungry piglets upon their mother's teats.
Edward's hands pulled at her bound ankles, loosening them in fervor. . .then
the one's around her knees.
She rolled onto her back and willing parted her legs for Englishman.
The knight in her dreams then pulled roughly at the thong that parted her
passion slick lips. She gasped in pain as he yanked at them. . .
Then Catherine awoke.
A gnarled, foul-smelling man was bent over her quim, yanking at the thong
and uttering curses under his breath. He was naked and troll-like and
Catherine screamed into her gag.
The man looked up and gave Catherine a toothy grin of yellowed teeth and
said something in his guttural English tongue that Catherine did not
understand.
The thong's knot parted. . .
The man's hands forced upon Catherine's thighs, his dirty nails digging
into her flesh. Again, Catherine screamed uselessly.
The captive stared in horror at the man's dwarfish cock. It was as thick
and knobby as a toadstool as he grunted before Catherine's quim. She struggled
and kicked at the man. It was all he could do to hold her down.
She freed her one leg.
Catherine kicked the troll's cock with all her might, smashing it.
The man roared in pain and grasped his injured member, his bloodshot eyes
clouded in pain and rage. . .
Catherine's heel smashed into the villains' nose with a wet crack, causing
blood to gush from it. She did not stop, kicking at the man's face and belly
again and again until he slipped off the edge of the bed.
Catherine struggled to seat herself and peer over the side of her bed.
The man was laying in a pile, his face a bloody ruin. She prayed that Edward
would return before this man awoke.
*********************End Chapter Eight*******************
Additional chapters will be added as time permits. Any comments, ideas,
and feelings, especially from the Lady Catherines out there, would be most
appreciated. Please e-mail me at FESSELN1.aol.com
