Chapter 8: Silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies

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

Catherine dreamt she was Edward DeValence's wife-servant, being there for whatever needs he desired of her. She was not just a mere wife and woman of the household, but a woman who would do anything to please her goodman. They were in a castle somewhere in a dreary countryside that she imagined England would be. She watched out of the rippled-glass window as a storm thundered and the rain chattered against the panes. She was naked and bound as she stood in front of the window, her wrists manacled behind her back and her ankles cuffed also. There was cloth ball between her lips so she could not say a word to the English that was her master and lover. The window's imperfect reflection showed to Catherine her lovely, lithe form. Her skin the color of polished ivory, her hair long and as dark as a raven's wing; her eyes as soft and dark as a doe's. Her breasts were not large nor small but befitted her slender form. Catherine was, she knew, a very desirable woman.

Catherine saw Edward in her dream, sleeping on their bed, his broad back to her. The sounds of his sleep were familiar and comforting to her and she so longed to feel the warmth of his body next to hers but her chains prevented her from moving into the bed with him.

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

But the chains held her before the cold window.

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

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

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

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

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

"Catherine!" a gruff voice bellowed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Catherine!" he yelled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The English knight was about to wake is ransom up when he had second thoughts. He wanted her to be this way when he came back in the early morning darkness. He would wake her then and enjoy her company again before dressing her. Quietly he slipped out from beside her and eased out of bed, leaving her bound and sleeping soundly.

The canon belched forth another fiery spew with loud report, bathing it's gunners in it's unholy light briefly before the cold darkness enshrouded them again. Richard Corfe saw his commander, Edward de Valence striding over towards him, dressed in his coat of plates and visorless sallet.

"'Tis cold as a Marches'winter, m'lord de Valence," Corfe said as he met Edward.

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

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

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

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

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