The Modest and the Bold (5 page)

“
Ah, so they are ready,”
affirmed Ermine as she stepped beside her ladyship. Over her
shoulder she ordered, “Get the jars and the strainers,
Hawise.”

Taking the jars from their
month-long position in the sun, Constance set them upon the work
table below the window. “We shall require some beeswax as
well.”

Ermine raised a finger and
nodded in remembrance. “Ah, yes. I had forgotten that the marigold
salve is running low.”

Smiling at the woman with
fading yellow hair beneath her linen veil, Constance unstopped one
of the containers as the pretty Hawise, a quieter, younger version
of her mother, brought over a collection of stout, long-necked
beakers and several wooden bowl strainers. Constance set one of the
tall, tri-legged strainers over the mouth of one of the beakers.
After setting up the others in like fashion she and Hawise opened
all the jars and dumped their contents into the wooden strainers.
As the process of extracting all the excess oil from the saturated
petals would take a while, both women left the work table to help
Ermine with the setting up of the pots they would use to boil the
wax after the marigold oil was ready.

The water set to boiling,
Constance collected a pair of gardening shears and the large,
smooth bucket they used for collecting seeds. Since she used pot
marigolds for many things, a constant supply was always needed in
the still chamber, principally its seeds that they might resow the
flower every spring.

Heading for the door, she
informed over her shoulder, “Some of the flower heads have gone to
seed. I want to collect them afore the wind or vermin can get to
them. I shan’t be long.” Taking the winding stairwell down to the
great hall she exited the keep and drifted down its wooden steps.
Bucket swinging from her arm she strolled across the ward towards
the garden off the kitchens.

Entering the low-walled
garden Constance skirted beds of pottage typicals and medicinal
necessaries, halting in front of a central one thick with pot
marigolds. Setting down her bucket, she kneelt and sifted through
the bright flower heads in search of those whose petals had
withered and dropped off. Finding one, she pressed upon te
shriveled head. It immediately broke apart into seeds and plant
debris. She removed the mass from its stem and dropped it into her
bucket. Taking the shears she’d brought along, she cut back the
headless stalk to its first set of leaves.

Setting down the shears,
Constance wondered if Sir Fulke cared for the scent of pot
marigold. As she used the blossom in her bathing water on a regular
basis, she did not doubt he’d caught the scent emanating from her
during their stints of intimacy.

Continuing with her seed
harvest, Constance had no idea that she was being scrutinized at
her work by the very object of her private
contemplations.

* * *

Fulke had been making his
rounds of the inner ward’s wall when he’d stepped from the tower
that loomed nearest the kitchens and espied the Lady Constance down
in the garden there. He neither halted in his step nor took his
eyes from that creature who had driven him, with her astonishing
sensuous appeal, to forget all about the lovely Adele last
eve—something he’d never imagined possible. What had commenced as a
thirst for revenge against Adele’s whoring had transformed into
something unforeseen: a fierce coupling that had only served to
whet his appetite for the lady. For not only had she shoved Adele’s
memory to the foreground of his mind, she’d haunted him through the
night and into the daylight hours of the morn. Even now, as he
strode down the wall, apprising her, the remembrance of her soft,
fragrant skin, her arousing cries, her hot, succulent sex
stimulated a jerk in his manhood.

Nearing the portal that
led into the next tower, Fulke finally heeded what the lady was
actually doing. He’d been in the kitchen gardens once or twice. He
remembered the pot marigolds swaying in the breeze with vibrant
life at the center of that place. Recalling their pungent odor, his
eyes narrowed to dark slits.
Is that what
I smelt clinging to her skin?
Now that he
saw her down among those particular blossoms, he was certain that
that was what had emanated from her body during both of their
intimate occasions.

Catching the sound of
footsteps echoing up through the dark tower stairwell ahead, Fulke
snapped his eyes forward, giving the impression that they’d been
trained in that direction the entire time. He nodded to the
man-at-arms who walked out onto the wall and strode into the tower.
Suffering the semi-hardness of his member underneath his clothing,
his countenance turned dour. He had no wish to further ruminate
upon his liege lord’s sister, but his body obviously had plans of
its own. His only consolation was his surety that one final
coupling with Lady Constance would be enough to rid himself of this
unwelcome lust for her. Once he had his fill his body would settle
down, and he could put her from his mind for good.

As
soon as Lady Constance entered the Norman hall, Fulke fell upon her
like a parched man in search of drink. He roamed her curvaceous
form with avaricious hands and freed her of the fine veil and
wimple about her head. Loosening her plait he sank both hands into
her mass of soft tresses, capturing her mouth with his own. The
eagerness in which she repaid his kiss forced his simmering hunger
to boiling heights.

Spying the trestle behind
her he whirled her round, bent her over its top beam, and yanked up
her skirts. Bowing over her back he licked her ear the exact moment
he sank a finger into her. “You’re ready. Good, for my ache at
present is too great to delay with love play.”

The lady whimpered at his
words. Freeing himself, he slid between her swollen folds to the
heat beyond. Powerless to governor his fierce hunger, he plied her
with violent thrusts, wrenching unending cries from her. Squeezing
her large breasts through the layers of her gowns, he cursed—he
burned to stroke her silken flesh, to pinch her nipples till she
screamed.

These scintillating
notions forced the pressure in his member to shoot forward. He
growled as his seed spewed forth into the burning, slick, flesh
nested about him. Wheezing, he left the lady’s body and stumbled
backwards to a trunk. Slumping down, his short tunic covering his
yet ravenous manhood, he hung his head.

Something brushed his
knees.

Opening his eyes he saw
the lady’s skirts enveloping his lower legs, her booted feet near
his. Ashamed at his having taken her with such aggression, he could
not lift his head. While he might take Adele in such a manner he
could not help deem one such as Lady Constance deserving further
than what he had just supplied.

Clutching at her green
skirts, he pronounced, “Pray…I beg pardon, lady. I should not
have…” He could not even bring himself to say the words. Then she
was kneeling at his feet, her hand softly raising his head,
compelling him to meet her gaze.

“
Should not have
done
what
, sir?”
Her voice was whisper light and soothing to his conscious.
“Bestowed that which I yeaned for?”

When she bent her head and
kissed his neck, her hand stealing under his tunic to his erection,
to his stones, Fulke sucked in a breath of disbelief. His
impression of the Lady Constance had always been of modesty. But
what her lips and hand were doing was anything save modest—they
were downright bold.

Shivering, he lifted her
green surcote up and off. Her brown cote followed. When she kneeled
in only a plain chemise, she likewise rid him of his tunic. Without
that garment to hide his erection it stood out between them, long
and thick-veined, its large head slightly wet with the lady’s
lingering juices.

The second she bowed her
head and drew the glossy knob between her lips, Fulke was lost.
Coupling with her had been one thing, but
this
… For a man to have a woman
indulge him thus was something of an erotic treat, and the fact
that it was being performed by such a one as Lady Constance
rendered him as mush in her possession.

Shuddering, whimpering,
Fulke clasped his hands about that dipping head, unable to tear his
eyes from the soft lips encircling his rod, descending and
ascending again and again and again. His climax arrived promptly.
Flinching the instant he came a feeble groan seeped from his mouth
as she imbibe every last drop that spewed into her
mouth.

Panting, his Adam’s apple
bobbing, the Lady Constance straightened. She stood and straddled
his lap, her yieldable flesh enveloping him to the hilt. He moaned
and wrapped his arms about her. Their lips met as she began to ride
him. Both their kisses and their movements were languid. This
pleased Fulke, for he suddenly wished to express how gentle he
could be. When he tugged the bodice of her chemise down and suckled
one of her puffy nipples, he did so with unhurried care. Her hands
in his hair were soft and her whimpers of delight faint and
melodious. When their zenith of ecstasy was attained, there was no
frenzied end or voluble cries of elation between them, only a
breathless burst of fire that died down as fast as it had erupted
into pleasant, mellow embers.

They stayed as they
were—their arms wrapped round each other, her cheek at his temple,
his at her neck—for a tiny, sweet span. When she finally vacated
his lap, regret flashed through him. Disregarding it he stood and
straightened his braise. Bending, he picked up his tunic and put it
back on. His clothing all aright, he assisted the lady with her
own. This done, he noted how she patted her unconfined hair. His
lips curled a little. “Here,” he offered in a hoarse voice, “let
me.” Turning her he plaited her hair with deft fingers.

“
It is an odd talent…for a
knight to possess.”

Finishing the braid he
snaked a hand around her to take the ribbon she’d retrieved from
the floor and tied it off. “My mother taught me…prior her death. I
was to use the skill to properly coiffure my sister’s hair.” The
lady’s flat response was evidence to her discomfiture at not having
known of this part of his past.

“
Oh.” She turned to face
him. “I…er…was not aware that you had a sister, Sir Fulke.”
Collecting her veil and wimple from the floor, she fingered their
fineness as she peered up at him. “Where does she reside since your
mother has gone? Is she wed?”

The usual pang came into
Fulke’s heart at such talk of his sister. “My sister—Emma—she died
of a fever, my lady, afore she had a chance to attain her tenth
summer.” He noted the sympathy hasten into the lady’s eyes even
before she could express it in words.

“
Forgive me, sir. I did
not mean to pry. But I am truly grieved for your loss,
nonetheless.”

Before Fulke could tender
thanks for her kindness she was thanking him for his assistance
with her clothing and hair and strolling away to the secret
trapdoor. Acting upon the hankering to have her again, he called
out, “Shall you come this night, when the castle sleeps?” She
ambled back to him. As one of her soft hands encircled one of his,
she rose on tiptoes and kissed him.

“
Yes,” she whispered
against his mouth. Then she was gone.

Staring at the trapdoor
concealed by the connected rush mat, Fulke considered why meeting
Adele had never produced such a sense of vertiginous like that
which currently saturated him to the core. Leaving the Norman manor
house in a kind of daze, he returned to his private quarters that
he might tidy himself for dinner.

To
avoid the pull Sir Fulke had upon her attention, Constance
blocked-out his presence there at the high table by focusing upon
her herring tart and trencher of mawmney as if it they were
scrumptious delicacies not enjoyed often. In the end, her goal was
achieved, for she was famished, having not eaten anything that
morning. When she finished, draining her tankard of hippocras to
its last drop, she stood. “Brother, I would excuse myself that I
might continue a project I have been working on.”

“
As you will, Constance,”
said Richard.

Grateful, she proffered
him and his wife a respectful curtsey, noting Sir Fulke’s glance in
her direction. Reading the ardor there in his eyes she essayed to
withdraw from the dais as gracefully as her quaking legs would
allow. Glad her servants were still at table she situated herself
in the window seat of her chamber and took up her
embroidery.

Having finalized the
marigold blooms that morning after her stint with Ermine and
Hawise, she rummaged amongst the things in her basket for the
thread she would use to create the next part of the scheme. Coming
across a skein of silk thread dyed brun, her mouth crescented. The
thread was the same shade as Sir Fulke’s hair and eyes. Fancying
that his sister’s coloring had been the same she threaded her
needle and began creating the letter she envisaged in the chosen
spot.

A while afterwards, Judith
came in and sat to assist her. At one point, the old woman craned
her neck to view Constance’s work, inquiring who it was for as the
letter being created was plainly not a “C.” “It is to be a gift,”
Constance confessed, her eyes never rising from her
task.