The Gauntlet Pt. 03

La Ferté-Macé

France, 1384

Fortunately for Jean and Marguerite, the weather had been good the past several days; the roads were dry, and they made decent time. The trip from their home to the castle La Ferté-Macé had only taken a few hours Marguerite had eschewed a carriage and instead road on horseback next to her husband.

Jean was melancholy for most of the trip, hardly speaking to his wife. She had tried to engage him in conversation, asking him an almost never-ending litany of questions. Jean gave short, curt, and basic answers, choosing not to elaborate or get drawn into any lengthy discussion. After a while, Marguerite gave up and rode the rest of the way in silence.

The couple meandered through the French countryside until it crested a hill and the castle came into view. It was not the largest nor the most prestigious castle they had seen, barely more than a hilltop motte and bailey. However, the gate was sturdy, and the main keep seemed well-built with thick walls. As they entered through the open gate, a stableboy took their horses’ leads and secured their bags.

“My lord Crespin and his lady are in the Great Hall with their guests,” the stableboy explained. “I will see to your horses and have your bags taken to your chambers. Lord Crespin has given over the tower room for you and your lady, my lord.”

The merry sound of music playing inside the keep was quite clear.

“Have the festivities already begun?” asked Marguerite.

“Aye, my lady. Lord Crespin has opened the hall, and there are many guests already present.”

Jean shrugged and responded, “Then we shall join your master and his guests at once.” He took Marguerite’s arm and led her through the heavy oak doors into the Great Hall. The large, open room was filled with people, all milling about and talking in clusters. Tables and benches occupied the far side of the room, laid out in rows, but the center of the hall, where most of the attendees assembled, was without furnishings.

A wooden staircase rose upon the opposite wall, leading to a projecting balcony where a group of minstrels sat playing their instruments, filling the room with happy music fit for a celebration. As they passed into the room, a man who recognized Jean bowed low in greeting. “Welcome, my lord. Our master has been anxiously awaiting your arrival. May I announce you?”

Jean bowed politely in response and replied, “Of course. Please, do so.”

The man smiled, then raised a massive spear from the rack next to the door and hammered its butt onto the stone floor with a resounding boom. “My lords and ladies, the honorable Jean de Carrouges. Esquire, and his wife, the lady Marguerite!” he shouted, as many heads turned to look at the new arrivals.

An odd hush seemed to descend on the room as Jean and Marguerite stepped forward. All eyes seemed to be on them. Marguerite trembled nervously, unaccustomed to being the focus of so much attention. Jean held onto her arm and guided her forward confidently, proud to be married to the most beautiful woman there.

A man separated himself from the crowd and approached Jean and his wife. Jean immediately recognized his host and smiled, extending his hand in a warm greeting.

“Jean!” The man said, nearly shouting, “Welcome to my home!” He embraced Jean, then turned to his wife exuberantly. “And you must be Marguerite! Your beauty is renowned throughout all of France.” He took Marguerite’s hand and kissed it affectionately. “I am Jean Crespin; I am enchanted to meet you, my dear.”

Marguerite blushed slightly and smiled back at her host, replying, “Thank you, my lord, I am pleased to be here. And where is the lady Crespin?”

“She is in the nursery with our son,” he explained. “She will join us once he has had his fill of milk.”

Jean observed that many people were staring at him and whispering among themselves. Something unusual was going on. He noticed that they were also looking toward the far end of the room. Jean followed their stares and felt a sharp stab in his chest when he saw at whom they were staring.

“Le Gris is here?” Jean asked, suddenly. Crespin nodded nervously, confirming Jeans’ question.

“Yes,” he answered. “He arrived this morning. I had no idea he was coming, I assure you.”

Marguerite stiffened and looked around, trying to spot the man. “Where is he?” she asked.

It was as if the people in the room realized that the two men felt no love for each other and were afraid that violence could erupt at any moment. Slowly, the center of the hall thinned out as the crowds parted, leaving a gap between Jean and his rival.

That’s when Marguerite saw him for the first time. He was much taller and better looking than she had expected. She had formed a mental image of a monster or demon, having heard her husband disparage the man for years. Yet, the man she saw across the room appeared noble, distinguished, and handsome.

Crespin was speaking, but she was so preoccupied with seeing Jacques le Gris that she only heard the last part of what he said, “There won’t be any trouble, will there?”

“That depends on him,” Jean replied.

Marguerite pulled on Jean’s arm as she saw her husband’s hated rival approaching. Jacques le Gris swept across the room and stopped directly in front of Jean. The two men faced off and stared at each other, while Marguerite held her breath. Everyone watched, unsure if the two men would come to blows. The story of their mutual hatred was apparently well known.

Several uncomfortable moments passed, as the two men stood face-to-face, like a pair of rams preparing to lunge forward. Then, most unexpectedly, Jacques smiled and extended his right hand, greeting his former friend, “De Carrouges.”

Jean grinned back, shook the larger man’s hand, and replied, “Le Gris.” Suddenly, it was as if years of ice had shattered and fallen away. The two men shook hands vigorously, then pulled each other into a bear hug, laughing jovially. Whatever anger they had felt before that day seemed to evaporate.

“Jacques,” Jean said as he turned to indicate his wife with a sweep of his hand, “May I introduce Marguerite, my wife.”

Shocked that her husband appeared to be so cheerful, Marguerite stepped closer and extended her hand. Jacques stared at her in a way that left her feeling exposed, then raised her hand and gently kissed it.

“I am enchanted, my lady,” Jacques said as he held onto her hand longer than was appropriate.

Before she could reply, Jean scolded her, “Marguerite, that is no way to greet my dear friend Jacques le Gris. Give him a kiss!”

Marguerite’s head snapped to her husband. Her face betrayed her emotions. She wondered how her husband could ask her to kiss the man who had caused him so much hardship and grief over the years? Jean nodded slightly. She knew her role and did as she was instructed, turning back to face Le Gris. Marguerite offered her cheek, but her husband interjected, “A proper kiss, woman!”

Blushing profusely, Marguerite faced Le Gris, who by now was suppressing a laugh. Being so much taller than her, he had to lean down quite a bit. Marguerite lifted up, onto her toes. She could smell him long before his lips touched hers. His was a strong and manly scent. She felt a slight shudder pass through her body when their lips finally brushed each other.

For a moment, Marguerite lost her focus, forgetting where she was and what she was doing. She froze, reveling in the soft feel of his lips and the warmth of his body, until Jacques stepped back, breaking contact. She opened her eyes only to see Le Gris wink at her.

For the next few hours, Jean and Marguerite were the stars of the party. Everyone wanted to meet the beautiful young wife of the heir to the Carrouges name. As this was the first time for Marguerite to be in a social setting, it was the first time for many of the people to make her acquaintance.

It seemed the Crespin family was tightly tied to the Carrouges line, with an alliance going back to the Viking days. Many of the attendees at the festivities were related to one or the other families. Apart from Jacques le Gris, no one else from the court at Argentan was present.

When the feast began, Jean escorted Marguerite to their seats next to Squire Crespin and his wife, Eleanore, who had finally made her own belated appearance. Eleanore was a large woman, who looked as if she might have stepped out of the pages of the old Norse sagas. She was as tall as Marguerite’s husband, and nearly as broad, with large breasts, wide hips, and long blonde hair, braided into a pony-tail that reached the backs of her thighs.

To Marguerite’s initial discomfort, she found Jacques le Gris seated to her right, squeezing her between her husband and him. Jean spent most of his conversation with Crespin, discussing the war with England and reminiscing over battles they had fought together. Marguerite ate in silence until she could stand it no longer.

Taking a sip of her wine, Marguerite turned toward Jacques and asked, “So, where is your wife, my lord? I don’t believe I’ve seen her with you.”

“Unfortunately, she was not well enough to make the trip here from our estate at Aunou-le Faucon,” Jacques explained. When he mentioned the name of the fertile lands that had once belonged to her father, she bristled.

She leaned closer to Jacques and whispered, “Best not to mention that place too loudly around my good husband. I am afraid not receiving it from my father still vexes him.”

“Yes, well,” Jacques said, looking past Marguerite to make sure Jean wasn’t listening. “Firstly, call me Jacques, please. Secondly, I won’t mention it to him if you don’t.” He winked again, causing Marguerite to smile.

She had yet to see horns grow out of this charming man’s head nor a tail sprout from his ass. “I’m sorry that your wife is unwell,” Marguerite began. “Please give her my regards. I will light a candle for her tonight.” She hesitated then, and went on, “You know, you don’t seem anything like the person I was expecting.”

Jacques laughed. “I’m not surprised. Were you expecting an ogre? I’m sure Jean has not been very complimentary of me since you married.”

“In truth, he never described your appearance to me,” she explained. “However, I had pictured you somewhat older, feminine, and more foppish.”

“Foppish?” Jacques asked with a chuckle. “What gave you that impression?”

“Just from the things Jean has told me and your reputation,” Marguerite tried to explain.

“My reputation?” he asked bemused.

“Yes, that.”

“And what is my reputation?” he asked, staring at the young wife as he sipped his wine.

“You are known as a bit of a rake,” Margueritte offered.

“A rake?” Jacques laughed.

“Yes, you know, a bit of a womanizer, a raconteur,” she explained, starting to feel the effects of drinking more wine than at any other time in her life.

“Yes, I know what a rake is,” Jacques said with a smile. “But, if I am such a rake, why were expecting someone more feminine?”

Marguerite blushed again and waited for Jacques to refill her wine glass. Taking another sip, she explained, “Well, the other rumor I’ve heard is that you enjoy the company of both men and women and that you attend to Count Pierre nightly in his bedchambers after everyone else has retired.”

At that, Marguerite noticed the veins on Jacques’ neck pulsing strongly as they stood out more pronounced and a red flush spread across his face.

“Is that what you’ve heard?” he asked, lips tense and eyes squinting, “From your husband, no doubt?”

“No, actually, I was told stories by one of my maidservants, Penny, who used to serve in Argentan,” Marguerite corrected him. “She knows you quite well, to hear her talk. She is the one who told me about your nightly visits to the Count’s bed.”

“Ahhh, yes, Penny,” Jacques responded. “I had heard she was now serving your household. But, I’m afraid I must confess. I only enjoy the company of women. While it is true that Count Pierre does summon me nightly to his private chambers, it is to discuss private matters and to do things he is unable to accomplish on his own.”

“Like what kinds of things?”

“Pleasure his wife,” Jaques responded with absolute confidence.

The young woman stared at Jacques le Gris with her mouth hanging open in disbelief.

“You pleasure the Count’s wife? Where is the Count while you do this?” she asked. She noticed her heart was beating a bit faster than before.

“Oh, he is usually there, either taking turns or sharing her with me,” Le Gris admitted. He seemed utterly at ease with the things he revealed as if they were perfectly normal.

“You see, the Countess is quite a lusty woman with strong needs that cannot be fulfilled by only one man. So, to ensure that she does not find other lovers to satisfy her, the Count uses me to help keep her satiated.

“Don’t look so shocked,” Jacques whispered. “The French are not like us Normans, especially royals and those who live in Paris. They are much more open about the joys of the flesh than we are. To them, making love is an art. You should come to Argentan, or better yet, Paris. There is much you can learn, with the right teacher.”

Marguerite was speechless. Jacques le Gris repulsed her. However, she also felt a strange, inexplicable attraction to him. The acts he described were so out of the normal for her, so exotic, to be beyond comprehension. The pleasures of the flesh were something to share only with your spouse, Marguerite believed.

Furthermore, pleasure was something only the husband experienced. The woman’s role was to please her husband and to serve as a vessel for breeding his children. She had heard other girls gossiping about how the act brought them passion and ecstasy, but these were things that Marguerite had never truly experienced. Her lovemaking with Jean revolved around doing things to arouse him enough so that he could successfully penetrate her and spill his seed in her womb. It was often uncomfortable, if not painful, and she was glad it ended quickly. While she loved her husband dearly, she could not understand why a woman would want to prolong sexual congress or do so with more than one man.

She was about to ask more, but their conversation was interrupted by the Master of Dance who shouted, “My lords and ladies, come, let us rejoice and celebrate the birth of our Lord’s son and heir with dance!”

Marguerite turned excitedly to her husband. “Jean!” she shouted, “a dance! Can we please?” He nodded, rose to his feet, and escorted her to the area that had been cleared for dancing.

“I noticed that you and Jacques seemed to be having quite the conversation,” Jean said as he guided his wife into position. He faced her and bowed deeply.

Marguerite blushed, and looked down, demurely as she curtsied in response. She took Jean’s hand and turned to the side as they strode forward in rhythm to the music. “He is an odd fellow,” she replied. “I suppose that comes from living among the courtiers and royals.”

“Bootlickers and buffoons is more like it,” Jean replied in disgust. “I cannot stomach court, Marguerite. Put me on a horse with a sword in my hand and point me at the enemy. I’m a warrior, not a politician. I’m no good at negotiation and diplomacy. Burning down a castle is the best diplomacy I know.”

“I could be of assistance to you,” Marguerite said as she turned to face him, their hands clasped together briefly, before turning to walk around him in a circle. “You could send me to Argentan, and I could handle all of the unpleasant duties of interacting with the courtiers. Many wives have roles at court.”

“I’d sooner drop you into a pit of vipers than leave you at court, surrounded by scoundrels and ne’ er-do-wells,” Jean told her, effectively shooting down her fantasy of courtly life.

The song ended, and Jean bowed again, kissing his wife’s hand. “Come, let’s sit back down. I need a bit more wine. Dancing is hard work.”

“But, we only danced to one song,” Marguerite protested. “Can we please dance more, Jean? I never get to dance at home.”

Jean shook his head and was about to agree, when he saw Jacques standing off to the side, watching them.

“Le Gris! Good man!” shouted Jean, “Come and show my wife some of what it is to be a lady at court!”

Jacques approached apprehensively, his mind on the conversation he had just had with Marguerite about courtly life. “What’s that, old man?”

“Dance with my wife,” Jean explained more carefully. “She wants to dance, and I’ve had enough. Why don’t you show her how you dance with the ladies at Argentan?”

“It would be my honor,” Jacques replied as he took Marguerite’s hand from Jean. “My lady, may I have the privilege of dancing with you?”

Marguerite seemed unsure of what she should do. She looked at her husband, considering if this were some test of her loyalty. Jean smiled and waved his arms, “Go on woman,” he said. “You want to dance, and Le Gris is one of the best dancers in France.”

Marguerite nodded and accepted Jacques request. Jean returned to his seat and sipped his wine, pretending not to be concerned about what his wife was doing and with whom. However, his eyes hardly left her as he observed every motion she made, and every look on her face.

“Are you drunk or have you taken leave of your senses?” came a voice to Jean’s left. He turned to see the face of Eleanore, the lady of the house.

“I am as sober as a priest on the Sabbath and have all of my senses working,” Jean said politely. “Why do you ask?”

“You’re allowing the most infamous of scoundrels to dance with your wife.”

Jean chuckled, still observing his wife. “When a wolf is after the hens, it is best to keep the wolf in plain sight,” Jean explained to the concerned lady of the castle.

“But, is it wise to place your prize hen in the wolf’s mouth as you watch him in plain sight?” she asked in response.

“Don’t worry, my lady,” Jean assured her. “I know exactly what I am doing. Campaigns are made up of several skirmishes and a few major battles. I have not lost yet.”

The woman turned to watch Marguerite dancing with Jacques, then returned her gaze to Jean, studying his countenance. “I am thankful that you and my husband are friends,” she said after a moment of contemplation. “I would be terrified if you were enemies.”

“You are an intelligent woman,” Jean replied with a smirk.

...

“Did you know,” Jacques began, whispering softly to Marguerite as they danced, speaking each time she drew close enough to hear him, “this dance tells a story?”

Marguerite grinned as she looked up into the tall man’s eyes, “Oh, does it? What kind of story?”

Jacques leaned in closely, “It is a story of seduction,” As they drew together, he raised her hand, “The would-be lover pursues the lady, obsessed with her beauty and charm.”

Marguerite turned and took two steps away. “The lady is tempted, but steadfast in her loyalty to her husband,” he continued.

Marguerite raised her eyebrows. “The lady is married?” she asked.

“Of course,” Jacques replied. “The best seductions involve a married woman.” He circled Marguerite slowly.

“He stalks the woman, showing her the desire he feels for her,” he continued. “The temptation for her grows stronger, and she steps closer, longing to feel her suitor’s lips against hers.”

His words reminded Marguerite of their kiss earlier, and she felt a warm stirring inside her body. She knew she was blushing and looked away.

“She steps back and tries to resist her growing curiosity,” Jacques added as the couple stepped apart. He reached out, and she placed her hands in his.

“But, she feels the desire growing inside her, and she can no longer deny it,” he said as he pulled Marguerite firmly to him, her breasts brushing his muscular chest. She gasped softly.

“And she gives in to his seduction,” Le Gris concluded.

Marguerite was so distracted that she missed the next beat, moving after everyone else. As they bowed and squared off to face one another again, the dance began to repeat. She shook her head to clear her thoughts, then replied, “I think you have misunderstood the story.”