The Gauntlet Pt. 03

“Oh, have I?” he asked, playfully. “Then please tell me the real story of the dance.” They began the sequence again, moving together and apart, turning and stepping in rhythm.

“The man is obsessed with the wife of his friend,” she whispered so that only Jacques could hear her. They held hands, facing one another and moved in a loop. Jacques took her hand and walked around Marguerite, staring at her lustfully.

“He does everything he can to impress her,” she added as she watched him circling her. “Like a strutting peacock to woo his mate.”

“But, she has only thoughts and feelings for her husband,” she continued the story as she stepped apart and tipped her head.

“He becomes so desperate to have her, to kiss her, to bed her, that he grabs her forcefully and pulls her to him,” Marguerite said as Jacques acted in the same manner, drawing her body against his.

She stared up into his intense eyes, and slightly out of breath, finished, “But, she rejects his advances and excuses herself to return to her husband’s side.” She curtsied as the music concluded.

Marguerite smiled, pleased with herself. Jacques grinned and responded, “I liked my interpretation better.”

“I’m sure you do,” Marguerite replied. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must be back to my husband’s side. I thank you for the dance.” With that, Marguerite made her way back to Jean and kissed him on his cheek as she sat down next to him.

“Back so soon?” he asked. “Did you not enjoy the dance?”

“I did, but I am growing tired my love,” she explained. “Thank you for indulging me and my silly desires. I have danced enough for one day.”

Jean stood, swaying on his feet. He was clearly very drunk. Never before had Marguerite seen him indulge in wine so heartily. She stood and took his arm. “Shall we retire, my love,” she asked, concerned at his overindulgence.

“Yes, it is late, and we have the joust on the morrow,” Jean declared, though his words came out greatly slurred. He tried to take a step and nearly fell. Marguerite grabbed him and tried to hold him upright, but he was far too heavy for the petite woman to handle.

“Where is Crespin?” Jean asked. “I must thank him for such a sumptuous feast and a splendid good time.”

“He and the lady already retired to their chambers, looking ready to procreate another heir Marguerite explained as she struggled to help her husband walk. She was not having much luck.

Just then, Jacques le Gris appeared and took the other side of Jean, propping him upright. “Have too much to drink Jean?” he asked with a grin. “I haven’t seen you drunk since that time in Flanders when we were sixteen.”

Jean leaned his head towards the man, “Ahh, Le Gris! Have you met my beautiful wife, Marguerite?”

“Yes, Jean, I have,” Le Gris answered as he signaled one of his men from across the room. “Louvel, grab his other arm.”

A rough-looking man with dark eyes and three-days-growth of beard came quickly and took Jean’s right arm from Marguerite.

“I’ve got him, milady,” the man said as he put Jean’s arm over his shoulders.

“Are we going to joust now?” Jean asked, barely able to hold his head up.

“No, Jean, that is in the morning,” Jacques replied. “Though I’m not sure you’ll be able to sit a horse, old friend.”

“Nonsense! Put me in the saddle now, and I’ll show you. Give me a lance, squire!” Jean shouted.

“Maybe the rest of us will have a chance now that you’re too drunk to tilt, Jean,” Jacques added.

“Too drunk?” Jean scoffed. “I could beat you blindfolded, with one hand tied behind my back! You forget who taught you to joust!”

“You did,” Jacques replied. “I haven’t forgotten anything, Jean. We were like brothers.”

“Aye, brothers!” Jean repeated. “I never forget anything, either, brother!” Jean was practically shouting. He mumbled something about his wife and then seemed to pass out, hanging limply.

They arrived at the chambers provided to Jean and Marguerite for the night. Jacques and his man Adam Louvel carried the nearly comatose squire to the bed and lowered him down. Marguerite covered him with a fur blanket.

“Thank you both for helping get him here,” she said, “I’ve never seen him like this. I don’t know what got into him.”

“Let him sleep it off,” Jacques said as he and Louvel left the room. “We’ll be in the great hall, enjoying some warm, spiced wine. If you grow tired of Jean’s snores, join us.”

Marguerite looked at her husband, who had already begun snoring loudly. She smiled and declined the offer, “Thank you, but I will see you tomorrow for the joust. It’s been a long day for all of us.”

“Goodnight, then,” Jacques said with a bow as Marguerite closed the door. She crossed the room and sat next to the fire the servants had kindly prepared for them. As Marguerite stared into the flames, the sound of Jean’s snoring grew increasingly unpleasant. She knew she would not be able to sleep with that noise going on.

She worked hard to get her husband undressed but left him naked. She admired his body, covered in a myriad of scars. Some of them were faint, old lines from his youth, while others were newer, still red and angry. She knew he was a warrior, but as she saw his body, she wondered how many people he had killed.

Marguerite stared at his cock, lying limp against his thigh. As she touched it softly, it twitched, causing a warm stirring in her loins. The feeling was not unlike the fluttering she felt while dancing with Jacques le Gris or hearing him discussing the wild behavior of the Countess. She wondered if it were possible that women could feel pleasure from sex. She never had, but everyone seemed to think that it was normal to do so.

She thought about Le Gris’ words and how the Countess desired it so much that she needed two men to satisfy her. Marguerite could not imagine how a woman could be with two men at the same time. She thought about how it might even be physically possible.

As she tried to envision it, her hand caressed Jean’s cock. There were two places Jean liked to put it, one was the expected place, in her womb, but the other was her mouth. Then she realized, if Jean enjoyed putting his cock in both places, maybe a woman could have a man in each of them at the same time.

She felt the warm tingling between her legs growing stronger. She leaned down and took Jean’s semi-erect cock into her mouth. He groaned in his sleep. Uninvited thoughts began to creep into her mind. “What would it be like,” she wondered, as she sucked her husband’s cock, “if another man were to push his cock into me right now. Would I be like the Countess?”

As she thought about it, the warm tingling between her legs turned into a raging fire. She let out a soft moan at the thought and sucked more aggressively on Jean’s cock, which was becoming longer, harder, and thicker in her mouth.

She suddenly realized that she was damp between her legs and that the idea of having a cock inside her seemed logical, almost desirable. But if Jean was in her mouth, then whose cock would be invading her womb? Who would be fucking her, to use Jacques crude words?

As she thought about his comments, she had a mental image of him in her mind. Jacques knew how to share a woman with another man; he did it often. His words came back to her.

“The Countess has needs that cannot be satisfied by only one man,” Jacques had said to her. Marguerite wondered what needs those could be and how two men could satisfy them.

“You should come to Argentan or Paris. There is so much we could teach you,” She remembered him saying and the implied suggestion that if she came to court, they would introduce her to their sexual debauchery.

She suddenly had a vision of Jacques naked behind her, pushing his cock into her while she held Jean’s in her mouth. With a sudden start, Marguerite stopped what she was doing and jumped from the bed, ashamed at the thoughts she was having. She could not be with Jean and Jacques together! It was impossible.

Jean resumed his deep, sonorous snoring. Marguerite stood trembling, watching his cock lose its rigidity and slowly shrivel in size. She pulled the furs up around her husband and sat back down, alone by the fire, her hands still shaking, knowing she was too agitated to sleep. She needed something to get the traces of the vision from her mind.

Maybe a cup of mulled wine would help her relax.

Just one cup.

She watched her husband, listening to the slow cadence of his breathing for several more minutes.

“Just one cup,” she said aloud, then stood and left the room.

....

“You enjoy playing with fire, too much,” Adam Louvel told his master as he sipped his warm wine. “One day, a jealous husband is going to be the fire that burns you.”

“If it hasn’t happened by now, my friend, I don’t believe it will. Most men know their wives are unfaithful, but they turn a blind eye to the truth. They don’t want to know that their wives find better pleasure from me than from them. In fact, they should thank me. After their wives have been in my bed, they return home with a bag of new tricks. Their wives become better lovers because of me. Think of it as a service I am providing.”

Louvel laughed at the idea that adultery was a form of educational service. “There are many wives to choose from, Jacques. Why this one?” he asked. “You and De Carrouges seemed to mend your broken bridges today. Why risk reopening old wounds?”

“Do you have eyes in your head?” Le Gris asked his long-time man-at-arms.

“Of course, I do,” Louvel replied. “I can see she is beautiful, but you can have plenty of beautiful women without the risk that comes with this one. I sometimes think it’s the risk that excites you.”

“Of course it does,” Le Gris admitted, “but there is something special about this one. Marguerite is different. She is like a perfect flower that you want to pluck so that you alone can enjoy her fragrance and her beauty.”

“But surely her husband has already plucked that flower,” Louvel countered.

“I am sure that my old friend has bedded his bride, but I can see it in her eyes. She is not a virgin, but she’s never been properly plucked. There is so much I can teach her. I can help her experience the joys of pleasure, something Jean could never do.”

“You’ve already cuckolded him once,” Louvel stated. “Is it so important for you to do it again? Hasn’t the man suffered enough?”

“He killed them!” Le Gris snarled. “He has not begun to suffer.”

“You know that’s not true,” Lovel argued. “De Carrouges was a week’s ride away when his wife and son took ill. It was the plague what got them, not Jean de Carrouges.”

“Be that as it may,” Jacques replied, “I hold him responsible.”

“So you want to fuck his new wife for revenge?”

“No, it is nothing like that,” Jacques fired back. “This has nothing to do with the past. Marguerite is incredible. She is smart, beautiful, and witty. She would make me a far better wife than De Carrouges!”

“Wife! You’re already married, or did you forget that point?”

“I haven’t forgotten, but my wife is ill and weak. She cannot be long for this world.”

“And what? You’d take the lady Marguerite as your new wife once the current one kicks the bucket?”

“Yes.”

“And how do you propose to do that when she’s already married to Jean de Carrouges?”

“Marriages can be undone.”

“Are you mad?”

“Maybe I am, Louvel. Maybe I am. Mad or bewitched. I don’t know which. But, from the moment I saw her, I knew I had to have her. When we kissed, I could tell she felt it too. There’s something between us. We are destined to be together. She is Eurydice to my Orpheus.”

“Sorry, but I’m not well versed in Greek love stories,” Louvel said sarcastically, “but I’m pretty sure that’s a tragedy. Do you know what that means? It means it didn’t end well, and neither will this obsession.”

Movement across the room caught Louvel’s attention. “Speaking of Eurydice,” he said, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “She just walked in.”

Jacques turned, saw Marguerite, and started to stand.

“Don’t get up,” she said quietly. “Please, stay seated. I only came down to have one cup of spiced wine to help dull the sound of Jean’s snores.”

Adam Louvel rose to his feet anyway. “Thank you, milady, but I must be off. There was a plump cook who invited me to her bed, and I’m already late. Goodnight, lady Marguerite,” he said with a bow. Then he winked at Le Gris and added, “G’nite Orpheus.”

“Do I know you, sir?” Marguerite asked as Louvel turned to leave. “You seem very familiar to me.”

“Not exactly, my lady,” Louvel explained. “My name is Louvel, Adam Louvel. I have a small house in the village of Campomesnil. My wife is the seamstress. You came to her shop to order some dresses. I met you that day and have seen you around the village from time to time.”

“Oh, yes! I remember,” Marguerite said with a smile. “Please give my greetings to your wife and tell her that I am very pleased with her work. I’m wearing the dress she made for me now.”

“Yes, my lady,” he said with a bow, “Thank you.”

Marguerite was suspicious of this man, Louvel. It was not uncommon for noble families to spy on each other. She made a note to discuss this with Jean on the morrow.

“But, Mr. Louvel, why does a man in services to the Le Gris family reside in a village within the domain of De Carrouges. Does Squire Jacques not have a place for you in his own estates?”

“He does, my lady,” Louvel answered. “But, the little house at Campomesnil was given to my wife’s father, and we hate to give it up. She lives there and keeps her shop while I live wherever my master bids me go. I’m hardly ever home for more than a day or two, much to the dislike of my wife.”

Marguerite chuckled, “Oh, she wishes you were home more often?”

“On the contrary,” Louvel said with a grin, “she’d rather I was gone more.”

Louvel bowed again and exited, leaving Marguerite alone with Jacques.

“Did he just call you Orpheus?” she asked with a confused smile.

“Uhh, yes, he did,” Jacques said uncomfortably. “It’s an old story. It would bore you. Can I pour you a cup of wine? It’s very warm and soothing.”

“I would like that, yes, please,” Marguerite said as she sat down on the bench in front of the hearth. Jacques retrieved a clean cup and filled it with a ladleful of the mulled wine.

Marguerite held it between her hands to warm them, smelling the aromatic fragrance of the spices. “My father always made spiced wine before New Years. As children, we would stay up, and he would give us a cup, blended with cream.”

“I know your father,” Jacques said, speaking softly. “We fought side-by-side on more than one occasion. Unfortunately, we also lined up on opposite sides of the battlefield once.”

“You fought for King Jean?” she asked, then added, “Is that when you and my husband became squires to the former Count?”

“Yes, I had originally been part of Jean’s father’s household, but during the battle, we fought well, and the Count of Perche sought to reward us. He made Jean’s father the Captain of Bellême, and he took Jean and I as his squires. After that, we became as close as brothers.”

“So, is it true that you raped his first wife, Jeanne?” Marguerite asked, bluntly posing the question that had been bothering her for some time.

Jacques’ face darkened, though it was hard to tell in the dim light of the fire. “Is that what he told you?” Le Gris asked angrily.

Marguerite shrugged.

“Do you believe I am capable of raping a woman?” Jacques asked.

“I do not know you, but from what I’ve seen, I don’t believe that you would take by force what you would rather be given to you freely. I think you may have seduced her. As you said, the best seductions are of married women.”

“I would never force a woman to do anything she didn’t want to do,” Le Gris explained. “I want things to be pleasurable for both the man and the woman. Rape is so one-sided.”

“So, you believe that women receive as much pleasure from sexual congress as men?” Marguerite asked, doubting Jacques words.

“No, I do not,” he said. “I believe women are capable of having far more pleasure from making love than men are. Men typically only want one thing and don’t really care how they get it. Once they do get it, most men are satisfied and content to sleep. Women, on the other hand, can enjoy prolonged and frequent pleasures that take them to blissful heights of delight that men can never achieve.”

“And you have seen this blissfulness yourself?” Marguerite asked, feeling nervously excited.

“Of course,” he replied.

“With all of the women you seduce?” she asked.

“Undoubtedly.”

Marguerite’s breath was quickening. Her hands were trembling.

“And will you attempt to seduce me?” she asked, holding her breath as she awaited his answer.

“No, I will not,” Jacques replied.

....

Jean de Carrouges was in a darkened stone chamber that smelled of mold and dead things. The damp walls and floor amplified the cold in the room, which chilled Jean’s naked body to its core. He tried to move, but heavy chains secured him to large iron rings in the wall at each ankle and wrist.

He attempted to cry out, but his throat was dry, his lips parched. He could hear laughter in the distance, echoing off the stone walls of his prison. “You are a fool, Jean de Carrouges,” came the deathly voice of his first wife, Jeanne.

“Let me go!” He shouted. “I have done nothing wrong!”

Again the laughter came, louder and nearer this time. “She is with him!” cackled the voice.

“No! No, she is not!”

“You are a fool! You made her kiss him!”

Jean jerked at his chains in vain, trying desperately to free himself. “No! I have a plan! I wanted him to see what he cannot have!”

“Oh, he saw it! But, now you have woken the demon, and he lusts for her! Innocent Marguerite! Sweet, pure, Marguerite!”

“Don’t say her name, you whore!” Jean shouted at the shadows. “You do not deserve to speak her name!”

The cackling laughter cut into Jeans’ soul. “He will have her! You cannot stop it!”

...

Marguerite was surprised by Jacques answer. It left her relieved, yet also disappointed. She was happy to hear that he was not going to attempt to seduce her, but she wanted to know why. A part of her felt insulted. Wasn’t she attractive enough for him to want to bed?

“Why not? Am I not beautiful enough for you?”

“You mistake me, Marguerite. You are, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. But, I will not attempt to seduce you; I will seduce you. As surely as I must have air to live, I must have you. You will be mine.”

Marguerite stared at him in shock. She now realized how dangerous this man truly was. She stood. “I-I must go,” she stammered.

Jacques stood and closed the distance between them, taking her hands in his and looking down in her eyes. “I have to see you again. You have bedeviled me, and I cannot stand to be away from you.”

Marguerite tried to pull herself free. “Please, let me go. I need to go back to my husband.”

“Look in my eyes and tell me you do not feel it,” Jacques demanded.

“I do not feel it!” Marguerite declared.

“Look in my eyes and say that!” Jacques insisted, lifting her chin and meeting her gaze.

She stared at him for several long seconds, then whispered, “I cannot.”

“I was lost the moment your lips met mine. Why do you think your husband insisted that you kiss me? It was to torture me! To let me have but one taste and then deny me any more for the rest of my life. He wanted to rub it in my face and make me suffer, that he has you and I do not. I am cursed.”

“I must go,” Marguerite pleaded. “Please don’t make me do this.”

“Free me from this torment and give me one more taste of your lips so that I may grow old with the memory of them still in my mind.”

“I cannot,” Marguerite answered. “I love my husband. I will not betray him.”