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 mind
like a poacher in the forest and were both wanton and frightening.
Catherine dreamt she was Edward De Valence'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 good man. 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 she 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 perform 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 towards 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 sleeves 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 at times.
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 his 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 as 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 less 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 sulfur and tar. Others crack uselessly on the ground before the hay. But a few landed in the hay and spilled their fiery burden, starting the smoky pyre.
The smoke began to embrace the tower in its 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 arrow loops 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 into her gag.
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, would be most appreciated. Please e-mail me at FESSELN1.aol.com
26.05.06
story continues in On French Soil 9 - "Unto the weary and all-watched night"
o0o