Catch me if you can

[Little_Zora]

Brae had anticipated his order. “Yes, my lord”, she whispered with a small curtsy. What else could she do?

She unlaced the string on both sides of her dress, and as with Lord Stephen’s garments before, the familiarity of the task gave her the necessary courage. She pulled the dress over her head, and then unlaced the linen tunic she was wearing underneath. Brae was unable to look at Lord Stephen, as if she hoped that by ignoring him, his gaze would miss her, too. Finally, she stood naked next to the bed, shivering a little, not sure if it was the cold air or fear that made her tremble.

Despite her curiosity, it was the first time that she was naked in front of a man, and for a moment, Brae tried to cover her nudity with her hands, before she quickly climbed on top of the bed, as he had wanted her to.

The soft linen felt comforting against her naked skin and her fingertips. She was a petite girl, and her long brown hair fell down her back and over her pert rear, her tresses making for a beautiful contrast against her pale skin. Somewhat lost, she looked down at the blonde woman before her, not sure if she dared to touch her in the way Lord Stephen had commanded, not sure if she would not vanish, like an illusion, if she did.

Alys was still bent over, her torso pressed against the bedding, her slender back rising and falling with every breath. Her eyes still blinded by the shawl, she faced Stephen, a soft smile gracing her lips. Brae watched her, wondering what the Norman lord could have done. What kind of spell could have been this powerful as to make her forget her upbringing, her religion, her morals, and even the man she loved so desperately? How could it be anything else but witchcraft that made the young noblewoman give herself up, body and soul, so willingly to another? Only hours earlier she had been willing to sacrifice lives – even her own – to see de Lacy’s bastard son again. Was Robert even still in her thoughts?

Shyly, Brae’s fingers brushed through the thick, golden strands of hair that were scattered around her head like rays of sunlight. She picked up a few of the tresses and let them run through her hand. When she had been younger, she had sometimes envied her mistress for her beautiful hair. Her father had always said that God had trapped the gleam of the sun, the moon, and the stars in them, to protect her during dark times of sadness and war. Brae had believed it then, and watching the flicker of the flames throw shadows the slender woman before her, she believed it now.

Without turning to Stephen, Brae gently encouraged Alys to lift her body off the sheets to face her. She herself was kneeling upright on the bed before her mistress, as if worshipping one of the strange, heathen deities of old that her grandmother had always told her about. Yes, her beauty easily rivalled that of a forest nymph, or a river fairy, blessed as she was with a graceful, lithe body, firm white breasts and skin as flawless and soft as thick, white cream.

She put one of her hands softly against Alys’ chest, just above the swelling of her right breast. It was a touch almost fearful, as if she was afraid that her mistress might reprimand her for her boldness. But the blonde woman did not stir. No, indeed, her lips parted in eager anticipation, and Brae sensed that she wanted her to proceed, that she longed to be touched, and caressed without reluctance. The maid bit her lip. Too aware was she of Lord Stephen’s calm gaze that did not allow even a hint of disobedience. Holding her breath, her fingers slid down, until her hand cupped the round, silken breast. One finger flicked over the erect nipple, and Alys drew in her breath sharply, and a soft moan rose from her throat. Brae smiled. Lord Stephen was right. There was such beauty in the young woman’s arousal! She repeated the movement, once, twice, and felt how Alys arched her back ever so slightly, urging her on. The maid lowered her mouth to her breast and tentatively, shyly, substituted her tongue for her finger before her lips closed around the rosy bud, gently sucking it into her mouth. Alys was breathing more heavily now, moaning softly, and Brae, momentarily unnerved, stopped. There was a mewl of protest from her blonde mistress, and Brae cast a shy sidelong glance at the Norman lord. Would he allow for more?

Her other hand was tracing the delicate lines of Alys’ face, her full lips, down her swan-like throat and then around her shoulders, and down her back. Brae’s small firm breasts were pressed against Aly’s naked body, her other hand, still cupping one breast, trapped between them. The maid felt her own arousal increase again, felt the familiar tingle between her thighs. But how was she to afford herself the same relief she had found earlier, when she had spied on her mistress and Lord Stephen? She did not dare to display her own excitement so openly and wantonly before him. Despite everything he still scared her, and his inexplicable power over her mistress seemed like a grave sickness that she, Brae, had to fend off as best she could.

But the need was there, and it was growing. Helplessly she pressed her body into Alys’, fingertips caressing soft skin, eliciting sighs and purrs from her mistress, her own aching arousal forcing a frustrated, half-supressed groan from her lips. She paused, horrified. Had he heard? Did he notice? Brae was not sure. But Alys, smiling, whispered into her ear, in her own language: “Kiss me, Brae.”

Brae, her mind clouded with lust and arousal, did not hesitate for long. Unable to resist the ripe, full lips of the woman before her, she pulled her into a passionate, all-consuming kiss, softer and with more hunger than she had ever showed any of the boys she had kissed before, forgetting even about the man who was watching them, about the room she was in, about her own standing, about anything past or beyond this new, irresistible feeling.

 

[Maka]

Brae turned her demure gaze to the floor as she slipped quietly from her clothes, exposing a petite, lovely little body to Stephen's cool gaze. Her breasts were small in comparison to Alys', but they were perfectly proportioned and tipped with hard dark brown nipples. For all her air of chaste innocence, those rosy lips and that dimpled complexion must have tempted more than one peasant swain or archer. Alys was about to enjoy those soft, slightly parted lips, to feel those taut nipples pressed against her body. From the dreamy smile on her lips, she was already blissfully anticipating it.

Brae knelt on the bed, shyly looking at her mistress as though plucking up the courage to obey Stephen's orders. She wanted to, Stephen could tell. There was an aching longing in those shy, big brown eyes. The young handmaiden was both fearful of the desire welling upside her and greedy for it to consume her, for it wipe away all of her inhibitions and meek chastity. She tentatively reached out a hand, stroking Alys' silky golden hair, her eyes seeming to light up like stars as she felt the tresses fall through her fingers, as she saw that her mistress did not gainsay this first, this most tiny and yet most significant of liberties. Those eyes grew bolder. That elusive, coquettish spark flared in them again, but this time her wondering gaze was trained on her mistress, not Stephen.

Had he corrupted her? Stephen could not see it that way. She had been frightened of her own desires, racked with guilt because she was young and healthy and had a young, healthy appetite and curiosity. Good people could grow old and bitter that way, could become strange, inverted creatures wanting to snatch away all the joy of which they themselves had been deprived.

Like Bishop Ambrose, that cruel, odd and dried-up creature at court. Ambrose had all but denounced him by name in one of his sermons, darkly talking of how the Great Deciever could come disguised as an angel of light. Ambrose would most assuredly consider him the corrupter and the debaucher of the two gorgeous young women in front of him, for all that he turned a blind eye to the rougher and less gracious wooing methods of certain other knights, men who'd think nothing of taking a peasant girl against her will, men whom Stephen had denounced, had duelled, had killed.

But with the sight in front of him, Ambrose of Southwark soon became far from his mind. Her confidence visibly growing, Brae had reached out a gentle hand to massage Alys' right breast. With a subtle stiffening of her back, Alys indicated that Brae's touch was very far from unwelcome. Brae's fingers curcled around Alys' breast and gently tweaked her nipple. A soft but urgent moan rose from her mistress' lips. Brae could do nothing to contain the eager smile that came to her lips. Her instinct for pleasure had been repressed, pushed away from her, had seemed like something sinful, but now it was irresistible. She suddenly bent her head and suckled on Alys' nipple, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from the golden-haired young noblewoman, followed by a purring moan.

Stephen watched, utterly captivated by the wildly erotic beauty of the scene. Alys was panting, her blindfolded head thrown back in pleasure while Brae lapped at her breast. The moans turned into an inarticulate noise of protest as Brae suddenly lifted her head, casting a panicked, shy darting glance at Stephen. She was clearly frightened by the intensity of her mistress' reaction, by her deep-bred conviction that she should not have that kind of power over her, perhaps that no one should have the power to reduce beautiful, aristocratic Alys of Crowsdale to such a state of quivering, animal helplessness.

Brae's sudden hesitance was about more than just Alys' reaction. She had pressed her own nude body against Alys', one small hand lingering on the small of Alys' back. It was clear from the emotions dancing across Brae's face that she was suddenly extremely conscious of all those sensations -of Alys' delicate scent, of the warmth of her body, of the feel of her breasts pressed against her own. A half-stifled moan came from Brae's lips, and she looked at Stephen, aghast.

Stephen simply nodded, a gesture at once reassuring and commanding. Alys whispered something in Brae's ear and then the two beauties were locked in a forceful, passionate kiss. Brae's fear and shame and hesitation melted away under Alys' pressing lips.

Stephen slipped up behind where Alys was bent over, and slowly lowered his hands on to Alys' smooth, slender hips. He pushed upwards, letting her feel the thick head of his cock at the lips of her sex, rubbing against them and teasing her, ready to invade and fill her to ecstatic satiety. He whispered in her ear.

"I want you to say what you want. I want you to pray for it. And as your prayer is answered, I want you to tell your maidservant exactly how good it feels."

 

[Little_Zora]

Alys, locked in a passionate kiss with her maid, did not hear the fall of Stephen’s feet on the stone floor as he approached. Her head was swimming with the intense and entirely new feeling of embracing another woman, of tasting the lips of her sweet, beautiful Brae. It was so different from kissing a man. Brae’s kiss was soft and yet ardent, impossibly shy and yet so full of hunger for more. Now, in this very moment, it seemed like they had never been mistress and maid, but always been lovers, as if this night had always just meant to be.

When she felt the touch of Stephen’s hand, she tensed briefly, hesitating, and when she felt his rigid member lightly teasing the lips of her sex, hinting only at the pleasures to come, she broke the kiss. “Stephen…” she breathed, in gratitude almost, as if his light caress and the promise of more had answered all of her prayers. His low voice, his command, it was all she needed to discard from her mind any last shreds of reluctance.

But Alys wanted more than to tell Brae about the manifold pleasures that Stephen was giving her. She wanted her lovely maid to experience it, to feel it, and if she was in any way capable, even to compete with the ecstasy the man behind her was sure to arouse. “Brae”, she whispered into her maid’s ear. “Let me please you.” There was a brief pause, a soft intake of breath, testimony to the young maid’s devotion. Alys again spoke in the dialect of the North, wanting to both keep Stephen guessing at the sweet secrets the two beauties were exchanging and to reassure Brae that she could trust her noble mistress without hesitation. “Lay back, Brae”, she said in a low, husky voice. “Open your legs for me and let me give you a glimpse of the heights I have climbed today”. The following silence was pierced only by a soft whimper that escaped the brunette girl’s throat. “Don’t be scared”, Alys added, smiling.

And Brae complied. What else could she do? It was as if her skin was on fire, humming and singing and whispering hymns to debauchery and the surrender to lust. A powerful spell! But what could she, a simple girl, do against it? If her mistress was so enthralled that she had lost all inhibitions, how was she, the maidservant, to fight it? It felt so good to simply give in to the urge to let go.

Brae shifted her position as Alys had commanded, knowing full well how her mistress intended to please her. Oh, it was wrong, a sin that she would not even dare to reveal in confession, not even on her deathbed, but now, in this very moment, Brae longed for nothing else than to feel Alys’ caress where she most longed for it. The young maid lay back, her legs hanging over the edge of the bed and parted just enough to allow both her mistress and the man standing behind her to glimpse her most intimate place, now slick and glistening with arousal. She had carefully avoided Stephen’s gaze so far, but now, just before she slowly sank back into the soft linen of the bed, she caught sight of his deep blue eyes, glittering in the candlelight. “Oh dear lord save me”, she mouthed, shivering with need.

Alys could not see, but feel that Brae agreed, that she opened herself up to experiencing what she had only moments earlier, and a soft smile now graced those full, ruby lips. But before she bent down the blonde girl slightly turned her head, drawn to him, to his low voice, to the warmth of his lips. “Stephen…I want you to take me again, I beg you and pray for you to take me again, to make me yours…” Her mouth grazed against his, and the tip of her tongue briefly, obscenely, licked his lips before she continued. “Please…fuck me.” And as if to underline her husky request she arched her back slightly, gyrating her hips in his grip, willing him to invade the depth of her sex.

Without waiting for his reply or consent, she then bent down to her maid, kissing the soft skin just above her pubic mound and down to the soft flesh of her inner thighs, teasing the poor girl into another loud whimper that trailed into a plead, a moan, a prayer for release. Alys tentatively ran the tip of her tongue along her maid’s wet, wanton sex, causing the brunette to arch her back on the bed, whispering plaintively for her to continue.

 

[Maka]

The little pink tip of Alys' tongue emerged to flick across Stephen's lips, as she whispered to him, pleading with him in husky tones to ravish her, her voice as urgent as though she were praying God for salvation. She was transformed by lust -liberated, radiant, her beautiful face shining underneath the blindfold like an angel listening to the music of the spheres.

Wide-eyed Brae, meanwhile, had spread her legs and laying back on her mistress' bed, all of her small, slim and nubile body on display for Stephen's coolly impassive gaze. Her piquant, sweetly beautiful face shone, her doe eyes were large, liquid, frightened and shy and longing, while all of her body trembled with her need. Topping her small, perky and buoyant breasts were dusky little nipples, each seeming to beg for the attention of tongue, lips and fingers. Slick pearls of moisture beaded her sex and the honey scent of feminine arousal rose up. She had kept her gaze turned studiously away from Stephen, but as she sank downwards, their eyes met. Brae flushed furiously and her mouth opened as though she longed to say something, but nothing came out.

Stephen knew that the courage to yield to her own lust was coming from Alys. He, or anyone else of his rank, could have ordered Brae to strip and she would have had little choice. But only Alys could draw on those sweet flames underneath, could give Brae the courage to take a pleasure in Stephen's inspection, in Alys' kiss. Who knews how many cold winter nights the two had shared together in this very bed, with Brae climbing shyly into Alys' bed so that the two could cuddle together for warmth and whisper sweet secrets to each other, just as they had done moments before? Who knew how often Brae had admired the impossibly smooth, pale ivory perfection of Alys' nude body, while drying her after bathing or tying back the long golden hair? All of those intimate moments, those unspoken longings and secret little sighs, translated into a bond of unshakable trust, the bond between mistress and maid. Brae placed absolute faith in her mistress, the kind of faith that Stephen was now building and testing in Alys herself. He did not just expect total obedience from his subordinates, but also total trust. If Alys had failed to obey any of his scandalous commands this night, if she had shown anything less than total, unquestioning reliance on his word, he would have known that their agreement was doomed.

Rowan.

He pushed aside the sudden, intrusive image of a wry, pretty face and sparkling brown eyes. Brae was wriggling in sensual abandon as Alys kissed and licked and teased between her thighs, breathy prayers and imprecations spilling from her rosebud lips, rich brown hair tossed back. Alys was giving her what Stephen had given her earlier in the hour -a lesson in delayed pleasure.

But Stephen had no intention of delaying Alys' pleasure any longer -nor his own. He gripped her slender thighs and thrust forward, his huge thick rod penetrating her, impaling her. She was breathtakingly tight, the hot slick walls of her sex molding themselves to his cock, squeezing it, granting exquisite pleasure. He let her slowly adjust to the huge thickness filling her before withdrawing all but the head, and then slamming forward again.

 

[Little_Zora]

It was such an exquisite, such a wonderful feeling! Brae closed her eyes, whispering what she believed to be a small, breathless prayer.

She arched her back, lifting herself off the soft linen so that her slender body was balancing on her heels and shoulders only. “Oh!” Sighs turned into moans as Alys kissed her way along her inner thighs. Her mistress was teasing her, taking her time before finally, finally descending onto the open folds of her sex, flicking her tongue over the small bud of flesh between them. Shocks of pleasure shot through her, she had to clasp one hand over her mouth not to cry out loud. Never before had she felt anything like this.

But something else happened. Alys stopped; a deep throaty moan fell from her lips as Stephen drove his hard cock into her, filling her so completely that she had to gasp for breath. He was stretching her tight sex, it hurt a little, in just the right way. “Stephen….yes…please more”, she whispered, her fingers holding on to Brae’s slender thighs as if looking for support.

Brae, unable to contain her curiosity, lifted herself up on her elbows and watched as Stephen pushed forward, his face transformed by his own pleasure, his eyes half-closed for that one, that first moment. It was beautiful, troubling and utterly arousing.

She watched Alys’ delicate features transforming, completely enraptured. From where she lay, Brae could not see what Stephen was doing, but her mistress’ reaction, her fluttering lashes, her parted lips, her arched back and the small movement against the man behind her left no doubt. The maid was unable to look away. It was like a scene from times past, the original scene of man and woman, innocent and full of promise. A smile curved her rosy lips and her eyes met that of her mistress. How could anything so beautiful be bad or a sin?

He withdrew again, slowly, and Brae could not help but imagine what it would feel like, to be impaled like this, pleasured like this, long for another thrust like this, and another. Was that moan hers or Alys’? Alys smiled, the tip of her tongue flicking over her clit, teasing again, wanting to share a fraction at least of the passion she felt. She lowered her head between her thighs again as Stephen behind her drove his cock into his beautiful lover, harder now, unleashing his own lust onto her.

Brae lay back again, and this time, she did not stifle her moans. Each thrust drove Alys against her, her moans muffled against the sex of her maid, and Brae felt that she would not be able to last much longer, that she was close to the edge, dangling, longing, her hands entangled in her mistress’ hair, urging her on, wanting to fall, and to take her, Alys, with her.


***

Rose stared into the fire, absent-mindedly mending the shirt in her hands. It had been an unlucky day. Berval had come with a few of his companions, and as always, he had not wanted to say who they were, and what their business was in this part of the forest. But Rose knew her son, and she knew that something had happened, something terrible. There had been blood on his tunic, but they had not been carrying any game. Rose knew better than to insist. Eventually, he would tell her. Tomorrow morning, after a good night’s sleep.

A younger woman was sitting at Rose’s feet, her head resting against her legs. She was humming a song, a sad melody. The older woman smiled down at Mary, her daughter. The poor girl had no easy time of having no father, and a brother who was always so close to the gallows.

Suddenly the dog who had been lying by the door sat up, alert. Had there been a sound outside? Rose had not heard anything. The dog started barking, and scratching at the wooden door.

Mary looked up at Rose, her eyes wide. The older woman put her hand soothingly on the girl’s arm. “It’s alright. Let me go and have a look. It’s probably just another bloody squirrel. I swear, this dog will be the end of me…” She rose, groaning, and put aside the shirt and her needle. Instead she reached for the iron poker that was leaning against the wall of the fireplace. “Shut up, you stupid mutt. You’ll wake everyone with your yapping!”

Rose opened the door and peeked outside. The snow had almost stopped, and only a few stray flakes were still swirling through the night sky. “Who’s there?” There was no answer. The older woman clasped the iron poker tightly. The dog was growling now. It was then that she saw the horse, a mere shadow against the black of the forest. Condensed breath rose in curls from its nostrils as it stood there, waiting for Rose to come closer. And on its back, a motionless figure.

Mary joined her in the doorway, looking frightened. She had seen the rider as well. “What does he want?”

“He seems to be hurt, or unconscious.”

The slender figure was half-sitting, half-lying astride the black stallion. A man, it seemed, dressed in soft leather breeches and good boots, a noble hunter maybe. Wrapped in a cloak, the hood pulled over his head, the two women could not see his face. But the reins were loose in his limp fingers, and when they addressed him, he did not answer. Mary stood closer to the older woman, holding on to her sleeve.

“Rose…I don’t like this. Look at his horse, his clothing…he’s not a peasant, and not from here. What if they are coming for Berval? For us?”

“Nonsense.” The older woman approached the horse that was standing as still as a statue, with only its ears flicking nervously.

“He’s only a boy!” Rose put her hand on his arm, but got no reaction.

“Is he dead?”

“He sure looks it.” The older woman felt for a pulse on the hunter’s wrist. It was very faint, and much too slow. “He breathes, but his skin is cold as ice. Help me carry him inside. The poor lad must have gotten caught up in that snow storm.”

The two women had little trouble sliding the slender figure from the horse. Carrying Raven by her feet and her shoulders, they brought her inside the small cottage and laid her onto the bed.

“He’s so pretty,” Mary whispered, brushing a strand of dark hair from Raven’s forehead. At Mary’s light touch, Raven stirred, mumbling faintly. The girl withdrew her fingers hastily.

The older woman looked down at Raven. Her eyes were closed, her lashes caked with snow, and her lips were chapped and almost blue with frost. “He is soaked through. We need to undress him and get some warmth back in those limbs.” There was a small gasp. “But…he is…” Mary stared at the older woman in shock. “You want to undress him!”

“Mary, you silly cow, stop it already! Do you want the boy to die here? Bloody good your modesty will do him then!” Frowning, she was already fumbling with Raven’s belt. “Bring me some of the men’s clothes, some furs and blankets. And some hot wine, too! Tell Berval to take care of the horse.” As the girl left the cottage to do as she was told, Rose put a hand against Raven’s cheek soothingly. “Don’t worry, lad, you’re safe here now.”

 

[Maka]

Brae arched her back, pushing her firm, pert young breasts into the air. She was whimpering with expectation, her panted breaths coming fast and sharp, her eyes wide and bright. She was being transported into another and wonderful world, seeming to feel every inch of her slender, nubile body thrilling to extraordinary new sensations. Chastity had clearly lost its appeal to the lovely brunette handmaiden.

Alys was serving Brae's pleasure as devotedly and enthusiastically as Brae had ever served her. A series of slow, lingering kisses on Brae's smooth thighs gradually became more intense as her soft lips moved downwards, until they descended on to Brae's soft wet sex. Brae's face was transformed, glowing with the intensity of the pleasure.

And Stephen plunged into Alys, exhaling sharply at the extraordinary tightness of her slick, delectable pussy around him. She felt so good, so sinfully good and she gave a moan of pure delight as his thick and rigid length filled her to perfection. As he shifted and adjusted his position, a thousand tiny natural shocks and shivers ran through Alys' heavenly, thrillingly responsive body.

Even as she moaned in unabashed carnal delight, even as she wriggled her derriere enticingly and lovingly licked up the honey-sweet juices from between her maid's legs, Alys' blindfolded face still had the grave, celestial beauty of an angel and the pleasure and lust written on it could have been a seraph's transcendent pleasure in the music of the sphere. Brae provided a delightful contrast, her large and eager brown eyes and flushed little face could have been that of some gorgeous and elusive spirit of the earth. This time she did not look away from Stephen's gaze, and a shy smile graced her rosy lips.

As though that were a cue, Stephen seized Alys by her bound, slender wrists and began relentlessly thrusting forward. Each new thrust went deeper, quicker and harder, first pushing her down into Brae's eager embrace, then slamming her shapely ass back on his chest, her hot juices splattering him, filling her all the way up, moving her helpless body up and down on his cock as he thrust in and out. Her moans were muffled noises between Brae's legs and Stephen grinned fiercely at the wet, wanton sounds of Alys of Crowsdale's pleasure. The sweet, musky smell of the two beauties' arousal was filling the chamber. He could feel Alys' pleasure climbing, could feel her clenching around him, and he instinctively increased the tempo, giving her ever more with each new thrust.

 

[Little_Zora]

Brae’s moans rapidly turned into small panting screams. She arched her back helplessly, writhing under her mistress’ sweet caresses, her lashes fluttered against her smooth cheeks like butterfly wings. Alys was licking, kissing, sucking, teasing while Stephen drove his cock into her with increasing fervour, making her moan each time he buried himself in her tight sex.

Alys could not help but rock back against each of his thrusts as if urging him on to let go, to take her like the wanton servant she now wanted to be for him. His fingers dug into her skin, adding sweet pain to almost unbearable pleasure.

This was how was supposed to be from now on. Each hard thrust confirmed his dominion over her, and each of her soft whimpers, each of her moans bore witness to their powerful bond.

Each time that Stephen drove his hard cock into her she gasped, her rising moans muffled against her maid’s dripping folds. For Brae it almost felt like he was fucking both Alys and her, as each time he slammed forward the wonderful pressure on her sex increased, driving her to cry out his name, too, once or twice. The poor maid dimly realised that it was an offense for her to deny him his title, and briefly a deep blush spread over her delicate features, only to be followed by yet another desperate pant. “Oh Stephen…!”

Alys doubled her efforts, trying to concentrate solely on her maid’s pleasure, on bringing her the release she felt approaching herself now, too. How sweet her maid was, how sweet she tasted! The blonde girl lifted one hand off Brae’s milky thigh and with one finger she started teasing the entrance to her virgin sex, gently, as not to hurt her. It was enough to throw the brunette girl into another frenzy until she bucking her hips in unison with her mistress’ finger movement, begging for more.

The noble girl smiled. Very gently she slipped the tip of her finger into the tight canal of Brae’s sex, whispering soft words of encouragement in her own language. The slender maid nodded, her ruby lips parted. She trusted Alys, knew that she would never hurt her.

With that, Brae’s eyes flew open, and a powerful climax made her cry out, her back was arching until she balanced only on her shoulders and heels, trembling, her fingers digging into the sheets. It was such a beautiful sight, the girl losing herself in orgasm.

It was enough for Alys to follow suit. She came, her whole body briefly turning rigid as the sensation of overwhelming pleasure crashed through her, much harder than the previous times. Her tight sex clenched around Stephen’s hard cock, coating him in her juices, and while he slammed into her again and again, the waves of her orgasm never seemed to subside. “Oh heavens…oh…Stephen!” It sounded as much like a plead for mercy as it did like encouragement.

 

[Maka]

The sound of the girls' moans, pants and barely-stifled shrieks of ecstasy competed with the sound of toned flesh smacking against toned flesh, of the obscene wet sounds of Alys' deliciously tight, hot sex being penetrated again and again, to the accompaniment of her lusty whimpers.

She was showing him the truth of the oath that she'd sworn. She was showing him that all she desired was to submit herself to his will, to let him use her body for his pleasure wherever and whenever he saw fit, in front of Brae or in front of all the men of her father's household. And she had thrown herself into the wild, wanton act of pleasure, thinking neither of maiden modesty nor her position as a noblewoman. She was simply a woman being taken by her man, and taking pride in her fullthroated pleasure, in the erotic possibilities of her lithe, flexible young body.

Brae's breathy excitement was ascending to new heights. She looked dizzy with pleasure, stunned by her own good fortune. Indeed, Stephen could not imagine that she could ever have found a kinder, more instinctively skillful or more enthusiastic lover to guide her into the realms of love than her own mistress, Alys of Crowsdale. As Stephen fucked her from behind, he pushed her even deeper into Brae's sweet, warm folds and Brae's slender body was racked with convulsions of pleasure. Alys moaned out Stephen's name, her silvery voice high, clear and lovely. Like an echo, Brae cried it out as well. Her cute face flushed and her mouth gaped open in horror at the familiarity before unable to help herself, she called out again, her voice soft and girlish and husky with imploring desire.

"Oh Stephen...!"

Stephen simply took that as a cue to go into Alys even harder and faster, until her attentions to Brae took on a feverish pitch. Unable to bear the pleasure, Brae arched her back and gave a piercing cry as orgasm took her all at once, a young nymph introduced for the first time to the pleasures of the flesh. Alys' sex clamped around Stephen's massive cock as she rode through her own lengthy orgasm, splattering his rod with her sweet juices.

Stephen held back until he sensed that Alys had been pushed to to the point where pleasure totally suffused her body, like the chords of the same celestial song running through them. Then, at that moment of climax, he let go and shot his hot seed into her, pulling her up and down on his cock as he filled her up with so much that the milky liquid overflowed down her leg. For that moment, it felt like just the two of them existed in the world.

Afterwards, he slowly and regretfully withdrew. His cock, huge in length even now, lay glistening with Alys' juices against his thigh. Both the young beauties lay entangled on the bed now, breathing hard and unable to move and overcome and exhausted with langurous satiation. He lay down between them and slowly and tenderly undid Alys' blindfold.

"I trust you," he whispered. "We will do great things, together, you and I."

He kissed her -a long, lingering and passionate kiss while his free hand found Brae's head and ran a hand through her smooth, dark hair, stroking her in reassurance and approbation -a lithe young animal that had run well in its very first hunt.

 

[Little_Zora]

His kiss was a moment of pure, heartfelt bliss. For the length of a few heartbeats, Alys forgot everything else: her dying brother, her lost love, the pending war. In this kiss, all her sorrows, all her fears and all coming uncertainties simply melted away. As long as she had Stephen’s trust and his companionship, she would be well. Things would be well. And he trusted her! Words could not have expressed the relief she felt as she heard that. Stephen de Valois trusted her. It was a gift far more valuable than anything anyone could have given her. It meant everything to her, and she would do anything to prove just that.

She had not thought it possible to be so perfectly sated and yet so hungry at the same time, knowing that this hunger would always be there, always drive her, and would always have her striving for more.

Brae, her own face only inches from Stephen and Alys, watched them, still panting, transfixed by the beauty of their embrace. Through the fog of her own pleasure, she again wondered what a powerful spell it must be to bind her mistress to this strange, beautiful man, to make her behave in such depraved ways, but the thought was vague and fading.

The pretty maid was aware that he would taste her on Alys’ lips and while the thought made her blush, she also felt stronger for it, as if she, too, was binding him to her. The kiss created a bond between the three of them, a secret alliance that nobody was going to break.

AS she felt his hand stroke through her dark tresses she smiled and closed her eyes, thankful for this sign of familiarity. How could he be evil? How could any of the things they had done be wrong? Her slender limbs were still trembling with the violence of her ebbing climax. If it pleased the Lord to send her such emotions, why would He then deem them to be sinful? Surely, only the jealousy of those who had never felt such deep, unfettered pleasure would condemn what they had done.

Shyly, still not entirely sure how far she was allowed to go, she reached out with one hand to touch first her mistress’ silken shoulder, caress the soft skin, before proceeding to touch Stephen, her fingertips electrified the first time she felt his taut, leanly muscled arm. Maybe, one day, he would allow her to feel what it was like to be taken by him, to be crushed beneath him. Brae suddenly knew that the idea of dull matrimony would never be able to satisfy her, now anymore, not after this night. Stephen’s spell – and it was a good, a necessary spell that had woken her up – would make sure of that.

Alys finally broke the kiss, her eyes sparkling with tears of gratitude. “Yes, my lord,” she whispered. “We will. Our enemies will learn to fear us.” Her hand snaked around his neck, drawing him into another embrace. What an alliance they had! What a magnificent trio they would make! Alys closed her eyes again with a soft sigh. Who would ever be able to stand in their way now?

 

[Maka]

"Your journey was pleasant?"

"Travelling the length of England in midwinter is rarely pleasant."

De Lacy flushed with anger momentarily. But as Ambrose watched, he brought it under his control again, forced the smile back on to his face. So. His host and would-be ally against de Valois was a vain man, a hot-tempered man, a man who little liked insolence, but still a man with the wisdom to control himself when it suited him. That at least boded well. Coolblooded, inscrutable De Valois was not a foe an impulsive man should set himself against.

"I beg your pardon, your Grace. I did not think."

Ambrose waved the nobleman's insincere apology aside.

"No journey can be too harsh or too long that serves God's purposes. To thwart the Devil's schemes, I would walk from here to Canterbury barefoot through the snow."

De Lacy's hall was blazing with long fires on either side, the wet snow evaporating and rising as steam from the cloaks of the bishop's retinue. Most of them were huddled near one of the fires warming their hands but Ambrose had settled his long, gaunt frame a pointed distance from both heat-sources. Too much concern for bodily comfort was a venial sin, and closely allied to its mortal equivalent -the lusts of the body. William de Lacy stood by him.

"This brings us to the matter at hand."

"Yes, your proof. I should tell you that I know Lord de Valois of old. He is a most cunning and sinful man."

"And more," de Lacy put in eagerly. Ambrose raised an eyebrow.

"I have proof! De Valois is a devil-worshipper, a warlock who curses his enemies and revels in sinful debauchery and debased rites. He has an apprentice whom he called his squire, a young witch who has mocked God's order by taking on the habit and title of a man."

De Lacy's voice went low.

"And she has... lain with a woman as men lie with women, against all the laws of God and men, no doubt on de Valois' orders."

"What is your proof?" Ambrose said softly. He hardly dared hope. It was as though by speaking in a whisper he could keep this possibility alive.

De Lacy hesitated.

"We have the woman whom the changeling seduced. One... Elwynn."

"Elwynn. Is she a noblewoman?"

"No. She is a whore."

Ambrose tensed for a second, almost let the fury that was always pent in him out. One bony fist formed. This fool. He contained himself. This could be amended. This would be amended. De Valois would still end up at his mercy.

"So," he said silkily. "We rely on the word of a whore to condemn one of the highest in the land."

De Lacy flushed again and this time he did draw his anger in.

"De Valois may be the highest in the south, but southerners hold no power here, nor shall they ever. You'd do well to remember that."

Ambrose ignored the implicit threat -there was nothing to be gained by responding, and much to be lost. The fact was that de Lacy had a point. De Valois had been impossible to strike at in the south, surrounded by retainers and kin and liegemen. But he was isolated and vulnerable up here.

"Has de Valois made any alliances since he's came here?"

For some reason, de Lacy's face darkened even more.

"He has plighted his troth to Lord Marnoch's daughter. Lord Marnoch holds much power here."

Ambrose nodded.

"Then that must be undone as soon as possible. But rumours, and the word of a whore, will still not be enough. De Valois is clever. This... unnatural creature who serves him. Is she still at his side."

"No. She disappeared recently."

"Then she must be found -and quickly. She is the key to our case... the key to de Valois' destruction."

He was unaware of the crazed light burning in his eyes. De Lacy shook his head.

"You hate him almost as much as I. Has he stolen from you too, your Grace?"

Ambrose smiled.

"I hate only sin, my son. I hate only sin."

 

[Little_Zora]

Raven sat by the fire, concentrating on skinning a dead rabbit. Rose sat beside her, quietly going through a basket of carrots. It had been a week since Nimbus had brought her here, frozen stiff and half-dead, and a week since Rose, her daughter Mary had taken her in, and since they had realised that the pretty squire was in fact nothing but an impostor peasant girl.

“Can’t wait for spring,” Rose muttered, wiping one hand absent-mindedly against her skirts. “I am tired of this bloody cold, and of the snow.”

“At least we get rabbit now, don’t we?” Mary looked up at Raven and smiled. “Thanks to Raven.”

Mary had taken to Raven immediately. After her first disappointment that the sweet-faced noble was not what he seemed had settled, she had been grateful for another girl in the house. Her brother Beval and his group of ragtag outlaws were not always good company.

Beval. Raven was still struggling with the idea that murderers and thieves were to be her saviours, and maybe even her friends. None of them had hesitated when Rose declared that Raven was to stay with them until she was well, and that she was welcome to stay even longer.

Beval and his men had to lay low themselves. After the botched raid on the hunting party, Marnoch’s men were scouring the forests, and de Valois, too, had stepped up his efforts to root out the outlaws.

The door opened, and snowflakes whirled into the room before Tom, a tall, scrawny boy, closed the door, stomping his feet. He had gone to town in the morning to gather the latest gossip and to find out if there were any news on Robert who some said had already been executed. He looked nervous, and did not speak immediately.

“What happened?” Even if she would never admit it, Raven was still secretly hoping for a message, a sign, anything that would indicate that Lord Stephen knew, and that he wanted her to come back nevertheless. Each time that any of the men came back from Foxborough, the nearest town, she was eager to hear if anything they had observed there indicated that the liege lord had forgiven his wayward squire. So far, no such message had come.

“They are looking for you, Raven.”

She looked up, her large dark eyes shining with anticipation. “Lord Stephen is looking for me?”

The man considered her for a moment, then shook his head slowly. “No, sweetling.” His voice was hushed, and dark with concern. “De Lacy’s men are looking for you. They go from town to town, from village to village, looking for the young witch that posed as de Valois’ squire.”

Rose made the sign of the cross. “Oh dear Lord!” She reached for Raven’s hand, but Raven was too shocked to notice. “The…the witch?” It took a while for the meaning of these words to truly sink in.

Tom nodded. “Aye, that’s what they said. Looks like de Lacy is in league with some Southern cleric, an inquisitor who has come up North to look into your beloved liege lord.”

Raven was trembling now. An inquisitor! Who accused her of witchcraft! Immediately she thought of Father Aldred, of her mother and sister. None of them were safe anymore. Fear squeezed her heart with cold, hard fingers.

Tom laughed, trying to lighten the mood. “You’re no witch!” Motioning at the half-skinned rabbits, he added: “Why would a witch go through all that trouble? Oh, I wish you could make all the wee little rabbits just walk right into our pots, without having to use those damned traps and go through all that work.”

“How could they know? Why would they know?” She looked from Rose to her daughter Mary, who only gave her a helpless shrug. And indeed – there were so few people that had known about her identity, and none of them had an interest in revealing it to Lord Stephen’s sworn enemy. Unless…she frowned. Indeed, the only man who knew was Arnaud. He knew. Of course! She looked at Beval who had entered the cottage after Tom.

“You said that there was a traitor in Lord Stephen’s camp, didn’t you?”

“Aye. More than one, if you ask me. But I know that de Lacy got his information from one of de Valois’ archers. That’s what Robert told us, and that’s all I can tell you. Who else knew that you are lacking a cock, sweetheart?”

Raven suddenly felt very ill. Could it be? But there seemed to be no other explanation for this. She had always trusted Arnaud. And all this time, he had been lying. And more importantly, Lord Stephen did not know that he had a traitor in his midst, and neither did Lucais. She needed to warn him. But how? And was it not already too late?

Looking at the knife in her hand, she finally whispered. “I need to get an urgent message to Courtney Castle.” It would be too dangerous for any of these outlaws to risk going near Lord Stephen, but alone she did not stand a chance. “Beval, I need you to help me.”

 

[Maka]

It had been two weeks since the engagement of Stephen de Valois and Alys of Crowsdale had been announced and Stephen had returned to Castle de Courtney. For Stephen, they had passed in a blur of confrontation, argument, planning, and rides into the deep woods in response to news of fresh outlaw atrocities. The 'outlaws', whom he now knew beyond a doubt to be de Lacy's men, always melted away at any sign of armed response -the rides were as much a show of strength as anything. In another time, Stephen would have entrusted these futile patrols to one of his men, but there were so few remaining that he could trust. Rowan vanished, Giles of Ely dead. Gerard and Edwin were good fighters, but not leaders.

De Lacy's outlaws seemed to be showing restraint. They still pillaged and plundered wherever they went, but that no longer seemed their primary objective. Instead, they'd capture villagers and ride off with them. Judging by the tortured bodies of those Stephen's men recovered, an expert had put them to the question. The bandits were looking for something or someone.

The truth was that Stephen needed the long lonely rides, just as he needed the endless sword practise sessions that drove even his tempered, tightly muscled body to the point of red-tinged, near-delirious exhaustion. It was a way of transferring all of the anger and frustration he felt into action, even if that action was pointless. And part of his sleep-addled mind clung to some strange hope that he would find Rowan again in the deep woods, just as when they had first met.

Preparations for the wedding were underway, and already a few of his vassal lords had arrived to await the festivities. More remained in their castles -neither refusing to attend nor committing themselves to doing so. They were waiting to see what the next move would be between Stephen de Valois and William de Lacy.

Stephen's first move had been to denounce de Lacy as an outlaw and murderer, and to summon him to Castle de Courtney to face justice for his crimes. De Lacy had sent back defiance, along with his final move in the chess game which they had been playing. He hadn't realised it yet, perhaps never would, but he had already lost. Stephen had moved a pawn to the edge of the board -it stood posed to become a queen, and de Lacy had no way of stopping it.

Stephen's instinct had been to gather his forces and march on de Lacy's stronghold there and then, but he had known better. A siege in winter on unfamiliar territory, against an enemy who commanded an unknown quantity of allies in the surrounding desmenses was folly, despite Stephen's fury. He had first to gather overwhelming forces -and that meant pushing the date of the wedding forward, and summoning Marnoch and his household to Castle de Courtney.

Marnoch had already been showing signs of questioning the plan for the marriage alliance, as counselled by his brother Thomas, but Stephen knew with a cool, certain assurance that the wedding would happen now. If he summoned her to him, Alys of Crowsdale would come, if she had to defy both father and mother, if she walk all the way naked through the snow. It was the nature of the bond they had forged between them.

They had arrived a handful of days ago. Stephen had been occupied, absorbed by the latest news of outlaw movements and stirrings among his vassal. At the feast in the great hall that night, she had served him as a woman should her betrothed. And it was clear from the sparkle in her lovely blue eyes, the flush on her pale skin whenever he touched her wrist, that she was quite prepared to carry out her oaths to him, no matter the consequences. Whenever he thought of that supple, heartbreakingly beautiful body, of how she had squirmed and writhed and begged for more as his thick manhood invaded her, he wanted to give those orders. And he know from her demure, secret smile that a secret part of her feminine heart wanted him to.

He ran into Alys' pretty, brownhaired handmaiden about the castle, so often that he'd begun to doubt, with some amusement, the coincidental nature of their chance meetings. The petite girl never said anything, simply curtsied and stared up at him with those large, sweetly wondering doe eyes, but there was something enticing and inviting about the way she slowly moved into that posture, offering him ample opportunities to admire the firm, perky small breasts beneath her shift. She had been awoken by her night with Alys and Stephen and now she could never return to sleep. She was a ripe, quivering blossom, aching and eager to be plucked.

Stephen did not know whether she and Alys were continuing the intimate bedroom sport with each other that they had discovered with him, whether every night Alys' bedchamber now was alive with the sweet little sighs and gasps, with the hot kisses and tender moans, of the two young beauties bringing pleasure to each other. If so, it seemed to be doing little more than whetting their appetite.


It was with the news of Father Aldred's death, brought to him at dinner in the great hall, that Stephen began to lose control. Father Aldred, who had brought Rowan to him. Wise, kind Father Aldred. What kind of man would kill a priest, let alone such a priest as that? But he knew. Perhaps he had known all along -Long James and Symon deserting, and taking with them that girl from the brothel, that Elwynn. He'd needed just to enquire of Lucais to confirm his suspicions. She had been Rowan's favorite girl, the one he'd made moan and scream louder than anyone else had ever heard. And the presence of his old enemy Ambrose of Kent in the north, the guest of William de Lacy, and the signs of an expert torturer among de Lacy's men...

Ambrose and De Lacy wanted to find Rowan, and were torturing and kidnapping anyone who might know of his whereabouts. Why? Stephen had trusted Rowan with many of his plans, knowledge that could prove useful to his enemies, but not enough to justify the risks they were taking. It had to be connected to Rowan's secret, the reason he had disappeared, the secret that Arnaud had hinted at. When they found Rowan, if they had not done so already, they would capture him and they would do everything they could to turn him against his liege.

Rowan would not turn coat on Stephen. Stephen knew this with the same certainty that he knew Alys would obey his commands, but he had to wish that he would. It would be forgiven him -Stephen himself would write the pardon. For when he resisted de Lacy and Ambrose, first they would torture him, and when he still refused, they would kill the stubborn, brave squire -a peasant youth more noble than any of the highborn lords seated at Stephen's table tonight.

As he looked around the crowded hall, Stephen felt a welling rage. It was true. Those who were here were there because they feared him more than they did de Lacy -honour, loyalty and the oaths they'd sworn were all equally meaningless. Those who'd flocked to de Lacy's banners did not even have the brutal honesty of wolves -they were scavenging creatures, hoping to pounce on some scraps in the wake of a predator like de Lacy. And those who huddled by the fires in their halls to wait out the fight were the worst of all -lukewarm, neither hot nor cold, and so fit to be spewed out. Marnoch, who'd had some notion of integrity, letting his fears and family turn him craven...

Why did Stephen take such pains with these people's delicate sensibilities? Why did he let their ignorance and their bigotry prevent him from taking his pleasures as he would? He was no softvoiced hypocrite like Bishop Ambrose.

He still needed them as allies. But half of them already thought that he was in league with the Devil. Let them think what they would, as long as they obeyed him. He rose to his feet, pushing back his chair with a quiet, deliberate economy of movement somehow more threatening than a storm at sea.

"My lord... ?" Marnoch asked, already half-rising to his feet. Stephen ignored him.

"Come to my chambers tonight," he told Alys, his voice cool and measured, demanding obedience, the scandalous command piercing through the hubbub of the feast.

Marnoch gave a horrified gasp. "My lord, you may be betrothed but... ! This goes against all custom, all that is right...."

Marnoch was a powerful man, a brave man and one who had been used to command all of his life, but he went white and shut his mouth with a snap as Stephen turned his ice-eyed gaze on him for just a moment. There was no satisfaction or triumph on his face -he had been as indifferently assured of Marnoch backing down as he would have been his dog answering his call.

"Bring your handmaiden," he continued to Alys. He laid a hand on her bare, slender shoulder, feeling that silky smooth skin beneath his sword-hilt hardened hands, feeling her warmth beneath him. He needed to feel that warmth tonight, the consequences be damned. So soft, her skin, and yet such steel beneath it. If anything could have made him smile tonight, it was the sight of brave, beautiful Alys before him. How he needed her.

Ignoring the total silence he left behind, ignoring the shocked stares and horrified whispering from the assembled nobility, he strode out of the great hall.

 

[Little_Zora]

Alys remained in the great hall after Stephen had left, her cheeks a slightly deeper shade of crimson. She was very conscious of everyone, nobles, knights and servants, staring at her. Of course she would come to his chamber. And of course she would bring Brae. For days she had longed to be alone with him again, and waiting for her wedding night, no matter how soon that would be, seemed unbearable.

But this?

Why did Stephen have to shame her so? Amidst the sudden, stony silence, there were whispers and soft, lecherous laughter. Some of the ladies were scandalised and offended, throwing half-fearful, half-accusing glances at the young bride-to-be, as if her mere presence tainted everyone feasting in the great hall.

Looking up from her cup of wine, she came eye to eye with a group of nobles who looked at her with the hunger of brothel patrons, her, the future wife of their liege lord! But Alys did not have the nerve to hold their gaze. She forced herself to take another sip of the heavy, Southern wine, pretending that everything was as it should be, when her shaking hands betrayed her actual state of mind.

“Why are these bloody minstrels not playing?” The voice of her oldest brother cut through the silence like a whip. “What a sad feast it is without music!”

She threw him a thankful smile as the musicians up on the gallery took up a lively, happy melody, but Artair did not return it. His hard, cold stare reminded her that part of her family had come to regret the hapless union between their house and that of Stephen de Valois. Her uncle Thomas had not even wanted to join the party that had accompanied her to Courtney Castle, and only lengthy pleas by her mother had succeeded to convince him.

The feast did not last much longer after the host’s abrupt departure. Little by little all of the guests trickled away, some shyly, others displaying their disdain somewhat more boldly.

***

Alys walked the cold corridors to Stephen’s chambers with purpose, the sound of her soft boots echoing between the dark walls. She did not like Castle Courtney. It felt as if the sombre stones around her still reeked with the stench of treachery and death, as if even this stronghold was plotting against them.

Brae and her brother walked behind her. She had insisted on him coming, as her escort, to demonstrate that she would neither be intimidated by her future husband, nor his bannermen. Maybe this was a breach of her promise to him, but more than childish pique she had sworn to protect him against his enemies. When she reached his door she nodded at both of them, indicating for them to wait outside.

All she wanted was to throw herself in his arms, to have him hoist up her skirts and take her right there, without hesitation. She had missed him, longed for him, wanted him more than anything else. Did he miss her, too? But now was not the time.

“My lord,” she began, choosing her words carefully. “What you just did…it was unwise. It was reckless and dangerous.” She looked at him levelly. If he wanted her to be his ally, he would have to accept that she refused to fear him. “You know you have my loyalty, my trust, and my obedience. You don’t need to put it to the test in this way.”

Over the past days she had watched Lord Stephen de Valois gradually lose the self-command and the cool assurance she had come to admire. It was as if his icy façade was coming apart at the seams, slowly, but irretrievably. Alys had barely spoken to him alone, and in the presence of others their conversations had been nothing but polite, courtly exchanges of trivialities. But she knew that a storm was brewing underneath his calm, stony appearance, and she knew that his enemies were getting stronger every day. Rumours had started to fly around the castle, hushed, breathless whispers that evaporated as soon as she walked past.

His pretty squire had not returned from the woods. His body had not been found with the others, and for days after the attack she had prayed for the dark-eyed boy to return. Alys sensed that his loss was a heavy blow for Stephen, and despite his forgiveness she could not help but feel the guilt for his disappearance weigh heavily on her shoulders. Stephen never mentioned Rowan to her, and Alys had not dared to utter his name.

“Stephen…,” she tried, stepping closer to him. “We will not beat de Lacy if we have no allies left. If you continue to feed into the vile rumours he spreads about you, he will have no need to raise an army to defeat you. He will just have to sit and wait until we drive everyone away.”

It felt odd to lecture him like this, but she was tired of the pretence. Brae waited outside.

Alys smiled. It was odd how attached she felt to this man that she had only just met. “My brother waits outside. I have to go now.” And with a whisper, she added: “But I will be back later tonight. With Brae. I believe you have woken a dangerous passion in her.”

***

Lord Marnoch stood by the window as his brother Thomas approached him. He felt tired and wary. Would he come to regret his decision to give his only daughter to Stephen de Valois? The way he had treated him at the feast had shocked and angered him. That was not the Lord he had come to know.

“Brother.”

Marnoch nodded only, all too sure of why Thomas wanted to speak to him. He, too, had heard the rumours about de Lacy’s men, about the torture of villagers, and about a little slip of a witch who, if she existed, was about to bring down everything he had worked for so tirelessly. Maybe the thought of such possibilities made him forget how his own honour had been thrown in the dirt tonight by the man he had thought to be his unwavering ally.

“How long will you watch and do nothing, brother?” Thomas’ voice was low and calm, but Marnoch knew the dangerous anger brewing underneath.

“There are more and more whispers. The servants talk of an inquisition, of a trial. Do you realise that not even his own bannermen believe that there will even be a battle anymore?”

“You speak of that little witch.”

“How could he not have known?”

“I don’t believe that. Why would he protect such a creature?”

“Maybe she sucked his cock better than any of the whores in Castle Courtney? Maybe she had power over him. It matters not.” Thomas looked at him darkly, slamming his fist into his hand. “What matters is that as long as this filthy rumour is allowed to fester and grow, de Lacy gains from it. Already our alliance is on a knife’s edge. This needs to end. Now.”

“But how? She might be dead already, or long gone, if she has any brains.” He shook his head in disbelief. “To think that…in our own walls!” He looked up. “No word to my wife or to Alys, Thomas. This is not for their ears.”

“No.”

“But what can we do to stop this?”


“He needs to hand her over. De Valois needs to find the witch and put her on trial here, to prove to de Lacy and his own bannermen that she holds no power over him anymore, and that he is not in league with her. It is the only way for him to clear his name.”

“What if he refuses?”

Thomas spat out, frowning. “Then I will not let my niece marry him. I will not let my men die for a man who condones witchcraft and such…unnatural practices.”

Marnoch nodded slowly. “Aye. But he is a strong-willed man, and our rightful liege. We cannot give him orders. All we can do is advise him.”

His brother shrugged. “I am done waiting, and I am done advising. We need peace to prosper. We need a strong man that is able to keep his men in line and united.”

“What do you think we should do?”

“We find the witch ourselves. If she is still alive, she will be close. We find her, and deliver her to him before de Lacy gets his treacherous hands on her and undoes any chance of lasting peace in the North.”

 

[Maka]

Alys was right. Stephen had behaved recklessly, humiliated her and her family for no reason, risking the alienation one of the most important of his dwindling number of allies. What's more, she had the courage and confidence to tell him so to his face. Stephen de Valois was an intimidating man. There were few even among his inner circle who would care to risk his displeasure in such a way. Part of Rowan's value to Stephen had been that he was one such, never afraid to tell his liege when he had erred, misjudged the North or the common people.

And now Alys of Crowsdale stood before him, with her chin tilted upwards in much the same way Rowan's did, her blue eyes sparkling, her golden hair thrown around her, and her body as straight and slender as a young sapling. She desired him, trusted him, respected him... but she did not fear him. Would she and Rowan have liked each other? They had met briefly, although Rowan had surprised Stephen with his coolness towards Alys, with an odd kind of dislike that seemed to have begun before he'd even seen her.

Alys had never looked more beautiful to him. He wanted her there and then. Their wedding night seemed a long time away.

"You are right," he said quietly. "It was foolish, and risked everything we've been working for."

He bowed his head.

"You have my apology."

But Alys was smiling, looking more like an elfin, ethereal girl of the fey than ever. There was mischief in her smile, and affection, and an effervescent lust that would not be denied.

“But I will be back later tonight. With Brae. I believe you have woken a dangerous passion in her.”

Stephen leaned forward.

"Then we must see that it is sated," he whispered, a dark sparkle of amusement in his eyes. "Give her this from me."

He placed his hands on Alys' slender hips and pulled her to him, sealing his mouth with hers for a breathless, passionate kiss, a lusty and wanton kiss, kissing her until she needed the support of his hands just to stay steady. He did not break the kiss until she was panting for breath and even he was breathing deeply. He brought her golden head to rest on his chest, let her breathe.

Then he tilted her chin up with his hand, looked into her large, fascinating blue eyes, eyes that a man could drown in with pleasure.

"And this is just for you," he said softly. He kissed again -a slower, gentler, more lingering kiss this time. He took his time, seducing her, titilating her, teasing her, letting the heady warm golden glow of arousal roll across his body. Then, at last, he broke his kiss.

"You should go," he whispered reluctantly. He could not have restrained himself for much longer. "But I will be waiting for both of you."

He watched Alys leave, impassively recieving a hard stare from her brother. It least she would be able to secure her reputation. But he was not thinking about that. Something wonderful and terrible was happening. Under the terms of their arrangement, Alys was his, body and soul, and he knew he could count on her, just as she could count on him. They would be married, and seek revenge on their enemies.

He had not counted on falling in love with her.


***


"No, no. It's a ch sound. You make it with the back of your throat."

Two weeks in the black cells of his father's castle. Robert had not seen daylight in all that time. He had always known these places existed, in the bedrock below the castle, but he had never thought to end up here himself.

He was waiting on William de Lacy's pleasure. Robert had no use for him, not since his betrayal, but de Lacy was a careful, deliberate man. There was a possibility still that Robert might yet have some advantage as a bargaining chip, that he could be used to manipulate Alys, and so Robert yet lived.

Alys. So strange to think of her in this darkness, that delicate, golden child of summer in this blackness. He did not even know that Stephen had managed to save her -he could only infer it, since he knew his father would have come down to gloat had he secured her. But was it any better for her to be in Stephen's arms? He thought of the way she had kissed him at her father's castle -passionate, unrestrained... so different from the sweet but timid butterfly kisses she had given to him. Was it in truth just a ruse? Her wedding plans to de Valois would be going ahead now -that cold southern lord would take her to his bed, make her blush and squeal and shiver and writhe and teach her all the things Robert had longed to.

When he had first heard the soft, sweet singing he had thought he was going mad, that the darkness and isolation had shattered his mind. A young woman's voice, singing an old northern country song of lost loves. But the melody had been so plaintive and haunting that he'd joined in himself, smiling bitterly to think of the madman singing with the voices in his head.

But the singing had stopped, and a startled voice had asked who was there. That was how Robert had come to know Elwynn in the cell beyond his. Long ago, some prisoner had carved an aperture in the narrow wall between the two cells. They spoke through it.

Elwynn did not wish to say what had brought her to these dungeons, and Robert himself had no desire to dwell on his own sorrows, so they spoke instead of happier times, sometimes singing together or speaking of the small, precious treasures of childhood and the surface world, of the way the wind sang in the grass or the way sunlight reflected on water.

Elwynn had been taken away twice over the fortnight, and each time Robert was terrified that she would not return. He could tell from her weakened, hoarse voice that she had been put to the question in these times. Ignoring her protests, he gave her the greater share of the meagre rations the jailer brought him, pushing crumbs of bread through the aperture between their cells.

When a chance comment revealed that Robert had been brought up in the Holy Land, Elwynn was very curious and demanded stories of those sunlit, far-away places. She had laughed when Robert had told her of the sales of relics, of men his mother had known who had made fortunes selling casts of Jesus' footprints or the dust on which he had walked to Christian pilgrims. And then she had expressed an interest in learning his mother tongue. Robert had never known anyone, Anglo-Saxon or Norman, who had any interest in learning the heathen Saracen tongue. He was taken aback at first but then readily complied, eager for the distraction.

It was striking how quickly the words and phrases came back to him, and Elwynn was a very apt study. Robert found himself wondering what she looked like. Her voice was so soft and sweet.

"There was a man my mother heard, the bishop of Jerusalem, who could never get that ch sound, though he was there twenty years," Robert was saying.

Elwynn went abruptly silent. There was a long pause.

"Have I offended you somehow?"

"No... no, of course not. It's just that one of my... questioners is such a man. A man of God."

The last words were fraught with bitterness. It was the first time Elwynn had ever alluded to her periods of questioning. Robert did not know what to do. At last, he pushed his hand through the aperture, looking for hers, hoping to bring some comfort to her.

 

[Little_Zora]

“He is…dead?”

Raven sat stock still. The words had reached her ears, but it was as if her mind rejected them, as if they rolled off her like drops of water.

“I am sorry.” Myla stood in the middle of her small, modest cottage, looking at her strange visitor. Raven and her were childhood friends, good friends, even if the young blonde woman had not always approved of Raven’s recklessness and her adventurous urge. But when Father Aldred had told her that little Raven now worked in the castle kitchens, Myla had been proud of her friend. Maybe, she had thought, maybe she had finally accepted her role, and the gender she had been born into. But looking at the slender dark woman now, she realised that none of it had been true. Raven was clad in leather breeches, a man’s tunic, carrying a knife and a bow like an outlaw. Her dark hair was much shorter than any woman’s should be. For almost a week now men had come to the village to look for the strange girl that was said to be a witch in the service of the liege lord. Myla smiled sadly. Oh Raven, how did it come to this?

She herself was married, and slowly, their first child – to be born in the summer – was starting to show. Myla was a strong, courageous woman in her own right, and when the men had come to the village, kicking in doors and dragging some of the villagers away to be questioned, she had remained silent. Myla knew that Raven was not what they alleged her to be.

And Raven?

For her, the temptation had been too great. On her way to Castle Courtney she had gone to Stonechapel, to see her family, to finally see Father Aldred again. Beval had first warned, then threatened her no to. Told her that the danger was too great, that she risked much for herself and her family. But Raven had been too starved for the company of people she knew she could trust.

“When?”

“Around Christmastide.” Myla frowned, and nodded. “He was killed in his own church. They slit his throat. What animals must these outlaws be?” Raven just stared at her, unable to say anything. Father Aldred was gone, too.

The young villager’s wife firmly believed that pain had to be delivered swiftly. “He was not the only one who was killed that night, Raven.” Her visitor’s eyes were two shiny dark pools, resting on her as if in trance. “You mother…and Bethan…”

A stifled moan rose from Raven’s throat. No. It was not possible. But still she did not move. Her hands lay perfectly still on the table, placed neatly left and right of her soup bowl. She looked at Myla, her face still and calm as if she was listening to a polite, but quite inconsequential conversation she had no part in.

Myla put her hand on Raven’s, unsure of what to say, unsure also of how to share this sad, strange woman’s grief. What other horrors had she seen? What had been done to her? Myla did not dare to ask any of it.

There were voices outside, and the young wife stiffened, listening, relaxing only as the passers-by’s voices were fading again.

“If my husband finds you here, he will give you away. He is a coward, and easily intimidated.” Putting her hands protectively over her swollen belly, she added: “But what can I say? He is my husband. He is kind enough to me.”

“They are looking for you everywhere, Raven.” Myla looked at her. “They say you are a witch.” There was a brief silence, as if her friend’s suspicion overtook her courage, if only for the length of a heartbeat. “But I know you. You are a troublemaker, but a good person. They are wrong.”

Raven said nothing. She should leave. Now, with nobody left to mourn her disappearance, she was free to go wherever she pleased. Maybe she could go south, or across the Narrow Sea even. If they never found her, maybe the rumours would dissipate and Lord Stephen could finally establish himself as the ruler of the North, and she would be able to shake off his memory.

His memory.

Raven stared into her soup bowl, her throat dry with grief and pain, and realised that she was barely able to remember his face. It had only been a few weeks since she had last shared his confidence and his trust.

Ever since she had left his side, Raven had greedily gathered every small morsel of information she could get. She knew that he was engaged to be married soon, the town criers had announced his union with house Crowsdale right after the vicious attack on their hunting party. She also knew that he had returned to Courtney Castle. She knew that de Lacy had been denounced as a traitor and murderer, and that the hope for peace had all but faded away.

But she longed to know if he already knew about her. If Arnaud had betrayed her and him, Lord Stephen would be aware of her shameless charade. Would he ever be able to forgive her if he did? Every fibre of her body longed to see him one last time, to explain. But Myla was right – it was folly. Now more than ever she only put herself in terrible danger, and nothing even guaranteed his mercy or forgiveness. Maybe it was better to remember him as she did – vaguely, and as a good man who had only been good to her.

***
Alys sat in the comfortable tower chamber that had been prepared for her and Brae, waiting. Slowly, the sounds inside the castle started to fade. Only a few ragged voices drifted up from the courtyard where her father’s men were still drinking with the archers of her fiancé.

Her handmaiden stood by the window, looking outside over the moon-lit forest. “Are you afraid, my lady?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

“Maybe a little.”

“There are rumours.”

“I know.”

“What if they are true?”

“Then we are either his victims or his accomplices.” Alys smiled as Brae turned around to look at her, her eyes wide with worry.

“But my lady…”

“Don’t you enjoy being either?”

Her pretty maid could not help but nod. Why would she lie to her mistress?

“Then let’s go. It might be that our days are numbered, Brae. It might be that we have little time left. We should not make him wait.”

 

[Maka]

Stephen had found something unusual in one of the castle's still-unexplored recesses. An old oak table, its surface carved into a map of the North -hills, forests, bogs, and towns. Before his squire's disappearance, he had relied on Rowan's familiarity with the region -particularly his unrivalled knowledge of the deer passes through the woods. It was just one of the many things he missed about the lithe youth's presence.

Instead, Stephen studied the table, studying the territory between Castle de Courtney and Castle de Lacy again and again, hoping to see something that would change the situation in his favour. A place for an ambush, perhaps... de Lacy was impatient, arrogant. Stephen understood how his mind worked, understood him as well as he hated him.

That gave Stephen an idea, but he set it aside for now. He needed time to consider it, to think through the nascent plan, and he had other things to attend to. Alys was coming to him tonight, and his throat went dry at the thought. Staring at the carved swells and curves of the northern land before him, all he could think of was her glorious body spread out before him, ready to be taken by a lord who would serve it as much as she served him. Some day, he would bring these lands the same peace and happy satiety that Alys would recieve tonight.

 

[Little_Zora]

Elwynn had always feared the dark.

In the stone cells below Castle de Lacy it was so dark that she could barely see her fingers even when she held her hand up close to her face. In the first days of her imprisonment she thought that she would go mad with fear: the utter and complete darkness, the damp cold, the contorted sounds drifting through the corridors all terrorised her.

Soon she had discovered that she was not all alone down in this prison. There was someone else in the cell right next to hers. He was hurt, she thought, and seemingly only half-conscious. She tried to whisper to him but was too afraid of the strange echo her voice caused between these stone walls. He never answered.

But sometimes she heard his feverish groans of pain at night. In his half-delirious sleep he also whispered in a strange tongue she had never heard before. At first Elwynn had been afraid that the voices she heard during her own sleepless nights might belong to evil creatures that haunted these god-forsaken cells, but no, it was him, she was sure of it.

So one night she had started to sing, a raunchy song Arnaud had taught her once. At first her voice had only been a trembling whisper, but the memory of her lover and the mocking melody gave her courage, and Elwynn soon sang with confidence, intent on vanquishing her fear. Soon she added other songs, ballads of love, even lullabies.

The singing kept herself company, and it seemed to calm the man in the cell next to hers. Initially Elwynn feared that he might have died. But then, one day, a male voice, croaky and hoarse, had joined her in song. At first she had been so startled that she stopped singing, demanding to know the singer’s identity in the dark.

Ever since then, Robert had been there with her, and they talked, sang and laughed for hours.

He had a pleasant, soothing voice when he spoke, and a beautiful one when he sang. She did not know who he was and why he, too, had been abandoned in a cell deep below Castle de Lacy. But from the way he spoke and from the tales he shared with her she understood that he must be high-born, a knight maybe, or a vassal who had fallen from favour. Elwynn never asked.

Robert knew many stories, and often these stories were so amusing that her clear laughter echoed through the cold stone cell. His spirit, seemingly untouched by his fate and the circumstances, gave her courage again. He was her invisible guardian angel, her protective ghost. Once two drunken sentries came into her cell, eager for a quick fuck with the pretty whore, but he had taunted them through the thin stone wall, insulted them until they let her go and laid into him with hard punches and kicks. He had laughed throughout, and her attackers did not come back.

Her life in the stone cell had become bearable, and less frightening. She knew that she was not alone.

If it had not been for the bishop. So far she had been interrogated twice. The second time had been much worse than the first, and Elwynn felt that the inquisitor’s patience had started to wear thin. So far, he had not asked her much – always just about Raven’s whereabouts, her family, her village. There was not much she was able to tell the tall, bony man, but she knew that he would not relent. Raven. Elwynn did not want them to find her. So far she had been able to deny that they had lain together, that such an unnatural union had ever taken place. Elwynn still had hope that through some miracle, she might be saved. If Raven would fall into the bishop’s hands, such hopes would go up in smoke.

Each day she feared that they would come for her again, drag her up the stone steps and bring her before the inquisitor.

"There was a man my mother heard, the bishop of Jerusalem, who could never get that ch sound, though he was there twenty years.” Robert laughed softly. Normally, she loved no other sound better. But not today.

"Have I offended you somehow?"

"No... no, of course not. It's just that one of my... questioners is such a man. A man of God."

She felt something brush against her thigh and jumped, convinced that it had been some rodent who had finally found her cell. Then she realised that it was his hand searching for hers. Her fingers curled around his, and it was this first contact with human skin, this small kindness, that, at least for a small moment, melted the fear away.

His hand was strong and slender, his grip gentle. It was the hand of a young man. Elwynn wondered what he looked like. Someone had once told her that Saracens had horns, some even sported tails, like the devil. Somehow she did not think that Robert had either. Did he love someone? Was someone waiting for him outside, hoping to take him in her arms again? Was Arnaud waiting for her? Her hand closed firmly around his. But who would wait for a little whore?

From then on, they often slept holding each other’s hands, their fingers enlaced in the darkness. It did not make Elwynn’s nightmares go away, but it made facing them a little easier.

***
Alys found his chambers empty, but she hesitated not to enter. Stephen had not bothered to take on another squire or manservant after Rowan had disappeared, and somehow she doubted that he had had one before the dark, slender boy had come into his service. It was a curious thing, such a high-born lord as him with so little taste for luxury and comfort.

The castle was quiet, and only the howling of wolves could be heard in the distance. The night was clear and frosty, and countless stars pierced the black sky above, and a pale moon scattered its light over the thick forest below.

It had been easy to slip unnoticed past the nightwatchman. There were murmurs down in the courtyard where some of the men were still drinking and gambling huddled around a fire, trying to stay awake. Where was Stephen?

She looked around. A fire burnt low in the fireplace, nobody had been here for hours. In the north tower of the castle, it was cold despite the thick stone walls, the wall hangings and the furs, but Alys, herself a child of the North, did not mind the icy chill. Maybe Stephen, too, needed this austerity to remind him of where he was, of what he still had to gain.

On a small wooden table, several leather-bound books laid next to a couple of scrolls, some of them covered in an even, tidy handwriting, testament to the Norman lord’s learning. Nobody had ever taught Alys how to read or write, but she doubted not that her new husband would consent to her being instructed in both.

Brae stood in the middle of the room, silently watching her mistress. Alys considered her handmaiden with a faint smile. Ever since the night they had shared in Crowsdale, the dark-haired girl seemed different, as if driven by an urgent hunger that was not sated by either food or drink. That night Stephen, conscious of the girl’s chastity, had barely touched her, but Alys knew that Brae’s curiosity had been roused. She had seen her watch the Norman lord with parted lips and flushed cheeks, barely able to attend to her other duties. Walking slowly over to her maid, Alys whispered in her ear.

“He really did bewitch you, didn’t he, Brae?”

The girl blushed, but said nothing.

“I know that you wonder what it must be like to be taken by him.”

While she said this, her fingers wandered to the laces of the girl’s tunic, starting to undo them.

Brae nodded slowly, as if someone else controlled each of her movements, as if she was a marionette that had taken on the form of a young, pretty girl. The truth was that she had been unable to think about anything else, ever since that fateful night in Crowsdale. Brae felt both guilt and the overwhelmingly strong desire to give herself up to the Norman lord. She knew it was wrong, a shameful, unforgivable sin. But his magic was stronger than she was. Sometimes she even attempted to cross his path in the castle, hoping to find favour with the fiancé of her mistress. At nights her dreams were filled with images of him, and often she woke up shaking, her hand lodged firmly between her thighs.

Alys caressed her cheek. “Don’t be afraid, Brae. He deserves your loyalty and your trust.” She removed the girl’s tunic and her linen underdress, and finally her small clothes so that the pretty maid stood naked in the middle of the room, much like she had only two weeks before. “Let him teach you.”

 

[Maka]

Stephen walked with the quiet steps of a born hunter back through the passages of his castle, stepping quietly back into his own chambers. A sight of potent erotic beauty met his eyes as he crossed the floor.

Brae stood in the centre of the room, as nude as Eve had been in the Garden, the gentle curves and smooth contours of her slender, petite body offered up to his gaze once again. She looked young, fearful and vulnerable, but there was a shy trust in her eyes. Smooth, dark brown hair fell to bare slender shoulders. Stephen felt his throat go dry with desire.

Alys stood by her handmaiden, having reversed their roles by patiently undressing her and now she caressed Brae's cheek with one tender hand, whispering to her in the tongue they shared.

The two looked up, startled, as Stephen strode to join them. He drew Alys to him with a fierce, hot kiss, clasping the beautiful noblewoman to him and kissing her until her legs were like to give way, then letting her head rest on his shoulder while he contemplated Brae. His face was impassive, his eyes cool and unreadable. He reached out a hand and cupped Brae's little chin, looking into her large doe eyes.

"Do you want me to take you, Brae? Do you want me to make you a woman?"

He was not just waiting for assent from her voice. He was a lord and she a handmaiden -most of her class would fear to refuse him. Instead, he was looking at her eyes, those deep wells of unspoken longings and desire, at the pose of her body, looking for the flushes, for the small unbidden smile or the biting of the lower lip, for the million little unspoken, unmistakable signs of feminine lust.

Despite his reputation at court, Stephen de Valois respected the chastity of a maidenhead. But if Brae and her slender young body both assented, he was aching to pluck that ripe, forbidden fruit and let all three of them enjoy its sweet, warm juices.

 

[Little_Zora]

Brae did not lower her gaze as the Norman lord contemplated her face, waiting for a reaction from her to his offer. Yes, she whispered. Yes. She was not afraid. She was not ashamed anymore either. His cool blue eyes were mesmerising. Yes, my lord, she whispered again. Make me a woman. Her heart accelerated. Make me.

Alys, her head swimming with the intensity of Stephen’s kiss, watched the interaction between her maid and Stephen. The offer of plucking such a fresh, beautiful girl would be irresistible to any man, no matter how chaste. And Stephen was not chaste, not bashful about his appetite once unleashed.

The young noblewoman’s hand still rested on Brae’s shoulder. The thrill of offering the girl to Stephen was overwhelming, though Alys barely dared to even admit the thought to herself. What he was about to receive was a precious gift, but she knew that she was able to trust him with it, and so was her maid.

With a slight shrug, Brae shook off the hand of her mistress. It was the faintest of movements, almost too swift for Alys to be sure it had happened at all. She stepped back from her and Stephen, surprised, but said nothing. This night was not about her, even if she would willingly participate in anything Stephen wanted her to do. Watching Brae tiptoe to pluck a kiss from her fiancé’s lips, she smiled. To her own surprise she did not feel the sting of jealousy she had felt when other women had vied for Robert’s attention. Back then – and it seemed like a lifetime ago now – she would have never been able to watch her beloved kiss another.

There was a fierce glint in the brunette girl’s eyes. For the briefest of moments, Alys wondered if she had indeed been bewitched, if a powerful spell drove her into the Norman lord’s arms, if the rumours flying around the castle were true. There was so little hesitation in her maid’s movements, though the girl had never been reckless in love or lust.

Brae’s hands now rested against Stephen’s hips, for a few seconds unsure if she should dare to do more. Her fingers curled into the linen of his tunic, tugging impatiently at the cloth. Her own nudity made her feel deliciously vulnerable in his embrace. Make me, she whispered. I beg you.

 

[Maka]

Brae stood on tiptoes to press her warm, soft lips against Stephen's, her eyes closed as though in holy bliss. The kiss was sweet but shortlived as she sank down again, her hands on his hips.

The shy, demure and chaste girl who had once attended Lady Alys had all but disappeared. Since that fateful night when with the purest of intentions she had spied on Lady Alys' conference with her fiance, a flame had been lit in Brae's innocent heart. The flame had been fanned into a roaring inferno then, as Brae watched her regal, angelic mistress pleasured mercilessly, until only a wet, wild and wanton harlot remained. Stephen had watched Alys share her own sweet, secret feminine pleasures with Brae, watched Brae's hesitance at her mistress' passionate kisses slowly melt into blissful acceptance.

But there was no hesitation now. Brae even shrugged off Alys' hand on her shoulder. For all her unthinking devotion to her mistress, it seemed that she would not have Stephen think that Alys was offering Brae to him with no volition on her part. She herself and no other was offering up her slender, ripe and nude young body, offering him her maidenhead in exchange for the pleasures he could bring to it.

Stephen's hand went to one of Brae's small, finely formed breasts and cupped it, holding the nipple between thumb and forefinger. He bent his head and licked delicately around the rosy aureole. Her nipple tasted sweet. She tasted sweet. A delectable, honey-sweet young maid as fresh as a rose soon to be a maid no longer, soon to be taught the manifold pleasures of the flesh.

In one swift and effortless movement, Stephen picked Brae up, one hand cradling her slim back and the other cupping her toned, firm buttocks. She was light as a feather, her skin irresistibly soft and smooth beneath his calloused hands. His eyes meet Alys' smiling gaze over the gentle curves of Brae's pale, naked body, then he met Brae's own gaze.

She met his gaze this time. She had not looked down once since he had entered this chamber, though she had been naked before him, and armoured men had before now been unable to meet Stephen de Valois' steady gaze. There was steel in the spine of this pretty young handmaiden -and hidden fire in those deep brown eyes.

He whispered into her ear.

"I will make you a woman... and you will never need to beg any man. Would you have me take you on the bed... or here, on the floor?"

 

[Little_Zora]

Brae moaned helplessly as Stephen’s hand cupped her breast, applying gentle, sweet pressure. It was the first time that he touched her at all and only now did she realise how much she had craved this. During their passionate encounter in Crowsdale Castle, he had only watched her, never hinting at any desire to take her as well. Then he leant in to suck in the erect, sensitive nipple, licking and teasing in a way that made her head spin. The young maid arched her back, urging him on. Inexperienced and unsure how to react to the shocks of pleasure his caresses caused her, she whimpered, tiptoeing helplessly, holding on to his tunic.

When he swept her off his feet to hold her against him, all she could do was hold onto him, her nakedness deliciously vulnerable. He was the most beautiful man she had ever laid eyes on, and here he was, a lord, her mistress’ fiancé, a man of power and wealth, and he cradled her like she was his lover, a woman he cherished. The thought was intoxicating. None of the shy and amateurish brief encounters with servant boys, none of whom had ever dared to even venture under her skirts, had come even close to the sensation of desire she was experiencing now.

His grip on her was strong, but not ungentle. He was not just going to take her, he was seducing her, drawing her in. Brae sighed, shifting in his hands, not even conscious of the need she was communicating to him.

“I will make you a woman... and you will never need to beg any man. Would you have me take you on the bed... or here, on the floor?” The contact of his lips against her ear was electrifying. Goose bumps scattered over her skin, and she raised one of her hands to his face to caress his cheek, her thumb caressing his lips lightly.

But Brae did not answer. For a brief moment she only looked at him, unsure what to say. On the floor? The proposition added a certain indecency, a certain vulgarity to the prospect of losing her maidenhead to the Norman lord. Surely only whores, women who did not care about their honour or God, would let a man take them this way. Surely it was sinful to indulge in animalistic urges so wantonly, was it not?

Alys, who had been standing behind Brae and who had heard Stephen’s question to her maid, softly put her hand on her shoulder, as if wanting to reassure her. Then she said: “My lord, why not grant her the comfort of a bed for now? The night is still long, and Brae will have ample opportunity to taste all the pleasures you hold in store for her.”

To her surprise, Brae shook her head, her eyes never leaving Stephen’s. “No. Not on the bed. Do it right here, my lord. Right here.” She leant in to kiss him, boldly cupping his face in her delicate hands. Alys said nothing and stepped back. Had there been the hint of defiance in her voice? Again she wondered what could have caused such a change in her demure maid’s behaviour. What, if not a powerful, forbidden spell could have possibly caused Brae act like she did? Or was it simply the promise of pleasure that drove the pretty maid to forget all etiquette around her mistress? Alys knew only too well how powerful desire could be.

With a faint nod, the young noblewoman stepped back. She was both surprised and fascinated by the scene unfolding before her, and the raw eroticism of the naked girl in her clothed fiancé’s arms was enough to stoke flames of desire in her.

 

[Maka]

Brae wriggled and squirmed in his arms, unable to contain herself -her breath coming in short, hoarse pants and her powerful arousal evident in her every restless movement. Even Stephen was slightly surprised when the petite, pretty maid suddenly seized the iniative and brought his head down to kiss him with a hot, feminine ardour.

Stephen returned the kiss with equal passion, dominating Brae, loving the taste of her warm, sweet mouth, the little pleading noises that she made half-unconciously deep in her throat.

He was going to ravish this eager, pretty young creature on the floor in front of her mistress, the woman to whom he was betrothed. He wondered if that idea excited Brae -if it excited Alys. There was surprise in the fine, fair slightly raised eyebrow that had greeted Brae's decision, but also lust blazing in those perfect sapphire eyes. Alys had sworn to obey Stephen in all things but Stephen sensed that here it was her pleasure as much as her duty.

Stephen slowly lowered Brae to the rushclad floor, kissing her tenderly as he laid her down. He stood, towering over the petite handmaiden, and beckoned to Alys.

"Undress me," he commanded.

To a highborn lady, it was a scandalous command in itself but the three of them had gone far beyond the conventional rules of rank.

 

[Little_Zora]

For a moment, Alys stared at Stephen, as if she had not understood his clear command. “Undress…you, my lord?” Both Brae and the man she was to marry looked at her impassively, a faint smile playing around her maid’s lips. The pretty girl was clearly enjoying this reversal of roles and despite herself, Alys, too, could not deny that she felt a tingle of excitement in the face of this outrageous request.

“My lord”, Alys said finally, the tone of her voice both demure and rebellious. She wanted to make clear that she chose to obey, that she did not have to, that her obedience was simply the fruit of her own desire to witness him take Brae before her. Not once did she drop her gaze as she started to fumble with his belt, her movements slightly less skilled than that of her maid who looked on, drinking in the scene unfolding.

Brae had lifted herself up on her elbows, watching her mistress perform the duty that had been her own countless times

The belt came loose, and Alys threw it carelessly on the floor, smiling at Stephen as she did so. Then she loosened the leather straps holding the lower sleeves of his tunic, and they fell across Brae’s naked body, almost like a suggestion. Brae dragged them slowly over her porcelain skin before wrapping them around one hand playfully, wondering how far Stephen would go in subduing his beautiful betrothed.

His boots followed. All the while Alys’ sapphire eyes met his. She helped him out of his tunic quickly, but when her hands slipped underneath the light linen shirt beneath, she lingered, her fingertips resting against his taut stomach. She was tempted to kiss him but did not, instead her nails slightly scratched his silken skin before she lifted the fabric, her desire for him tangible, hanging heavily in the air between them.

Then she loosened his breeches and slid them down, his small clothes, too, and he was naked, beautiful and strong, before her. “My lord”, Alys whispered again, smiling now. She stood before him, too shy even now to touch him again without his permission. Brae could not help but stare, but she was neither nervous nor afraid.

 

[Maka]

Stephen had not missed the tiny moment of hesitation before Alys complied with his request, nor the hint of defiance to her voice. As a lord and commander in battle, he'd learned to detect such subtle hints and to eliminate the thought of rebellion before it could even begin to take root.

Alys would never consciously break her vow to him but Stephen demanded more than conscious obedience from his vassals and servants -and Alys was both. His word needed to be the blood pounding in her veins, the wind in her lungs, above Holy Writ and the laws of God and men. That was the way it had to be for his soldiers on the battlefield and that was how it must be for Alys of Crowsdale. In the coming days, both their lives might depend upon it.

With a slight, unfamiliar awkwardness, Alys slid his breeches and small clothes away, revealing the massive, thick spear of his erection. Stephen held her gaze coolly.

"You hesitated," he said calmly. "Perhaps you think such work beneath you? Suitable for Brae, but not for you?"

As he mentioned the pretty handmaiden, he ran a hand with quiet affection through Brae's soft brown hair. There was a playful, coquettish look on her delicate face, and she had wrapped the leather straps of his sleeves around her slim wrist, as if foreseeing a use for them.

Good leather. It would sting but not break that silky soft skin.

"Give me those straps, Brae. Your mistress forgets herself."

And turning to Alys, his demeanor as impassive as ever: "Strip yourself, and bend over."

 

[Little_Zora]

At first Alys laughed, certain that his words had been spoken in jest. “My lord?” Surely he did not mean to punish her like an unruly servant?

But his expression was calm, unsmiling. The two leather straps dangled from his fist, ready to be employed for the sanctions he had hinted at. He did not say another word, and Alys realised that he was indeed serious about wanting to discipline her. “My lord”, she finally said, her voice a mere shaky whisper.

Brae, who was still sitting at Lord Stephen’s feet, slowly looked from him to her mistress, both uncomfortable and astonished by the scene that was about to unfold. She held her breath. Did he really plan to chastise her mistress like he would an insubordinate maid? Once, only once had she tasted the sting of a whip, when she had angered Lady Magaidh, and even then she had only been hit on her naked calves. It had hurt. She had also seen one of the stable boys being brutally disciplined by the master of horses, and for days after the beating he had received on his bare back he had barely been able to walk. Was Stephen going to whip Lady Alys like that?

However, part of her longed to see just that. Part of her wanted to see her beautiful mistress bent to her lord’s will completely, her alabaster white skin streaked with the red marks of the blows she was to receive. Brae had blushed when he had insinuated that undressing him could be a task Lady Alys considered to be beneath her – since that was the way it should be – but Brae had caught herself rejoicing as well. She felt a rush of, yes, power that she had never thought possible before.

Alys now she fumbled with her belt, a simple stitched garment slung elegantly around her slender hips. Her fingers, trembling, did not want to obey this simple, everyday task immediately, but finally she succeeded, and the piece of fabric slid to the floor.

Slowly, she undid the strings on both sides of her linen dress, uncomfortably aware that both Stephen and Brae closely followed her every move. Despite the intimacies they had already shared, Alys had never before felt this helplessly self-conscious.

When she was naked, she looked at Stephen, holding his gaze. She did not recognise the defiance in this gesture right away, and when she did, her sapphire eyes dropped to her feet, but she said nothing. Her betrothed was a severe man, but not a brute, she knew she could trust him. Yet her heart was beating hard and fast in anticipation.

With one last gaze at Brae, who did not avert her eyes this time, Alys turned and with both hands held on to the wooden post of the bed, bracing herself for the first blow.