February 1391, Guildford
‘Have you met her? This Hobbes girl?’ Isabel asked. She and Hamon were sitting in the great hall in front of the fire breaking their fast together. Sir Giles was still abed, after the previous night’s excesses. Normally Isabel or his squire Roger would have woken him up, but this morning she let him sleep. The travelling troubadour Jace was playing a tune on his lute and filling the hall with music.
‘I have,’ Hamon answered, dropping a grape into his mouth.
‘What is she like? Is she pretty?’
Hamon’s initial silence on the matter while he considered her question was of some comfort to Isabel. ‘She is a typical Saxon girl,’ he finally said. ‘Heavy-set and built robustly. Her face is slightly wide, but she’s not unattractive. Bit heavy in the top decks for my taste though.’
‘Will she be a good wife for him?’ asked Isabel.
‘Mademoiselle, I don’t know why you torment yourself like this. Clearly you have still not reconciled yourself to the situation.’
Isabel sighed and played with the bread on her plate. Pulling a chunk off the small loaf and rolling it between her fingers until she had a ball. ‘I am not reconciled to the situation,’ she admitted. ‘But like your brother said, I must shut my eyes and endure.’ That comment had stung Isabel when Giles had said that to her. And in that moment she disliked him intensely, but that had soon faded, as all her hate and dislike towards him did. She couldn’t stay angry at him. Not for very long anyway.
‘Mon cher,’ Hamon said, leaning forward in his seat and grabbing Isabel’s hand across the table, causing her to stop rolling the ball of bread between her thumb and fore-finger and cast Hamon a bemused look. ‘I believe my brother loves you. Aye, I cannot think it otherwise, but this Hobbes girl, she is just his wife, nothing more. Giles is loyal, which means he will do his duty to her and her family, but other than that there is nothing between them.’
Hamon rubbed the skin on her hand and Isabel looked down at their inter-locked hands and then up at Hamon. She narrowed her eyes in close scrutiny and tried to figure him out. Hamon retracted his hand and leaned back in his seat, one leg crossed casually over the other. He was smiling his confident de Grey grin. The grin that was charming, confident, wolfish and dangerous all at the same time.
‘Act not so scandalised little sister,’ Hamon said, still smiling irreverently. ‘You are not my type.’ Hamon stood up, planted a kiss on Isabel’s auburn head and left the hall laughing, a full, mocking cackle.
Sir Giles was still in bed as it was nearing the middle of the day. Isabel went upstairs to his chamber and saw him lying on his back, blinking, trying to adjust his vision to the light in the room. The embers in the hearth were still softly glowing, but the room had cooled down considerably and she guessed that no wood had been put on the fire in a while.
She went and sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her lover. His eyes were blood-shot and his skin was sallow. She smiled ruefully and pushed the dark gold hair back off his forehead. Giles groaned in response and Isabel kissed her fingertips and pressed them to his lips. She then stood, opened the chest at the end of the bed and removed items of clothing from within, setting the shirt, breeches, surcoat and cape on the bed. She walked over to the hearth, threw a sizeable log in the embers and watched as slowly, slowly, smoke curled up from the log. It hissed and cracked and then burst into bright orange and yellow flames, heating the room.
When Isabel turned around from watching the hearth she saw that Giles was sitting up in bed. He was nude but apparently susceptible to the February cold. He was leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on his thighs and his head in his hands.
Isabel started walking over to him, and as she did she said ‘I want to be more to you than just your putain.’
Giles exhaled loudly, the frustration very clear. ‘This again,’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘I have explained this to you already. I cannot marry you. I am betrothed to Eleanor Hobbes, the wedding is next week.’
‘I know you cannot marry me,’ Isabel said. ‘You tell me often enough. I want you to trust me,’ she said.
Giles looked up at her, his head leaving his hands. ‘What?’ he questioned, confused.
‘I want you to trust me,’ she repeated.
‘Have you met her? This Hobbes girl?’ Isabel asked. She and Hamon were sitting in the great hall in front of the fire breaking their fast together. Sir Giles was still abed, after the previous night’s excesses. Normally Isabel or his squire Roger would have woken him up, but this morning she let him sleep. The travelling troubadour Jace was playing a tune on his lute and filling the hall with music.
‘I have,’ Hamon answered, dropping a grape into his mouth.
‘What is she like? Is she pretty?’
Hamon’s initial silence on the matter while he considered her question was of some comfort to Isabel. ‘She is a typical Saxon girl,’ he finally said. ‘Heavy-set and built robustly. Her face is slightly wide, but she’s not unattractive. Bit heavy in the top decks for my taste though.’
‘Will she be a good wife for him?’ asked Isabel.
‘Mademoiselle, I don’t know why you torment yourself like this. Clearly you have still not reconciled yourself to the situation.’
Isabel sighed and played with the bread on her plate. Pulling a chunk off the small loaf and rolling it between her fingers until she had a ball. ‘I am not reconciled to the situation,’ she admitted. ‘But like your brother said, I must shut my eyes and endure.’ That comment had stung Isabel when Giles had said that to her. And in that moment she disliked him intensely, but that had soon faded, as all her hate and dislike towards him did. She couldn’t stay angry at him. Not for very long anyway.
‘Mon cher,’ Hamon said, leaning forward in his seat and grabbing Isabel’s hand across the table, causing her to stop rolling the ball of bread between her thumb and fore-finger and cast Hamon a bemused look. ‘I believe my brother loves you. Aye, I cannot think it otherwise, but this Hobbes girl, she is just his wife, nothing more. Giles is loyal, which means he will do his duty to her and her family, but other than that there is nothing between them.’
Hamon rubbed the skin on her hand and Isabel looked down at their inter-locked hands and then up at Hamon. She narrowed her eyes in close scrutiny and tried to figure him out. Hamon retracted his hand and leaned back in his seat, one leg crossed casually over the other. He was smiling his confident de Grey grin. The grin that was charming, confident, wolfish and dangerous all at the same time.
‘Act not so scandalised little sister,’ Hamon said, still smiling irreverently. ‘You are not my type.’ Hamon stood up, planted a kiss on Isabel’s auburn head and left the hall laughing, a full, mocking cackle.
Sir Giles was still in bed as it was nearing the middle of the day. Isabel went upstairs to his chamber and saw him lying on his back, blinking, trying to adjust his vision to the light in the room. The embers in the hearth were still softly glowing, but the room had cooled down considerably and she guessed that no wood had been put on the fire in a while.
She went and sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her lover. His eyes were blood-shot and his skin was sallow. She smiled ruefully and pushed the dark gold hair back off his forehead. Giles groaned in response and Isabel kissed her fingertips and pressed them to his lips. She then stood, opened the chest at the end of the bed and removed items of clothing from within, setting the shirt, breeches, surcoat and cape on the bed. She walked over to the hearth, threw a sizeable log in the embers and watched as slowly, slowly, smoke curled up from the log. It hissed and cracked and then burst into bright orange and yellow flames, heating the room.
When Isabel turned around from watching the hearth she saw that Giles was sitting up in bed. He was nude but apparently susceptible to the February cold. He was leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on his thighs and his head in his hands.
Isabel started walking over to him, and as she did she said ‘I want to be more to you than just your putain.’
Giles exhaled loudly, the frustration very clear. ‘This again,’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘I have explained this to you already. I cannot marry you. I am betrothed to Eleanor Hobbes, the wedding is next week.’
‘I know you cannot marry me,’ Isabel said. ‘You tell me often enough. I want you to trust me,’ she said.
Giles looked up at her, his head leaving his hands. ‘What?’ he questioned, confused.
‘I want you to trust me,’ she repeated.
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‘I do trust you.’
Isabel shook her head as she stopped near to him. ‘No you don’t. I am just your mistress, your maîtresse en titre. That is all. I want to be more to you, I want to be your friend, your confidante; someone you can turn to when you are sad or upset or angry. I want you to talk to me, but instead you keep it all hidden inside you.’
‘Surely the fact that I gave you the title of maîtresse en titre implies trust?’ Giles questioned. ‘No one else has ever had that title. No one else has ever been that to me.’
‘But you don’t trust me. You don’t tell me about your family or about your boyhood, I only get a few details from you every now and then. We never talk, we never have proper conversations. It is like I am strictly a business to you,’ she replied.
‘I do trust you,’ Giles said. Isabel shook her head at Giles. She got on her knees in front of him, parted his thighs slightly, shuffled closer and held him in her hand. He started to harden the instant she grabbed him, gently moving her hand up and down his shaft. She lowered her head and flicked her tongue over the tip of him. Giles moaned loudly as she did this. Giles moved his hands away from his thighs and held them in the air, his mouth forming an ‘O’ shape in surprise and pleasure at what Isabel la Badeau was doing to him.
She held him at the base, her tongue circling around the head of him. She felt him go harder still and smiled to herself as she elicited all sorts of different moans and groans from him. She sucked on him, first the head, then more of him, taking him further into her warm mouth. Giles leaned back slightly on the bed, which caused him to go deeper into Isabel’s mouth. He moaned again.
Where did she learn this? He thought. She was an ingénue when we met. He moaned and breathed out loudly as she moved her head back and forth on him, her tongue rubbing his underside. Giles reminded himself that she was never innocent. She may have been a virgin but she was never innocent. He moaned again as she managed to take him further in her mouth. She nearly had his full length in her mouth, her hands wrapped around his waist to hold herself steady.
Isabel was finding it difficult to breathe so she backed off, pulling him out of her mouth. She didn’t look up at him; she found that she couldn’t. She took a few deep breaths, in and out, in and out and then returned to her task. She licked all the way around him, trailing her tongue down to the base and then back up again. She flicked her tongue over the tip, dipping it in the little slit. Giles bucked his hips, forcing it in her mouth. She sucked him, slowly taking him further into her mouth.
Giles leaned back a bit more, placed his hands on the back of her head and slowly thrust into her mouth. He heard Isabel suppress a gag, which served to turn him on even more. Isabel found that she didn’t need to move her head. With Giles holding her there as he thrust into her mouth, he was doing all the work. She grabbed his balls and massaged them, rubbing them. Giles moaned loudly, trying to push himself deeper down her throat. He finished when he heard her gag and choke. He came straight down her throat, his breathing increasing and his moaning becoming louder still.
Isabel let him slip from her mouth as she swallowed what he had given her. She looked at the floor as she did this. She couldn’t give him eye contact. She stood up and turned around, facing away from him. She heard him dress quickly and then leave the room, bellowing for his squire. It was then that she remembered what an older cousin had told her back in Aquitaine.
‘There are two ways to keep the interest of a man,’ her cousin had said. ‘With a brilliant mind, or with brilliant skills. Some women have brilliant minds and keep their men thinking. Other women have brilliant skills and keep their men wanting more. Some women are lucky and possess both, while others possess none. You have to figure out what is your advantage in this man’s world.’
Isabel smiled to herself. It seems she had just figured out what she possessed.
Author’s Note: Ingénue means innocent. The next part will be posted soon and it will be longer than this part. La prisonnier Francais, Maîtresse en titre, and Maîtresse en titre dans l’amour precede this chapter. Check out my other stories, 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, Just What I Needed and Study Break.
