Chapter 9: Unto the weary and all-watched night

Cowering like a trapped fawn, Catherine D'Astier lay huddled and frozen with horror. Her slender wrists were still tied tightly behind her back and the cloth gag was still firmly between her lips, despite her weakened efforts to wrench free of their grasp. The fight in her had ebbed away. Helpless, she wormed her way to the back of the bed; away from the low, gasping breaths she could hear coming from floor. Every time the wretched man coughed, she winced, fearing that he would awaken and the nightmare would never end.

Catherine prayed for it to end.

The Church had always been important to her father and thus, to everyone in her family. It was not faith, however, that brought Phillip D'Astier into the sparrow-quiet chambers of Notre Dame. It was the power that lay behind the incense and the albs and the carved saints upon the walls. It was that power that Phillip patiently cultivated to bloom and the reason he placed his youngest son Simon into the clergy. This is The Church that Catherine knew and it's God could be bought with silver; a hollow faith.

But now she prayed the prayers bred of faith and tears and fear. Catherine chanted the Latin words in her mind over and over again, a ward against the evil that lay beside the bed, a demon in the shape of a brutish man-at-arms.

A groan came up from the floor like a chill wraith and Catherine's beseeching stopped. She whimpered from behind her gag and closed her eyes, hoping that this too was a dream like before.

However, from her self-imposed darkness, Catherine could hear every breath the man took. She could hear every creak of the floor and rustle of straw. Every cough. The young French captive knew, deep within her, that her demon was getting up.

She willed her eyes open.

The man's hand, gnarled and covered in his own blood, clawed at the edge of the bed. Slowly, as if Hades slowed the passage of time itself, the man rose. In the bloody ruins of the man's face, she could see the hatred branded into the man's dark, bloodshot eyes. His grin, teeth bloodied and broken from her kicks to his face, looked as viscous as any madden hound. Blood continued to trickle down from his crushed nose.

"Sow," he spat.

The man knew he would have her and then he would kill her. His lord's prize would be a corpse and a corpse was hard to ransom. It served Lord de Valence right for bringing him to this forsaken land of France while his wife was heavy with child. The Welsh borders were harsh; even cruel. He needed to be there, beside his wife's bedside, instead of being in France.

DeValence's ransom had the fight drained from her and now she cowered on the bed. Her ivory skin now flushed red with her exertions. Her long hair, the color of raven's wings, hung in a fray over her face and around her head. He could barely discern Catherine's dark eyes peering frightened from behind those tresses. He could see why his lord kept her for his own. And soon, the ruffian thought, he would taste the same fruits of his lord's.

"No" Catherine cried through her gag as the man grabbed one of the ropes that had tied her legs together and began to wrap it around her slender ankle. She tried to kick him, but now he was far too wary of her attempts at hurting him and he grabbed the other ankle with little problem. Catherine thrashed and cried and twisted in her bindings like a fish caught in a net. First one ankle was tied to a bedpost, than her other was similarly bound, spreading her open for this English troll. But still she weakly struggled.

"There'n, wench! Let'n me sees you fight me now," the rapist said.

"Ugggggghhhhhh!" Catherine screamed through her gag as the man picked up his dagger from his pile of clothes and grinned.

"I's will put'n this in you, wench, after I'n done wit you," he smiled as he positioned himself between her legs, "You'n will not forget'n this weapon, will'n you!"

The foul man began caressing her soft, black nest with the tip of the dagger; poking her here and there and laughing when Catherine winced. She had stopped struggling and dulled by fear she just lay there and watched as the dagger probed lower to her most sensitive parts. The cool tip of steel that touched her puffed lips felt like a viper's fang.

The man then set the dagger down and hovered over her, pushing his gnarled cock into her quim. With one hard thrust, he was in Catherine and started forcing himself in and out of her faster and faster. All Catherine could do is close her eyes and whimper at his demonic assault. His member tore at her, the pain it caused not nearly as much as in her imagination; chaffing her still sensitive lips. The man's sour breath engulfing her as he rammed into her as deeply as he could.

Then he stopped.

"One more thrust, Geoffry, and this blade will swyve through your arse."

Catherine saw past her grunting tormentor a tall, rain-soaked blonde knight with narrowed blue eyes, sword drawn and pointed between the ruffian's warty cheeks.

"This is Lord de Valence's ransom and you are violating his will," Richard Corfe continued to speak, his voice talon sharp.

"I'n was just havin'..." Geoffry started to explain, easing himself out of Catherine.

"Shut up!" The knight spat, "Is this how you repay our lord's generosity!"

"I'n..."

"Get your arse out!" Richard spat, withdrawing his sword a bit.

Geoffry slowly eased himself off of the bed, palming his dagger and keeping it out of sight of the knight. He was heedful of the tip of the broadsword pointed at him and, more importantly, the man wielding the weapon. Corfe was a fair man but he was not a man to cross for he could be as ruthless as Lord de Valence. Corfe was also very much battle-hardened; the death's of many a man were light upon Corfe's soul. Another would not bother Corfe at all.

"I'n a going, Master Corfe," Geoffry said, grabbing his leggings, shoes and leather jerkin from the floor.

"If I see you here again, Geoffry, I will make sure that your last dance is with a noose around your neck. That I can promise."

"If'n..."

"Go!" Robert spat.

Geoffry, with clothes in hand, disappeared out the door. Richard stepped over and closed the door before coming over to Catherine and sitting upon the bed beside her head.

"Are you hurt, my lady?" Richard spoke softly in Catherine's native tongue, combing his fingers through her long, dark hair.

All Catherine could do is weep and bury her head the wet sleeve of Richard's tunic. Gently, she felt her gag being untied and removed from between her lips. It was a relief to her, having the cloth not tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"There, my lady ransom, I should say that this is much better," Richard said in a voice as soft as lamb's wool.

The bound girl nodded her head but did not reply.

"You are safe now, dear lady ransom. Edward shall return at first light. His task this foul night is the devil's own work and he will be weary and in need of your magic. Sleep now..."

He continued to comb his fingers through her hair. Richard's touch was gentle and calming. Soon Catherine began to sleep again and Richard heard her whispers as her head lay upon his lap.

Outside, in the cold of the pre-dawn night, Edward waited and watched wrapped in his cloak as the last of the defenders of the first tower coughed and staggered out, the look of defeat deeply etched on their blackened faces. Arrows still were spat from the second tower, but they were few and Edward knew that the French in that tower were running short of them. It would only be a matter of a day or two before they too would be brought out by either smoke or starvation. The defenders defiance would wane like the moon. Edward's King Henry the V would have his precious port of Harfleur to winter in before his chevauchee the next spring. There would also be a French army to oppose His Majesty. However, Edward knew the French court was nearly in civil war and it would divide such an army. By Spring, Henry's army would be large and rested and ready to bury it's teeth into the flesh of the French which still refused recognize King Henry's right to the throne.

The smoke and the cold mist shrouded the skeleton ruins of buildings as Edward slowly made his way home. Few soldiers walked the streets, mostly one's like himself who were making their way back to their billets to rest their chilled bones. Out of the corner of his eye, the knight saw a naked soldier, clothes clutched to himself, scurry down the street and swallowed in the dark gray. Edward smiled, thinking that the man was probably cast out of a woman's arms by not enough coin or by a jealous husband.