Chapter 10

Catherine listened to Edward's breathing, her head rising and falling as she rested on his chest. She had not realized it, but she missed this Englishman's flesh; the rough down of his chest against her cheek, the slick musk of his labors, the rumble of his heart inside him like the gallop of a stallion. All these things strangely comforted her as she lay curled, still bound, beside this English knight. How she wished her wrists were not tied behind her. She so wanted to run her hands over this knight's breast and cradle his sleeping form to her bosom.

Sleep eluded Catherine. It was like a songbird whose song one could hear yet cannot find its singer. She was tired and being here against Edward filled her with an ease that she had never felt before, yet the events of the night and the past few days kept her mind awake as well as the warmth stirring in her quim.

Edward stirred a bit beside her, his arm reaching around her.

"Are you awake, my dear ransom Catherine?" Edward said in his gruff French.

"Yes, Englishman, my lord, I am."

Edward smiled, his strong arms bringing the slight Catherine closer to him. The French captive looked up at Edward with her dark eyes and smiled.

"What, pray tell, are your thoughts?" he asked. His fingertips began to trace lightly over her smooth back.

"It is not my position to say, my lord. I am, by-the-by, your ransom; to do with as you will."

Edward grinned at this. The game was afoot and his coney still was baiting him. It was now a game of words with Catherine.

"And if it was my will to know your mind, dear ransom, would you then tell me?"

"I would not. I am your ransom. My flesh and my blood are yours to do with as you will, but my soul is still Gods and mine. You cannot force a thought from me just as you cannot crush milk from a butterfly, my lord."

Edward thought on this a bit. He sat up and began to untie the binding about Catherine's wrists.

"You are free to go, my butterfly."

Catherine looked in Edwards' dark hazel eyes.

"You play me a simpkin, my Englishman lord," Catherine replied.

Edward kept silent, his arms crossed across his chest.

"You know what lies for me beyond these walls of stone," Catherine continued as she stood up beside her bed.

"What, pray tell, my dear ransom Catherine, lie beyond these walls... your precious Mother France, whose bosom you will go to with open arms," Edward smiled as he looked upon her slender, marble-like form glistening in the morning light. A cathedral angel made flesh.

Catherine's eyes narrowed, "I need not remind you, English knight, of what evils lurk out there for one such as myself. Unescorted and without a single piece of silver to my name, I would be little but a scrap of meat amongst hungry wolves."

"A very lovely scrap, yes," Edward grinned.

"I am your ransom, English Knight," she continued, "You cannot shirk the responsibility to this..."

Catherine pointed to her breast, "... your ransom! You took me and now my life is in your hands."

The grin had disappeared off of Edward's face. Indeed, Catherine was his ransom, even though his feelings towards this fiery daughter of D'Astier were growing more binding with each hour. He was bound by the rules of war to keep his ransom safe until her ransom was paid or until it was not paid. Edward had not even sent word to Philip D'Astier letting him know that his daughter was now in the hands of one Edward de Valence. In his passions, Edward had almost forgot the reason why he had searched for Catherine in the ruins of Harfleur.

Catherine looked directly into Edward's stern, hazel eyes, "I am your ransom, my dear English knight."

-o0o-

Outside, the mists that clung to the gray morning like ghosts over a grave, slowly letting loose the ground. A pale sun greeted the both besiegers and the besieged. A column of smoke still cloaked the second tower from the night's fire. The men awoke and coughed and cursed and spat and itched and prepared themselves for another day, the victory of the past few days lost in the daily routine of war. Death still breathed in the smoke.

Richard had not gone to bed. He walked slowly through his retinue and though he saw their faces and heard their voices, they were like a far away tolling of a bell. His tired mind was thick with thoughts that he knew better than to have. Edward de Valance, his lord, had done much for Richard, including shedding his blood for Richard. There was nothing that Richard would not do for this man. However, this ransom of his, this raven-haired beauty, was unlike any woman he had know and the thought of her heated his loins.

Best not to think on it, Richard, thought. Another day of siege was at hand and the second tower should soon be taken.

"Life is to short, my dear Richard, to be so dark," a warm lilting Irish voice said to him.

"Margaret?" he replied.

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

"It has been a hard siege, Margaret."

"To a woman likes me, dear Richard, whose son is still carrying a sharpened sword, everyday of this cursed war is as hard as an iron helm."

Richard looked around to see if anyone had heard, "I would speak silently of this, Margery. King Harry's work here is blessed by God."

"I know, my dear Richard. At times I think this is an atonement for the sins of my flesh."

Richard hugged the redheaded washerwoman close to him and whispered, "You have been a comfort to me, Margery, more so than any stone saint staring out from a cathedral niche."

"You should not say such things, my sergeant. It is ill favored."

Richard did not smile as he looked down at Margery, "My soul is already burning and will continue to burn long after the I die."

Margery read the pain in Richard Corfes' blue eyes. She had seen it too many times before. They were the eyes of a man to whom singing arrows and slashing blades mean as much as a stroll through a meadow ripe with spring. Richard's eyes had seen too many men scream and cry and curse at their own mortal wounds. Richard did not know how to wash the blood from his hands.

"Come," she said.

Margery lead the sergeant through to a where she had made her tent, inside the skeletal remains of what was once a bake house. Now all that remained was a stone chimney and oven and a few blackened timbers. Her tent, stained and patched from many years of travel in Wales and Scotland as well as there in France, was almost as welcome sight as Richard's own home. By his hand, she pulled him inside and without a word, began to slowly undress him. With each lace she untied, every clasp she unbuckled, the weight of the world seemed to slip away from Richard. That was what a woman does best, Margery thought to herself.

It was not long before Richard's armor and weaponry lay in a pile along with his shirt and leggings. Margery's skilled fingers and palms began to caress and knead his weary muscles as he lay on her sheepskins. The lay of his back was very familiar to her. She knew the curves and ridges. She smiled at the memories of past couplings with this man whose chest was as smooth as a newborn but as solid as a hornbeam.

Margery began to undress herself and it pleased her to see the effect it always had on Richard.

It was not like with Edward, whose hunger was more of that of a hungered wolf, rather it was like that of a graceful dance of swans upon a mill pond, slow and lingering, wanting to savor each moment as it passed. Margery watched his eyes wander over her heavy breasts with their petal pink nipples and travel down the flat of her belly to her lush nest of reddish brown curls. There Richard's eyes rested as Margery walked over to the man-at-arms and cradled his head to her womb.