Chapter Seven: "A Slave No Gentler"
Sir Edward de Valence leaned over Catherine and began to unbind her ankles from the foot of the bed. Her slim legs were weak from the passionate eruptions from not a few moments ago. There was a tenderness in his touch and Catherine could see a gentleness in his hazel eyes as well. Her ankles did not keep unfettered long, however, for he tied them together again at her ankles.
Edward then untied her wrists from the bed posts. He held onto both of them and eased Catherine over onto her front, pinning her wrists in back of her. Catherine did not protest, rather she just let Edward retie her wrists together. She did not understand why she did not try to free herself from this English but it seemed her body spoke for her now. As Edward sat her up next to Margaret, Catherine felt now oddly safe. Edward was not here to harm her and he had shown her joys that she could not even have imagined but a fortnight ago.
Catherine accepted her position beside the washerwoman Margaret, who had not accepted her position yet. They were both side by side and Catherine could feel the warmth of the red-headed woman mewling through her gag beside her. Margaret struggled in her bonds where Catherine just accepted them.
Edward then eased the knots out of Catherine's gag and did the same to Margaret.
"You both look hungry," Edward said as he took the gag out of Margaret's mouth.
"Untie me right now, m'Edward de Valence!" Margaret said, struggling; Her heavy breasts jiggling and bouncing with her writhing moves.
"Ah, you said you wanted to be my captive. You do not hear a protest from sweet Catherine's lips, do you?" Edward smiled.
"No. . ." Margaret trailed.
"Then relax. I will unbind you in do course, Margaret. In the mean time, you look starved."
Edward went over to the pot of stew he had and took the bone ladle and brought it to Catherine's lips.
Catherine did not realize how hungry she was and she opened her mouth gladly. Edward eased the spoon in and she closed her lips around it. It was not laced with the spices she was used to, but it did not taste bad. . . the meat was stringy and tasted of the honey that preserved it. The sauce hinted of wine and there was some potatoes and carrots, another thing she had not tasted since the siege began.
Edward ladled the second spoon full to Margaret who was more timid taking what Edward offered. She was not used to being fed like a child but she did accept it partially because she did not want the juice running down her chest.
The English knight continued to feed them until there was none left in the bowl. He also let them swallow some beer he had in his leather costrel. It was only after the bowl was cleaned and all the beer was drained Edward was ready to rest for the night ahead.
Edward went to Margaret and whispered in her ear, "So, dear Margaret, do you enjoy being a captive?"
His hands began to caress her larger, pink nipples.
Margaret did not answer directly and thought upon this, sitting nude and bound before her Edward. She had enjoyed the freedom the bindings did give her in receiving Edward's attentions. However, being fed and treated this way afterward was new to her and she was very uncertain if she liked it or not.
"If it pleas's m'Edward t' 'ave me this way," Margaret replied, "You know I will be here for m'lord."
"You did not answer the question, Margaret."
Margaret paused then answered, "Yes, m'Edward, I did enjoy it."
"Good," Edward replied.
The English knight then began to unbind Margaret, first her captive ankles and legs, then her wrists. Margaret flexed her fingers and hands, easing out their stiffness caused from her ties.
"While I rest, dear Margaret, I
need you to do this thing for me. . ." and Edward whispered into the
Bois D'Astier was not by nature a patient man and as the afternoon lingered and the rain had slackened its assault, he paced inside the small hut abandon by its tenants upon the fall of Harfleur. It was not but a few minutes ride away from the besieged port. It was a dangerous place to be, Bois knew, but he wanted to be close to the town in order to find out what had happened to his sister, Catherine.
The latest word from the town was there were still two towers upon the river that had not surrendered and Bois could here the distant thunder of cannon now vomiting their deadly stones at the towers walls. But, there would be no relief for those wretched souls in those towers. The king still had not made up his mind about the English threat here.
"M'lord Bois," one of his men, John, spoke, "You pace like a hound before the hunt. You must rest. Here, have some wine and sit by the fire."
Bois nodded and let John lead him to the hearth in the center of the room and the small, spitting fire flickering upon it. There were several of his charges huddled about the meager flame, getting what warmth they could. John handed his leader a ceramic mug filled with warm wine and Bois let its magic flow through him to ease him of the day's cares. He looked out the open door toward Harfleur.
"Soon, My Lord Bois, we will go to the town and be amongst the English as mercenaries. I have seen several of our lowly dogs doing so. They have no faith in our King. . ."
"Neither do I," Bois cut in, taking another sip of wine.
"True, My Lord Bois, he has been weak of mind. . ."
"Weak of heart, John. He has no spirit. France is close to civil war and now the English take liberties upon our soil with no opposition. He has lost France already and his weakly son is no better than he. We, John, loyal French, are all that stand between France and her ruin."
"I think it is the wine talking, My lord. . ."
"It is the truth and I am not afraid to say it."
John shook his head, his dark eyes cast down, "It is the truth," his words a mere whisper.
"My father will not be pleased when he hears word of what goes on here, John."
John just nodded.
Bois was fond of his sister, his closest sibling. They both looked the same. Hair the color of Raven's wings, dark eyes, slender of build. In their childhood, Bois used to have mock swordfights with her in the garden. His oldest brother, Jean, was too much his father's puppet and his two other brothers were more interested in their books and their father's travels. Only Catherine shared his love for adventure.
But Phillip D' Astier made sure that both Bois and Catherine knew their places and separated them. As they grew up, Bois rarely saw his sister but the memories of their happy times always lingered in his thoughts. They were the only happy times he could recall in their house.
"You brood again, My Lord Bois," John said, "You do worry me so."
Bois patted John on the cheek, "You worry too
much. That is my station, John, not yours."
Catherine could not understand what the red-headed washerwoman was doing. Her back was towards Catherine and she could not make out what Margaret was sewing something out of the clothes Edward had brought. She had also heard some metal clinks as Margaret sewed. She could not understand what they could be.
Catherine's gag was back in place and her bindings had changed slightly, as with her position in the English's bed. Edward had tied looped some thong around her waist as he had with the woman Margaret, and guided it between her sensitive, swyve-swollen lips before tying it to her wrists. If she pulled on her wrists, the thong rubbed against her quim; her pearl, causing a flush of pleasure through her. However, she dared not move for fear of what Edward had said to her would happen if she disturbed his rest.
The English knight slept beside Catherine, his skin warm next to hers. She could feel his every breath. She could almost feel his heartbeat. His arm was lax around her, embracing her to him gently. His manhood was warm and against her thigh, as asleep as Edward was.
She should sleep, Catherine thought to herself. But there was so much rushing through her head like a millstream through a waterwheel. It was obvious that Edward cared for her. The way he touched Catherine. The gentle way he bound her. However, she was still bound. . . a prisoner to his desires which were rapidly becoming her own. She was his to do with now as he pleased and it pleased Catherine to be such.
Edward move a bit, his thumb brushing against her nipple every time she breathed. It was a sinful feeling that did not help quench her fires that seemed to keep burning within her. Nor did it help to have the thong rubbing her within her quim. She gently rocked her hips against the leather, feeling their lustful magic stoke her fires slowly. She dared not move much, however, for fear of awakening Edward.
Would he be so cruel? Catherine asked herself.
The thought of being bound outside the city gates and left alone frightened her. That is what Edward had promised would happen if she dared wake him. He said she would be left for the wolves to feed upon like they did upon the dead of the siege. Their howls could be heard in the night. There were not many left but the plagues and the wars left fewer men and the wolves seemed to know this. Entire villages were emptied by the Death and the sleek canines would prowl about the streets like demons. The wild dogs were as bad.
She could almost feel the hot breath of a wolf as it sank it's teeth into her pale throat. . .
Catherine awoke with a start. She had drifted asleep and the Edward's threat lingered in her mind.
However, her fires had not gone out. Edward's threat only reinforced her feelings of helplessness. But it was that helplessness that was driving her dark, pleasurable needs.
His thumb still tickled at Catherine's nipple, which was stiff with the bliss of his slight touch. The leather strands between her legs rubbed her more and more as she gently rocked her hips against the thong. Her fires were burning hot now, fanned by her gentle movements. She moaned quietly into her gag. The washerwoman did not hear her nor, she prayed, did Edward.
Why was this so? Catherine asked herself. Why did she enjoy being bound so much by this English?
She closed her eyes and imagined his touch on her; the touch of a lover. His hands holding her breasts from behind, his fingers pulling at their tips and sending lightening flashes of bliss into her womb. She could feel him press against her back, his kisses hungry at her neck, her earlobe, her smooth shoulder. His manhood firm against her buttocks as she rocked her hips. Her body was eager to please her lover and the feel of his hardness between her cheeks, so close to her thirsting quim, was near torture. She could feel the pleasure build up within her, the leather weaving it's magic through her sex and she pressed herself more and more against it.
Then the fire consumed her and she shook and writhed within her bonds.
She then realized it was not all her imagination. Edward's fingers were clasped over her breasts and his manhood was firm against her.
"Not an unpleasant wakening, dear Catherine," he whispered in French as he kissed, "but I had warned you what would happen."
Fear gushed through her like a rush of ice water and she pleaded into her gag.
"Do you think I did not mean what I said?"
Again Catherine pleaded into her gag, tears running down her face.
Edward pinched her nipple hard.
"I will forgive you THIS TIME, dear Catherine, but not again. I will flog you and leave you bleeding for the dogs. Do you understand?"
Catherine nodded her head, still sobbing. Her tears now were from relief.
"Now I must rest. When I awake, I am sure Margaret will have finished something special for you."
Edward caressed her nipples slowly, like the lover he was in her dream.
"It will be a long night for me, m'lady Catherine, and if you want to continue to enjoy the pleasures of my company, you must let me rest or I may very well end up dead. Those towers need to fall, dear Catherine, and if you are to be my wife rather than my ransom, you must understand I have to do this thing."
The word "wife" echoed through Catherine like the bells of Notre Dame upon Christmas. . . a toll full of joy that could not be imagined.
"Now be still."
And Catherine was.
*******************End Chapter Seven************************
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story continues in On French Soil 7 - A Slave No Gentler