BDSM Library - On French Soil

On French Soil

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Synopsis: This is a slavery story that took place in fifteen century. Sir Edward de Valence came back for his revenge.
   ON FRENCH SOIL

     By T.S.Fesseln

Disclaimer: This is a work of amatory fantasy.  Any resemblence to people 
living or dead is purely coincidental.   Many historical liberties have been
taken in this work and apologies to those who notice them.   If you are under
the age of 18, please stop here.   If you are a bit squimish about rape and
graphic depictions of violence and sex, please stop here.  The author takes no
responibility for those who wish to reenact anything written below.

Permission is granted for private use.  The author wishes any agencies that
wish to publish this work, to please contact me at FESSELN1.aol.com.  Any
comments are gladly accepted and encouraged.



   ON FRENCH SOIL

     By T.S.Fesseln

Prologue: 'Famine, sword and fire crouch for employment'

    Edward de Valence stood upon the deck of The Black Swan and watched as her
captain barked out orders.  Never had Edward seen such a mighty fleet assembled
as this bright August day.  A myriad of colored penants whipped and snapped in
the warm sea air and the decks of the ships sparkled with their armor clad
passengers.  Edward could barely make out the masts of  La Trinite Royale,
Henry the V's flagship. 
    The hounds of war were now being unleashed towards France.
    "The game is afoot, dear Richard," Edward said, smiling, "Our fortunes lie
in Frances' sweet bossom."
    "Indeed, my Lord.  And we happy few are here to see the majesty of King
Harry's fleet.  What a glorious sight," Richard replied, smiling, his usually
stern blue eyes smiling, "When France sees that King Harry's claim is just, and
sees the vast power arrayed against her, justice will be our sword."
      "Battle is never easy, dear Richard, and though we serve our right King
Harry, we have our own battles to fight.     Phillip D'Astier still draws
breath and builds his house in France and it is he that will feel my revenge in
the bite of my steel.  I swear upon the bloody wounds of Christ that this
arogant man shall pay."
     Richard nodded silently.
     "Yes, indeed, dear Richard," Edward grinned a reaper's grin, "The game is
afoot."

Authors Notes:   The year is 1415 and so begins another bloody campaign in what
will be known as the Hundred Years' War.  There has been liberties taken in
this tale of sexual slavery, historical liberties and I apologize ahead of time
for them.   With that aside, please enjoy this story and I welcome any comments
any of you may have.

********************NOW BEGINS OUR TALE**********************************



   ON FRENCH SOIL

     By T.S.Fesseln

Chapter One:'Unto The Breach'

      The siege-fires burnished a halo in the night sky over Harfleur,
silhouetting the broken city walls and the dead and dying men upon them.
Within those walls, the sounds of battle still echoed through the streets as
Englishmen ranged through the cobbled streets looking for the loot that would
fill their pockets about that which the young King Henry promised.
      Sir Edward de Valence lifted his visor as he rode through the narrow
streets littered with the bodies of the dead and dying, careful to make sure
that the injured of the enemy would not fight again.  The ranks had broken
and the raping of the port of Harfleur had begun in ernest.  He had even
dismissed his own men so that they could loot their share. He had another
mission in mind.
      The House of D'Astier was where he had remembered it on the street of
wine merchants.  Phillip D'Astier was a name that many a merchant of the
grape envied and hated.  His methods were mercenary and cruel and his silver
graced many an officials' hand.  His cogs doubled as privateers.  His gold
could buy death.
      And it had.
      Edward's young son, Bruce, had perished in France while there on
business.  Edward's gold bought him the information he needed to know:
Phillip D'Astier may not have held the dagger, but he had paid for it.  
      And now he would pay for it again.
      The door to the two-story dwelling was broken in.  As Edward
dismounted, he could hear the cries of rage and agony within.  He gathered
his battleaxe and stepped through the darkened doorway.  
      Inside the small corridor, he found two of D'Astiers' hired men lying
dead in dark pools of blood.  The face of one had been crushed and from the
ruins of his  face, protruding teeth gave Edward an unsavory grin.  The other
lay entwined in his own glistening bowels.  The small corridor  had open
doors to either side, one had a bright light that spilled out of it and lit
the men's remains.
     Edward quickly glanced in there, seeing the ruins of a kitchen.  The
other doorway opened to the main hall with it's dying embers on the hearth
and upset furniture.  Another two bodies lay sprawled over the wreckage, none
which Edward recognized.
      The cries of anquish could be heard coming from the solar.  Readying
his axe, Edward rushed toward it across the great hall to the narrow doorway
from which  he heard the clatter.
      Entering the room, Edward could see the flames starting to engulf the
far side of the room and silhouetted against the inferno a three men and a
woman.   All three had stripped the young maiden and and tied her
spread to a rough table.  By the gargoyle grins and laughs of these rough men
of England, they had had their pleasure and now left the girl to be consumed
by the hungery fingers of flame that were quickly spreading over tapestries
and beams.
      These men did not know what fortune laid tied before them.
      Nor did they know that fortune would turn upon them.
      The first man, still trying to tie one of his leggings, glanced up to
see his life vanish in a single blink.  Edward's blade swung upwards,
catching underneath the roughs' chin and in a wide arc, shaving most of the
man's face, his scream gurggling though his blood.  The second, frozen with
inaction as his mind still tried to puzzle what was happening, could only let
out a strangled cry of horror as Edward's axe buried itself into the man's
soft belly.  The force of the blow sent the wretch teetering nearly in half
into the growing flames.
      The third man had his fellows to thank for the few moments it took to
arm himself.  He was a nasty fellow with bulbous nose and teeth like broken,
puss-colored stumps.  Crouched and armed with a well-worn sword, his eyes had
a madman's yellow gleam.
      "She's 'ur's if'n you want," he spat, smiling, "I's done 'er."
      Edward remained silent and stepped toward the soldier, axe glinting red
in the growing firelight.
      The rough giggled a bit, and tried to step away from the metal-clad
nightmare that had interuppted his fun.  If he could win, he could still
relish the screams and sizzling skin of the girl as his precious flames
licked at her sex.  That was all he really wanted.
      A beam snapped under the caress of the flame, sending a firefly shower
of embers over the two.  The rough shrieked as the sparks landed in his hair
seconds before the edge of Edward's axe.  The blade cleft the rough's skull
with a wet crack and stuck there.  The haft of the axe had split with
Edward's effort.
      The fire had spread in moment to engulf two walls of the small room.
Hot plaster chunks rained down.  The comedy of Dante could compare well but
Edward did not seem to notice, his mind locked onto the maiden tied to the
table before him.
      Her nude figure was like molten bronze in the firelight.  Her eyes wide
and dark, her cloth-gagged lips as rose petals, her neck slight and graceful.
The soft curves of her full breasts seemed to plead for his touch.  Her belly
was as smooth and as flat as a stream-polished stone and her quim was cloaked
with a wonderful dark-furred patch.  Her legs were long and lithe and his
desire for the daughter of D'Astier flared as she still tried to struggle in
her tethers and scream into her gag.
     Drawing a dagger, Edward slit the cords binding her ankles to each of
the tables' legs, then pinning them together, cinched them tight.  At the
head on the table, he did the same to her wrists, twisting them until they
were pinned behind the maid's back.  Even as helpless as she was, the
bitch-child of D'Astier continued to struggle and fight as if she wanted to
perish in the fire.
     It took no little effort to heft the slight girl over his shoulder and
carry her through what had become a pyre.  What strained Edward was her
squirming and kicking.  It took both his arms to force her out the of the
doors.  Soon, he was outside beside his horse, the night air feeling like
ice on his heat drenched body.
     His prize was still struggling, but her efforts were growing weaker as
the strength drained away from her body.  Her screams had become faint mewls
of anguish and fatigue.  With no little effort, he draped her over the pommel
of his saddle.  He stroked her lovely, rounded arse; her quim peeking out
below like a plum ripe for plucking.  But not, here, Edward thought as he
cloaked her with a looted tapestry.
     He climbed wearily into the saddle and settled back into it's cantel.
He could still see his struggling bait in the outlines of the tapestry, but
if anyone should glance his way, her form would be hidden from sight.
     The ride through the streets of Harfleur was marked only by the amblings
of drunking Englishmen and the cries of the dispossed French.  The siege had
left both hungry and desparate and now only the victors could make what
little merriment they could.  Weeks of being camped in bogs thick with flies
and summer stink had taken their toll.  The King had ordered out the camp
followers and the wine the men drank had been fetid.  It was no wonder that
their victory had become an orgy after the rich had been ransomed.
     Outside the walls the night air did not seem as thick as Edward urged
his mount through the wooden pallisades built for the seige.  The dark
skeletons of trebuchets
looked like empty gallows and the smell of fired gunpowder still cloaked the
air.  The cannons were silent this St. Maurice's Eve, the port had
surrendered to King Harry.
     There were few men in the old campsite, most of the men had moved their
belongings into the town and into what was now their homes.  Edward would
soon follow but only after he made sure his captive was secure.
      The baggage wagon that Edward had called home had become mired in the
soft ground until Edward knew it was not going to move.  It's blues and
whites and gold had become stained and faded and the dray horses slaugthered
to fill the bellies of his charges.  The was an untended fire dying and the
little else as Edward dismounted and tethered his horse.  King Harry would
see to it that Edward got his share of the ransom for the king was indebted
to his household more than a few coin.  There was no need for him to loot.
One of the few things he wanted was wriggling underneath the tapestry.
      Edward pulled the covering off, brushed back the maiden's long dark
tresses and looked again into the face of his prize, Catherine D'Astier.  Her
ebony eyes were wide and doe-like in their fear and her muffled pleas from
behind her gag did  nothing but arouse Edward more.  
      He brushed her cheek, smiled, then went around to the other side to
lift her off the saddle.  As he grabbed both legs, he could smell her
perfume, as heady and wanton as a mare in season.  Her maidenhead had already
been sundered so his taking her would not now damage her value to him.
Besides, Edward thought to himself, it would bring him vengence to swyve the
daughter of the man that killed his son.
      He carted her over his shoulder and brought her in to lay her amongst
his baggage.  Grabbing her ankles, he bent them to meet her wrists and
knotted them there in a hogtie. He then rolled her over onto her back so he
could drink in her body again.
     She squirmed and struggled, her breasts jiggling with the effort.  Her
nipples were stiff and erect and her knees opened almost to invite him.
Between her legs and below her dark, thick nest, the slit of her quim showed,
swollen like ripe fruit.  Her mewls behind her gag sounded like pleas and her
eyes showed both want and fear.
     Normally, his squire would help him out of his armor, but he was no
where to be seen.  Edward labored to rid himself of his armor but soon he was
undressed and kneeling over the helpless Catherine.
     Edward's rough hands forced apart the knees of the girl before him,
pinning them back and exposing her sex.  Her perfume was strong and he could
see she was already moist.
She struggled at the sight of his cock, trying to squirm away, but Edward's
firm grip pinned her.  He eased down upon her and felt her warm, silken
muscles engulf him.
     Slowly at first, then with more violence, Edward thrust into her again
and again.  The sweet friction stoking Edward's passion and anger as did the
girl's moans.  At first they were moans of anguish but as Edward thrust, they
became more amatory.  Her knees embraced him and helped him with the rhythm.
Her hips came up to meet his.
     Again and again, thrusting and stoking his fire until he felt the spent
boiling up his shaft and shooting into Catherine, causing her to shiver and
squirm without control.  Her moans were of pleasure and when Edward tried to
slip out, she held onto him with her silken muscles and her thighs.  
     But Edward pulled himself from her and stared into Catherine's eyes
until she curled herself up into a ball.  It was not long before she fell
asleep.
     Edward wondered.  . .

**************************END CHAP 1***********************************

      If you would like to see this story continue, especially any Lady
Catherine's out there, please contact me at FESSELN1.aol.com.  I will try to
post more when time becomes
available.







ON FRENCH SOIL

by T.S. Fesseln

Chapter Two:With hard-favor'd rage

     With the grey of early morning, Sir Edward de Valence awoke, his muscles
as stiff as bark.  In the half-shadow of the baggagewagon, he could make out
the pale shape of his captive, still sleeping curled up in the bindings he had
put her in last evening.  Her long, black hair obscured her delicate face and
gagged mouth.  Her breasts were the size of ripe apples, her nipples as dark as
dates, her slight waist long, as well as her bound legs.  Hidden was her
dark nest of curls and quim from which Edward had raped his pleasure.
     Now, in the half-light of the morning, he had regrets at that moment's
pleasure.  When Edward raped Catherine, he had done so out of an uncontrolled
rage against her father and the death of Edward's son.  His rage was spent
inside Catherine and now there was room for feelings that might change his
destiny.
     Edward eased over to her sleeping form and brushed her hair away from her
face, causing her to stir.  With eyes wide, at first she seemed unsure about
her surroundings.  Then remembering the nightmare of last evening, Catherine
struggled violently against her bonds.  Edward let her until she began to cry
into her sopping gag and her struggles became retches of sorrow.
     "I do not wish harm to you . . .," Edward told her in her native French.
     Catherine took no solace in his words.  In fact, they were upon deaf ears.
 The horrors of the night were a blur and now it seemed they came back to all
too real life.  God was punishing her now for her wantoness.  This English
devyl  was to be her tormentor . . .
     ". . .Catherine. . ."
     Hearing her name has like a slap to her face, waking her up to what this
English spoke.
     ". . .promise not to cause a stir, I will unbind you and find you some
decent clothes.  Do you understand?"
     Catherine nodded her head, not understanding all that the English had
said, but knowing that the evil bindings would be taken off and she could try
to cover what this foul man had already ravaged from her.
     Edward reached over and undid the knots to the soaked gag.  He unwound the
cloth from around her head until the last she spat out of her mouth.  Her jaws
ached and her tongue seemed numb.  As she wiggled a bit to allow this
English to unbind her, she found her hands and wrists were also numb.
     However, instead of unbinding her, de Valence moved back and began to
search through a chest. 
     "I thought, M'lord was going to release me!" Catherine wormed around,
still trying to undo her hogtie.
     Edward brought a bottle out of the chest and sat down across from his
dark-haired ransom, "And I will, as soon as I can trust you enough to leave you
without harness."
     "I am NOT your ride, m'lord, and when my father finds out what acts you
have done to me. . ."
     "He will come and pierce my back with steel," Edward interrupted, "or some
such a thing."
     "He will tear off those jewels of yours, m'lord, and feed them to sows!
Unbind me now!"
     Edward took a long draw from his bottle.  The warmth of the mead soothed
his throat and tongue.  After a long swallow, he set the bottle down before
Catherine.  Her eyes never left it.
     She squirmed a bit more, her movements and grunts of frustration warming
the fires in Edward's loins.  
     "Dog! Loose me!" she spat, almost exhausted from her efforts.
     Her words only fuelled Edward's growing excitement.  He found it curious
that he would want to tame this shrew of a girl.  A coney and a wolf, but the
coney would fall prey.
     "Do you want this again?" Edward asked as he held up the dank rag that had
gagged her all night.
     "You would not dare." Catherine said levelly.
     Edward moved toward her, holding the gag before him.  This caused her to
wriggle back, her dark eyes like a doe about to be felled.
     "No, m'lord, no!" she pleaded with the dark Edward.
     "Then you will blunt your sharp tongue?"
     She just looked at him as if he were made of maggot-ridden dung.
     He began to move.
     "Yes, m'lord!" she spit.
     "Yes, m'lord . . .?" Edward prodded.
     Catherine looked at him blankly. 
     "Pray, continue Catherine.  Tell me what you will not do." 
     Catherine held her tongue from saying something that would endanger her
plight even more, "I will not, m'lord, call you those things that the devyl
knows are true of you."
     Edward smiled and sat back again, nabbing the bottle of mead and drinking
another long swallow.  Catherine licked her sore lips but was determined not to
ask for even a drop.  To keep her mind from torturing itself, she mentally
assessed her captor.
     The English was taller than most, with wide shoulders and a rippled
stomach that bore a large scar across it in testament to the man's station. 
His face was square with dark hair cut like the king he followed here to
France.  His eyes were a dark hazel and his mustache and beard were trimmed
close and neatly.  His hands were large and as rough as bark from scars.  His
shanks were long and burled with muscle and his cock was as big as Catherine
had ever seen, nested now in his dark fur that seemed to cover his chest and
loin thickly.
    His cock was also rampant.
    Catherine was not an innocent, far from it.  It was a cousin that taught
her to enjoy the delights of her body early.  Since that early age, Catherine
enjoyed the many lovers that were wooed by her coy looks and father's
fortunes.  It was those fortunes that allowed Catherine to indulge in her games
of the heart she enjoyed so much.
    This was another game, she thought.  All men want few things.  She had one
of those things and she was not afraid to use it to her advantage.
    Catherine squirmed around again until she was almost sitting.  She eased
open her thighs a bit to let Edward view her quim and watched his eyes as they
travelled to between her legs.  
    "What will m'lord do with me?" she asked.
    "Hold you for ransom."
    "My father will pay you well, m'lord."
    Edward smiled, "I know he will."
    "Am I to be kept as this?"
    "It pleases me."
    "It does not please me. . ." Catherine said, closing her thighs so her sex
could not be seen by her captor.
    "I think it does, Catherine,"  Edward crawled over to her and knelt before
her.  
    He looked directly into those doe-dark eyes.
    He then parted her legs, though Catherine struggled to keep them shut. 
Edward held them open and gazed at Catherine's sex openly.  Catherine still
struggled to shield it from his view, bound as she was, she could not hope to
do so against a man as strong as this English.
    Edward then looked into those dark eyes of hers.
    "Is m'lord pleased with the view?" Cathrine asked with tone dripping venom.
    "Very much, m'lady D'Astier," the English knight replied as he held her
legs open for a moment or two before easing back again, releasing his grip on
her.
     Catherine started to close her thighs to his view but Edward sat back up
and pried them apart again.  This happened two or three more times, without a
word spoken between the two, until Catherine left her thighs open for Edwards
eyes.
     "It is as pretty a sight, m'lady, as all your father's wooded lands."
     Catherine did not say a word, but bowed her head.  Her tears began to
trickle down her cheek and onto her chest.  Though Edward hated to admit it,
the sight this pitiful, bound creature made his loins hot and his thirst great.
     He took another draw from the bottle of mead.
     "Would you like some mead, m'lady Catherine?" Edward asked.
     She nodded her head, not looking up.  Her eyes were red with the sorrow of
her plight, partially an act and partially not.  A woman's tears, her cousin
once said, were deadlier than any dagger, stabbing at a man's heart cleanly and
on target every time.
     Edward took the bottle to her and lifted it to her lips.  She gulped down
the sweet wine eagerly, having had no food nor drink for nearly a day.  With
every swallow, she could feel her strength being renewed as if it were a magik
potion or elixir.  She drank nearly half the bottle before Edward took it from
her lips.
     An awkward moment passed between the two before Catherine broke the
silence.
     "Gramercy, m'lor�."
     Edward knelt between Catherine's open legs, his rampant cock pointing at
her face as a sword would.  His intent was plain.  He meant to take pleasure
from her lips.
     "M'lord wants me to drink from another bottle?" She asked, knowing the
answer before she even asked the question.
     Edward nodded his head slowly.
     "T'will be hard, m'lord English, bound the way I am."
     Edward smiled and moved to Cathrine's side, lifting her until she was
kneeling, still hogtied.  Her hands were red from the tightness of her bonds,
but her ankles and feet looked well.  Edward grabbed another length of thong
and tied her wrist a bit more loosely before cutting the other wrist bonds off,
allowing the blood to flow to her fingers again.  The slim young woman was
still bound, but her plight was less uncomfortable.
     The English stepped around to Cathrine's front, his cock pointed at her
lips.  She leaned forward a bit, and kissed Edward's swollen tip, running her
tongue over it and around it as her cousin taught her.  The man tasted slightly
sweet, perhaps because of the mead she had had earlier.
     The woman's tongue was warm and deft and made Edward groan a bit in
pleasure.  His fingers combed through her long, dark tresses and helped with
Catherine's rhythm.  Her lips swallowed his shaft and with them, she began to
suckle his pricker to pleasure.
     Her rhythm was deliberately slow, even with the knight's large hands
grasping her head.  Her tongue was not still nor her lips.  She would often
suck all the way off his purplish head, lick around it as if a boiled sweet
apple before taking in his shaft again.  From his groans and urgings, she knew
he was about to spend.
     Edward could feel his seed boiling up his shaft in bliss.  He held it as
long as possible, revelling in each second before filling Catherine's mouth
with his white cum.  It's saltiness she swallowed as she licked clean Edward's
cock.
     Edward knew then that Catherine would be his servant lover, to do with as
he pleased. . .

****************END CHAPTER 2**************************

     If you would like to see this storyline continued, please E-mail
Fesseln@aol.com .  I will try to add to it as time permits.

1





     ON FRENCH SOIL

     By T.S. Fesseln

Chapter III - "Of Hot And Forcing Violation"

     "M'lord de Valence!" 
     Catherine had barely licked the last of Edward de Valence's seed from
her lips when she heard someone yell outside Edward's baggage wagon.  Sir
Edward de Valence, her captor, heard it too and with wolf-like speed, he
grabbed a piece of cloth and forced it between Catherine's lips, gagging her.

     For Edward, there was no time to waste upon making Catherine D'Astier
comfortable.  If anyone knew he took a prisoner to ransom without the King's
permission, his very life may be forfeit.  He shoved his prisoner down and
quickly pulled a wool blanket and tapestry down over her.  The bulk of the
tapestry seemed to cover her little struggles and he could barely hear her
screams through the gag.
  	"Sir Edward de Valence!" the man called again.
     Edward pulled on his hose quickly before stepping out in the grey
morning.  A fine, misting rain greeted him coldly as he stood in the doorway.
At the edge of his camp, Richard Corfe, Edward's best man-at-arms and
sergeant, walked his horse through the mud escorting another man, the King's
Herald.  Richard still had the grime of battle ground into his skin and his
armor was well-worn while the herald, mounted on a light grey horse, looked
as clean as any bishop.
     "M'lord de Valence?" the herald asked, a grim look about him.
     "Yes."
     "His Majesty, King Henry the V, wishes your council immediately.  You
may find him in St. Martin's church."
     Barely had the words left the herald's lips than the man wheeled his
horse around and started back toward Harfleur.  The two men were silent until
the herald was swallowed by the misting rain.
     "How now, Richard?  Why such a grim face?" Edward asked.
     "I could not pry any words out of that man, m'lord.  His bearing is not
good and I fear what news you may hear," Richard replied, his clear blue eyes
now red with burden of war.
     Edward nodded, "The men taken care of?"
     "As well as can be, m'lord.  We have a roof over our head and a bit of
wine we found, but they were as starved as we are."
     Edward again nodded, "Water the wine down with this rain water.  I fear
that the devil may have pissed in the river.  See what I can fill our bellies
with so long as it hasn't crawled from the sea.  Take a few of our archers
afield and see what fowl you can put on the spit."
     "M'lord."
     "And see to it this wagon is dragged to the a suitable site within the
walls.  I will not have some errant French lick-pizzle steal what little
comforts I have.  Guard it well and let no one inside save me."
     Richard nodded, wiping his soggy, blonde hair out of his eyes.
     "Now I will see what the King has to say."

     Catherine struggled once again at her bonds and once again was
frustrated by their effectiveness.  She was on her back once more and the
rough wool against her skin felt like thousands of fleas crawling over her
breasts, belly and legs.  The cold wood she lay upon was rough and chaffing
and with her wrists bound as they were behind her back, made her even more
uncomfortable.
     But even more than that, Catherine felt an itch between her legs that
she could not sate.  It troubled her in many ways, chief amongst them was the
idea she was wanting of Edward's manhood despite his ill-treatment of her.
He had not respected her station.  In fact, quite the opposite, as if she
were a common slattern.  However, no matter how she was treated by the
English and how detestable it was, there was no turning away from the fact
that her quim was wanting his touch.
     The wool was rough against her nipples as she squirmed. 
Each movement, a little blissful agony sparked within her womb and heated the
embers there. 
     Catherine strained her hands down and her legs apart, knocking about the
empty bottle of wine Edward and her had shared, but her fingers could not
solace the need rising in her.  Her position and bindings worked against her.
     Then Catherine heard something and froze.
     Even beneath the blanket and tapestry, Catherine could hear the muffled
voices of men outside and their thumps against the wagon.  The thought of
them finding her both horrified and thrilled and sent her passions rushing
through her like a wild fire.  Struggling, Catherine tried to assuage her
need with the heel of her foot but found that it would not but brush her
swollen lips, teasing herself.
     Catherine rocked her shoulders so that her nipples would enjoy the
friction against the wool.  Total rapture was so close yet still unreachable,
like a delicious quince hanging just at the fingertips' touch.  The smell of
her own natural perfume hung in the cloistered air beneath the blanket like
an exotic incense, exciting her more.  She rocked her hips and tried to rub
her thighs together, but to no end.
     Then Catherine felt the wagon jolt.  Her own mewls of need had drowned
out the sounds outside and left her isolated.  The wagon was now moving and
she was now very aware she was not alone.
     The rocking and jolting of the wagon across the muddy ground cause the
bottle to roll beneath Catherine's splayed legs.  She felt it's slender neck
against thigh like the prick of an ardent lover.  Before the bottle could
roll away, Catherine trapped it's base between her feet, aiming it's slender
neck at her moistened quim.
     The baggage cart jolted again.  The bottle slipped from her grasp.
	A moan of despair erupted from Catherine's lips as she sought to entrap the
bottle again.  She felt it's cool, smooth surface upon her thigh and began to
squirm around, hoping to roll it back to her grasping feet.  Undulating and
writhing, she feel the bottle roll toward her tied ankles.  With grunting
effort, she trapped the bottle again and tried to slowly point it's neck
towards her quiff, holding the bottle firm over the larger bumps.
     The effort took great concentration but Catherine now had the lip of the
bottle against her own moistened lips, a prize so tempting she could not
refuse it's blissful invasion.  With one quick push, she rammed the bottle
neck inside herself.
     The bottle filled Catherine, her slick muscles bearing down upon the
glass phallus as if she were possessed by a daemon.  Using her heels, she
pumped the bottle in and out of herself, fanning the fires within her,
building her pyre of ecstasy until it consumed her in rapture. . .

     The destruction wrought on Harfleur by the English engines and cannon
was even more apparent in daylight.  This was the first time Edward had been
within the town walls since the night of Catherine's capture.  His charge was
the guarding of the siege artillery and as the town surrendered, Edward had
to maintain his vigil until all the canon were safe behind the city walls.
     The smell of smoke still clung to the air, even in the misting rain.
Charred timbers of homes and stores poked up through the rubble like ribs of
a burnt carcass.  But most of town was spared ruin.
     St. Martin's bell tower stood like a lone sentinel over the town.  The
roof over the chancel had collapsed but the tower stood firm.  It was here
that King Henry had walked barefoot to give thanks for his victory and it was
here that he made plans for the future of his France.
     The men-at-arms bowed slightly to Edward as he mounted the steps to go
into the church, their faces grim.  He remembered the look on the faces of
the men-at-arms in England when he escorted Sir Thomas Grey to his audience
with the King.  The guards seemed to know what was to happen to the traitor
Grey.  They had the same look as the guards he just passed.
     John Duke of Bedford greeted Edward with a slight smile.
     "He awaits you in the tower," Bedford said in barely a whisper.
     The stairs were steep and each step made Edward's knees ache.  The cold,
misty rain seemed to bring out a man's infirmities, Edward thought to
himself.  He wondered if these thoughts crossed the minds of men walking up
to the gallows.
     The door to the tower was unattended and with a hesitant hand, Edward
turned the latch to open it.  
     "Come, gentle Edward de Valence, and stand with ourselves and advise,"
King Henry spoke as he stood before the open arches and peered out over
Harfleur cloaked in the mist.
     "My King," Edward bowed and moved beside him.
     For a moment, neither spoke but looked out at the rain and the rooftops
and the men below.  The King had a great cloak about him as he stared.  This
man was a soldier first and King second.  The heated lust for battle still
glowed in the man's eyes.
     "'Tis a cold and piercing mist, Edward, as cold as a blade.  Winter is
to come soon, I fear, and We must show France how to kneel."
     "Yes, my Lord."
     "To do this, France must take Us to her bosom like a mother.  France
must both love Us and fear Our resolve.  France must abide by God's and Our
will.  How shall we do this, Edward?"
	"Our swords must have lead points but sharp edges, my King."
     "Mercy will be our sword, Edward, but not without profit first.  France
is coffer enough for all, Edward."
     "Indeed."
     "Our debt to you, Edward de Valence, is great.  Or so my exchequer
tells.  Your service to Ourselves and England is great."
     "Thank you, My King."
     "So We will forgive any looting that you may have done despite Our
commands.  But you will remain here to watch over Our new prize until next
spring when We shall begin anew.  Ourselves will march to Calais and then to
England."
     "Thank you, My King."
     "There is still much to do, Edward.  The towers on the sea have not
bowed to Us and England.  You must remedy this.  You are well versed in the
art of siege, I am told and from what I have seen.  My brother Bedford will
detail Our plans for Harfluer.  You may go."
     Edward bowed again and started to leave.
     "Edward?"
     "Yes, my King."
     "As a man, was she worth the price?"
     Edward paused.
     "There is no price on vengeance that is not high."

     The house was near the town square and overlooked the Leure as it wound
it's way through the port.  Edward's baggage cart was in front as was two of
his men-at-arms.  Their faces were set against the cold of the drizzle. 
     "As soon as I survey the quarters, we'll get this baggage in and gather
around a fire," Edward said, patting one of his men on the shoulder.
     The first floor was set slightly into the ground and the large doors in
front belayed the buildings purpose.  As Edward stepped inside, his eyes
adjusting to the damp darkness, he saw that any stores this place had were
gone and only the lingering smells of tanned leather and suet remained.  The
store window was barred and there was but a broken stool and some scraps of
leather left.  Even the fireplace was dead.
     "First thing, Talbot, is to get a fire started in this place!  I am sure
there is enough wood in those wrecked buildings to build a decent one.  The
cart will go over there and our stores of powder and shot will fill this up
well."
     "Yes, m'lord," the man at arms answered tiredly.
     They made their way toward the back and up the narrow stairs to the
second floor.  Already his men had started dropping their personal gear and
picking their spots to lay.  The windows let in the cold, grey light and
there was a small, sputtering fire in the chimney.  Two of his wounded men
lay on the floor near it, huddled in there cloaks and sleeping their pain
away.  
     The second story rooms themselves were well maintained and whitewashed.
There were two benches and a table as well as an oil lamp.  Through the
windows overlooking the grey-brown Leure. Edward could see his challenge
towering over the bay, curls of smoke and mist enwrapping it like a vampirish
wraith.
     However, Edwards thoughts were upon the girl still bound in his baggage
wagon.
     
     Any comments, especially from any Lady Catherines out there, is wanted
and appreciated.  Please send comments to FESSELN1.aol.com .  Other parts to
this story will be added as time permits.    
    









ON FRENCH SOIL

by T.S. FESSELN

Chapter Four: Laid In Bed Majestical 

     "A tough boil to lance, I am 'fraid," Talbot said disturbing Sir Edward de
Valence's thoughts of the bound Catherine cached away in his luggage wagon.
     Edward's eyes once again looked at the two towers he was commanded to
take.  Though Harfleur herself had surrendered, the villains in the those
accursed towers had not.  On the morrow, Edward planned to array three canon
against both and pound them night and day until their senses were shaken back
into the heads.  If not, damp hay would be mounded around them and set aflame. 
The smoke would drive them out.
     "Indeed, Talbot.  But they will fall.  The soil is hallowed by our blood
and the town is English today and forever.  They will leave or they will die. 
Come, fair Talbot, let us see the rest of our prize lodging and give thanks for
it."

     Catherine D' Astier was not giving thanks to her lodging as she lay bound
hand and foot beneath the scratchy blanket Edward had tossed over her.  The
desire in her womb had not been sated by the empty bottle and her bindings were
raw upon her ankles and wrists from the effort.  The yearning in her quim
continued despite her fatigue.
    	She could not move much and every effort now caused ache in her joints and
blissful agony where her pleasure-swollen nipples scraped against the blanket. 
The bottle she sought her wanton solace in was now poking between her thigh and
swollen lips and her need to relieve herself was growing.     
     Catherine wondered about what was to happen now.  The baggage wagon she
was in had moved twice, the last just a very short distance.  She was the
English's prize and she knew he would have his fill of her before discarding
like a broken flagon.  It is how long of draught he would have of her before
that was to happen.  It was up to her to make it last as long as she could.
     The English, Edward, liked Catherine's lithe looks.  She could see it in
his hazel eyes as they feasted upon her ivory form.  He relished what she could
do with her lips around his pricker.  She was now glad that her cousin and her
other lovers taught her the lessons no friar could.  They would be her
salvation.  To please the English ogre would mean life for her.
     Cathrine could also see in Edward de Valance's eyes a hatred that had been
boiled to a hardness that no one could soften.  What caused the anger, she did
not know, but it was against her father Phillip, she was sure.  
     Catherine's father was an enigma to her.  To him, she believed, she was
just another pawn in his game of groats and florins.  Catherine knew her mother
was such a pawn.  Adele D' Hainault was of a well landed family whose
connections with the court were as tightly woven as any spider's web.  She was
rather a plain woman but a spirited one whose meddle was passed from mother to
daughter.  Adele had bore six children to Phillip before she died of the Death.
 The Death also claimed one of Catherine's brothers and her only sister.  Their
deaths left Catherine as the sole woman of the household and her mother's
duties fell upon her.  Phillip seemed not to care as long as things were kept
in due order.  His lust for appointment and filled coffer kept his attention.
     Deep down, Catherine knew her father would not pay her ransom.
    This realization overwhelmed her and she began to sob quietly to herself.

    The second story to Edward's billet was like the first, divided into three
rooms, all having beds and benches.  The corner room had a large, canopied bed
as well as a window over looking the river.  This room also had a sturdy oak
door with iron fitting and an arrow loop as well as having thick walls.  The
merchant that built this home was more than just a leathercraftsmen and it
suited Edward well.
    "Talbot, I want all the men to comb our camp for anything we may have left
as well as anything left by any others.  I need the quiet to plan the breaking
of the towers."
    "Indeed, m'lord."
    Talbot left without another word.
    Edward followed him a short time later and found the building deserted save
him and the woman bound in his luggage.  Quickly he open the wagon's door and
tore off the blanket covering his prize.
    Catherine was huddled on her side and the smell of her urine and lust
filled Edward's nose.  Her slender face was puffed red with tears and her long,
dark tresses were in a tangle about her.  Her gag was still in place, damp with
her drool, and her bindings were still taught.  Her dark, doe-like eyes looked
up at him in anguish as he reached down fo her.
    This time, Catherine did not struggle as Edward lifted her over his
shoulder to carry her.  She was as easy for Edward to lift as a yearling would
be.  Her slender, marble white skin was smooth and warm as hugged her arse to
keep her from falling.  The smell of her perfume was still strong and Edward's
lust for this D'Astier she-bitch was growing again.
    Catherine was glad to be out of the wagon.  The smell of her own urine was
still strong in her mind and she never felt so helpless.  The English's hands
were warm and firm upon her bottom and they felt good.  She did not recognize
the house they were in, but she knew she was still in Harfleur.  Her wrists
were still bound together and tied to her bound ankles, however, despite the
English's shoulder poking into her belly sorely, she did not dare move lest she
fall and hurt herself even more.
    At last, after passing through two or three rooms, the English dropped her
onto a huge, canopied bed.  Catherine could only see the lead-colored sky
outside and the swirls of smoke that still rose wraith-like into the air. 
Nothing else was recognizable.
    "Are you going to behave, Catherine, and not act like a wild mare?" Edward
asked, his voice low and gravelly.
    Catherine nodded, a quiet mewl coming from her gagged mouth.
    Edward smiled and stood back a little to survey his prize.  Catherine was
slender in build and her skin was the color of milk, though now she needed to
be washed of the soot and grime that clung to her.  Her face was narrow and her
lips like petals on a rose.  Her nose was slight and her ebony eyes looked
slightly cat-like.  Her tangled hair was long and black and would cascade down
her back a great ways.  Her neck was as slender as the rest of her and her
breasts were the size of ripe apples, her nipples dark and long.  Catherine's
belly was a flat and smooth as polished stone and her nest was dark and thick. 
All of her bound limbs were slender and Edward could feel a wanton ache in his
groin for this woman.
     "I am going to untie you briefly so that you are more comfortable," Edward
told her in her native French.
     Rolling her onto her stomach, Edward began to untie those knots he had
tied last night.  The knots were difficult, pulled tighter by her struggles,
but soon he had her ankles unbound and as well as her wrists.
     Catherine felt the bindings come off of her hands and feet, but there was
a numbness in them that made it hard for her to move them.  It was if her body
was betraying her when Edward rolled her back over and bound the wrist again,
one to each bedpost above her head.  The English then did the same to her
ankles until she was spread and exposed before him.  She turn her head away,
closing her eyes and knowing what was to come.  She was all out of tears.
     The cold water came as a shock and instantly she was looking to see what
was happening.  Her eyes met Edward's dark, hazel ones and saw the slight smile
in them.  He had a dripping cloth in his hand and was washing her body with it.
Slowly, but firmly, he washed each foot and leg, working his way up until the
cold,sodden cloth was washing her belly.  Then the cloth began to caress over
her breasts, now flattened because of her position.  It was a slow, lover's
caress, not harsh at all, and Catherine let out a mewl of pleasure despite
herself.
     Edward caressed her nipples, feeling their stiffness beneath the cloth. 
He rubbed the cloth over them and around them, causing his captive to moan
gently through her gag.  Slowly, her worked his way up her chest and gently
began to wash away the grim from the curves of her face.  There was no longer
the look of fear in her dark eyes, only a look of coy curiosity.
     Then Edward bent down and kissed her on her forehead.
     Edwards kisses did not linger there.  Catherine closed her eyes and felt
his warm lips and rough beard caress her cheek and neck and felt his breath
when he nibbled at her ear.  There were slight purrs of pleasure rumbling in
her throat as his kisses moved down her neck and over her upper chest.
     The English's kiss were lingering kiss and it seemed like an eternity
before his lips came to one of her nipples.  He did not take it into his mouth,
rather he kissed around it, caressing her aerola with his tongue.  
     Edward then kissed the tip of her one nipple before going on to the other,
never actually taking it into his mouth.
     Then Edward stopped.
     Catherine slowly open her eyes and watched Edward undress.  By the light
of day, he looked less menacing.  The English was a tall, broadly built man. 
His shoulders and arms were burled with muscle and his chest was barrel-like
and was covered with his dark hair like moss covers a rock.  The scar across
his stomach was more visible now, it's purple wake crossing the rippled flesh
of his belly.  His legs were sturdy and as Edward pulled his hose down, his
rampant pricker stuck out of his dense, dark bush like a thick pike.
     After undressing, Edward crawled into the bed and pulled the curtains shut
around the bed, save for the side facing the window.  Edward wanted to drink in
Catherine's beauty as he knelt between her open sex.
     Again his lips met Catherine's flesh and now his teeth nibbled and her
passion-aching nipples.  Taking each one into his mouth, Catherine felt every
pulse of bliss racing through her as she lay bound and at his mercy.  She felt
her hips rocking with the ancient rhythm and the hot, solid flesh of his penis
pressing against her thigh.
     Edward hands gripped Catherine's hips and lifted them off the bed as
Edward positioned himself before her gates.  Her nest tickled at his swollen
head as Catherine writhed in the limit of her bonds, wanting him deep inside
her.  Her lips were swollen red and glistening with passion.  He poked his head
in enough to make it slick before plunging it in.
     Catherine's heated quim engulfed the Edward's pricker in ecstasy, her
silken muscles gripping Edward like milkmaid's hand upon a teat.  The rhythm of
their passion was slow at first and Catherine was frustrated by the bonds
holding her arms and legs apart.  She wanted to dig her heels into Edward
thighs and force him into her faster, but Edward had a slow rhythm of his own
and the mewls of want from behind Catherine's gag just made him want to enjoy
her fruits more slowly.
     Edward's pace quickened as he gripped her hips, forcing her into his
rhythm, not the wanton fervor of her own.  Her moans had become louder and
shorter, almost a chant of lust.
The wanton fires of pleasure in her womb raged through her like a blacksmith's
forge, the heat building white hot with every stroke until Catherine was
consumed in the heat of bliss.
     Below him, Catherine's moans had become one long one as her body writhed
in it's bonds as if possessed.  Edward felt his own seed boiling up within him
and he fought to hold it back.  The longer he held, the more pleasure in the
end.  Stroke after stroke, he rammed into Catherine until he could hold off no
longer and flooded her womb with his spent.
     The heat of his seed burned through Catherine and pushed her orgasm
further until her body was not her own as the pleasure wracked through it.  She
felt his arms embrace her helpless body and hug himself to her as his rod
withdrew from her.  She loved the warmth of his body and would have returned
the embrace if she was not bound.  
     Edward lingered above her, looking at her lovely face and the raven
tresses that ringed her head like a halo.  He moved to her side and slowly
caressed circles around her still erect nipples, over her smooth belly and
through the damp, dark curls of her nest.
     "Catherine?" he whispered.
     She opened her eyes slowly, a grin glinted from them as she looked into
Edward's hazel ones.  Though her mouth was  gagged, Edward could see a slight
smile around the soaked cloth.
     Edward looked around the bed and found the cloth tie for the curtain. 
With one swift pull, He ripped it down and coiled it beside Catherine' head. 
Edward then gently lifted Catherine's head and began to untie the gag.
     "Promise me not a sound or word, Catherine, or I will leave this rotted
rag in."
     Catherine nodded, saying something unintelligible into the gag.
     Edward unwound the gag from between Catherine's lips and threw it to the
side.
     Catherine worked her lips and jaws.  They were full, sensuous lips, like
petals of a perfect red rose wanting for the bee to kiss.  She did not say a
word but looked at Edward with a puzzled frown.
     "Yes, Lady Catherine?"
     "You told me not to speak."
     "So I did."
     "I am doing so right now, Englishman."
     "Indeed."
     "You are a beast, Englishman.  A filthy dog of the devyl."  Catherine's
word spat but her voice lacked the strength it did earlier.
     "My name is Edward de Valence, Lady Catherine, not Englishman and I am
going to be your lord and keeper until your ransom is paid.  But my first chore
is to find some suitable clothing for you.  I cannot have you like this, though
it pleases me to do so,"  Edward's fingers traced his fingers through
Catherine's nest of dark curls.
     "As if, m' lord de Valence, I have a choice in this matter."
     Edward smiled, "You do not, Catherine."
     And with those last word, Edward took the cloth curtain sash and pulled it
tightly through Catherine's lips, her protesting screams muffled as Edward
wound the cord around and around her head until she was fully muffled.  All the
while, Catherine kicked and struggled against her bindings that held her
tightly.
     "I shall ungag you, Catherine, when I return.  I will find someone to
watch over you until my return.  You are more valuable to me, Catherine, than
you can ever know."
     Edward then pinched Catherine's nipples until the pain made her scream.
     "I shall return, my pretty ride."

     Edward drew the curtains around the opening, completely enclosing the bed
in a musty dark.  It took Edward but a moment or two to get dressed and to shut
the large door behind him.  Luckily, Talbot had already placed one of Edward's
locks upon the door and left the key within it.  With a click, Catherine would
be alone in the dark, a bound prisoner of Edward's lusts.
     As Edward made his way down the stairs, some of his men had started
ambling in and setting themselves down on the floor and closing their eyes. 
Edward could feel their weariness as he greeted each one with a pat or a nod or
a joke.  But as these small gifts of comraderie were exchanged, all there knew
of the coming hardships in breaking the other two towers.  The wrestling of the
bombards into place, the constant ear-numbing roar of each canon pounding shot
after shot day and night and the odd arrow shot at them from the besieged. 
Their stay in Harfleur would not be the rest they sorely needed.
     Edward sought solace outside in the cold misty rain, huddled within his
cloak's warm womb.  As he ambled through the muddy streets, his eyes searched
every cloaked person to see if was one that he needed to speak with. . .
     "M'lord de Valence?" a voice called out in back of him, a lilting, robust
woman's voice that Edward knew in a moment whose it was.
     "Margaret!" Edward nearly yelled as he spun around to see her standing in
a doorway well out of the rain.
     "Do not just stand there lookin' like a wet dog, come in, come in," she
motioned.
     Edward rushed into the hallway, dark for lack of candlelight, however, in
the doorway, Edward could make out his favorite 'washer woman'.  Her hair was
the pale red of sunsets and her eyes were green with laughter.  She had a wide,
smiling face to go with her eyes.  The top of her head reached to Edward's
chest, but her curves suited her well.  Edward's head had rested on her ample
bosom many times during many campaigns, both before and after his wife had
died.  Her son was one of the gunners in Edward's command.
     "M'lord de Valence," she smiled as she hugged him, "How I have longed to
feel those arms around me again!  It has been so long."
     "Indeed, it has been too long, my Margaret."
     Margaret looked into Edward's hazel eyes and saw something in there, a
sullenness that made his smile bittersweet.
     "What is wrong, my Edward?" she asked.
     "Margaret," he said slowly, "I need to ask of you a favor. . ."

     ************End of Chapter 4******************

     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        





ON FRENCH SOIL

by T.S. Fesseln

Chapter Five: "Of The Heat Of The Ginger"

     The mist outside the window turned slowly into a hard rain, then sleet,
pelting against the panes like a drum calling troops to battle.  Outside the
confines of the canopied bed she was bound to, Catherine listened to the
muffled laughs and harsh words of the Edward's men just on the other side of
the shut curtains and locked door.  There in the dark, her arms and legs spread
wide apart and bound to each post, Catherine D' Astier imagined being used by
each of the English swaggers beyond the door.  She could almost feel the rough
hands and lips upon her breasts and their engorged prickers battering through
her swollen gates again and again until she could feel no more.  
    But nothing happened.
    Soon the noises of the men faded away and all Catherine could hear beyond
her curtained bed was the constant pelting of sleet against the panes of glass.
    The warmth of the English's seed was still within her and the prickling
heat of her passions still left Catherine wanting more despite that she was
little more than a slave to the will of this Edward de Valence.  There was
something dwelling deep within the dark corners of her soul that made her
delight in her rape, however. . .
    Catherine tried to shake that thought from her head as soon as it emerged.
    Once more Catherine tried pulling at her bindings and she still found them
as effective as before.  It was more than just a ransom that this English was
keeping her here, she thought to herself.  And it was more than just merely
pleasuring himself with her wares.  There was a demonic passion within this man
that let itself out briefly when he coupled with her, which, she shamedly
thought to herself, was not all that horrible.  Catherine wondered what was
driving her captor.
    As Catherine laid there, her emotions and thoughts wrestling in a
whirlwind's flurry, she did not hear the lock being turned.  Only when the
hinges squeaked closed she realized she was not alone.  Catherine tried in vain
to make herself known to the unknown intruder, but her gag muffled her well.
    Catherine then heard the door bolt being driven home.
    The footsteps coming around her bed were not the heavy footsteps she
remembered Edward having, rather they were light, a strangers. . .
    The drapes around the bed were suddenly thrown open and Catherine was
blinded momentarily by the brightness outside; her eyes having accustomed
themselves to the dark womb the drapes had created.  Catherine shut her eyes
against the pale light and turned her head away.
    "You are indeed a prize, m' dear," Margaret said in her melodious Irish
voice,"No wonder m' Edward keeps you locked away like th' royal jewels."
    Catherine squinted to try and see the woman standing over her.  She was a
short woman, Catherine could tell, with long, reddish tresses and a graceful,
smiling face partially hidden beneath her shawl.  Her green eyes seemed to
study Catherine with the jealous, disapproving look of a wife just meeting her
husband's lover.  Catherine struggled again anew as she tried to turn away from
this woman's preying eyes.
    "A picture of m'Lady de Valence, I should say," Margaret said as she sat
down on the bed next to the struggling Catherine, "Mind you, I never met her,
God rest 'er soul, but m' Edward told me a great deal about 'er."
    Margaret reach down and patted Catherine's hip, "No use 'n strugglin', m'
dear.  I am sure m'Lord de Valence has made sure you cannot escape."
    The woman bound on the bed did indeed looked what Edward had described his
Lady Eleanor de Valence to look like, Margaret thought to herself.  Catherine's
skin was as white as cream and she was as slight as a yearling.  Her hair was a
dark, tangled halo around her slim face and it matched her ebony eyes as she
continued her futile struggles on the bed.                                    
    Margaret smiled a bit watching the young woman struggle, remembering that
once in awhile, Edward had bound her like this, hands tied apart above her head
and her legs tied wide open.  Edward had been gentle with her like that, but
rough at the same time, like a harnessed wolfhound during a hunt.  In fact, as
Margaret's relationship grew with Edward, so did his need to bind her in their
swyving. It was not unpleasant, giving herself like that, in fact quite the
opposite.  It let her just enjoy.  As Margaret watched Catherine continue to
fight her bonds, she imagined what Edward would do to this helpless waif beside
her.
     "There now, m'Edward wouldn't want you to hurt such a costly prize as
yourself," Margaret said as her hands gently started to caress Catherine.
     The feel of Margaret's hands on Catherine was smooth and cool, not the
heated hands of a man.  The washerwoman's touch glided over Catherine's hips
and belly and over the swell of her breasts, her nipples stiffening with the
pleasure of the other's touch.  Catherine soon found herself accepting and
wanting the other woman's fingers to caress her more intimately; to work their
magic upon her as she could not upon herself.  It was not the first time
Catherine enjoyed another woman's company.  When Catherine had begun to
blossom, she had asked an older friend of hers, Carola, what it was like to be
with a man and her friend first told Catherine, then showed her.  It was
Catherines first taste of the pleasures her body had to offer herself.
     The redheaded woman continued to talk to Catherine, but she could make
little out of the woman's rough but musical language.  But the woman's hands
never stopped gliding over her.
     Margaret grinned as she saw what effects her hands were having on the
poor, bound child beside her.
     "Let me get these wet things off, m'dear child, or I will catch a death
indeed."
     Catherine watched as Margaret began to unlace her plain-looking skirts and
peel them down her slim legs.  She carefully placed them beside the bed to dry,
then began to untie her bodice.
     Feeling Catherine's eyes upon her, Margaret unlaced her bodice slowly, as
she had done to many a man.  Slowly, the leather bodice opened and Margaret set
it aside also.  Catherine could see Margarets generous breasts jiggling beneath
her chemise as she turned her back to the bound girl and lifted the chemise
off.
     The roughness of the washerwoman's clothes belied her treasures beneath. 
Margarets legs were slim and sturdy and tappered up nicely to her thick nest of
reddish brown curls.  Her hips flared wide but her waist was much more narrow
than Catherine would have thought.  Margarets breasts were large and heavy,
with nipples that turned upward and out slightly and were the color of pale
pink rose buds about to blossom.  After shedding her clothes, Margaret settled
again on the bed beside Catherine.
     Margaret's hands began anew, caressing and stroking Catherine's warm skin,
exploring the gentle curves and soft, moistened nest without delving any
deeper.  Catherine yielded to her feelings, letting the physical sensations
overpower her any mental reservations she might have had.  There was nought she
could do anyhow, Catherine thought to herself, knowing her bindings were indeed
unforgiving in their hold on her.
     The woman's finger's brushed lightly all over her body before coming to
rest on Catherine's breasts.  The fingers began to slowly caressing circles
around her erect nipples, then pulling on them slightly, sending little waves
of bliss swirling in Catherine's womb.  She could hear her own moans escaping
from in back of the gag as the passions within her started to build like a tide
against a dam.
     The woman's hands were not rough at pulling and kneading Catherine's
nipples, rather slow and tender, letting her react to each caress before
beginning another.  When the other woman's hands left her, Catherine open her
eyes and moaned her displeasure.
     Margaret slipped down and laid down beside Catherine and began the brush
her tangled hair away from the frenchwoman's face.  The heat of Edward's
captive's skin against her own was wonderful in the cool of the bedchamber and
Margaret's fingers soon began to explore the younger woman's curves again with
a liquid slowness.  This woman beside her was one that enjoyed the pleasures of
being a woman, Margaret thought to herself.  So many women she had met did not
enjoy the act of coupling and thought it was a sin to feel the bliss of
swyving.  Not this one, Margaret smiled as she watched her own fingers enchant
this raven-haired beauty into writhing pleasure.
     Catherine felt the woman's finger's start to brush through her soft nest
and begin to delicately part Catherine's already swollen petals.  She tried to
raise her hips to the woman's touch, but Margaret backed off, leaving the
French captive wanting.  Each time the washerwoman began to tickle at
Catherine's quim, Catherine would buck at her bonds and Margaret would stop her
attentions.  It was a torture that seemed to go on forever.
     Margaret could hear the bound Catherine's whines of frustration getting
more and more desperate through the girl's gag.  Margaret giggled a bit when
she stopped her attentions a watched for Catherine's reactions.  
     Catherine's reaction was slow at first, thinking that the strange woman
would continue to tease her, but when Catherine realized that this was not the
case she looked up at the red-headed woman's grinning face and saw the teasing
smile there.  Catherine threw herself at her bonds and wriggled and pleaded
through her gag.  Did Edward send this woman here to torture her, Catherine
asked herself.  The flames within her womb were raging yet she could not quench
them.  She thought she would go mad.
     Margaret heard the bound Catherine beginning to sob through her gag. 
There were indeed tears in those doe-like eyes.  Margaret took pity and
straddled the helpless maid and spread Catherine's moist petals wide and began
to tickle and the child's pearl with vigor.
     Catherine was awash in the firestorm of bliss almost immediately.  It
raged through her and she lost herself in the fiery storm.  It was all that
Margaret could do to keep from being bucked of this randy frenchwoman; it was
as if Margaret was riding an unbroken mare.  However, slowly the woman's
captive writhings eased and Margaret slipped off of her.
     The effect of the bound woman's orgasm had an effect on Margaret and she
found herself wanting some attention.  She knew Edward would not be back soon,
for not only did he have to find suitable clothes for his prize, but also food
and drink.  Edward also had to check on his men and direct the siege of the two
towers that had not surrendered when the rest of the town had.  Both Margaret
and Catherine could hear the loud, deep thunder of the cannons as they fired
their stones at the twin targets.

     "They must know their lot is hopeless, M' lord," Richard Corfe said as he
and Edward looked at the tower before them.
     "They think their King will get up off his arse and rescue them, I am
afraid, dear Richard.  He will not.  If he was to do so he would have done it
long ago."
     Both Edward and his sergent watched as another canon belched it's deadly
missile and hurled it with a crack against the tower walls.  The wooden
mantlets covered the canon quite well from the occasional arrow shot from
above.
Behind him, Edward could hear his retinue gathering pile of hay to pit against
the tower after the sun had set.
     "Richard, make sure some of the men get rested.  It is to be a long night,
I am afraid.  This weather is not to the liking of anyone save the devyl
himself."
     "Yes, m'lord.  You should rest your bones as well.  There is a nice bed
waiting for you," Richard smiled a roguish smile that seemed to light up his
face.
     "Indeed there is," Edward gave a tired smile back.

     From a distance aways, a few men mounted on tired horses watched the death
of their Harfleur at the hands of the English.  Each of them was as silent as a
wraith as they watched the now thinning stream of exiles leaving the broken
port with little else but themselves.  Once again their King's frail mind could
not issue the order to attack and drive the English back into the sea.  It was
what angered Bois D'Astier so much.
     He had not seen in sister, Catherine, in the long train of refugees
leaving the town.  His father, Phillip, had sent him and several lances down to
see to her safety.  But she had not appeared nor did anyone seem to know her
situation.   One merchant, a craftsman of leather, had said he remembered
seeing his father's house burning, but that was it.  No Catherine.
     This would sit ill with his father and he would not enjoy giving him this
news.  Unbeknownst to Catherine, her father had already betrothed her to Alois
d'Albret, second son of Charles d'Albret, Constable of France.  The marriage
would be Bois' father closer to the ears and eyes of the court and where his
money would do better than be trifled away by a feeble-minded king.
     "We should be away, m'lord Bois.  The English have eyes too," John, one of
Bois' most trusted retainer, said.
     "It is a shame to all of France." Bois said under his breath.
     "True. m'lord Bois."
     "We will wait and watch for Catherine from afar these next few days,
cloaking our shields and colors lest we be found not to be Englishmen.  Then we
will enter the city as mercenaries and find out what has happened to our dear
sister."
     With that said, the riders disappeared into the mist to find a warm fire
to warm themselves by.

********************End Chapter 5************************

      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





ON FRENCH SOIL

by T.S. Fesseln

Chapter Six: "Perfection Of A Good And Particular Mistress"

     Edward de Valence trudged through the muddy streets of Harfleur back
toward his lodgings.  Bundled under his left arm were several sets of clothes
he thought might fit Catherine since she had lost hers when the King Harry and
his men took the town.  Also he had obtained some 'new' clothes for Margaret in
payment for her services to him. In his other hand he had a cooling pot of stew
he had brought from the King's retinue.  Though Edward had gone against the
King's word about taking ransoms, he was still in good graces of the court. .
.at least that is what it seemed to him.  Many in the court knew of Edward's
personal mission in France and he believed one or two of them had whispered
into King Harry's ear.  Edward's transgression would have had more dire
consequences, he was sure.
     The sleet was turning more and viscous, but Edward's thoughts were far
from the weather.  After setting up the guns and watching them belch stone
after stone at the tower walls, Edward finally left to confer with a few of the
King's advisors and managed to talk them out of several trencher's of stew. 
King Harry had been pleased with them and now they had wealth and good cheer
flowing out of the pouches from their shares of Harfleur's treasures.
     The King had not asked for Edward's precious ransom, for his Catherine
D'Astier.  He was glad the King had not asked.  Edward did not know what he
would have done if the King had insisted on Edward's prize.  
     Catherine. . .the name warmed his loins.  She was indeed something
precious.  Edward had not expected such a beautiful woman as Catherine when he
first started planning his revenge upon his son's killer, Phillip D'Astier. 
But many had told Edward of her dark gracefulness and beauty and that is how he
knew he had found her that night in her burning home.  Fortune smiled upon him,
he thought.  Edward's revenge upon the D'Astier house was blessed by her smile.
      There was no guards at the doorway to his confiscated lodgings, but there
were many of his charges laying upon the floor, huddled in their cloaks and
sleeping like a pack of dogs.  The noise of their sleep would have woke the
dead, Edward thought.  The fire had died down to flickering embers licking
around some charred logs.
      The room upstairs was the same, save a bit more emptier.  There was the
litter of men at war all around. . .unsheathed daggers, rough bundles of loot,
stacked helmets, bucklers and jacks.  A few of the men slept with their arms
around a woman or two, women that had followed Henry's army but were not
allowed into the camps until this day.  It was a strange sight when there was
still daylight outside.		
      Edward rapped lightly on the locked door to his chamber. 

     The rap on the door startled Margaret, whose amatory thoughts were upon
the captive girl who still lay bound to the bed and upon the coming of her
Edward.  Margaret slid out from beside Catherine and lightly walked over to the
door.
     "Who it be?" Margaret whispered.
     "It is I, Margaret, Edward."
     Margaret smiled and slid the bolt open, "Welcome back, m'lord Edward!"
     Edward looked upon the nude Margaret whose curves he enjoyed many a time
during his campaigns in France and Scotland, "Indeed, what a pleasant welcome
at that, Margaret."
     Edward dropped his bundle of clothes and embraced Margaret with one arm
before closing the door and bolting it shut.
     "I brought you and our charge a bit to eat, if you think she will," Edward
said, offering the washerwoman the pot.
     "She 'as an appetite, m'Edward, that 'un does," Margaret smiled, thinking
about how much Catherine did buck and writhe in her bonds at Margaret's touch,
"Shall I dress or does m'lord prefer me thus."
     "I think I prefer you thus, Margaret."
     Edward sat down upon the bench and began unlacing his boot while Margaret
began to dig through her kit to find a horn spoon or two.  Margaret was a short
woman whose ample breasts seemed almost too large for her slight frame.  Her
hair was the color of sunsets and it draped about her like a coppery shawl. 
Her skin was pale and stippled with a spray of freckles.  The washerwoman's
figure was most like a sand clock, with her wide, flaring hips, narrow waist
and large breasts.  If her station was different, Edward thought, he would have
made her his wife.
     "M'lady is most pretty, I she not, m'Edward," Margaret said as she found
what she was looking for and started to ladle the stew into her wooden
trencher, "You will get a good ransom for 'er."
     "It is not the ransom, dear Margaret, I want."
     "Indeed, I know m'Edward, but it'll bring you nothin' but pain, I warrant.
 But'll you do what you want, m'Edward, an your'n like a hound on th' hunt with
this revenge business of yours.  You will'n not stop until you taste blood."
     Edward just grunted in reply as he unlaced his heavy canvas jack of
plates.  As he slipped it off, it felt good to have it's weight off of his
shoulders.  It was better than his full suit of armor, though.  During his
siege of the two towers, he would not be putting that uncomfortable armor on. 
The jack of plates was enough.
     "I think your prisoner wants something of you," Margaret grinned.
     From the canopied bed, Edward could hear the muffled pleadings of his
captive, Catherine D'Astier.  Even her moans and whimpers stirred something
deep inside Edward making his lusty daemon want to ride his beauty again.
     "In a bit," Edward replied.
     Edward rolled each leg of his hose off before taking off his shirt.  He
had been soaked to the bone, he realized, and the warm air of the chamber felt
like a woman's warm embrace.  Margaret had set aside her meal to help Edward
arrange his clothes to dry by the fire beside her own.
     "It is evil weather out, m'lord, no' even th' devyl would be out'n there,"
Margaret said.
     "Indeed.  But I must go out there this night to try to take those twin
towers.  The French's arrows are less keen at night and our men can pile the
hay around the towers without much fear of being slain.  I will be with them,
of course."
     "Th' war is a terrible thing, mlord.  So many young lives. . ."
     "It is ours to serve the King's will.  Now let us see to our captive,
shall we."
     Catherine was bound as he had left her, her arms and legs spread wide
apart to each of the bed's posts and a gag in the form of a curtain sash tied
tightly between her lips.  She continued to plead behind her gag, to beg
release from her bonds, but all that came out was muffled "Ummmphs".  Her dark
eyes seemed to plead to Edward for something more than her bonds being loosed. 
Her slender, pale body was as graceful as a swans and as smooth as polished
marble and her dark tresses formed a black halo about her head.
     Catherine did writhe a bit against her bonds, more of an act than anything
else, for she knew that her bindings were as unforgiving now as they were when
Edward first tied them.  The passions she had just experienced from the
washerwoman's gentle touch had not lessened.  In fact, upon seeing the naked
Englishman beside her bed, her desire to have him within her again grew
unashamedly and she thrusted herself up to him, praying he would indeed pay
attention to her wants.
     "I see m'lord has risen t' th' occasion," Margaret said, embracing Edward
from behind, "Perhaps m'Edward would see fit t' use his fine weapon?"
     "And who should I prick, pray tell?"
     "I think you know, m'Edward. . .I have longed for those arms around me and
your pricker deep within. . ."
     "You are a wicked woman, Margaret.  I think I shall prick my captive
first," Edward said.
     "Then let me be you captive, m'lord de Valence," Margaret said holding out
her wrists together to be bound.
     "We shall see if you want to be my captive," Edward replied, gripping
Margaret's wrist and pulling her over to his cloth kit bag.
     With a deftness that Margaret found intriguing, Edward whipped out a
length of thong, spun Margaret around and laced-up her wrists in back of her. 
It was done quickly and before Margaret could say much of anything, Edward tied
a strip of cloth between her lips to silence her tongue.
    Margaret found the embrace of leather warming her inside, making her feel
wanton yet unable to do anything about it.  What made her more aware of her
feelings was watching Catherine's dark eyes watching her with a lustful eyes. 
It was then that Margaret knew that Catherine enjoyed her captivity as much as
Margaret did when Edward bound her like this.
    Edward wound another length of leather thong around Margaret's ankles,
cinching them tightly.  He repeat the process just above Margaret's knees,
making her legs as one.
Margaret began to question what Edward was doing through her gag, but Edward
ignored her and began tying Margaret's elbows together as he did her knees,
making Margaret more and more helpless.  
    "Enjoy being my captive yet, my dear Margaret?" questioned Edward.
    Margaret was getting a little bit afraid, for Edward had never really
treated her like this before; not while tied up nor during their unfettered
swyving.  But, even as she continued to moan her protests through her gag,
Edward looped a length of rope around Margaret's waist and tied it off, like a
lead to a horse.
    "Come on, my captive, to my bed."
    Edward yanked on the rope, forcing Margaret to hop forward.  She struggled
to keep from falling over onto the floor.  Edward yanked on the rope again, and
Margaret hopped again toward the bed.
    Edward did enjoy the vision of Margaret hopping towards him, her breast
jiggling with every movement and her whole body struggling to try to stand
upright.  Edward could see a little fear in the washerwoman's green eyes, but
it was tempered by her lust.  When he had tied Margaret's knees together, he
could smell the musky perfume of her excitement.  Edward sat on the edge of the
bed an reeled his captive towards him.
    Even bound as she was, Margaret found her lust for her Edward more
overpowering than any fear she might have at him treating her this way.  M'Lord
Edward de Valence was a viral, tall man with dark hair cut like that of the
King, a trim beard and dark, piercing hazel eyes.  His shanks were as sturdy as
oaks and his stomach was well muscled save for the long, purple scar that ran
across it. . .a sword wound Margaret had sewn closed herself.  His pricker, oh
his gorgeous pricker was like a lion rampant. . .oh did she want him within
her.
    She hopped closer and closer to Edward until she was between his legs.  He
could feel her soft nest tickle at his manhood, teasing him.  Margaret felt it
too and thrust herself at him, rubbing her thick nest upon his cock.  Edward's
hands grasped at her buttocks and embraced Margaret to him.  
    Edward's rough hair upon his chest tickled at Margaret's already erect
nipples, sending licks of fiery pleasure down with her.  Helpless to take in
his pricker, Margaret writhed against her Edward, as much for her pleasure as
for his.
    Edward leaned over a bit and took Margaret's right nipple into his mouth
and began to slowly caress it's stiffness with his tongue and nibbling at it
with his teeth. His hands began to massage her buttocks open and close and
Margaret could feel the fires of her pleasure growing higher and higher within
her.
    Edward's kisses and nibbles switched from one nipple to the other, then he
stopped and climbed off the bed and around in back of Margaret.
    The washerwoman could feel the knots around her ankles and legs slip free
and Margaret thought that finally she would be taken.  Edward looped a thong
around each ankle and tied the left one to one of the legs of the bed.  He then
did the same to the right ankle, making Margaret spread her legs wide and open
her sex to Edward and to the eyes of Catherine who was watching with rapt
attention.  Lastly, Edward undid Margaret's waist lead, took an emptied leather
pouch and enclosed Margaret's hands upon pulling the pouches drawstring.
     Edward embraced Margaret again, his hands finding her pink, stiff nipples
and pulling upon the gently.  She could feel Edward's hard pricker against her
ass and she would have taken it into her fingers to pleasure him save for
having the bag over them.  All Margaret could do was to savor Edward's
masterful touch.
     Margaret felt him kiss her behind her ear and then nibble on it's lobe. 
His finger trailed down from her breasts and began to brush through her thick,
reddish nest; teasing at her quim.  Edward's finger's never parted her swollen
lips, rather, he just brushed against them lightly, stoking the blissful fires
building within her.
     Then he stopped.
     Margaret whined through her gag loudly, but Edward ignored her as he
slipped into the bed beside Catherine.
     "I think, my dear Margaret, I will prick this beautiful ride first, if you
do not mind."
     Edward smiled at her a wicked smile.
     Margaret again complained loudly through her gag, but as before, Edward
ignored her.  His attentions were now focus of his real captive, Catherine.
      Catherine could not believe what was happening to her nor that of her
lustful feelings at being bound and helpless at the hands of this English.  She
never would have guessed at what lurked in her heart.  She felt for the
washerwoman whose name she deduced was Margaret.  Being bound and teased so
would be a torture. . .a sweet torture, but one she would rather not endure.
     "Sweet Catherine," Edward said in her native French tongue, "how is my
captive beauty?"
     Catherine mewled through her gag and writhed a bit more.  As she looked
into Edward's hazel eye's she could see a lover's gentle look there, not the
cruelness of a villain.
     Edward's hands began to gently brush over Catherine's flesh as he knelt
between her spread legs, his cock pointed at her like a prodding spear. 
Although she knew she was a captive, she found herself yearning to be impaled
by Edward's shaft and Catherine rocked her hips the best she could, imploring
him to get on with their coupling.
     Edward noticed this and smiled, "We are anxious, are we not, my sweet
Catherine."
     Her captor's hands began to knead slowly at her breasts, his thumbs
flicking at her nipples and send small pulses of bliss into her womb which was
already aflame with her pent-up passions. She closed her eyes and just absorbed
his attentions as she would the sun on a summer's day.  Soon, his hands were
replaced by his lips and teeth, gently suckling and nibbling at her achingly
stiff nipples.  Her passions were a whirlwind of fire growing stronger and
stronger within but with no release in sight.  Catherine felt herself moving
beneath Edward without control, as is possessed by a wanton daemon but
Catherine did not care.  These feelings were an old friend yet very, very new
to her and she embraced them.
     Edward's lips began to kiss lower and lower.  Over her stone smooth
stomach and to the edge of her soft, moist coney.  His fingers touched her sex
and opened her puffed outer lips to reveal the moist slit within and the pink
pearl that Edward's tongue touched and licked around.
     Catherine's fires had not died down within her and Edward's rough tongue
soon had her flames climbing higher and higher within her womb.  This English
had a devyl's touch, Catherine thought to herself, but oh, did she want more of
it.  Edward's tongue continued to lick up and down her slit and with his teeth,
he would nip at her bud gently, causing a rush of bliss to engulf Catherine.
     Then Edward's stopped.
     Catherine's was so close to being engulfed in pleasure yet now her fires
starved for fuel.  She looked down at Edward kneeling between her spread legs,
and saw him turn his attentions back to Margaret.  
     Edward ignored his ransom's pleas through her gag and instead turned to
Margaret, herself still making mewls and moans through her gag.  Edward's hand
cupped each of her heavy breasts and flicked at her stiff nipples with his
thumbs.  He could her Margaret's moans of pleasure at his touch. 
     Edward then reached down and began to tease at her nest, running his
fingers through it and over it and gently touching Margaret's inner thighs,
driving to madness with need.  Once or twice Edward ran his fingers up her
slick sex, but never enough to help Margaret to come.  
     Edward leaned forward, kissed Margaret on the forehead, and turned back to
Catherine.
     Edward could almost see a smile behind Catherine's gag as he looked into
her eyes.  He knelt between her legs again and positioned his cock.  
     With one mighty thrust, Edward pierced Catherine.
     There was no gentleness about him this time.  Furiously he thrust into
Catherine again and again; faster and faster.  Already she was engulf in pure
bliss as the English rammed into her and her bonds seemed to disappear amidst
the fiery orgasms that wracked her body.  Catherine bucked and writhed to meet
his punishing thrusts and soon she felt his hot seed squirt into her like
molten lead.
     Edward withdrew from Catherine quickly and with his pricker still rampant
and glistening with his and Catherine's coupling, he climbed off the bed and
around behind Margaret.
     Margaret felt Edward's hand force her upper body down onto the mattress
and then felt his finger's open her gates.  It did not take long until Margaret
felt Edward's cock thrusting into her from behind.  Tied as she was, she could
do little but grip his shaft as he plunged into her at a slow but steady pace,
regaining his stiffness he had lost in coupling with his captive.
     Soon, however, Edward gained speed and the whirlpool of passion that was
building with Margaret exploded in an orgasm so powerful that Margaret began to
weep. and cry into her gag.  And the blissful release kept building and
building, getting more and more powerful until Margaret thought she would go
mad with pleasure.
     It was then she felt Edward's seed spray into her.
     Edward slowed his pace and withdrew slowly.  Margaret was weak from the
effort and sagged in her bonds, the bliss running through her like a warm
stream and she just wanted to bath in it's waters.
     Catherine had watched them with rapt attention and even though her thirst
had been quenched, she was still wanting more.  The English had sparked a
wanton fire in her she did not know, as if being bound she could be free to
feel everything a man had to offer.  Her friend Carola had spoke to Catherine
many times about the duties of pleasing a man and that she would be rewarded
for her efforts with a pleasure that could only be dreamt of.  However, bound
as she was, the English found satisfaction in their coupling and Catherine did
not have to expend any effort, she could just enjoy the gifts of her body.  It
was unlike anything she had ever experienced.
  
     After a bit, Edward undid Margaret's ankles and sat her on the edge of the
bed.  He did not undo her gag nor the thong or pouch that fettered her wrists.
When Margaret made questioning mewls through her gag, Edward just smiled and
kissed her forehead.  He then tied her ankles together again, and her knees. 
     "I must pay attention to our French guest now, Margaret.  I will come back
to you in a wink," Edward said.

     Outside, Richard Corfe huddled in his cloak and waited the coming of
night.  The sleet had stopped and now a cold breeze whispered through Harfleur
like a distant chant, mourning the loss of so many during the siege.
     The guns pointed at the towers were all but silent now, only occasionally
blasting another stone ball at one of the towers.  It was a half hearted
effort, Richard knew.  The chill had etched away much of the gun crews
strength.  He had sent many back to their lodgings to sleep and gather strength
for the night.  His lord and friend, Edward, was doing the same. . .or at least
he was relaxing in the arms of his Margaret.
     Another gun thundered.
     It was going to be a long afternoon, Richard thought as he took another
swallow of beer to warm his insides.
 

*******************End Chapter Six**************************

       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
      





                        ON FRENCH SOIL
                              by

                        T.S. Fesseln
                               
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.  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 imagine.
     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 fed them until there was none left in the
bowl.  He also let them swallow some beer he had in his leather costrel.  It
was then Edward was ready to rest for the night ahead.
      Edward went to Margaret and whispered in her ear, "So, dear Margaret, to
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 washerwoman's ear.

       Bois D'Astier was not by nature a patient man and as the afternoon
lingered and the rain had slackened it's assault, he paced inside the small hut
abandon by it's tenants upon the fall of Harfluer.  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 it's magic
flow through him to ease him of the day's cares.  He looked out the open door
toward Harfluer.
      "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,
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 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 Norte Dame
upon Christmas. . .a toll full of joy that could not be imagined.
      "Now be still."
      And Catherine was.

*******************End Chapter Seven************************

       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
       
      
       





                    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








ON FRENCH SOIL

T.S. Fesseln

Chapter 9 "Unto the weary and all-watched night"

     Cowering like a trapped fawn, Catherine D'Astier  lay huddled and frozen
with horror.  Her slender wrists were still tied tightly behind her back and
the cloth gag was still firmly between her lips, despite her weakened efforts
to wrench free of their grasp.  The fight in her had ebbed away.  Helpless, she
 wormed her way to the back of the bed; away from the low, gasping breaths she
could hear coming from floor.  Every time the wretched man coughed, she winced,
fearing that he would awaken and the nightmare would never end.  
     Catherine prayed for it to end .
     The Church had always been important to her father and thus, to everyone
in her family.  It was not faith, however, that brought Phillip D'Astier into
the sparrow-quiet chambers of Notre Dame.  It was the power that lay behind the
incense and the albs and the carved saints upon the walls.  It was that power
that Phillip patiently cultivated to bloom and the reason he placed his
youngest son Simon into the clergy.  This is The Church that Catherine knew and
it's God could be bought with silver; a hollow faith.
     But now she prayed the prayers bred of faith and tears and fear. 
Catherine chanted the latin words in her mind over and over again, a ward
against the evil that lay beside the bed, a demon in the shape of a brutish
man-at-arms.
     A groan came up from the floor like a chill wraith and Catherine's
beseechings stopped.  She  whimpered  from behind her gag and closed her eyes,
hoping this too was a dream like before.
However, from her self-imposed darkness, Catherine could hear every breath the
man took.  She could hear every creak of the floor and rustle of straw.  Every
cough.  The young French captive knew, deep within her, that her demon was
getting up.
     She willed her eyes open.
     The man's hand, gnarled and covered in his own blood, clawed at the edge
of the bed.  Slowly, as if Hades slowed the passage of time itself, the man
rose.  In the bloody ruins of the man's face, she could see the hatred branded
into the man's dark, bloodshot eyes.  His grin, teeth bloodied and broken from
her kicks to his face, looked as viscous as any madden hound.  Blood continued
to trickle down from his crushed nose.
     "Sow," he spat.
     The man knew he would have her and then he would kill her.  His lord's
prize would be a corpse and a corpse was hard to ransom.  It served Lord de
Valence right for bringing him to this forsaken land of France while his wife
was heavy with child.  The Welsh borders were harsh; even cruel.  He needed to
be there, beside his wife's bedside,  instead of being in France.
     DeValence's ransom had the fight drained from her and now she cowered on
the bed.  Her ivory skin now flushed red with her exertions.  Her long hair,
the color of raven's wings, hung in a fray over her face and around her head. 
He could barely decern Catherine's dark eyes peering frightened from behind
those tresses.  He could see why his lord kept her for his own. And soon, the
ruffian thought, he would taste the same fruits of his lord's.
     "No" Catherine cried through her gag as the man grabbed one of the ropes
that had tied her legs together and began to wrap it around her slender ankle. 
She tried to kick him, but now he was far to wary of her attempts at hurting
him and he grabbed the other ankle with little problem. Catherine thrashed and
cried and twisted in her bindings like a fish caught in a net.  First one ankle
was tied to a bedpost, than her other was similarly bound, spreading her open
for this English troll.  But still she weakly struggled.
     "There'n, wench!  Let'n me sees you fight me now," the rapist said.
     "Ugggggghhhhhh!" Catherine screamed through her gag as the man picked up
his dagger from his pile of clothes and grinned.  
     "I's will put'n this you, wench, after I'n done wit you," he smiled as he
positioned himself between her legs, "You'n will not forget'n this weapon,
will'n you!"
     The foul man began caressing her soft, black nest with the tip of the
dagger.  Poking her here and there and laughing when Catherine winced.  She had
stopped struggling and dulled by fear, she just lay there and watched as the
dagger probed lower to her most sensitive parts.  The cool tip of steel that
touched her puffed lips felt like a viper's fang.
     The man then set the dagger down and hovered over her, pushing his gnarled
cock into her quim.  With one hard thrust, he was in Catherine and started
forcing himself in and out of her faster and faster.  All Catherine could do is
close her eyes and whimper at his demonic assault.  His member tore at her, the
pain it caused not nearly as much as in  her imagination; chaffing her still
sensitive lips.  The man's sour breath engulfing her as he rammed into her as
deeply as he could.
     Then he stopped.
     "One more thrust, Geoffry, and this blade will swyve through your arse."
     Catherine saw past her grunting tormentor a tall, rain-soaked blonde
knight with narrowed blue eyes, sword drawn and pointed between the ruffian's
warty  cheeks.
      "This is Lord de Valence's ransom and you are violating his will,"
Richard Corfe continued to speak, his voice talon sharp.
      "I'n was just havin' . . ." Geoffry started to explain, easing himself
out of Catherine.
      "Shut up!" The knight spat, "Is this how you repay our lord's
generosity!"
      "I'n. . ."
      "Get your arse out!" Richard spat, withdrawing his sword a bit.
      Geoffry slowly eased himself off of the bed, palming  his dagger and
keeping it out of sight of the knight.  He was heedful of the tip of the
broadsword pointed at him and, more importantly, the man wielding the weapon. 
Corfe was a fair man but he was not a man to cross for he could be as ruthless
as Lord de Valence.  Corfe was also very much battle-hardened; the death's of
many a man were light upon Corfe's soul.  Another would not bother Corfe at
all.
     "I'n a going, Master Corfe," Geoffry said, grabbing his leggings, shoes
and leather jerkin from the floor.
      "If I see you here again, Geoffry, I will make sure that your last dance
is with a noose around your neck.  That I can promise."
      "If'n. . ."
      "Go!" Robert spat.
      Geoffry, with clothes in hand, disappeared out the door.   Richard
stepped over and closed the door before coming over to Catherine and  sitting
upon the bed beside her head.
      "Are you hurt, my lady?" Richard spoke softly in Catherine's native
tongue, combing his fingers through her long, dark hair.
      All Catherine could do is weep and bury her head the wet sleeve of
Richard's tunic.  Gently, she felt her gag being untied and removed from
between her lips.  It was a relief to her, having the cloth not tugging at the
corners of her mouth.
      "There, my lady ransom, I should say that this is much better," Richard
said in a voice as soft as lamb's wool.
      The bound girl nodded her head but did not reply.
	"You are safe now, dear lady ransom.  Edward shall return at first light.  His
task this foul night is the devil's own work and he will be weary and in need
of your magic.  Sleep now. . ."
      He continued to comb his fingers through her hair.    Richard's touch was
gentle and calming.  Soon Catherine began to sleep again and Richard heard her
whispers as her head lay upon his lap.
      
     Outside, in the cold of the pre-dawn night, Edward waited and watched
wrapped in his cloak as the last of the defenders of the first tower coughed
and staggered out, the look of defeat deeply etched on their blackened faces. 
Arrows still were spat from the second tower, but they were few and Edward knew
that the French in that tower were running short of them.  It would only be a
matter of a day or two before they too would be brought out by either smoke or
starvation.  The defenders defiance would wane like the moon.  Edward's King
Henry the V would have his precious port of Harfleur to winter before his
chevauchee the next spring.  There would also be a French army to oppose His
Majesty.  However, Edward knew the French court was nearly in civil war and it
would divide such an army.  By Spring, Henry's army would be large and rested
and ready to bury it's teeth into the flesh of the French which still did
recognize King Henry's right to the throne.
     The smoke and the cold mist shrouded the skeleton ruins of buildings as
Edward slowly made his way home.  Few soldiers walked the streets, mostly one's
like himself who were making their way back to their billets to rest their
chilled bones.  Out of the corner of his eye, the knight saw a naked soldier,
clothes clutched to himself, scurry down the street and swallowed in the dark
gray.  Edward smiled, thinking that the man was probably cast out of a woman's
arms by not enough coin or by a jealous husband.  
     There was no guard posted at Edward's building.  No need.  The walls were
now guarded by the men of good King Harry's army.  Inside, fires burned low, a
warm and welcome light.  Many of his men lay on the floor huddled under their
blankets and cloaks, the noises of their sleep a cacophony of snores and
grumbles and mutterings.  Edward eased himself up the stairs into the living
quarters, past more of his men, and to his private chamber.

     Richard Corfe looked up as Edward swung open the door.
    "My lord," he said in a harsh whisper.
    "How now, dear Corfe," Edward asked, his anger at the intrusion into his
chambers starting to boil.
     "Your ransom is safe and asleep, my lord. . ."
     Indeed, Catherine lay, still bound, curled up and asleep in the bed beside
Corfe, lost in a deep sleep.  Her captive wrists were still tethered behind her
back but her ankle and crupper bindings were gone.  Even her gag was gone from
between her lips.
     ". . .There was an intruder," Corfe went on to say.
      "Intruder?" Edward asked, the anger making his words clipped and gravely.
      "Yes, my lord."
      "Who?"
      "One of the men. . .Geoffry Potterson . . .a man of little value.  He was
want to have way with your ransom, lord deValence."
       A silence hung between the two men as they looked into each others eyes.
 Edward saw no lies in his friend's face.  Richard was not one to tell
untruths.  He was as true as a sword and just as unyielding.  
      "What of this Geoffry?" Edward asked, the anger still locked behind his
frown.
      "I banished him from the camp, my lord.  He will not see it fit to return
here, my lord, or he will know what it is like to be spitted by my father's
steel."
      Edward nodded.   It was far from what he would have liked to have done to
that foul cur, but, as always, Richard was thinking of all of Edward's command.
 Tempers were already ragged from the months of siege and mud and death.  It
would not do to have Richard killing one of his own here.  Such things rotted
away loyalty.

      Richard got up from the bed slowly, as not to disturb the sleeping
Catherine, "I shall leave you to your peace, my lord."
      Edward nodded.
      It was not until Richard reached the door that Edward spoke up.
      "Wait."
      "Yes, my Lord?"
      "You have done me a grand service, Richard.  One that will be hard to
repay. . ."
      "I do my duty, my lord, nothing less," Richard replied.
      "no, no. . .listen to me, Richard," de Valence continued, "I want to give
to you some thing I now hold very dear.   I do not do so lightly, my friend. 
What I am about to give you is my most valuable treasure."
      The blond Corfe just stood, cloaked in a silence. 
      Edward then bent down and kissed Catherine on the cheek.
      "Awaken," Edward whispered in French.
      Slowly, Catherine awoke.  A smile crossed her lips and her ebon eyes as
she looked up into Edwards' rugged face.  She struggled to nestle closer to her
English captor, wanting to feel his body next to hers; the warmth of his touch.
 Her wrists were still bound behind her back, but her freed legs enwrapped
themselves around Edward's as he sat beside her.  Catherine felt her knights'
fingertips gently brushing over the curves of her cheek, as soft as a swans'
caress.
       "How are you, my Catherine?" he asked, still using her native French
tongue.
       Catherine hugged herself closer to Edward.  Her words were slow in
coming, as if saying anything would make this dream swirl away into another
abyss.
       "So much the better now that you are beside me, English,"she replied.
       Catherine's voice was so much more musical now.  It lacked the wicked
barbs that had stung his ears earlier.  It was a voice as soft and as inviting
as a coney's pelt.
       "I have heard, my captive ransom, that something wicked almost befell
you."
       Catherine turned her head away and barely whispered, "yes, m'lord."
       Edward could feel her shiver as she held onto him, touch him with her
icicle horror.
       "Richard rescued you, did he not?" he questioned.
       Catherine nodded, "yes, m'lord."
       "You should reward your savior, my dear Catherine, do you not think so?"
       In almost a whisper, she replied, "yes, m'lord."
       It was hard for Catherine to think that she indeed have two saviors. 
One being Edward, having saved her from the flames of Harfleur and of her life.
 The other being Richard, for having saved her from a horrid fate.  It was as
if admitting to the later would wilt the flower of the former.  However, Edward
de Valence was now her master and lord of her body as well as her soul, though
she dared not admit it to him.  It was mountain brook clear that her Edward
wanted her to be Richard Corfe's reward. . .and she would indeed do what her
lord would tell her to do.
        "Catherine, my dear captive, I would have you drink of him as you have
drank of me."
       Again, Catherine nodded.  The man with the cold blue eyes and
wheat-yellow hair stood there, trying not to look at her.  She had the beauty
of a dark mulled wine.  Rich and smooth with hints of rare spices.  Her raven
tresses flowed around her slender face in a soft, dark embrace.  Her dark eyes,
still reddened with her ordeals, were full of heated promises.
        "Richard," Edward smiled, "Catherine would like to reward you for
rescuing her.  Please."
        Richard watched as Catherine uncoiled herself from around Edward and
graceful step towards him.  Her slender form seemed to be made from pale marble
and even though her hands were bound behind her back, she still moved with the
grace of a deer.  One step at a time.  Her eyes holding his.  Then, when she
was but a hands' breadth or two way from him, she knelt down before him and
looked up at him.
     Richard unbuckled his scabbard and belt and began to untie his leather
leggings, all while Catherine was nuzzling at his manhood.  The feel of her
cheeks and lips against him through his leggings made him swell and soon his
passion was all that he could think about.  All the while, she looked into his
eyes.  It seemed like an eternity trying to undo the ties to his leggings and
feel them slouch to the floor.  
     Richards' manhood pointed straight out at Catherine, it's purple head as
inviting as a sweet summer plum.  She leaned forward a bit, her gentle tongue
began to lick around the head teasingly before easing her lips over it and up
Richard's shaft.  Sucking his shaft, Catherine eased her lips up and down his
shaft, her tongue licking and teasing.   
     It seemed that Edward's captive beauty and Richard himself were the only
two people in the world.
     Catherine's pace quickened and Richard ran his fingers through her long,
dark tresses.  His hands gently cradled her head and helped her increase her
pace.  Catherine felt the blonde man's shaft swell and his seed came boiling up
inside before spraying the back of Catherine's throat with it's sweet
saltiness.
      Edward's ransom licked Richard clean.
      Catherine eased herself back and looked up at Richard with a slight smile
on her lips, a drop of his seed, like a pearl, at the their corner.  Richard
reached down and wiped it with his fingertip, offering it to Catherine.  She
smiled and licked it off.
       "Now, dear Richard, now that you have been properly thanked, my ward and
I need some time alone together,"  Edward said, reclining on the bed.
       "Yes, my Lord," Richard said awkwardly, pulling up his leggings.
       "The second tower has yet to fall, dear Richard.  Rest now and have a
bite to eat.  It will not be long before it too will be under our command. 
Have a man wake you if anything new happens.  You have done a great service to
me this night, dear friend, you deserve rest."
        "Yes, my Lord," Richard repeated, tying the last knot on his leggings.
        Without another word, Richard left.  It wasn't as if they had not
shared the same woman before on campaign.  Margaret had had both of them in bed
before.   However, this was much different.  It was a much deeper sharing than
that of an ale-wife.  Much more intimate, as if Edward was giving Richard a
family sword or title to some of his prize land holdings.  It was if he was
sharing his wife, his love.  It unnerved Richard a bit in a way that he had
never expected.  he would have to put this incident back into the dungeons of
his mind, away from all other thoughts.  To think about Catherine would be
dangerous.
     
      Inside, behind the closed door, Edward undressed and slipped under the
covers and Catherine curled up beside him.  The warmth of her skin soon eased
the chill out of his bones and soon sleep overtook him as he cradled his
captive in his arms.

*********************End Chapter Nine*******************

       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



     








On French Soil

T.S. Fesseln

Chapter 10 "A peaceful and sweet retire"

      Catherine listened to Edward's breathing, her head rising and falling as
she rested it on his chest.  She had not realized it, but she missed this
Englishman's flesh; the rough down of his chest against her cheek, the slick
musk of his labors, the rumble of his heart inside him like the gallop of a
stallion.  All these things strangely comforted her as she laid curled, still
bound, beside this English knight.   How she wished her wrists were not tied
behind her.  She so wanted to run her hands over this knight's breast and
cradle his sleeping form to her bossom. 
       Sleep eluded Catherine.  It was like a songbird whose song one could
hear yet cannot find it's singer.  She was tired and being here against Edward
filled her with an ease that she had never felt before, yet the events of the
night and the past few days kept her mind awake as well as the warmth stirring
in her quim.  
      Edward stirred a bit beside her, his arm reaching around her.
      "Are you awake, my dear ransom Catherine?" Edward said in his gruff
french.
      "Yes, Englishman, my lord, I am."
      Edward smiled, his strong arms bringing the slight Catherine closer to
him.  The french captive looked up at Edward with her dark eyes and smiled.
      "What, pray tell, are your thoughts?" he asked.  His fingertips began to
trace lightly over her smooth back.
       "It is not my position to say, my lord.  I am, by-the-by, your ransom;
to do with as you will."
       Edward grinned at this.  The game was afoot and his coney still was
baiting him.  It was now a game of words with Catherine.
       "And if it was my will to know your mind, dear ransom, would you then
tell me?"
       "I would not.  I am your ransom.  My flesh and my blood are yours to do
with as you will, but my souls is still mine and Gods.  You cannot force a
thought from me just as you cannot crush milk from a butterfly, my lord."
      Edward thought on this a bit.  He sat up and began to untie the binding
about Catherine's wrists.
      "You are free to go, my butterfly."
      Catherine looked in Edwards' dark hazel eyes.
      "You play me a simpkin, my Englishman lord," Catherine replied.
      Edward kept silent, his arms crossed across his chest.
      "You know what lies for me beyond these walls of stone," Catherine
continued as she stood up beside her bed.
      "What, pray tell, my dear ransom Catherine, lie beyond these walls. .
.your precious Mother France, whose bossom you will go to with open arms,"
Edward smiled as he looked upon her slender, marble-like form glistening in the
morning light.  A cathedral angel made flesh.
      Catherine's eyes narrowed, "I need not remind you, English knight, of
what evils lurk out there for one such as myself.  Unescorted and without a
single piece of silver to my name, I would be little but a scrap of meat
amongst hungry wolves."
      "A very lovely scrap, yes," Edward grinned.
      "I am your ransom, English Knight," she continued, "You cannot shirk the
responsability to this. . ."
      Catherine pointed to her breast, ". . .your ransom!  You took me and now
my life is in your hands."
      The grin had disappeared off of Edward's face.  Indeed, Catherine was his
ransom, even though his feelings towards this fiery daughter of D'Astier were
growing more binding with each hour.  He was bound by the rules of war to keep
his ransom safe until her ransom was paid or until it was not paid.  Edward had
not even sent word to Philip D'Astier letting him know that his daughter was
now in the hands of one Edward de Valence.  In his passions, Edward had almost
forgot the reason why he had searched for Catherine in the ruins of Harfleur.
       Catherine looked directly into Edward's stern, hazel eyes.
       "I am your ransom, my dear English knight."

       Outside, the mists that clung to the grey morning like ghosts over a
grave, slowly letting loose the ground.  A pale sun greeted the both besiegers
and the besieged.  A column of smoke still cloaked the second tower from the
night's fire.  The men awoke and coughed and cursed and spat and itched and
prepared themselves for another day,  The victory of the past few days lost in
the daily routine of  war.  Death still breathed in the smoke.
       Richard had not gone to bed.  He walked slowly through his retinue and
though he saw their faces and heard their voices, they were like a far away
tolling of a bell.  His tired mind was thick with thoughts that he knew better
than to have.  Edward de Valance, his lord,  had done much for Richard,
including shedding his blood for Richard.  There was nothing that Richard would
not do for this man.  However, this ransom of his, this raven-haired beauty,
was unlike any woman he had know and the thought of her heated his loins.
      Best not to think on it, Richard, thought.  Another day of siege was at
hand and the second tower should soon be taken.
      "Life is to short, my dear Richard, to be so dark," a warm lilting Irish
voice said to him.
      "Margery?" he replied.
      "It looks as if you have the weight of many a capatpult stone upon your
brow, my dear lord sergeant," Margery smiled as she got up from her spot, an
emptied keg.  In her hand, a ceramic mug.
       "It has been a hard siege, Margery."
       "To a woman like me, dear Richard, whose son is still carrying a
sharpened sword, everyday of this cursed war is as hard as an iron helm."
       Richard looked around to see if anyone had heard, "I would speak
silently of this, Margery.  King Harry's work here is blessed by God."
       "I know, my dear Richard.  At times I think this is an atonement for the
sins of my flesh."
       Richard hugged the redheaded washer woman close to him and whispered,
"You have been a comfort to me, Margery, more so than any stone saint staring
out from a cathedral niche."
      "You should not say such things, my sergeant.  It is ill favored."
      Richard did not smile as he looked down at Margery, "My soul is already
burning and will continue to burn long after the I die."
      Margery read the pain in Richard Corfe's blue eyes.  She had seen it too
many times before.  They were the eyes of a man to whom singing arrows and
slashing blades mean as much as a stroll through a meadow ripe with spring.  
Richard's eyes had seen too many men scream and cry and curse at their own
mortal wounds.  Richard did not know how to wash the blood from his hands.
     "Come," she said.
     Margery lead the sergeant through to a where she had made her tent, inside
the skeletal remains of what was once a bakehouse.  Now all that remained was a
stone chimney and oven and a few blackened timbers.  Her tent, stained and
patched from many years of travel in Wales and Scotland as well as there in
France, was almost as welcome sight as Richard's own home.  By his hand, she
pulled him inside and without a word, began to slowly undress him.  With each
lace she untied, every clasp she unbuckled, the weight of the world seemed to
slip away from Richard.  That was what a woman does best, Margery thought to
herself.
      It was not long before Richard's armor and weaponry lay in a pile along
with his shirt and leggings.  Margery's skilled fingers and palms began to
caress and knead his weary muscles as he lay on her sheepskins.  The lay of his
back was very familiar to her.  She knew the curves and ridges.  She smiled at
the memories of past couplings with this man whose chest was as smooth as a
newborn but as solid as a hornbeam.  
      Margery began to undress herself and it pleased her to see the effect it
always had on Richard.  
     It was not like with Edward, whose hunger was more of that of a hungered
wolf, rather it was like that of a graceful dance of swans upon a mill pond,
slow and lingering, wanting to savor each moment as it passed.  Margery watched
his eyes wander over her heavy breasts with their petal pink nipples and travel
down the flat of her belly to her lush nest of reddish brown curls.  There
Richard's eyes rested as Margery walked over to the man-at-arms and cradled his
head to her womb.
     Richard breathed in the scent of Margery and he began to nuzzle at her
soft coney.  His lips met with her soft curls and, as Margery parted her
slender legs, his nibblings trailed lower, caressing her quim with gentle
kisses and licks.
     Margery felt his warm, rough hands upon her buttocks and soon, Richard's
hands and fingers began kneading  her flesh and drawing her nearer to his
tongue.  Already, she felt his rough licks upon her swollen sex.  They were
like little, warm licks of flame, igniting the tinder of pleasure in her womb. 
She was already letting out little moans of pleasure and his tongue delved
deeper within her, touching her pearl and send showers of sparks rushing
through her.  It was all she could do to remain standing; her fingers running
through this man's straw blonde hair.
     Richard guided her to lay down upon the skins and he now knelt above her,
looking into her green eyes.  His lips met hers and their tongues danced around
each other in a slow dance.  His hands now gently brushed over her pale
nipples.  Each touch was like a flame of bliss. 
      The man's warm kisses left Margery's lips and continued as he kissed her
cheek and neck and shoulders.  Richard's lips and tongue then caressed
Margery's stiffened nipples, adding fuel to the growing fire within her. 
Little moans leaked from her lips.  Richard's rough tongue and lips attended
themselves to each of Margery's bosoms, going from to the other and then back.
      And then Richard stopped.
      Margery opened her eyes to look into Richard's.  He gave her a slight
smile before continuing his downward path of warm kisses over her smooth belly
to the soft forest of curls below.  Richard could smell her incense, a scent
for powerful than any censers.  Richard gently lifted her legs over his
shoulders and rested them there before holding her hips and lifting them so
that her tender folds bloomed before him.  
     His tongue began to trace through Margery's petals, slowly and firmly. 
Each lick sent more flames of bliss searing through her soul, engulfing her
more and more.  She tried to press her hips further to his lips, but his hands
remained firm, holding her in place.  
     The redheads' struggles with her passion hardened Richard's ardor for this
woman.  
      Richard stopped his attentions.
      "Noooooo," Margery moaned, "Prithee, do not stop, my lord sergent."
      Richard smiled a bit as he rolled the washerwoman over.  WIthout a word
he grasped her wrist gently but firmly and began to wind a leather thong around
them, binding them behind her back.
      For Margery, this was unexpected from Richard, whose company varied
little from coupling to coupling.  This was more like lord De Valence than is
was Richard, yet there was the familiar gentleness as the tied the knots around
her wrists and then her crossed ankles.
      He gently rolled Margery back over.  
      Neither Margery nor Richard said a word as they gazed at each other. 
Richard then bent down and kissed Margery again, this time, with a bit more
heat.  His tongue seeking hers out in a passionate dance.   His rough hands
found her breasts and began kneading her stiff nipples anew.  Her being
helpless only threw more wood onto the passionate pyre that was growing within
her.  Richard's touches and caresses and nibbles on her skin fanned the flames
so.
     Margery moved more and more beneath him; a storm made flesh.  Her wide
hips bucked up at him and her kisses were born of hunger.   He slipped his legs
between hers and knelt above her, her bound legs embracing him; spurring him on
with her heels.
     Richard slid into her.
     Margery felt him fill her with his swollen member, thrusting into her a
feeling of wholeness and bliss that she could not hope to describe.  Richard's
thrusts into her were at first slow and deep.  She tried to move him to a
quicker pace, but he would not go but his own speed.  Building in speed slowly.
 Her pyre of bliss was growing more hot with every push.  Her moans were load
and wanton and drove Richard to go faster as his own pleasure began to boil in
his shaft.
      Faster and faster, Margery's pyre began to erupt into pure joy as his hot
seed flooded her and filled her.  Roar after roar of heated bliss engulfed her
until she just collpsed from being crushed under the fiery waves.

       The land was not so unfamiliar.   Geoffry Potterson had foraged around
Harfleur during the months of the seige and he had at least a good knowledge of
its' stands of forests and its' gentle hills.  The grasses were now dry and
dead as he made his way towards a hut he had remembered earlier, not too far
away and within sight of the ruined remains of the town.  Geoffry's mind was
filled with fears as he crept through the pre-dawn fields.  How would he get
home to his wife and furrowed plot of land he called home?  He was not a man of
coin and satin.  That is why he had come to France and it's promise of plunder.
 King Harry's war would bring more than just a few coin into his pouch.  It
would bring him a wealth he had never known.
     Had Geoffry had smelled the woodsmoke coming from the hut, he may have
turned away.  However, his nose was a gristly ruin of reddened flesh and dried
blood.  One of his eyes was  swollen shut and he could still taste the blood
from several teeth that the sow of a woman had kicked out.  
     Geoffry never saw the crossbow bolt that pierced his shoulder.  All he
felt was a searing pain as the force of the bolt spun him around.   As Geoffry
looked down at the shaft protruding from his chest, a second pierced his back.
     "Arrrrrr!," Geoffry screamed as he dropped down to his knees.
     "English dog!" a voice spat in French from behind dying man.
     Geoffry looked around, feebly trying to draw his falchion with is
blood-slickened hands.  Behind him were four men-at-arms, two of them bringing
to bear the crossbows they had just spanned.  The others held out their blades.
      The men carefully approached the wimpering Geoffry.  Smiles caressed two
of their faces.  Geoffry had stopped trying to get at his weapon and fell onto
his side.  The pain was too much.  He could barely breathe and blood gurgled
from his breath.  
      "Are you from Harfleur?" one of them asked, his English words thick with
French.
      Geoffry nodded.
      "Are you English?" the man asked again and again Geoffry nodded.
      "We will help you if you answer a question or two, English.  My surgeon
is not but a few paces away and he will attend to your wounds.  First, have you
seen a beautiful young lady within the Harfleur's walls.  Her eyes and hair are
like mine, as dark as a ravens."
      Again, Geoffry nodded.
      "Is she still there?"
      Geoffry nodded his head.  The pain was branding through him and he could
barely draw a breath.
       "Do you know her name?  Is it Catherine?" the man asked again.
      "Yeahhhhhhhh," Geoffry hissed, blood gasping on his own blood.
      The man nodded.
      "Slit his throat," Bois D'Astier said in French and one of his men
stepped over the curled Englishman and with a quick swipe, ended Geoffry's
pain.
     
       **************************END CHAP 10**********************************

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