The Witch's Trail Ch. 03

Woolen clouds jostled and shoved above the path that led away from Mont Clare. Scattered spears of sunlight broke through gloriously and faded, playing tag with the squalls of rain that squabbled their way to the hidden horizon.

Luc's own spirit mirrored the land. One moment illuminated, full of the determination to do what was Right, the next battered by the conflicting demands of seduction and duty... And a growing suspicion that he had those labels applied incorrectly.

The road to the Cathedral was two days' march with Tonerre plodding beside him, though with a reasonably-well maintained path, the going was not difficult. Luc passed fields of brilliant flowers that exploded into butterflies at the sound of a cough and high-waving fields of wheat, through deep woods where bandits watched and waited for better prey. If not for the turmoil that yet boiled within him it would have been serene, but the woods and wild places were, he somehow knew, all hers, and even in prayer her face intruded on his thoughts.

The second afternoon, on the final stretch to the cathedral, Luc stopped at one of the many roadside shrines that had been erected for pilgrims touring the church's holy sites. He knelt at the scrap-made wooden cross in its tiny shrine and spoke the words he had been taught, but serenity did not come. It was only when he noticed the creepers that wended in under the rafters and the green sprouts pushing up through the floor that he felt the echo of holiness in the space.

Luc's arrival at the church came that evening as the great bronze bells rang for vespers and the westering sun cast his shadow far before him. Sparing a glance at the pilgrims hurrying to the service in the cathedral's vaulting central nave, Luc instead circled to its rear, where the library hid in the cathedral's shadow. He hitched Tonerre at a freshly filled trough and spent some time working the burrs from the beast's short coat before presenting himself.

The half-dozing porter at the library's entrance was leaning far back on the legs of the stool he'd been given, shoulders pressed against the wall. He half-opened one eye, likely to see which novice had been sent to fetch a tome by his master, and the legs of his stool snapped down on the flagstones at the sight of a knight.

"You-" he began in a sputter that threatened to grow into bluster.

"I am on a holy mission, sir, charged by the Bishop himself. I require the knowledge within this library. Will you bar my way?"

Luc, who in the past two days had spoken only to his horse, felt he was being rather clever for a young knight who got no respect, having carefully planned his words during his travel. He was stating only facts (and carefully not mentioning that this particular clue was given by his quarry) and he held the Porter's eye to show his trustworthiness.

He did not hear how the dust of the road and the days of silence had added gravel to his voice, nor think of how the stag's blood had stained his shirt and leather trousers. He did not, in short, think of himself as looking or sounding like a hard-bitten killer of men. Indeed he was hard-pressed to hide his own surprise at how the porter blanched and babbled permission to do whatever he wanted before slipping away..

Luc shrugged and passed into the library. A small sign on the librarian's desk informed anyone interested that the librarian would return tomorrow at Lauds. With a sigh the young knight began to search the stacks for any sign of his prize.

A candle's span passed fruitlessly. High windows did little to help when the sun set on the other side of the cathedral and dusk fell swiftly. Luc was straining to make out a title in the last fading light when a voice startled him.

"Pardon, good sir, but might we be of aid?" Luc spun, hand flying to the hilt of his sword before he remembered where he was. Chagrined, he grimaced as he examined the two figures before him.

Dressed in the monochrome habits of the nunnery, they were, from what he could tell in the dim light, quite lovely young women. Long-lashed eyes in pale faces looked up at him. A curl of bright red hair had escaped the wimple of the speaker to lay across her forehead.

"My apologies, sisters, but I did not hear your approach. I am Sir Luc, questor of the church. May I know you?"

"I do so hope," said the one on the left and demurely raised one hand to her mouth to cover her giggle. The other gave a playful slap to her arm and a mock-reproachful look.

"I am Sister Charity, and this is Sister Mercy. We know of you, of course- a noble knight dispatched from these very grounds! You have been the talk of the cathedral, sir knight." Luc's brow furrowed.

"But that is of no moment, sir knight," Mercy picked up smoothly. "What has drawn you to our humble library?" As Mercy spoke, Charity slipped around and to Luc's back. Soft fingers fiddled with the clasp of the dusty road cloak that covered his shoulders. Luc glanced back, but Charity only nodded back to her Sister.

"I... I am seeking the Chronicle of Saint Cuthbert. I believe that its seventh volume contains knowledge that I require for my quest." The cloak slipped off his back, the clasp giving in at last, and Charity folded it in her arms.

"We know this library well, good sir knight, and the Chronicle is no mystery. Please, sir, you are still stained with the dust of the road! Pray allow Mercy to tend you as I fetch your book." Without waiting for a reply, she nodded once to her companion and departed into the stacks.

Mercy placed the cloak on a side table and seated Luc on a bench that sat beside it. A candle burned on the table's center, cheerfully banishing the gathering gloom.

"There is no need for armor here, good sir," she said. Fingers pulled at the rawhide thongs that secured Luc's mail shirt and he allowed himself to relax; after so long on the road, even that pressure on his shoulders was enough to draw out a deep sigh. Knowing its cumbersome weight, Luc pulled the mail up over his head and placed it in a slithering pile on the table.

"Such rigors you have endured, sir," Mercy cooed in his ears as her hands pressed down into Luc's shoulders and began working out the knots there. A deeper groan was drawn from Luc's throat.

The release of tension left a bone weariness in its stead. Luc stared at the candle before him, unable to think of what else he should possibly be doing. The candle grew in his sight and the shifts of flame in the library's draughts became a dance, a figure in the fire's heart swaying to the fire's unheard song.

Luc drifted sleepily to the tune of the unheard song, lulled by the Sister's hands. He scarcely noticed as she left off, lolling drunkenly on the bench, until she reappeared under the table and those soft hands set to unfastening his breeches.

Even distant as his thoughts seemed to be, this was clearly something that should not be. Luc's eyebrows drew together and he opened his mouth to speak. Before he made a sound, pale arms placed a book on the table before him and a softness pressed the back of his head.

"Hush, good sir knight," came Charity's voice. The book released, her pale arms rose up to cradle his head between what Luc realized were her unclothed breasts.

"Allow us to comfort you," she said from above as the breech tie finally succumbed to Mercy's insistent fingers. Luc's manhood sprung forth and was taken into the warmth of Mercy's mouth before he could think of any further protest. As the breeches had succumbed, so too did Luc, allowing himself to be held and to flick his tongue across the tiny nub of Charity's nipple. She let out a girlish giggle and let his head loose, moving to his side to bring her lips to his. His hand roaming the softness of hip and buttock confirmed that she wore not a stitch of cloth.

Mercy sped up gradually, her wimpled head bobbing in Luc's lap, before pulling away entirely with a languid look up through lidded eyes. She slipped lithely up to the side opposite Charity.

"I would not steal the chance to comfort you from my dear Sister," she murmured as Charity slid one slim thigh over Luc and lowered herself her down, lips locked to his throughout.

A whimper buzzed between their pressed lips as she took him within her, slowly, patiently. Mercy's lips and teeth nipped at his neck and Luc's hands were at Charity's hips, urging her into a rhythm. She sped up obediently, pulling her head back and and locking her fierce gaze onto Luc's own.

She rode him fiercely and when they both shuddered to orgasm it was with Mercy urging them on, yes, faster, yes!

Charity wrapped herself tightly around Luc, pressing her cheek to his chest, keeping him held within her. Heart rates slowed, sweat cooled and dried and in the flickering light of the candle, horror descended.

"What have I done," murmured Luc, raising his hands from the nun still wrapped around him to his face. "I have broken your most sacred vows." Charity's soft hands pulled his hands from his face and the movement from enough to pull his now-soft member free of her.

"Worry not, sir knight," she said brightly. "Yours is a sacred quest, and the Bishop himself has given us indulgences for this very purpose, and a suspension of our vows."

"Did you not find comfort with us, good sir?" Purred Mercy from his shoulder. "Such is the gift of the mother church, that you may taste of that which is otherwise forbidden. Such is virtue," she finished with a kiss to his neck. The Knight's thick hands closed around Charity's waist and he lifted her to stand beside him. Pausing only to close his breeches once more, he stood to face the pair.

"Your vows are not the Bishop's to suspend, for you did not make them to him, but to God," he said sternly, cheeks burning with the awareness of his own hypocrisy. "We must pray, each of us, for forgiveness." Puzzlement looked back at him.

"But there was no trespass," Charity said. "The Bishop-"

"Go!" Luc roared and the nuns fled, not stopping to gather back up their clothing. As quickly as it had arisen, the fury fled and the shame burned back. Luc slumped back on the bench, shoulders slumped, and it took several heartbeats for him to realize that he was staring at the very book he had sought.

Energized once more, he began to pore over the passage the witch had indicated. That excitement swiftly faded as he realized that it was not any great secret, but the dullest of histories. It dealt with the founding of Mont Clare and the church's claim upon it, a story Luc had never heard and doubted concerned anyone overmuch. All the same, he pored through it to learn what he could and found himself taken in by the tale, however dryly told.

According to the book, the founder of Mont Clare, a Monsieur Farrier, had been travelling the woods in search of suitable vineyards. He had found lands that would be simply ideal, but to his misfortune, he had also been found by the pack of wolves who already claimed the land as their own. It was, depending on your point of view, either blind luck or divine intervention which guided his panicked flight to the only refuge for miles around: the Church of Father Jacques.

Jacques himself had sworn to follow the path of the saints in preaching to the wild beasts of the land several years prior. His wandering had taken him to the lands that would one day be Mont Clare, and there he had labored to build his church.

Over the three years, it had grown from a rough wooden lean-to that obligated him to sleep in a tree to something on the nicer end of what could be termed a shack, complete with door. A door which opened in response to the frantic cries of Monsieur Farrier and then swiftly shut on the wolves that dogged his heels.

The pair of them set their backs to the door, given its lack of handle or lock, and in the shared saving of a life was a lifelong bond formed. Jacques aided in the clearing of land to establish the first of the vineyards and in turn their prosperity drew the flock that Jacques had never known he needed.

Over the following decades the men and the newborn village flourished. In time, both men were at the ends of their given spans and as tends to be the case with old men, their thoughts went to the future. By then, the ragged church had been much improved, growing as the fields and houses did, and the Father was a man of near-equal authority to the founder.

To ensure harmony in future, an oath was made, signed and sealed: so long as the church that had saved Monsieur Farrier's life still stood, no man could be seated as its Lord without the consent of the parish priest, and to ensure that the power was not abused, no man of the cloth could ever hold that position.

Luc closed the book thoughtfully. There was something of import here, he was sure of it, but what he could not say. Seeing no further need for it, he picked the book up and carried it into the now-dark maze of the shelves.

Only after he had made two turns among the shelves did two things occur: first, that he had no idea where the nun had found the book, much less any way of finding it in the dark. Second, that he was no long alone in the library, as footsteps heralded the approach of two hooded and robed figures carrying lanterns. Instinctively Luc stilled himself, clutching the book to his chest as though afraid it would be taken.

"And where in every hell has he gone?" Snapped a voice with snide authority. A master berating his underling, Luc thought at once.

"No doubt off with the Sisters, your grace. Was that not their purpose?" Wheedled the other.

"He had best be bright enough to understand it," the other voice replied, with a begrudgingly mollified grumble. "I'll not see coin squandered on that wretched shack to maintain a pittance of tithes."

"No, Your Grace," the underling agreed. "But there will be no need once we've the boy in place. Most brilliant of you, master."

The pair had continued as they spoke and the voices faded into incomprehensibility down the hallway.

Your Grace, thought Luc. The Bishop, then. At least, he thought, he was being manipulated by the very best people.

And it is with a head swirling with thoughts of treachery and betrayal, dear readers, that we leave Luc to resume his journey, little left certain save loyal Tonerre. Watch him as he stalks his way through the darkened passages of the library and away, leaving the cathedral as a thief in the night. Come morning, he will be miles away, and the rising sun at his back will see him off between the rolling green hills along the path away from the Cathedral and back to Mont Clare.

For the next two days he will be doing exactly that, travelling, and thus we conclude the third week of this tale. We draw close to a conclusion, now, and Luc is conversing most animatedly with his horse in his attempts to figure out just who is manipulating who and to what end. Perhaps by the fourth and final week of his tale he will have figured it out.

Until then, dear readers, filthy dreams to you all.

-SLH