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 on this bright August day. A myriad of colored pennants 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 bosom."

"Indeed, my Lord. And we happy few are here to see the majesty of King Harry's fleet. What a glorious sight," Richard replied, 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 arrogant man shall pay."

Richard nodded silently.

"Yes, indeed, dear Richard," Edward grinned a reaper's grin, "The game is afoot."


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 earnest. 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 official's 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 down. 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 of which Edward recognized.

The cries of anguish 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 were three men and a woman. All three had stripped the young maiden and had tied her spread upon 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 hungry fingers of flame that were quickly spreading over tapestries and beams.

These men did not know what fortune lay 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 off most of the man's face, his scream gurgling 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 interrupted 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 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 of 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 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 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 its cantle.
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 drunken Englishmen and the cries of the dispossessed French. The siege had left both hungry and desperate 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 palisades built for the siege. 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 golds had become stained and faded and the dray horses slaughtered to fill the bellies of his charges. There was an untended fire dying and little else left of the camp 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 for 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 vengeance to swyve the daughter of the man that had 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 hog-tie. 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 the boy 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. A wail of pain made Edward stop to cut the bindings between her ankles and wrists. It relieved her from the cutting pain of the tight rope, but did not free her. 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 and Edward retied her into a hog-tie.

Edward wondered...


Chapter Two: 'With hard-favor'd rage'

With the gray of early morning, Sir Edward de Valence awoke, his muscles as stiff as bark. In the half-shadow of the baggage wagon, he could just 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 about 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 the 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. Catherine's eyes opened wide, unsure about her surroundings. Then remembering the nightmare of last evening, she 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 an all too real life. God was punishing her now for her wantonness. This English devyl was chosen to be her tormentor.

". . .Catherine. . ."

Hearing her name was like a slap to her face, waking her up to the words that 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 what 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 of the soaked gag. He unwound the cloth from around her head until she spat the last out of it 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 hog-tie.

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 in color and his mustache and beard were trimmed close and neat. 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 traveled 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. Still 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?" Catherine 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 Edward's 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 of 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 neither food nor drink for nearly a day. With every swallow, she could feel her strength being renewed as if the mead 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'lord."

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 Catherine's side, lifting her until she was kneeling, still hog-tied. 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 Catherine'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 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 neither 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, reveling 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...


Chapter Three: '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 gray stained 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 battleground into his skin and his armor was well worn while the herald, mounted on a light gray 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 misting rain swallowed the herald.

"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 are as starved as we are."

Edward again nodded, "Water the wine down with this rain water. I fear that the devyl may have pissed in the river. See what you 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 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 that 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 her 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 her thigh like the prick of an ardent lover. Before the bottle could roll away, Catherine trapped its base between her feet, aiming its slender neck at her moistened quim.

The baggage wagon 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 felt the bottle roll toward her tied ankles. With grunting effort, she trapped the bottle again and tried to slowly point its 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's 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 before. 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. The wear of war had turned his skin sallow and hair a dirty gray. John was one of Edward's mentor and had taken young Edward under his wing when Edward's father had died on the end of a Scottish pike.

"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 Harfleur. 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 building's 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, gray light and there was a small, sputtering fire in the chimney. Two of his wounded men lay on the floor near it, huddled in their 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 gray-brown Leure, Edward could see his challenge towering over the bay, curls of smoke and mist enwrapping it like a vampirish wraith.

However, Edward's thoughts were upon the girl still bound in his baggage wagon.


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 their 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. This soil is hallowed by our blood and this 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 empty bottle had not sated the desire in her womb 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 her 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.

Catherine 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 of 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 mere leather craftsman. The building would suit 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's eyes followed him until he made sure the soldier was gone. After exploring the building a bit looking for that odd soul that might have stayed behind, he found the building to be 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 for 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 he 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. Even as disheveled as she was as she lay in the bed bound, Edward could feel a wanton ache growing 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 stone smooth 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 as well as her wrists.

Catherine felt the bindings come off of her hands and feet, but there was 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 her 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 turned 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, he 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 was a 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 areola 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 opened 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 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 at 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's 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 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 the bonds holding her arms and legs apart frustrated Catherine. She wanted to dig her heels into Edward's 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 fire brands of bliss.

Below him, Catherine's moans had become one long one as her body writhed in its bonds as if possessed. Edward felt his own seed boiling up within him and he fought to hold it back. The longer he held back, 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 were 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 would please 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 words, 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 camaraderie 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 it was the 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. . ."


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. . .

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, she thought to herself, that this English knight was keeping her here. 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 ashamedly thought to herself, was not all that horrible. Catherine wondered what demons were prodding her captor.

As Catherine lay 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 looks.

"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 look like what Edward had described his Lady Eleanor de Valence to look, 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 Catherine's first taste of the pleasures her body had to offer to 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 Margaret's 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. Margaret's legs were slim and sturdy and tapered 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. Margaret's 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 any mental reservations she may have had. There was nought she could do anyhow, Catherine thought to herself, knowing her bindings were indeed unforgiving in their embrace 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 lay 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 and 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.

Bois 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 retainers, 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 fire to warm their chill bones by.


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 her own clothes 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 otherwise, 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 were no guards at the doorway to his confiscated lodgings, but there were many of his charges lying 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 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 its 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, m'Lord. 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 swan 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 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 repeated 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 and 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 its 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 or 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 engulfed 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 fingers 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 halfhearted 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.


Chapter Seven: 'A slave no gentler'

Sir Edward de Valence leaned over Catherine and began to unbind her ankles from the foot of the bed. Her slim legs were weak from the passionate eruptions from not a few moments ago. There was a tenderness in his touch and Catherine could see a gentleness in his hazel eyes as well. Her ankles did not keep unfettered long, however, for he tied them together again at her ankles.

Edward then untied her wrists from the bed posts. He held onto both of them and eased Catherine over onto her front, pinning her wrists in back of her. Catherine did not protest, rather she just let Edward retie her wrists together. She did not understand why she did not try to free herself from this English but it seemed her body spoke for her now. As Edward sat her up next to Margaret, Catherine felt now oddly safe. Edward was not here to harm her and he had shown her joys that she could not even have imagined but a fortnight ago.

Catherine accepted her position beside the washerwoman Margaret, who had not accepted her position yet. They were both side by side and Catherine could feel the warmth of the red-headed woman mewling through her gag beside her. Margaret struggled in her bonds where Catherine just accepted them.

Edward then eased the knots out of Catherine's gag and did the same to Margaret.

"You both look hungry," Edward said as he took the gag out of Margaret's mouth.

"Untie me right now, m'Edward de Valence!" Margaret said, struggling; Her heavy breasts jiggling and bouncing with her writhing moves.

"Ah, you said you wanted to be my captive. You do not hear a protest from sweet Catherine's lips, do you?" Edward smiled.

"No. . ." Margaret trailed.

"Then relax. I will unbind you in do course, Margaret. In the mean time, you look starved."

Edward went over to the pot of stew he had and took the bone ladle and brought it to Catherine's lips.

Catherine did not realize how hungry she was and she opened her mouth gladly. Edward eased the spoon in and she closed her lips around it. It was not laced with the spices she was used to, but it did not taste bad. . .the meat was stringy and tasted of the honey that preserved it. The sauce hinted of wine and there was some potatoes and carrots, another thing she had not tasted since the siege began.

Edward ladled the second spoon full to Margaret who was more timid taking what Edward offered. She was not used to being fed like a child but she did accept it partially because she did not want the juice running down her chest.

The English knight continued to feed them until there was none left in the bowl. He also let them swallow some beer he had in his leather costrel. It was only after the bowl was cleaned and all the beer was drained Edward was ready to rest for the night ahead.

Edward went to Margaret and whispered in her ear, "So, dear Margaret, do you enjoy being a captive?"

His hands began to caress her larger, pink nipples.

Margaret did not answer directly and thought upon this, sitting nude and bound before her Edward. She had enjoyed the freedom the bindings did give her in receiving Edward's attentions. However, being fed and treated this way afterward was new to her and she was very uncertain if she liked it or not.

"If it pleas's m'Edward t' 'ave me this way," Margaret replied, "You know I will be here for m'lord."

"You did not answer the question, Margaret."

Margaret paused then answered, "Yes, m'Edward, I did enjoy it."

"Good," Edward replied.

The English knight then began to unbind Margaret, first her captive ankles and legs, then her wrists. Margaret flexed her fingers and hands, easing out their stiffness caused from her ties.

"While I rest, dear Margaret, I need you to do this thing for me. . ." and Edward whispered into the washerwoman's ear.

Bois D'Astier was not by nature a patient man and as the afternoon lingered and the rain had slackened its assault, he paced inside the small hut abandon by its tenants upon the fall of Harfleur. It was not but a few minutes ride away from the besieged port. It was a dangerous place to be, Bois knew, but he wanted to be close to the town in order to find out what had happened to his sister, Catherine.

The latest word from the town was there were still two towers upon the river that had not surrendered and Bois could here the distant thunder of cannon now vomiting their deadly stones at the towers walls. But, there would be no relief for those wretched souls in those towers. The king still had not made up his mind about the English threat here.

"M'lord Bois," one of his men, John, spoke, "You pace like a hound before the hunt. You must rest. Here, have some wine and sit by the fire."

Bois nodded and let John lead him to the hearth in the center of the room and the small, spitting fire flickering upon it. There were several of his charges huddled about the meager flame, getting what warmth they could. John handed his leader a ceramic mug filled with warm wine and Bois let its magic flow through him to ease him of the day's cares. He looked out the open door toward Harfleur.

"Soon, My Lord Bois, we will go to the town and be amongst the English as mercenaries. I have seen several of our lowly dogs doing so. They have no faith in our King. . ."

"Neither do I," Bois cut in, taking another sip of wine.

"True, My Lord Bois, he has been weak of mind. . ."

"Weak of heart, John. He has no spirit. France is close to civil war and now the English take liberties upon our soil with no opposition. He has lost France already and his weakly son is no better than he. We, John, loyal French, are all that stand between France and her ruin."

"I think it is the wine talking, My lord. . ."

"It is the truth and I am not afraid to say it."

John shook his head, his dark eyes cast down, "It is the truth," his words a mere whisper.

"My father will not be pleased when he hears word of what goes on here, John."

John just nodded.

Bois was fond of his sister, his closest sibling. They both looked the same. Hair the color of Raven's wings, dark eyes, slender of build. In their childhood, Bois used to have mock swordfights with her in the garden. His oldest brother, Jean, was too much his father's puppet and his two other brothers were more interested in their books and their father's travels. Only Catherine shared his love for adventure.

But Phillip D' Astier made sure that both Bois and Catherine knew their places and separated them. As they grew up, Bois rarely saw his sister but the memories of their happy times always lingered in his thoughts. They were the only happy times he could recall in their house.

"You brood again, My Lord Bois," John said, "You do worry me so."

Bois patted John on the cheek, "You worry too much. That is my station, John, not yours."

Catherine could not understand what the red-headed washerwoman was doing. Her back was towards Catherine and she could not make out what Margaret was sewing something out of the clothes Edward had brought. She had also heard some metal clinks as Margaret sewed. She could not understand what they could be.

Catherine's gag was back in place and her bindings had changed slightly, as with her position in the English's bed. Edward had tied looped some thong around her waist as he had with the woman Margaret, and guided it between her sensitive, swyve-swollen lips before tying it to her wrists. If she pulled on her wrists, the thong rubbed against her quim; her pearl, causing a flush of pleasure through her. However, she dared not move for fear of what Edward had said to her would happen if she disturbed his rest.

The English knight slept beside Catherine, his skin warm next to hers. She could feel his every breath. She could almost feel his heartbeat. His arm was lax around her, embracing her to him gently. His manhood was warm and against her thigh, as asleep as Edward was.

She should sleep, Catherine thought to herself. But there was so much rushing through her head like a millstream through a waterwheel. It was obvious that Edward cared for her. The way he touched Catherine. The gentle way he bound her. However, she was still bound. . .a prisoner to his desires which were rapidly becoming her own. She was his to do with now as he pleased and it pleased Catherine to be such.

Edward move a bit, his thumb brushing against her nipple every time she breathed. It was a sinful feeling that did not help quench her fires that seemed to keep burning within her. Nor did it help to have the thong rubbing her within her quim. She gently rocked her hips against the leather, feeling their lustful magic stoke her fires slowly. She dared not move much, however, for fear of awakening Edward.

Would he be so cruel? Catherine asked herself.

The thought of being bound outside the city gates and left alone frightened her. That is what Edward had promised would happen if she dared wake him. He said she would be left for the wolves to feed upon like they did upon the dead of the siege. Their howls could be heard in the night. There were not many left but the plagues and the wars left fewer men and the wolves seemed to know this. Entire villages were emptied by the Death and the sleek canines would prowl about the streets like demons. The wild dogs were as bad.

She could almost feel the hot breath of a wolf as it sank it's teeth into her pale throat. . .

Catherine awoke with a start. She had drifted asleep and the Edward's threat lingered in her mind.

However, her fires had not gone out. Edward's threat only reinforced her feelings of helplessness. But it was that helplessness that was driving her dark, pleasurable needs.

His thumb still tickled at Catherine's nipple, which was stiff with the bliss of his slight touch. The leather strands between her legs rubbed her more and more as she gently rocked her hips against the thong. Her fires were burning hot now, fanned by her gentle movements. She moaned quietly into her gag. The washerwoman did not hear her nor, she prayed, did Edward.

Why was this so? Catherine asked herself. Why did she enjoy being bound so much by this English?

She closed her eyes and imagined his touch on her; the touch of a lover. His hands holding her breasts from behind, his fingers pulling at their tips and sending lightening flashes of bliss into her womb. She could feel him press against her back, his kisses hungry at her neck, her earlobe, her smooth shoulder. His manhood firm against her buttocks as she rocked her hips. Her body was eager to please her lover and the feel of his hardness between her cheeks, so close to her thirsting quim, was near torture. She could feel the pleasure build up within her, the leather weaving it's magic through her sex and she pressed herself more and more against it.

Then the fire consumed her and she shook and writhed within her bonds.

She then realized it was not all her imagination. Edward's fingers were clasped over her breasts and his manhood was firm against her.

"Not an unpleasant wakening, dear Catherine," he whispered in French as he kissed, "but I had warned you what would happen."

Fear gushed through her like a rush of ice water and she pleaded into her gag.

"Do you think I did not mean what I said?"

Again Catherine pleaded into her gag, tears running down her face.

Edward pinched her nipple hard.

"I will forgive you THIS TIME, dear Catherine, but not again. I will flog you and leave you bleeding for the dogs. Do you understand?"

Catherine nodded her head, still sobbing. Her tears now were from relief.

"Now I must rest. When I awake, I am sure Margaret will have finished something special for you."

Edward caressed her nipples slowly, like the lover he was in her dream.

"It will be a long night for me, m'lady Catherine, and if you want to continue to enjoy the pleasures of my company, you must let me rest or I may very well end up dead. Those towers need to fall, dear Catherine, and if you are to be my wife rather than my ransom, you must understand I have to do this thing."

The word "wife" echoed through Catherine like the bells of Notre Dame upon Christmas. . .a toll full of joy that could not be imagined.

"Now be still."

And Catherine was.


Chapter Eight: "Silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies"

Catherine D'Astier finally closed her eyes and let her tired and satiated body fall to sleep still captive within Edward's tight bindings; her wrists cinched behind her back, her ankles bound together and that wicked length of thong that still rubbed between her still swollen petals every time she moved. The last rampage of pleasure that raged through her weakened her enough that sleep was an easy breath away, like a heavy cloud that drifted dark over herself. Catherine's dreams crept into her mind like a poacher in the forest and were both wanton and frightening.

Catherine dreamt she was Edward 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 she so longed to feel the warmth of his body next to hers but her chains prevented her from moving into the bed with him.

She struggled a bit and felt the same, powerful shudder of pleasure rippling through her as another thunderclap erupted outside. Catherine knew she needed this English knight to ease her lustful thirst and she knew that if she was in bed with him, Edward could perform the blissful magic he was so good at upon her.

But the chains held her before the cold window.

Catherine looked in vain to try to find where the chains were bolted. They were loose about her slender ankles, their length locking her iron anklets together. She could not see her iron manacles locking her wrists behind her, only the cold feel of their metal, unyielding to her wishes. She felt as if she should be able to take small steps towards Edward's bed, but it was as if her feet were anchored to the cold, stone floor.

Catherine tried to tell Edward of her desire for him, but the gag muffled her words and did not waken her English knight.

With every passing moment, her desire for him grew and she could not come to him.

Another roll of thunder roared outside, the lightning flashed in the black sky.

Catherine desperately searched for what kept her chained here. Her struggles became frantic and she whimpered behind her gag. She could feel the tears running down her cheek. . .

"Catherine!" a gruff voice bellowed.

The captive woman looked up and saw the sturdy form of her father, Phillip D'Astier, a sneer scarring his grey bearded face.

In her father's gauntleted hand, the end of her chain.

In his other hand, an unsheathed sword still dripping with gore.

"Come here!" he growled and yanked on her chain.

A lightning flash distorted his raged face, twisting it into a gargoyle's foul visage.

Catherine shook her head and yelled "No" into her gag but nothing came out. Her terror was a better than any gag of cloth. She could feel him yanking on her chains, pulling her toward him, the metal of her cuffs growing hot and painful as she tried to get away. . .

"You WILL come here, Catherine!" Phillip spat.

Red ichor continued to flow from the sword, pooling on the floor like the blood of a beheaded man.

Catherine tried to scream to Edward but he continued to sleep, unaware of her father and his evil intent. She thrashed and kicked and threw her head and cried great sobs as her father yanked one last time and she fell against him. His armored hands grabbing her arms violently. . .

"Catherine!" he yelled.

"No, no, please no father!" Catherine cried uselessly into her gag.

"Catherine wake up," a more tender voice came from above her.

Catherine awoke to find she was looking into the most wonderful dark hazel eyes she had ever known, the eyes of her English knight, Edward de Valence.

"You are having a dream, dear Catherine," Edward said in Catherine's native French tongue, "You have nothing to fear while I am here."

Edward's large arms embraced Catherine to him and he slowly rocked his captive. Catherine wept with both pain and joy, remembering vividly her dream and now the comfort of Edward's arms. She wanted to tell this English so much, to declare her love for him but the gag he had tied between her lips muffled and mutated her sobbing words. All she could do is cry gently into Edward's chest.

Edward held his captive; his Catherine until her tears stopped and she was limp and asleep in his arms. He could feel every breath of hers; every little movement against him. Her skin was warm and smooth to his touch as he gently ran his fingers over her hip and down her side. Edward could feel himself stirring again at the sight of this woman so much like his departed Eleanor, yet there was differences too that made this woman bound before him as heady as unwatered wine.

Eleanor never was this passionate towards Edward. She cared for him and was a dutiful noblewoman but Edward knew deep inside that she did not love him. She was very beautiful and gifted woman and he was glad that he was not there when the plague took her life. He had seen too many bodies marred by the bulbous purple sores to want to imagine what Eleanor might have looked like in death. He wanted her pristine in his mind.

Catherine stirred against him, turning onto her side and settling her firm buttocks against Edward's now hardened self. There was still the smell of her passion on her and her fingers twitched a bit, tickling Edward.

Margaret had left, leaving the dress she had modified for Edward. He would dress Catherine in it before he left her. It was a deep red with long sleeves that would be knotted fashionably. She had sewn the arms against the bodice and a pair of manacles in the sleeves. It would allow Edward to take her in public yet make sure she did not leave his side. She would still be a captive yet not appear to be. The only problem Edward could see was silencing her for she did have a wicked tongue at times.

Edward glanced out the window. The sky was a darker shade of grey. Night would come all too soon and Edward needed to leave.

The English knight was about to wake 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 as he met Edward.

"Indeed, my dear Richard," Edward looked into the pale blue eyes of his sergeant and saw the fatigue there. He needed this man too much to kill him with the burden of these two towers, "Go rest your bones with a wench or two. You know where we are lodged at."

"Yes, m'lord," he said tiredly. Richard knew better than to argue with Edward, "However you must know that the Earl of Dorset is amongst our works, m'lord."

"Thank you, dear Richard, now go and relieve your men also. The gunner's that rested during daylight will take over."

Sir Thomas Beaufort, the Earl of Dorset, Edward thought to himself, a good man with a solid skill at war but the youngest son of John of Gaunt was always a cursed paycock. The Earl of Dorset was much more at home in the stone halls of the court where his armor always gleamed. Being in the field did little to his dampen his fiery temper; it only tended to fuel it. A brave man to the point of foolishness.

Edward eyed to two towers whose round walls were now pitted and cracked but still held their occupants in safety. No one ventured within bow range of the towers and so far only three men had been wounded by arrows spit from them.

"Pray now, de Valence, how do you plan to take these two shrews?" a stiff voice said from behind him.

Edward turned around and saw Sir Thomas Beaufort standing behind him, in full plate armor polished and his colors brightly shown.

"My Lord Dorset," Edward bowed.

"Those twin ladies will be hard to break," Sir Thomas said, "I am glad you are the one that will divest those French of these towers. It will take time to repair, I fear."

"Indeed, my Lord Dorset."

"So, how now, de Valence, pray tell me how it is you will take these twin towers?"

"I will first take the one on the right, My Lord. I have enough reeds and hay from the roofs of destroyed houses and from their fields that I will be able to pile it around both and set fire to it. The wet hay will burn smoky and I hope to drive the defenders out of their warren. I will continue to fire upon the one on the right, my Lord, but only those cannon I know whose aim is true. Rafts full of the tinder will drift up from behind and array the faggots and straw around the tower while the cannon keep the occupants' eyes."

"What of the other tower?" asked Sir Beaufort.

"I will silence my cannon against it and let those French within think the attack is upon them. They are weary and spirit heavy, I should think, my Lord, and the need to keep constant watch upon their tower will drain them even more. They cannot see what we do to her sister tower, my Lord."

Lord Dorset nodded, his keen eyes taking in the scene before him and imagining the results of de Valences fine work.

"Continue, de Valence. The plan is sound," he said, "use as many men as you need. I need you to break these bitches for His Majesty. He cannot plan ahead unless we know Harfleur is firmly in our grasp."

"The towers will fall, my Lord Dorset. You can tell good King Henry that he will have these towers in two days time."

"I will," said Sir Thomas as he turned and walked away from Edward.

The work had already begun on Edward's plan of attack. Several small boats and rafts had been filled with straw an awaited Edward's command. Soon the guns upon the left tower would be silent while the one's on the right would continue their assault with less powder to make sure none of the men laying the hay would be killed by their own guns.

The night was clear and cold, the rain having left everyone damp and of ill mood. Edward's breath looked like a wraith in the night air. He nodded his head to his sergeant in charge of the hay and then to his man in charge of the cannon on the left. Nor more would they belch their destruction at that tower tonight.

Every roar was now against the right-hand tower. A rock shot shattered against the stonework with a loud snap, like a dry bone being cracked in half.

There was little for the English knight to do but watch his plan unfold. He trusted his sergeants with doing their assigned tasks and though he watched over them, he did not hover over them like a raven upon a kill.

Edward drew his cloak about himself.

The knight was already missing his captive Catherine.

Maybe he should not have left her bound as he had, he thought to himself. She was indeed frightened by her visions and he would not be there to calm her if she had them again. He recalled how he had found her, bound and raped by three base men as a fire was beginning to sweep through the house.

Catherine had wanted to die there. If Edward had not come seeking her, she would have had her wish.

Edward had not really thought about that night. It seemed a lifetime away even though it had been only a day or two. He had seen other woman do similar things, sacrificing themselves to the army's invading. Perhaps their tears had driven them mad.

Edward had suddenly got tired of war.

When Eleanor died, everything changed for him. He volunteered for every campaign. Life on the Scottish border helped him deal with her death with every sword thrust and spear lunge. His manor house was as feared as any and he made sure he would have his revenge upon anyone violating his stock and his wards. He inspired the men around him and they would die with him anywhere and it was these men that Edward brought with him here to France. . .

The burden seemed to overwhelm him now as he stood, cloaked and alone in the cold night.

The faggots and straw around the base of the tower was being piled hurriedly and soon Edward would have to give the sign to silence the guns briefly so they could finish their work. Spare nothing, he had said, pile all the straw you can and it was being heaped high.

It was time. He raised is arm and dropped it. The guns fired their last shot and were silent.

Hopefully, for the first few moments, the French within will think that the guns a reloading but soon the silence will let them know something was amiss.

It was but a few heartbeats before the French arrows began trying to spit Edward's men at the base of the tower.

A man screamed as an arrow pierced his back and he collapsed on his bundle of straw. Another fell like a rag, limp into a pile.

But the work continued. The ring around the tower grew.

It was enough.

Edward raised and lowered his arm twice to signal the throwing of the oil pots upon the straw.

Tens of small pots arced toward the hay as the last of Edward's men ran to their rafts or back to the guns. The pots looked like so many falling stars. Some dashed themselves against the tower in an eruption of oil and sulfur and tar. Others crack uselessly on the ground before the hay. But a few landed in the hay and spilled their fiery burden, starting the smoky pyre.

The smoke began to embrace the tower in its curling, wispy fingers. Edward could picture what was happening within. The smoke would start to seep into the rooms in a slight haze that would slowly build. The guards would start to cough and gasp in the smokes stranglehold. They would seek the comfort of the open 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 into her gag.

The captive stared in horror at the man's dwarfish cock. It was as thick and knobby as a toadstool as he grunted before Catherine's quim. She struggled and kicked at the man. It was all he could do to hold her down.

She freed her one leg.

Catherine kicked the troll's cock with all her might, smashing it.

The man roared in pain and grasped his injured member, his bloodshot eyes clouded in pain and rage. . .

Catherine's heel smashed into the villains' nose with a wet crack, causing blood to gush from it. She did not stop, kicking at the man's face and belly again and again until he slipped off the edge of the bed.

Catherine struggled to seat herself and peer over the side of her bed. The man was laying in a pile, his face a bloody ruin. She prayed that Edward would return before this man awoke.


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 the 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 beseeching stopped. She whimpered from behind her gag and closed her eyes, hoping that 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 discern 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 too 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 in 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 in 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 refused 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 his 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. Edward being one of them, having saved her from the flames of Harfleur and from her previous 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 gracefully stepped 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.


Chapter 10: 'A peaceful and sweet retire'

Catherine listened to Edward's breathing, her head rising and falling as she rested 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 lay 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 bosom.

Sleep eluded Catherine. It was like a songbird whose song one could hear yet cannot find its 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 soul is still Gods and mine. 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 bosom 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 responsibility 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 gray 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 too short, my dear Richard, to be so dark," a warm lilting Irish voice said to him.

"Margaret?" he replied.

"It looks as if you have the weight of many a catapult stone upon your brow, my dear lord sergeant," Margery smiled as she got up from her spot, an emptied keg. In her hand she cradled a ceramic mug.

"It has been a hard siege, Margaret."

"To a woman likes 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 washerwoman 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 Corfes' 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 bake house. 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 nibbling 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 lie 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 far 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 sergeant."

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 it was Richard, yet there was the familiar gentleness as he 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 slow, passionate dance of Eros. 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 hotter 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 collapsed from being crushed under the fiery waves.

The land was not so unfamiliar. Geoffrey Potterson had foraged around Harfleur during the months of the siege 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. Geoffrey'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 Geoffrey 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.

Geoffrey 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 Geoffrey 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-slicked 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 whimpering 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.


Chapter 11: 'To Know What Willing Ransom'

"She is within those crumbled walls of Harfleur, John," Bois D'Astier said under his breath as he stood beside his seneschal, looking at the siege-torn town in the distance. A column of dark smoke curled into the lead-colored sky.

"I think that you wish it so, my lord," John replied.

"I can feel her there, John. I can feel her breath as if it were my own. And did you not hear what that Englishman said?"

"The words of a dying man, saying anything to save his wretched life, my lord," John shook his graying head, "I think your sword wants a shroud of blood. I urge you, my lord, the English rule these vasty fields in which we creep like wintering mice. We are here by stealth and cunning and we will remain breathing if we continue thusly."

"My Father wants Catherine," Bois said simply.

"Does he want to consign you to a cold marble vault for the sake of a daughter?"

"You speak too plainly at times, John."

John looked at his lord with gray eyes as sharp as arrows, "I speak plainly because I need to, my lord."

Bois continued to stare out at the broken walls of Harfleur. In the distance, they looked like gravestones in the mist. A dark column of smoke was testament that not all of Harfleur was English. From what his men could descry from the babble of folks that once inhabited that noble port, two towers had refused to bend to King Henry's pennant.

"Patience, my lord. The English are not leaving this prize and if your fair Catherine is within those walls, she will not be leaving her native soil soon."

In the distance, an English patrol on horseback was riding in their direction.

"We must go, my lord."

Bois nodded. But he would return. . .soon.

Edward looked upon his nude ransom, Catherine D'Astier, with a slow-boiling anger. Her heated words had lit a fire within Edward that he had nearly forgotten about while enjoying the pleasures of her fair gifts. Now, the memory of his dead son swept like a whirlwind through him. . .all the pain and fiery thoughts of revenge. Edward De Valence was not here just to fight for King Henry the V's just crown of France. He was here to kill Phillip D'Astier and avenge his son's murder.

He needed his ransom, Catherine, to do it.

"You are right," Edward said coldly, "You ARE my ransom. I must remember that. Where is your father so that I might write him to fill my coffers . . or at least a groat or two."

"He is in Paris the last I heard, m' lord," Catherine replied.

Catherine did not like this sudden coldness from Edward. She did not know what her words did to her captor, but it did not have the effect that Catherine was hoping for. She wanted to be with this Englishman and did not want to be sent back to her life as bait to add to her father's treasury of power. She would be married off to someone with wealth and station and she would have little to say about it. Her beauty and grace would assure this as well as her father's full coin box.

". . .but I believe he was headed to Rouen on a matter of some importance" Catherine lied.

"Rouen? I will send my demands to Rouen as well as to Paris. It will find his ears soon enough."

Catherine knew this to be true. Her father's reach was far and such news as her ransom would race to wherever he was. A cold fear started to form in the pit of her stomach. Catherine felt as if she was about to be sentenced to a pyre.

"M'lord. . ." Catherine almost whispered.

"Yes," the English knight replied curtly.

The silence between them was as cold as a tombstone. Catherine desperately wanted to say how much she cared for Edward but the words were caught in the same chill pit as her fear. She could not say the words.

"Yes?" He said again.

"Nothing, m'lord Knight. . ." she trailed off.

Edward reached down and grabbed at the red garment that Margaret had been working on, a simple gown with knotted sleeves. However, it clinked when he threw it onto the bed.

"I can not have a ransom of mine as unclothed as Eve. . ."

Catherine lifted the dress. There were chains sewn within and manacles in the sleeves.

"Put it on." Edward said evenly.

Catherine lifted the houppelande over her head and tried to struggle to get her arms into the sleeves. After a few moments, it was obvious to Edward he would have to help his young ransom in her raiment. It was difficult, but at last Catherine was wearing clothes for the first time since Edward had rescued her from the fire.

A chain encircled her just under her breasts, blending in with the houppelandes' waist. Edward locked it into place with a padlock as well as locking the manacles around her wrists within the sleeves. The manacles had a short chain that lead from them to the chain around her waist, keeping her from reaching out further than a hand spread. It also kept them close together in front of her. Her bindings were all but invisible to anyone she might pass by.

"Not quite finished, my prize," Edward said with a slight, wicked smile.
Edward reached under her dress.

Catherine felt a piece of soft cloth being pulled up between her legs and threaded through the chain embracing her waist. The English knight tightened the strap until it was tautly wedged between her nether lips, rubbing not too unpleasantly against her pearl.

While still under her dress, Edward then shackled her ankles together. Tying the span of loose chain up with the end of the strap. Catherine took several tentative steps. She found if she took too big of steps, the cloth would tighten within her quim. She could see that wearing this could be a torture of a sort that no inquisitor would have thought to include in his arsenal.

Edward finished lacing up her dress in back. Catherine always found having a man do this was slightly erotic, having memories of several men doing the same after coupling. It was usually a chore for one of the ladies of the household and men's fingers were rough and clumsy. . .except for this man. Edward's fingers seemed adept at the lacings, tightening them firmly as he went, ensuring the gown did not bunch up in the back.

"You seem at ease, m'lord, with a lady's garment," Catherine said, "It seems you have had practice."

Edward smiled a bit, "I enjoyed dressing my wife in the early morning hours when the world was still ghosts and shadows in gray."

Edward could still picture brushing Eleanor's long, dark hair aside and seeing the soft curves of his wife's back revealed in the open lacings of the dress. He would plant tender kisses there as he slowly laced up her gown, causing her to laugh her small, musical giggles. The early, early mornings were their only time alone, when they could drink in each other's company without the obligations or duties of the castle. They were a man and a woman; husband and wife; a love that came to flower through arrangements of lands and titles. Edward had always counted himself blessed by fortune's wheel to have had a wife that he cared for and could count upon to give him good counsel Edward lived for those mornings.

"She must have been a wonderful lady, m'lord," Catherine spoke.

"Eleanor was," Edward said softly.

Edward picked up a headdress and carefully tucked Catherine's raven tresses into it. Again, Catherine felt his gentleness while he did this task. Edward had thought he had found another love unexpectedly in his ransom captive. Here was a lady not unlike his Eleanor, dark-haired and with the grace and stature of a hind; and just as wild. And, for just a few hours, Edward thought this daughter of D'Astier felt the same way about him. But her insistent words about being 'his ransom' and responsibility clearly showed to Edward that that is the only way she pictured herself with the knight.

"What are thinking, m'lord?" Catherine asked.

"I wish you were more than ransom," Edward said and almost immediately regretted it.

There was a long, empty silence between to two as Edward finished fitting Catherine's headdress on. It was Catherine who finally broke the silence.

"What do you mean, m'lord?"

"You are . . ." Edward tried to search for less direct words, "You are more than a mere ransom to me, Catherine."

Catherine turned around and tried to look into Edward's downcast, dark hazel eyes.

"My English knight, I can be what you want me to be. If I must be a ransom and wear these chains, I would do so as long as I can to be with you for even a few moments more. In my mind, I should hate you; I should tear at your throat with my bare teeth and rip the lifeblood from you; but my heart cannot let me for I care for you, my dear English knight, more than you could possibly know. I feel safe within your arms or ropes, a feeling I would have never pondered m'lord, if you had not taken me so. You have opened my golden-caged life and offered me a glimpse into what love might be."

"You are my ransom," Edward said, "How could you lay at my side as wife when I need you as ransom?"

"Why, m'lord?"

Edward paused. "You do not want to know."

The knight could not tell Catherine about his plans to ultimately reap his revenge. He had sown his plan carefully once he had heard that the soil of France would soon be planted with the English banners of war. The murderer of his son would pay and pay and pay again in his own blood.

"M'lord, please. . ."

"No, Catherine," he said sternly. Catherine could hear the coldness edging back into his voice.

Catherine knew then that it was not mere ransom that her English knight sought. The purpose of her capture ran colder and deeper than just mere coins in a purse. The raven-haired captive recognized that pressing on about that murky purpose would also drive Edward away.

"Yes, m'lord," she acquiesced quietly.

"I do not want you to speak of this again, my Catherine," Edward said.

"Yes, m'lord."

"Now, Catherine, I need to see to a few tasks," Edward said, "You can go about the town if you wish, but I am afraid it is not the town you knew and it is still dangerous. These chains will keep you close by."

"I do not need chains to keep me by your side, m'lord."

Edward saw that look in her dark eyes that he had seen before in his Eleanor's eyes. It was the look that told him that she would indeed be at his side and that the chains that bound her were not nearly as strong as those forged out of the coals of her love.

As Richard Corfe unknotted the thong from around Margaret's wrists and ankles, she sensed he was almost embarrassed about what had just happened. It was not the coupling part of it, she assumed, rather the fact that Richard had tied her up.

"What is th' matter, pray tell, my dear Richard?"

"I am indeed sorry, Margery. I did not mean to do. . ." the soldier's words trailed off.

The redhead leaned against Richard, her fingers combing through his hay blonde hair, "Y' pleasured me wonderfully, my Richard."

"The siege has put lead on my brow, I fear, and has made me do things I do not care to do."

"If'n y' mean the rope, dear Richard, pay it no mind. It has been done to me before, even by th' likes of your lord De Valence. . ."

"I am not him!" Richard spat.

Margery was taken aback, "I know y' not him. I never said that y' were, my Richard."

Richard and Margery sat in silence for a bit. The redhead continued to stroke her fingers through Richard's hair.

"She is a sorceress, Margery," Richard Corfe said quietly, "She is like a vine that enwraps around My Lord De Valence and entraps him in her coils, slowly engulfing him, squeezing his sense out of him."

"She is 'is ransom," Margery said, "Her life is'n 'is hands."

"That woman may be De Valence's ransom, but I think Edward is her captive."

Another awkward silence fell between the two before Margery spoke, "'Tis been a long time, dear Richard, since m'lord 'as had a lady. Since m'Lady Eleanor died, 'is soul was ripp'd from 'im. This woman, this ransom of 'is has given him some of 'is soul back and 'e wants to keep it. She is good thing for 'im, dear Richard. For nows, anyway."

"That woman clouds his mind," Richard said quietly.

"Notn' as much as you think, my dear Richard," she spoke softly and pulled him toward her, "Now rest."

Richard closed his eyes.

Catherine felt strange about having clothes on for she had not had any on for several days now, since the English took over Harfleur. She had wanted to die that first night, amongst the burning ruins of her home. However, like waking up into a world filled with elves and nymphs, she was in a different world. Catherine was in a world that she enjoyed very much, enclosed by the four walls of the room she was in.

Just thinking about being here and the things that her English knight did to her flooded her insides with a warm, lascivious feeling that Catherine was finding harder and harder to resist. She was still bound, captive now of chains sewn into her dress, but much more free to indulge herself.

She lay back down onto the bed that had been her world for what seemed to be a lifetime and began to hike up her dress. With some difficulty, she found the cloth strap that was wedged within the folds of her quim. She grabbed it with both hands and tugged, bringing up her open legs and also rubbing against her pearl, sending a tiny flood of pleasure through her. She thrust her hips, chains jingling and the cloth burrowing into her more, burnishing her bliss more and more.

Kicking her legs in the confines of her irons and bucking against the cloth strap, she began to feel a fiery rush of passion burning through her, engulfing her bit by bit as if to swallow her slowly. She found herself whispering Edwards name, herself begging the knight to make her feel the pure bliss he had done so to her before. Her struggles became more frantic as she neared her quest. Her orgasm was so close yet as much as she bucked and squirmed and imagined Edward's swollen sword thrusting into her, she could not push herself over the chasm.

Catherine found herself nearly crying, wanting herself to be pleasured so much. She continued her struggles, weeping and struggling and rubbing herself against the cloth. . .the fiery finger of pleasure slowly licking over her body. . .so wonderful and yet wicked enough not to embrace her fully.

Then it came. A fire of pure bliss whirled through her like a storm of flame Catherine writhed and fought against her chains until she was thoroughly as used up as the ashes in a fireplace. She lay there limp, her dark hair a tangle about her and the smell of herself filling the room. There was a warmth in her womb that sated her, like embers of a fire on a cold winter's night She did not think she would venture out just yet.

Edward De Valence first felt the sun peeking out from behind its dirty gray mask of clouds and mist like a woman behind a veil. It felt like God had tapped on Edward's shoulder and given him a small blessing. The English knight stood there for a few moments, staring up at the sun, enjoying its meager warmth touch on his face.

The thundering roar of a cannon interrupted his brief revelry. There was still a soldier's work to be done against the second tower, his destination. To some, sleep had become part of the past. The bellowing of the cannon and the moans of the dying and the curses of the living all made sleeping as far away a dream as their beds at home in England. The taking of Harfleur elevated the men out of their miasma. Supplies were coming in and the sick being taken back to England or billeted under village roofs.

The column of blackened smoke looked like the remains of a long dead tree reaching up into the sky. As Edward drew closer, he could inhale the foul-smell of the burning wet hay and oil. There were no arrows coming from the windows of the tower now and the men besieging the tower seemed more at ease knowing that soon this evil work would be done shortly.

"Do you think that there is anyone alive inside, My Lord?" Talbot asked as he came up beside Edward, his tired eyes half covered by his wide-brimmed steel helm.

Another cannonball shook the ground on which they stood as it cracked against the tower.

"How long since the last stirring from inside, Talbot?"

"Not since the church bells tolled Vespers yesterday, My Lord," the man-at-arms replied.

Edward nodded. It was time to end this.

"Give orders to silence the guns, Talbot, and clear away the burning hay by throwing it into the river. After this is done, we will batter down the door and see if those stubborn souls are still drawing breath."

Talbot nodded.

"I also want you to find Corfe and invite him to join us here. His presence is sorely needed."

Again the stout man-at-arms nodded and hurriedly went upon his duties.

"Soon," Edward said to himself while looking up at the scarred stonework of the tower, "So very soon we will be out of this vipers pit and in open country again. I pray to God this is so."