The Princess of Cleves #09

The Prince was afraid that if he stopped touching the Chevalier, he would regret his decision. While he knew what he did betrayed both his marriage vows and God's law, he could not stop, he did not wish to stop. With the Chevalier's bare flesh pressed against him, all thoughts flew from his mind. He was aware of the Chevalier's sex pressed against his anus, the dew seeping from it lubricating its head. They gazed into each other's eyes as the Chevalier worked himself inside the Prince. Every time the Prince winced in pain, the Chevalier covered his face with kisses and asked him if his wished to stop.

The Prince would shake his head, and stroke the Chevalier's buttocks until he again began to move. They made love clasping one another, the Prince sighing like a maid. Even as it hurt, there was a thrill of pleasure beneath the pain. He reached down to grasp himself in the space between their bodies, and the Chevalier pulled his hand away.

"You will make me come too soon Prince if you touch yourself."

The Prince smiled and began to rub the Chevalier's anus.

"That is not any better." The Chevalier took the Prince's hands and held them over his head. He kissed the Prince's throat as he stretched the Prince's body out beneath him. Pressing the Prince into the bed, he took him. He could feel the Prince clutching his sex as he approached orgasm. As the Prince came, the Chevalier kissed him, and unable to resist any longer, spilt his seed inside the Prince.

After, he saw a flicker of worry on the Prince's face, and moment of doubt. He took the Prince's hand, and the Prince gave a contented sigh. That emotion the Chevalier wished to see in his eyes was there, though the Prince tried to hide it. The Chevalier told himself he would only hold the Prince until he fell asleep, but he could not bring himself to leave.

The Prince found a peace in his dreams that he had never known before.

The Chevalier slept lightly. He kept waking to touch the Prince, to pull the blankets around his shoulders.

* * * *

France would make peace with Spain the old fashioned way, with a marriage. The Duke of Alva was coming to Paris to marry Lady Elisa as the King's plenipotentiary. It had taken much work to convince the young woman to accept this match, as she had been promised the young Spanish Prince for a husband. The King thought of nothing but how to show the splendor of his court. He declared ballets and comedies too dull, and announced a tourney. The peasants and bourgeois would come and cheer. There would be jousting, and combat on both horseback and foot.

Henry II declared the Marechal, the Chevalier, the Duke, and himself to be the four champions. It was proclaimed that on the 15th of June the King and his champions would hold their tourney against all challengers.

A field was set up near in the shade of the Bastille, and the men did nothing but ride and fight in front of the ladies. With the women arrayed by the fences, the King showed his new horses in the ring. Half tamed, they stomped and tossed their manes. The King and Duke choose most fiery and high mettled of the horses for their mounts. The beasts locked eyes across the lists, and began to charge. Fearing to injure the King, the Duke yanked at the reins, and crashed his horse into the fence. The Duke was thrown and knocked against a wall.

The whole company rushed to the Duke thinking him dead. He woke to a host of faces peering down at him. The Duke's bleary eyes focused on the countenance of Rosalind. The shock and tears painted on those pretty features betrayed her love. He almost swooned again as he realized her coldness toward him was a mask for her affection. Instead, he lay on the ground, stunned. Rosalind knelt by his side with Princess Mary and her other ladies. While they tried to revive him by chafing his limbs and sprinkling him with spirits, he felt a small hand close around his.

The Chevalier watched Rosalind; he saw how pale she was and how she trembled. If the entire court had not been focused on the wounded Duke, they too would have noticed the effects of his tumble had on her. His heart clenched in his chest. She had betrayed him, and betrayed her husband. Even worse, the Duke knew Rosalind loved him. All the man needed to do was open his eyes and focus a little on those blanched features, and he would find all the words of love written in its lines.

The Chevalier lingered at the back of the crowd. He could not help but notice how the Duke's crooked smile sparkled as he thanked the ladies for their concern. So, in an unguarded moment, in front of the entire court, Rosalind had confessed her love. The King rushed to help the Duke to his feet, and ordered him to rest.

Rosalind walked past the Chevalier, her face still pale, and she became flustered as he took her arm. "I believe it is I and your husband who have been truly wounded today," he said.

"What does that mean?" the Princess asked. She tried to pull away from the Chevalier, but he would not release her, and to continue to struggle would have caused a scene.

"Pardon me if I speak freely and show you how my heart grieves at what my eyes have seen. You love neither me nor the Prince, and that I could bear knowing there was none for whom your heart quickened." The Chevalier's voice became choked as he spoke. "Now I see that you do love, but not as you should. My own wound I can bear, but that you have delivered to another what belongs to your husband is..."

Rosalind turned and pushed him against the wall. He was surprised by the force of her hands. Her eyes were wild and her mouth tight. "Do you think I want to be in love with the Duke? Do you think I am insensible to how deserving my husband is of my affections and that I withhold them by choice?" She closed her eyes and a tear fell from them.

The Chevalier was overwhelmed with guilt, and his face flushed red. "I am sorry to have upset you."

She sighed. "Please, do not tell my husband. If he must be told, I wish to do it myself. I can only hope that the Duke did not notice."

"I am afraid that there is little chance of that Rosalind. He looked very happy for a man just fallen from a horse." He placed his hand over hers. "Would you like me to take you to the Marechal? I believe I saw him trailing after the King."

Rosalind looked at him from below her long eyelashes, and the Chevalier remembered why he had fallen in love with her. It wasn't her frozen heart, but the sweet innocence and sincerity that venal acts could never mar, the gloss of rose scented air above the filth of Paris. "Yes please," she said, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. The Marechal was puzzled, but he took Rosalind for their accustomed walk with its traditional banter.

The Duke lingered in front of his glass, admiring his winning smile as he arranged his hair and choose his jewelry. The entire court could not help but notice the change that came over him, his gay air and ready laugh. Everyone again gathered around him to listen to his discourse. Rosalind looked on from the outskirts of the crowd, chewing her lip. The Duke saw her, her carefully composed features, her eyes that would not meet his. Before he thought she found him repugnant, but now he knew her coldness was only a token of her love.

Lignerol did not know whether to rejoice or despair. The Duke was happy, he was eating, but his passion only burned hotter. He no longer neglected Lignerol as his tenderness spilled over. While he dressed the Duke in the morning, he would reach out to tease Lignerol, tweaking his buttocks and pinching his thighs. Sometimes he would become too excited, and he would bend Lignerol over the bed and take him. Lignerol would lay there, sighing into his pillow.