November 1390, Herefordshire

Isabel la Badeau sat in the window embrasure of the de Grey estate in Herefordshire. She was watching the winter wind pelting the windows angrily. It was the sort of rain that came in on a diagonal and stung when it hit you. Isabel was glad that she was inside, out of the cold and in front of the fire. It was at times like these that she missed the arid Aquitanian heat and her homeland, but this was her home now, and there was no place she would rather be.

Three months after meeting Giles de Grey she set sail with him for England. It had caused controversy at first, when he landed in Dover, fresh from war and crusade, with a French mistress. Giles’ mother Joan had kicked off the most about the whole issue, pleading with her second born son to send his whore back to whichever French hovel she came from, but Giles persisted in keeping her and wouldn’t listen to anyone. More controversy had erupted when in May, nearly nine months after Isabel and Giles had first lain together, a daughter was born.

Giles had been in London serving the King and the ageing Duke of Lancaster for the last four months, leaving his mistress and his mother alone and far away on the De Grey estate. The two women did not get along- Joan was always very cold to Isabel and judging the young girl, seeing her as the reason for Giles’ unreasonable and difficult behaviour as of late. The birth of the baby had straightened things out between the two women and they tolerated and acknowledged each other, but it never went any further than that, and it never would.

The distant sound of dogs barking and the thunder of horse hooves made Isabel smile as she stood up and straightened her gown from where it had crumpled and creased against the stones from her sitting position in the embrasure. She had a quick look in the mirror to check her appearance. She pinched her cheeks to bring some colour to them and tucked a stray strand of auburn hair behind her ear. She wore her long hair piled up underneath a gold net that day, pearls sewn into the caul. Now that she was the official mistress of Sir Giles de Grey, this afforded her some power and influence, meagre though it was, but she wasn’t about to complain. It was a vast improvement on her prior living situation.

She had been reunited with her father the day after sleeping with her captor. Her father had been kept well enough whilst being imprisoned and had been ransomed off, back to the King of France, of whom he was now in lifelong debt to. Father and daughter had argued after the teary reunion. Isabel was angry at her father for betraying French secrets and personal secrets, while he was angry at her for going against his will and following him into danger.

He wanted her to go back home with him–Isabel refused, telling her father that she was going to England with her chevalier. He scoffed, condemned Isabel as a whore, cursed her and her knight, and was on his way. Isabel wished that things hadn’t ended so badly between her and her father, she still loved and cared for him, but he wanted nothing to do with her. It is what it is, she thought with a sigh, reciting the Plantagenet motto that Giles had told her of so often.

‘The Devil’s brood,’ he had often referred to them as, explaining to Isabel that the Plantagenet’s were known for their temper and the fact that they were prone to be unreasonable, but Isabel didn’t need to be told this, the Plantagenet temper was known of all over Europe.

Isabel smiled at her reflection in the mirror. Since the birth of her daughter her breasts were larger and rounder and her curves were more pronounced. She was more womanly and curvy, and she knew that Giles would appreciate this change in her body. He had left almost immediately after the birth of their child and he and Isabel hadn’t had much time to re-acquaint themselves. The longer he was away from her, the lonelier he became. His desire and need for her increased as each day passed and he looked forward to claiming her when he returned to Herefordshire.

Isabel left her chambers and ran down the stone stairs two at a time. She swept past the nursery, hastily grabbed her daughter from the nurse, and went to the keep to wait for her chevalier. She cradled her nearly six month old daughter to her chest, twirling a coppery curl around her middle finger. The child was so pretty and delicate to look at, so precious to behold. Isabel found it hard to believe sometimes that this perfect and delicate child had been created in such hasty and slightly awkward passions.

A few short moments later, Giles’ mother joined Isabel in the keep, awaiting the arrival of her son. The squire Roger Bowcott was the first to appear on the horizon, wearing the de Grey livery of red and white. Giles’ dogs Ajax and Cadmus followed on next, running well clear of the horses. And then Isabel saw Giles, sitting straight and proud on Onyx, his large black destrier. A jolt travelled throughout Isabel and she felt a warmth in her body. It had been so long since last she had seen Giles, let alone touched him and felt him.

Isabel watched as Giles and other members of his household rode into the keep. He jumped down confidently from his horse and strode over to the women. He greeted his mother evenly and perfunctorily, kissing her on each cheek. And then he laid eyes on Isabel. He took the two steps over to her, grabbed her by the waist and kissed her full on the lips.

‘Sweetheart,’ Giles breathed, looking deeply into Isabel’s light green eyes. The baby gurgled from in between the pair and Giles laughed. He plucked the child from Isabel and cradled her close, feeling the softness of her coppery curls and smelling her clean baby smell. ‘Is she well?’ he asked Isabel.

‘She is perfect,’ answered Isabel, smiling lovingly at her lover and baby daughter.

‘Of course she is,’ he replied. ‘She is my daughter.’ He then looked down at the child in his arms and smiled softly at the baby. He too was amazed that something so little and delicate could be born of such a night. ‘My Gisèle,’ he cooed into her coppery hair.

‘Shall we?’ Joan asked, motioning back into the house.

Giles, Isabel and Joan sat in the great dining hall, the fire blazing in the hearth, and warm, hearty food being served. Giles was ravenous and ate with gusto. The whole meal he had Gisèle in his lap, absently petting her and playing with her ringlets, one leg outstretched with Ajax at his feet, sniffing for scraps of food and bones. Cadmus was in front of the fire drying off. No one said anything, they ate quietly and every now and then Gisèle would break that silence with a gurgle or whimper.

‘How is the King?’ asked Joan after she had finished eating.

Giles took a deep draft of cider before answering. ‘He is well. Very well, in fact.’

‘And My Lord of Lancaster?’ Joan asked. She liked to keep up with the latest news from London and the court, having once frequented it and been a favourite of the old King Edward III and his Queen Philippa of Hainault.

Giles shrugged. ‘As can be expected of one who has had to give up his mistress for political expediency.’

John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster and uncle of King Richard had kept a mistress, Katherine Sywnford since the late 1360s. They had four children together and her official position within the Lancastrian household was that of governess to the Duke's two daughters from his first marriage to the Duchess Blanche, but everyone knew what was going on behind closed doors and it had soon become the talk of the country. John of Gaunt had been forced to give up his long-term mistress after the revolts and rebellions of the early 1380s.

‘After all these years he is still forlorn?’ Joan asked.

‘Yes,’ Giles replied. ‘And that disaster of a marriage to the Castilian woman has left him in a bad place, personally and politically.’ He took another deep swig of cider, draining his cup. He motioned to Roger Bowcott who duly refilled it. Giles leaned over and grabbed the leg of the chicken, pulling it clean off. He ate it enthusiastically. It had always amazed Joan how much food her sons were able to eat, yet they were never fat or portly because of it. Giles finished eating, cleaned his hands on the linen napkin and reached over and held Isabel’s hand, lacing his fingers through hers. ‘And how are you sweetheart?’ he asked.

‘I am well, thank you, Sir,’ she answered. She smiled at him, a desirous, secretive and knowing smile. Giles winked back at her, his passion and need for her growing. Joan flicked her faded blue gaze between the two of them and stood abruptly.

‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she said. ‘I must lie down.’ Giles turned his gaze away from Isabel for one short moment to acknowledge his mother, but he wasn’t paying attention to her. Joan furrowed her brow in anger and retreated to her chamber. She hated it when he showed any affection towards his whore, she found it awkward and the attentions undue, though that would soon be remedied when he married. Giles stood from his chair, taking Isabel and Gisèle with him, and, leading his mistress by the hand, he quickly left the hall, handing the child to the nurse on the way back to his bed.

As soon as the door was shut behind them, he pinned Isabel to the wall and kissed her passionately and hotly. It had been too long since he had last had her, and he was eager to pick back up where they left off. Isabel wrapped her arms around her lover and clung to him. He smelled of horses, rain and sandalwood, and to her it was the best smell in the world. They didn’t even have time to undress or take off each other’s clothing as Giles walked with Isabel to the bed.

She was on top of him, unlacing his breeches and breaking him free. She rubbed him up and down and all around with both her hands before kneeling astride him, lifting her skirts up and out of the way and sitting on him, taking him all in. They both let out loud moans on first contact. She moved herself up and down on him, throwing her head back and sighing. Giles thrusted up to her and grunted. It had been far too long. Isabel gyrated her hips, which Giles grabbed and drove himself into her deeper. Isabel leaned forward and ran her hands up Giles’ body until she was leaning over him. She kissed him forcefully, pushing her tongue into his mouth.

She moaned when he grabbed her hips and moved her up and down faster on him. Within a few short minutes Giles had reached his climax and thrusted up into her. He pulled himself out of her and kissed her forehead–both of them were spent from the few minutes of rigorous activity.

‘How long are you here for this time?’ Isabel asked, hating that she sounded petulant and sulky.

‘I’m here until the beginning of Twelve Days. I must return to court for the Yuletide celebrations and the New Year, but then I will return.’ Giles stood from the bed and started to re-adjust himself, lacing his breeches back up and combing his fingers through his dark blond hair, which he had recently had cut. His beard too had been clipped and was now neat and tidy, unlike when Isabel first met him in Aquitaine.

‘Must you go?’ asked Isabel, sitting up and watching him.

‘You know full well that one cannot refuse the invitation of a Prince, especially one who is as suspicious as our King,’ Giles retorted.

‘Why is he suspicious of you?’

‘He is suspicious of everyone, not just the de Grey’s. It is in his nature to be suspicious. He trusts no one, though he pretends differently to your face,’ mumbled Giles.

‘I do not like it when you are gone,’ she admitted. ‘I would very much like to be able to go with you everywhere.’

‘You know that is not possible,’ he snapped.

‘Why?’ Isabel demanded angrily. ‘Are you embarrassed of me? Your putain, your French whore?’

‘That is not true,’ Giles responded, raising his voice. ‘And you well know that.’

He noticed that when Isabel was angry or when she wanted something, her English got better. Her natural Southern French accent faded when she wanted to get her way.

This was something that perplexed Giles, but also greatly amused him. Isabel looked at him daggers, her green gaze cutting right through him.

She opened her mouth to speak but he interrupted her. ‘I want no more arguments on the matter,’ he said, holding up a hand to stop her from speaking. ‘You will not come to court with me. I need people to think that I am independent of you. And surely you are aware of the evil and scandalous slurs against the de Grey’s and against our family?’

‘Yes,’ Isabel mumbled. Of course, she knew about them. On her second week in England, she had ventured out with the cook girl Ida to the market, and while there Isabel was hyper aware of people staring at her and whispering behind their hands, watching her as if she were an animal in the Royal menagerie.

‘I would not want to open you up to them,’ Giles said. He strode over to her and kissed her on the head. ‘Now, my sweet, I must bid you adieu.’ He left the room, bellowing for his squire from down the corridor, leaving Isabel to ruminate on what he had said.

In the ensuing days, Giles was very attentive to his family’s needs, as well as the needs of the estate. Every morning he and Roger Bowcott rode out and hunted, filling the larder in no time at all. Each night Giles and Isabel made love. Sometimes it was slow and sensual and other times, depending if Giles and Isabel had fought and argued that day, it was quick and rough. It was always exciting between them, they pushed each other’s buttons in ways no one else had before, and the struggle for power between them was always interesting, but there was something that Giles was not telling Isabel. Something that he was keeping from her.

He wanted desperately to tell her, but he knew what her reaction would be. Ten years ago he would have laughed at the men who were scared of a woman’s reaction, but he wondered, as he approached middle age, if he had gone soft. He used to laugh at the men who were easily swayed by the whims of women. These men who let their women lead them around and told them what to do. How he had laughed and sniggered.

He realised one afternoon, when he sat in the nursery with his daughter asleep in his lap, that he was no longer the battle hardened soldier he had previously been. The crusader of his youth, the jousting hero, the tourney traveller and the master romancer, was long gone. He was dead. And yet Giles came to the conclusion that he was okay with that. He wasn’t the young spring buck anymore, he was the wise and powerful lion. With age came experience and knowledge, and a certain world-weariness and cynicism that was apt for decision making. This was something that the new men, these self-made men that the King chose to surround himself with, lacked.

Giles de Grey, second son of Sir William de Grey and Joan Burford, thought some more on his present issue, as he held his sleeping six month old, illegitimate daughter in his arms. What if he didn’t have to tell Isabel? What if he could keep this from her? He’d have to move Isabel and the baby from the estate and keep them somewhere else. Somewhere that was out of the way, but still close to him. The house in Guildford, he decided.

He could keep Isabel and the baby at the house in Guildford. It was close to London, being less than a day’s ride away, and she would be kept well there with a few servants and maids to keep her company, and of course she could travel and go hunting often, visit the market place and see the sights. And whenever he was in London, he could ride the short distance to see her and be with her.

Yes, he thought as his plan was starting to take shape, this is good. His mistress didn’t have to know about his upcoming nuptials, and his new wife didn’t have to know about his mistress and his bastard child. The two could be kept separate from each other. Isabel didn’t have to know about his new wife and his new wife didn’t have to know about Isabel. It was that easy. Except he knew that it wouldn’t be as easy as in his plans. Isabel was far too cunning and astute, and his new wife, this Hobbes girl that he was supposed to marry, well he disliked her.

The snows had just started to set in and the winter wind was blowing bitter cold. Isabel had just finished in the nursery with her daughter, setting Gisèle down to sleep for the night. Isabel liked to watch her daughter asleep in the cradle, marvelling at the little fingers balled up into a tiny fist, watching the rise and fall of her chest, listening to her sleepy sighs and whimpers and watching Gisèle to make sure that she was okay. Isabel thanked the nurse and returned to Giles’ chamber, where she found him sitting in front of the fire, cup of wine in hand, deep in thought.

She walked up behind him and draped her hands across his chest, resting her head next to his. Giles smelled Isabel’s sweet scent and felt the warmth of her skin next to him, her soft hands rubbing his chest. He would hate to lose her. He would hate it if she was lost to him. And he knew that if he kept his impending marriage a secret from her, then she would be lost to him. He had to tell her.

Giles sighed angrily and pinched the corner of his eyes with his fore-finger and thumb. ‘I must marry.’

Isabel was silent, frozen on the spot. She did not know what to say or do. ‘What?’ she finally demanded, withdrawing herself from around him, standing up straight.

‘I must,’ he said. ‘I have no choice. It was arranged a few years back, but then I was stationed in Aquitaine and circumstances changed. But now it seems that her family are tired of waiting and I must marry her. Since returning I have tried to put it off but I can no longer delay. I must marry, Isabel,’ he said.

‘You have no choice? Of course, you have a choice!’ she retorted.

‘This has been arranged for years, I have always known that I must marry her.’

‘And you brought me back here to England in the full knowledge that I could be nothing more to you than your putain?’

Giles stood up from his seat and glowered at Isabel. ‘What did you expect?’ he asked. ‘I am in my thirty-fourth year, I am not getting any younger. I have played at war and being a soldier, I have conquered the jousting field and the tourney circuit. Now it seems I must play at marriage and being a husband. I need children, Isabel, heirs to inherit when I am gone.’

‘How dare you,’ she yelled. ‘How dare you do this to me. Don’t you know who I am? Isabel la Badeau, daughter of Andre-Phillipe, the nephew of the Bishop of Poitou.’

‘And don’t you know that I can drag you down as quickly as I raised you!’ Giles raged in return. Isabel looked at him, hot, angry tears welling in her light green eyes. In a flash, he had closed the space between them and he took her in his arms, enveloping her and kissing her gently yet roughly at the same time. He forced his tongue in her mouth and she fought it at first, but then surrendered to her English chevalier.

She was enclosed in his warmth, the smell of sandalwood, winter and horses filling her nostrils. She kissed him in return, tears wetting her cheeks and her sobs rising in her throat. She started tugging on his shirt where it was tucked into his breeches, starting first with the back, then pulling it out at the front. Giles pulled the shirt up over his head and threw it absently away. Isabel ran her hands over his chest, feeling the light covering of dark gold hair underneath her fingertips. She ran her fingertips over his nipples and they hardened instantly.

Giles put his hands in Isabel’s hair and started pulling the pins out, watching as the thick auburn plain tumbled down her back. He grabbed her by the waist and kissed her once more, passion and excitement building between them. That was one thing their relationship never lacked; excitement. Things were never dull between the French girl and the English knight.

In a flash, Giles had untied the laces of Isabel’s gown and she stood there before him in just her chemise. He lifted her up and took her the few short steps to the bed, where he dropped her roughly and suddenly onto the softness below. He was angry at her for yelling at him and questioning his authority, yet at the same time he felt a softness and tenderness towards her that hadn’t fully been there earlier. He kicked his boots off, unlaced his breeches and joined her on the bed, leaning over and kissing her, his tongue in her mouth.

Isabel la Badeau felt down the body of her lover until she reached her target. She wrapped her small hands around his bigness and started moving them up and down. Sometimes were strokes were fast and confident, and other times she slowed it down and teased him. Giles moaned and swore under his breath as Isabel milked him. The whole time her light green eyes never left his blue. Their daughter Gisèle had inherited Giles’ blue eyes, but where his tended towards a stormier grey colour, hers were a clearer, true blue.

Giles groaned as Isabel rubbed him and in one confident move he had picked her up and flipped her over so that she was on her belly. She tried to fight him, protesting at his manoeuvre, but he overpowered her. Giles held her there, his knees pressed into the back of hers. He entered slowly, with a sort of tenderness that belied the roughness of their position and his treatment of her. He held Isabel to him, his chest on her back and his head next to her ear. Her soft auburn hair was tickling his chin and cheek as he took short thrusts inside her. He held her just underneath her breasts, and he felt them moving up and down against his arm in time with his measured thrusts.

Despite her protests about being taken in such a manner, Isabel was soon sighing and moaning, though she hated herself for responding to Giles in that way. She tried to fight again, but he held her there, steady in place as he quietly thrusted away at her with determination. Every now and then she would hear his breathing increase and he would groan under his breath, but those were the only signs of his passions. She knew why he was having her such a manner as this. He wanted to show her that he was the boss. That he was in control, not her. She had humiliated him by arguing and contradicting him, and now he was getting his revenge. This was his way of showing her that he had the power, not her.

He was the one who had bought her back from France. He was the one who had raised her up to what she now was. His ardour for her, and the fact that he was so enamoured of her, was the only reason she was here. Her whole lifestyle was his doing. She owed him everything. She was totally and utterly at his mercy, and she loved it, though she was trying to fight it. Her fighting and protests were only serving to turn him on more as he increased the speed and thrusted into her with renewed energy and zeal. He raised his chest off her back, leaned back slightly and held her by the hips, moving her back and forth on him. They both cried out in pleasure.

His right hand grabbed at her breasts, pinching the nipples. Isabel cried out, feeling both pleasure and pain. He did this again and Isabel moaned. When he pinched her nipples a third time she reached her peak, an orgasm washing through her body. This set Giles off and they finished at the same time. He withdrew from her and flopped down on the bed, his head hitting the pillow hard. His was panting from the exertion, completely spent. Isabel went to speak and Giles shushed her.

‘No more will be spoken of on this matter,’ he said, knowing that she still had fight left in her, and that she would continue to argue with him and berate him on the matter of his marriage to the Hobbes girl. ‘Understand?’ he demanded. ‘I want no more arguments, Isabel. No more.’

Author’s Note: Check out the first part to this story, La prisonnièr Francais. The third installment will be published soon. Chevalier is the French word for gallant or knight and putain is whore. Also, any person approaching the age or past the age of thirty-five was considered middle-aged. My other stories are, the Jeff and Brianne series, Lesbifriends, Lesbinaughty, The Holiday, Revenge Affair, Another Revenge Affair, Our Little Secret, Love Nest, Paradise Lost & Found, Misfit Love, After-hours Antics, The Bachelor Party, Mrs Malcolm and Just What I Needed.