August 1389, Aquitaine

It was a hot, arid summer’s evening as Sir Giles de Grey sat in front of the open window, the hot and stuffy southern French heat drifting in. My God, does it ever rain here ? He thought. He slicked his shoulder-length dark blond hair back off his sweaty brow and took a deep drag of sweet Malmsey wine that they had brought over from England.

Campaign season was coming to an end and he and his troops had successfully taken Montignac. His men were off celebrating, drinking until they were blind drunk and sleeping with whores. If he were a younger, more foolish man, Giles would gladly have joined them, but not tonight. Château de Montignac was under his jurisdiction, now he was just awaiting news from the King of England to see what he should do next. More than likely he’d be posted here for the rest of the year, which didn’t entirely bother him though he was eager to get back home to Herefordshire and see how his estate was and check that everything was running smoothly.

The Welsh were always crossing the border and raiding his hereditary lands. Every year in the middle of winter when it was raining, wet and cold, the Welsh would harry his people, pillaging and raping along the way. How he longed to be back home in England. He missed the familiarity of the landscape and the scenery, he missed the smell of the damp earth after it had rained, he missed the plain English food and he missed his family. He even missed the Welsh raiders. As a child, it had always been exciting as he and his father and older brother had ridden out across the farmland and fields to quash the Welsh raiders.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts and his squire Roger Bowcott was standing there, a satisfied grin on his face of someone in the know, the air around the person next to him thick with hate. Giles de Grey stood slowly, stretching his muscular limbs, groaning slightly as he did so. He approached Roger and nodded at him.

‘She tried escaping again,’ Roger said to his master.

Giles smirked. ‘Did she?’ he asked.

Roger nodded. Of course, she did , Giles thought. He could already tell that this girl was going to be trouble, whether or not she was worth it would be shortly proven. She kept her head lowered, not looking at either of the men. ‘Thank you Master Bowcott,’ Giles said, gesturing with a flick of the hand for his squire to leave. Roger looked between his master and the girl before leaving, trying to figure out the situation. She was wearing a plain, thin linen shift, a drastic change from her earlier apparel of men’s wear.

When he first came across the girl they had not long taken Montignac. A slight skirmish had broken out not far from where he and his men had gathered, victory in their eyes and triumph in their hearts. Giles rode his big, black destrier over to where the fighting was and saw that his men had broken the fighting up. To the left was a middle-aged French man, who three of Giles’ troops were holding back. A second French gentleman was next to the first, also being held back. To the right of him, a young and slight man was being held back, kicking and fighting and causing a great fuss.

‘Separate them,’ Giles said to his men. ‘They may have information and we can’t have them conspiring.’

The two French men to the left were being dragged away by Giles’ men and the younger boy started fussing again.

‘ Papa! Non,’ exclaimed the young man. Except it wasn’t a man, the voice was too high and distinctly feminine. Giles cast his men an odd look and slid confidently off his horse, approaching the androgynous being. He stood in front of the person and looked them up and down. Too slight and delicate to be a man , he thought, his suspicions being confirmed. He pulled the hat off the person’s head and two thick auburn plaits tumbled down her back. Some of Giles’ men gasped, other’s hooted and hollered and made ribald suggestions.

Slowly the girl lifted her eyes from the ground and she stared at him defiantly and proudly, her pale green gaze clear and alert. She challenged him with her light green eyes, daring him to do his worst.

‘Take her back to the Château ,’ he commanded. ‘Give her food and drink and then question her. She is not to be interfered with in any way. She is my prisoner now, we may be able to get a good price for her.’

That was several hours ago, and now the girl stood in his chambers, wearing a near threadbare linen shift, her face bruised slightly, dirt marks all over her arms and legs, interrupting the pristine milkiness of her fair skin.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked in English. He knew that she understood English. Earlier in the day, she had spat at one of his men when they made a vulgar and bawdy suggestion to her. Now she was choosing to ignore him. Giles smirked, amused by her. ‘ Quel est votre nom ? What is your name?’ he repeated the question, becoming impatient.

The girl was silent for a while, sulking, but then she spoke. ‘ Isabel la Badeau .’

‘ Isabel la Badeau,’ he repeated, scratching idly at his gold beard. She wasn’t of peasant birth at least. The name la Badeau was a noble one, which meant that her price had just increased. Giles gently lifted her chin and she stared at him with her ever alert clear green gaze, her eyes filled with pride and determination. She was not ashamed of her behaviour. Still defiant as ever, he thought with wry amusement.

He noted that she was pretty, in a subtle, almost challenging way. Her skin was fair though it had undertones of a natural gold to it from the Southern French summer sun. Across her nose and cheeks was a pale smattering of freckles. Her clear light green gaze was bold and proud and her dark brows had a natural arch to them that mirrored the defiance in her eyes. Her nose had a straight bridge but at the tip was upturned slightly, and her lips were a little on the thin side, but still very kissable , he thought. This thought caught him off-guard and he quickly cast it aside.

Her defiance and pride could certainly be a hindrance to any prospective buyers, but once she warms the bed of a man she’ll learn the natural order of things and be a perfectly obedient wife . Giles finished appraising her, figuring out a price for her, and then he stood back.

‘Where is my papa?’ she asked her English heavy with her natural Southern French accent.

‘He is with us,’ Giles responded. ‘Worry not, he will be kept well enough for someone befitting his rank. I would ask how you managed with your previous captors, but that bruise on your face tells me everything.’

‘I want to see my papa,’ she demanded.

Giles shook his head. ‘No demoiselle, you may not see him.’

‘What will you do to him?’ she asked.

‘Someone will pay to have him released. Eventually,’ he added, dragging the word out.

‘What about me?’ she asked.

Giles cocked a confident and mocking half-smile. ‘I’ll get a ransom for you. Your father may pay to have you back, though going from what he tells us it is only you and him left of your family, so you may be sold to someone in marriage, or join an English household as a serving girl or handmaiden perhaps.’

‘My papa told?’ she asked, shocked and appalled.

‘ Oui, he’s not as loyal to his family as you are, or to France to that matter. He betrayed many a secret.’

‘You mean you beat it out of him?’ she questioned, her anger rising.

‘We didn’t lay a finger on him. It seems that your father cracks under pressure easily. Those are always my favourite types,’ Giles laughed, a deep mocking laugh.

 Isabel glared at him with her liquid green gaze. ‘ Vous êtes le diable ,’ she hissed.

‘You think I am the devil?’ he asked, amused. His amusement angered her, and the angrier she got the more amused he was. He put his hands behind his back, holding them at the wrist, pacing back and forth in front of her. ‘I’ve been called worse,’ he considered. He ceased stalking back and forth and smiled at her, a wicked, devilish smile.

He called his squire Roger Bowcott back into the room, and as he was speaking to him, Giles’ steely blue gaze never left hers. ‘Sleep in the hall with the rest of the squires and hearth knights,’ Giles said to Roger. ‘She sleeps in here with me tonight. We can’t have her escaping again.’

The night for Isabel la Badeau was a long one as she tossed and turned in the uncomfortable heat and the small pellet that was her bed. How could her father betray her? And France? So much for family sticking together , she thought with contempt. And her current captor, he was a brute who seemed to get a kick out of her misfortune. He was laughing at her, mocking her ill fate. She hated him. She had to get out of here. She didn’t want to be sold off in marriage or forced into servitude. But she had to bide her time and get on his good side, she had to build up trust with this man, this Sir Giles de Grey though he was no gallant, chivalrous knight. He was a brute. He was the devil. Le diable Anglais. The English devil.

When Giles arose in the early morning, he looked over at the pellet bed on the floor in front of the hearth. She was still there, she hadn’t tried to escape, at least not yet. He was a soldier, a man of war, he had perfected the art of deep sleep yet was still able to hear noise and movements in the night. He had been expecting her to try and escape again during the night, and if she did he was prepared. But she hadn’t. Normally with captives and prisoners it comforted him but with her, it made him suspicious. Apart from her clear pride and defiance, she was hard to read, and Giles was a man who knew people. Usually within the first few minutes of meeting people, Giles had them all figured out.

She’s a girl , he thought, how much trouble can she be ? He got up and went to the small table in the corner, where there was a bowl of water and a plate of food there which his squire had left for him. He cupped his hands and splashed his face with the cool water. It was early in the morning but already it was hot and sticky. The weather here reminded him of his time spent in Antioch when he was a young tourney knight on crusade. He had spent eighteen months in Antioch, practising his chivalry and honing his fighting skills. He wanted to forge his name with the greats, like his fathers before him.

Giles picked up the short knife that was on the pewter plate, picked up the apple, cut it in half and bit into the crisp, sweet flesh of the fruit. He was ravenous. He looked over to the pellet and the lump of a person moved slightly. He strode to the hearth and nudged the mass with his foot. The lump moved and the girl slowly sat up in bed. Her auburn hair was wild and untamed, her face puffy with sleep. She saw the knife in his hands and her eyes widened in alarm.

‘Believe me,’ Giles sneered. ‘If I wanted to harm you I would have done it by now. Get up,’ he nudged her again with his foot. Isabel rose from the small pellet bed and stood there in the same dirty linen shift from the night before. Giles noticed that her nipples were two firm little points pressing against the fabric. He was more aroused by this than he would care to admit. He stared at her chest for a few moments and then tore his gaze away and noticed that Isabel was blushing. He took another bite of the chunk of apple and then threw the rest to Isabel, which she caught yet made no move to eat.

Giles smirked and walked over to his bed where one of his shirts lay. He threw it at Isabel. ‘Wear this,’ he said. ‘Until I find you some proper clothing.’ Isabel caught the shirt, unfurled it and then slipped it over her head. It was too big for her but it covered her up and gave her back her modesty. He walked back over to Isabel and took her face in his hands. ‘The bruise on your cheek has gone down. There’s a slight mark but it’s not anything too bad.’

‘Can I see my papa today?’ she asked. Giles shook his head in response and stood back away from her a bit. Her clear green eyes lit up with fury. Giles smiled to himself. He pulled his nightshirt up over his head, standing in front of her fully naked. Isabel averted her gaze and looked away from him. He walked naked back to the table where the bowl of water was and tipped it over himself, feeling the cool water on his skin. From the corner of her eye, Isabel watched as the trickle of water ran down his muscular back and dripped off the curve of his buttocks. Her eyes then scanned down further to his muscular thighs and toned calves. He turned his head slightly and saw her staring and she inhaled sharply and looked away again. Giles smiled to himself.

The only other man that Isabel had seen naked was her father, and that was when she was a child. She used to like to serve him in the morning, watching as he bathed, running back and forth and bringing him whatever he asked for, and then watching him get dressed handing him each article of clothing. She used to like to buckle his belt that sat around his hips and then hand him his sword, which he was always very proud of, winking at Isabel before he slid it into the sheath at his right hip. He would take her small hand in his and then they’d go and break their fast together.

Isabel watched out of the corner of her eye as Giles dressed with care. She noted that he was very proud of his surcoat, which was in the de Grey family colours of red and white, the family crest of a gold leopard sewn into the breast. She watched as he ran his fingers through his dark blond hair and she noticed that it curled slightly at the ends where it sat on the nape of his neck. She noticed for the first time that he was handsome, and she speculated that though he often acted cruelly and uncaringingly, deep down he was meek and perhaps even gentle.

Once dressed, Giles called for his squire Roger Bowcott, who was outside and waiting for the summons. Roger entered the room and saw the girl still with Giles, he smiled to himself. What had happened between them last night ? He speculated.

‘Go and get Jago Hooper,’ Giles said to Roger. Roger nodded and was on his way. Neither Giles nor Isabel said anything to each other. There was nothing to say. She was a prisoner and he was her captor. The squire returned a few short minutes later with Jago Hooper, a Cornishman who had fought with John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster and had been on the French and Spanish campaigns with him.

‘You are injured, Master Hooper, I believe?’ Giles asked.

‘Aye Sir,’ replied the Cornishman.

‘You are useless to me out in the field,’ stated Giles with his usual tact. The Cornishman narrowed his eyes at Sir Giles. He resented this man, purely for his youth and the fact that he presumed to be a leader of men. ‘I want you to stay here and guard her,’ he made a casual gesture towards Isabel. ‘She is my prisoner and I have yet to decide what to do with her. Watch her, she is somewhat of an escape artist. Guard her, but I swear on all that is Holy Master Hooper, if you lay one finger on her I will cut your tongue out and feed it to my dogs. She has a price on her head. She is valuable,’ Giles said, his voice hard and steely, matching his blue/grey gaze.

Jago Hooper and Sir Giles de Grey stared each other down, and then Giles smirked and left, bellowing for his squire from the hallway. With the door shut and the two of them alone, Jago turned to the young French girl and smiled wolfishly.

Giles de Grey, with his two favourite gaze-hounds Ajax and Cadmus following along behind him and sniffing the ground, the squire Roger Bowcott followed along after his master, wondering as always what Giles was thinking, speculating as to what was going on behind his steely blue scrutiny, went outside into the blazing Aquitainian morning.

He stopped suddenly and stared at the landscape in front of him. There had been more resistance during the night from the people of Montignac, but everything was going to plan. He would pen the missive to the King of England later on that day with the help of his scribe. Giles was only partly literate and found writing harder than reading, though he was easily bored by both, but had received a partial education. Truth be told he was easily bored by anything that wasn’t to do with jousting, war or combat.

‘Roger,’ Giles threw behind him, only partially turning his head to the side. Roger came up next to his master.

‘Yes Sir?’

‘Is my horse prepared? I want to take stock of the castle and the town. See what living conditions are like. The King will want to know every single detail, no matter how small.’

Roger nodded at Giles and went off to the stables, where his master’s horse Onyx had been kept for the night. He took the horse’s reigns from the stable boy and led the large destrier out to his master, who greeted the horse with an enthusiastic slap on the rump before confidently mounting the beast and riding out, the squire Roger Bowcott following on with his much smaller bay horse.

Isabel la Badeau knelt in the corner, facing away from Jago Hooper who was whittling. Her hands were clasped and she was praying to Saint Leonard, the patron Saint of prisoners and captives. Jago laughed to himself when he heard her mention the Saint- he had never been a religious man.

‘Won’t do you much good praying to him,’ he taunted her from the other side of the room. Isabel paused in her prayers for a brief moment after he spoke, wanting very badly to retort, but she held her peace and continued in her task. She prayed also for her father, hoping that he was being kept well, praying that he remain strong and not give away too many French secrets, even though he had already betrayed her and France. Lastly she prayed for the long life of the King of France, Charles VI and his pregnant wife Isabeau of Bavaria.

She stood up from her kneeling position and stretched like a cat, pointing her fingers towards the sky. Her new captor looked at her oddly and then returned to his whittling, his injured foot propped up off the floor. He hated that he was injured, but that was the way things went sometimes, it happened as one got older and still persisted in playing at knights and war, and this war had been going on for a while. Since 1337 to be exact, since well before he was born.

Isabel went back to the pallet in front of the empty fire and lay back. It certainly was dreary being a captive; she longed for something to do. Her new captor was boring, hardly saying anything, whittling away and ignoring her, breathing loudly through his mouth, which repulsed her. Part of her wanted Giles back, at least he acknowledged her. When he was around she was never ignored. The sight of his naked body came to her. She remembered his well-defined and muscular back and shoulders, his dark blond hair that curled at the nape of the neck and the way the water ran down his skin and dripped off the curve of his buttocks.

She was surprised at the buzz that she felt in her body and the heat emanating from her, as if she were on fire. She lifted the shirt she had been given and ran her fingers over the soft yet slightly worn fabric. The shirt smelled like him. It was a very distinct masculine smell of horses with the slight smell of the Aquitanian plains mixed in, and sandalwood, which she imagined had been used to cover up the sweat in heat like this. Isabel liked the smell. It smelled like him. She fell asleep with the smell of him in her nostrils and the sight of his naked body in her mind.

Giles de Grey slid down from Onyx and nuzzled his neck lovingly, whispering soothingly to the horse. That horse is the only thing he’s tender and gentle with , Roger Bowcott thought as he watched on. Giles flicked his hand for the brush and one of the stable boys handed it to him. Giles liked brushing his horse at the end of the day. It was comforting to him and he had always enjoyed it. Other men left that task the stable boys and servants, but not Giles. This horse was his responsibility and no one else’s, he would care for his horse and no one else.

Onyx was the only thing he really truly cared about. Onyx never betrayed him, Onyx was loyal and unwavering. Onyx had faith in him. Faith that each day Giles would return to see him and ride out on him, unlike some of his men who would leave and abandon him when things didn’t work out as planned, yet they’d return when everything was fine and Giles had just seen a victory. How fickle man can be , he thought as he brushed the shiny black coat of his horse.

By the time he returned to his chambers the sun was starting to set and it was cooling off a little bit, but it was still very hot. Jago Hooper was testing his injured foot when Giles returned, flexing it one way and then the other, seeing if it was getting better.

‘Master Hooper,’ Giles greeted evenly. He saw the girl sitting in the corner, her legs drawn up against her chest, staring out at them with her light green gaze. ‘I trust she was not too much trouble?’

‘She’s as meek as anything Sir. Been praying to St Leonard,’ Jago replied, laughing.

Meek ? Giles thought, that’s a mistake I’m sure many have made . ‘Thank you Master Hooper,’ he said, indicating that the Cornish-man should leave. Jago Hooper shuffled from the room and left Sir Giles, his squire Roger Bowcott and the captive French girl.
He flicked his hand at Roger and the squire left. Now it was just Giles and Isabel. He took his surcoat off and gently folded it away into the chest at the foot of the bed. He then went to the table where some food and drink had been left for him.

‘I went out into the town today and had a look around,’ he said casually, pouring himself a cup of sweet malmsey wine, the taste of England.

‘It seems supplies have been cut off and people are starving.’ He poured a second cup of wine and took it over to her. She received it but made no move to drink it. ‘You have to eat and drink something damoiselle .’ He took a seat on the edge of the bed and watched her while he drank.

She looked into the cup and then tentatively took a sip. She made a face. The wine was sweeter than the French wine she was used to. Giles chuckled when he saw her face. ‘Not used to English wine?’ he asked.

‘ Non ,’ Isabel answered.

‘I still haven’t decided what to do with you yet. Master Hooper tells me you’re devout. Have you ever thought about taking Holy Orders? Joining a nunnery?’

‘ Oui ,’ she answered. ‘But when I was a child my brother died and then my two sisters after him. My cousin is my papa’s heir but he wanted to keep me around in case something should happen to my cousin,’ she explained candidly.

‘Well I doubt there’s much of anything to inherit now.’

‘So you will sell me in marriage then?’ she asked forlornly.

‘I haven’t decided yet. You could still be of use to me. And besides, I like having you around.’ He put his cup down and lay on the bed, facing away from Isabel. A few minutes later she could hear his soft snores.

He awoke in the middle of the night to find her next to him in bed. He sat up and looked down at her and she returned the stare, her green eyes seemingly glowing in the dark. He don’t know what came over him in that moment but he leaned down and kissed her, feeling her soft little lips pressed up against his, his beard scratching her face. Since being in Aquitaine he hadn’t bothered to shave and now a light gold growth covered his lower face.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and brought him closer down on her. He pushed is tongue in her mouth and she was hesitant at first, but then joined him in this dance, his tongue pushing against hers. He stopped kissing her and leaned back. He grabbed the edge of his shirt that she was wearing and pulled it offer her. He then did the same with the threadbare linen shift. She was nude in front of him. She was beautiful. Her breasts were high and round, the areola pale pink and her nipples were little points, just as he had imagined them to be.

He pulled his own shirt off and pulled his breeches down. He was laying on his back and she was over top of him, her auburn hair long and dangling in front of her. He lifted her by the hips and just as he was about to do it, just as he was about to have her, he woke up.

He awoke with a start, sitting straight up and bed and groaning as he did so. The window had been left open and the warm Aquitanian night breeze was gently filtering in. Even when it was dark it wasn’t much cooler. There seemed to be no relief from the heat in this place. He looked beside him in the bed but found that it was empty. It all seemed so real, had it really been a dream ? He was sweaty and he noticed how ragged his breathing was. He found his cup of wine from earlier, finished what was in it and stood up. He looked over to the pellet where Isabel was and watched as her chest rose and fell with her shallow breathing.

She looks so innocent when she sleeps , he thought as he watched her. Perhaps Jago Hooper is right, perhaps she is meek as anything, perhaps it’s only me who brings out this defiance in her ? He did have the tendency to do that sometimes. His whole life he had only known savagery and war. His whole life he had only wanted savagery and war. He had never had any real connection with anyone except for is father, but he was dead. He had been a loner his whole life. His three brothers had hated and resented him, yet as a child he had never known why.

He knew now that it was because he was most like their father, and his brother’s had been jealous of the bonhomie between Giles and their father. He remembered the fights he had got into with his brothers, and the rivalry between them, there was only a year separating the three eldest boys. Usually it was him against the three of them. Late one morning Giles had just returned from hunting with father and as he made his way back into the house, his older brother John grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and shoved him up against the stone wall. Giles still remembered how the cold stones felt against the back of his head, neck and shoulders as he brother pushed him against the wall.

And then John drew a short knife on Giles, an evil look in his blue eyes. ‘No one likes you,’ John growled in a low and menacing voice. ‘You’re only here because it’s expedient for father. You have no claim to the proud de Grey name, everyone knows that you’re a bastard and begotten of the poor milkmaid. You’re a braggart for assuming to be one of us.’ John slightly pushed the tip of the knife into Giles’ abdomen, enough to leave a small mark but nothing to cause any real damage. And then John sauntered off, whistling happily to himself. With that single act, the seed of doubt had been planted.

Ever since then Giles had hated his brother John, there was no love lost between the two of them. There was no love lost between Giles and the other two brothers either. Except now Giles was the one laughing. John was long dead, as were his other two brothers William and Lionel and he had inherited the title after all. The only one left now was his half-brother Hamon, who was twenty years old and a dullard. He hadn’t grown up with the other boys so had no idea about this rivalry and fighting that went on when he was too young to realise.

He went over to the table and cupped his hands in the bowl of water, throwing it over himself and splashing it on his face. He really missed England now. He longed to be back home. He longed for the rain and the cold of the Anglo/Welsh border. He hadn’t known heat like this since he was in Antioch. Giles smiled to himself when he thought of Antioch.

He met an exotic dancer whilst there. Vanna was her name. When he wasn’t playing at war and being a crusader, he was spending every waking moment with Vanna. She was a wild little creature who always lit up his day, but no matter how much he liked her, he couldn’t connect with her. Vanna had a purpose, and her purpose in that moment was to please him. That was all. She didn’t speak much English so communicating was hard, though words weren’t needed when they were together.

But she betrayed him. Everyone always did. He came back from the market place one sweltering Arabian afternoon and found her astride his best friend. Giles was very possessive. He had to be possessive. All of this had very nearly not been his. If it wasn’t for John’s early death he would have been the useless second son with nothing to his name.

He sighed in the dark, peeling the last of his clothing off and returning to bed naked. Yet no sleep came to him for the rest of the night. That dream about the girl had unnerved him and set him on edge. He’d have to be more careful of himself. The last thing he needed right now was to be chasing a French girl who just happened to be his captive. Perhaps he should pray to Saint Adrian, the patron saint of guards, to help him see sense in all of this.

When the morning came he was being cold and distant, snapping at his squire, pacing back and forth angrily. He was restless. He had been in Aquitaine for so long, he just wanted to go home. To get away from the arid and stifling heat. To get away from Montignac and to get away from her. She had started all of this. Why did she have to disguise herself and try and protect her father? Why couldn’t she just have accepted the fate of her town and gone quietly and accepted the English occupation.

He didn’t care what happened to her anymore. He’d find a husband for her. Marry her off to some old fool to bolster his male pride. Let the matter be done with. He’d get a good price for her, she was quite a prize; well born and decent to look at- someone would be pleased with her. He had Jago Hooper watch over her again while he went out riding. He needed to get away for the day. Breathe air that wasn’t Aquitanian for once.

He readied Onyx himself that morning. Neither Roger nor the stable boy were doing it right. ‘If you want something done right then do it yourself,’ he muttered under his breath as he pushed his squire aside and got on with it himself.

Roger Bowcott wasn’t hurt by his master’s comment or disregard of him that morning. He had been with the de Grey family for a while now, but with Giles personally for the past five years. He had seen him in many different moods, he was used to these sudden changes in his character. Ever since Antioch he had been prone to states of melancholy.

When Giles was ill of temper, Roger knew to stay out of his way and let Giles do his thing. Let him be sad or angry or upset and let him work through it. When Giles was ready he’d come around again and be perfectly happy once more. It was the way Roger knew things to be. He watched as Giles mounted Onyx and left the stables. He left it for a few minutes and then followed on behind him. When Giles was in a bad mood he needed his space, so Roger followed on at a polite distance, leaving Giles to his thoughts.

Another boring day as a captive for Isabel. Jago was staring at her and it was uncomfortable. He was watching her intently, waiting for her to do something. She heard him laugh while she prayed, though this time he didn’t make a cutting or blasphemous remark. But once that was excused there wasn’t much to do except sit around or sleep, and her pallet bed was uncomfortable. She had eaten that morning, the scraps of food that Giles hadn’t eaten, he offered to her. She was confident now that they weren’t poisoned so she dined on crusty bread, a few grapes and some leftover cheese.

The sweet wine was still hard to swallow but she had been treated decently, and she was thankful that at least her captor wasn’t cruel or undue towards her, unlike those brutes who first took her, when she was being kept in the bowels of the castle. She was desperate now to see her father, to see how he was faring. It was unlikely that his captors were treating him as well as she was being treated. How quickly the fates can turn , she thought miserably.

Giles was grateful that Roger had given him space and knew to leave him be. The last thing he needed was someone causing a fuss and bombarding him with questions. He was the eternal loner, he just needed to be left alone every now and then. He’d have to pen that missive to the King today, seen as he had forgotten about it last night. The King of England, Richard II was a petulant and selfish child of twenty two. Spoiled his whole life by his mother Joan of Kent, he knew nothing about war or the art of compromise. He had little regard for anyone other than himself. True he had managed to negotiate with the rebels during the revolt of 1381, some seven and half years earlier, but he was disloyal and thought nothing of breaking promises.

But he was the King, and Giles was loyal to him. And his uncle the Duke of Lancaster was doing a good job ruling in Richard’s name and advising him. Giles had always liked the Duke. He was what Giles aspired to be. He was the epitome of chivalry. He was also a good feudal overlord and had been good to the de Grey’s. Giles imagined that King Richard was rather eager for the missive, but right now it could wait until later on.

His thoughts returned to the previous night’s dream. It had certainly aroused him, but that arousal was overridden by his frustration. But he couldn’t deny the effect that dream had had on him. He scratched idly at his dusty gold beard. He was so frustrated and angry with her though. How dare she come to me in my dream ? He thought angrily, how dare she. That little French bitch . He vowed to himself in Antioch, when Vanna betrayed him, that he would never again be affected by a woman in such a way. I have to get rid of her, she has to go .

It was an hour past midday and the Southern French sun was beating down on the stone castle walls. Inside Giles de Grey’s chambers, Isabel was sweltering hot. She hadn’t washed in days and longed to feel cool water on her skin and to wash, to feel clean again instead of dirty, sweaty and gross. She looked over at her current captor Jago Hooper. He was asleep in the chair, his injured leg propped up off the floor. He was deeply asleep, his loud and congested snores filling the room.

Isabel gently padded up to the table and had a look in the bowl. There was some water left in it after Giles’ earlier ablutions. She took the bowl off the table and took it with her to the corner. With one eye on Jago Hooper she carefully took the shirt off so she was standing in her dirty linen shift. She lifted the hem slightly and washed her upper thighs, splashing the water to her private place and buttocks. She watched Jago to see if he would wake up, and when she was confident that he was completely out to the world, she took off the linen shift and quickly and carefully washed the rest of her body.

She didn’t put the shift back on, she went to the coffer at the end of the bed, opened it and got a new, clean shirt out. Perhaps it was taking liberties but she was desperate for clean clothing, and Giles hadn’t found anything new for her to wear. For the first time in a few days Isabel felt clean and fresh. She felt human again, and things seemed less terrible, as if by washing she had not only improved her personal hygiene but also the situation she was in. She put the now empty bowl back on the table, next to the still heavily sleeping Jago Hooper, and then she flopped down on her pellet, letting her thoughts consume her.

She had thought about escaping in that moment, while Jago was fast asleep, but she decided against this. Something about this de Grey man piqued her curiosity and made her want to stay. He brought an odd feeling to her, from the pit of her belly. She felt warm when she thought of him. It was an indescribable feeling and one that she was unaccustomed to. And besides, if she escaped now she wouldn't get very far, the town was crawling with English and knowing her luck she'd probably run into Giles and his arrogant squire Roger Bowcott. For the moment being, she would stay. 

After hours of riding about aimlessly, Giles, with a heavy heart, knew that he had to return to his chambers to write the official report to his King on the happenings in Montignac and how he had found the town and the inhabitants. He had been putting it off, and now it was time to set to it. He turned Onyx around and they set back off in the general direction of the Château de Montignac .

When Giles and his squire returned they found that everything was how they left it, though Giles hardly noticed, his mind was far away, thinking of the official report he had to make to the King of England. He sat down at the desk. He dismissed Jago Hooper and then motioned for his squire to leave, Giles worked better when he was alone, especially when it came to writing, a task he found tedious and irksome. Except he wasn’t alone. He tried to block Isabel out of his mind and the dream he had, but he was hyper aware of her. He could feel her eyes on him, staring into his back. Though she was far away he was aware of the heat of her.

He remembered the heat of her from the dream; how hot her body had been in his hands. He could feel himself becoming aroused again, and with his arousal came that same frustration from earlier. He was angry with himself and he was angry with her.

He stood up roughly, the chair scraping on the floor. ‘Oh for goodness sake!’ he bellowed, pushing everything aside, the pieces of parchment falling to the floor, the quills and ink pot clattering on the floor, leaving a blue inky mess on the stones. He saw Isabel flinch from where she stood when he raged. He hadn’t imagined her to be scared of anything. She seemed so proud and bold to him. She was full of contradictions this girl it seemed.

His expression softened slightly when he saw the vulnerability in her light green eyes instead of pride and defiance. He was thinking with other parts of his body when he strode over to her, scooped her up and kissed her passionately and with longing. She was cautious at first, not quite knowing what to think or make of this, but that warmth she had felt the day before when she thought of her captor returned, and soon she too was giving into her animal instincts.

His lips thundered down on hers, his beard scratching her face. He carried her to the bed and gently placed her on the soft mattress. It was heaven for her to be lying on something so soft after spending the last few nights on the hard pellet bed. He was top of her, kissing her with a tenderness that belied his strong masculinity. He grabbed at her breasts through the fabric and felt that her nipples were taut little points. He left her mouth, kissing each of her nipples. As he kissed down, with his strong yet gentle hands he pushed the shirt up until she was fully exposed to him.

Her body was beautiful. Her milky skin was flawless, her breasts were rounded handfuls, the areola rosy pink and her nipples perfect little nubs. Her body was slender yet curvy and she was slightly fleshy around the waist and hips, transforming from girl to woman. His steely gaze rested on the dark mound of hair between her legs. How beautiful she is .

He shuffled further down the bed and gently spread her legs. She gasped when he touched her there, unused to such contact in such an intimate area. He gave her a few seconds to get used to his touch before he continued. He used two fingers and ran them up and down her slit before gently spreading it. She was perfectly pink. He gently rubbed the pad of his thumb over her most sensitive spot and she quivered. He flicked his tongue over it and was delighted when she reacted to his attentions.

The feeling was completely new to her, unlike anything she had felt before. She felt his warm tongue flick over her most intimate area and she shuddered and sighed with appreciation and delight. And then he sucked on her clitoris and she moaned, partly in shock at the manoeuvre and partly in pleasure. She felt warm down there, and tingly, in fact, her whole body was tingling and buzzing.

He licked around the outside of her warm centre, teasing her slightly. He licked over it, and then gently probed, tasting her sweetness. Her shallow breathing turned into panting as he lapped at her nectar. It was like ambrosia, food of the Gods. He felt up her body with his right hand for her breasts; she was covered in goosebumps. She was calling out and moaning, her body finding the release it so sought.

The warmth radiated throughout her body, starting in her most intimate area and then engulfing her. He trailed his tongue back to her clitoris, took it in his mouth once more and then left a trail of kisses from her belly to her face, gently kissing her on the lips. Giles felt himself straining against his breeches. He had to lose them. He removed his surcoat in the de Grey family colours of red and white, the family crest with the gold leopard emblazoned proudly on the breast. He removed his shirt also and then unlaced his breeches, managing to pull them off his long and toned legs.

He held her hips and gently rested himself at her entrance, looking deep into her light green eyes as he did, pushing into her. He saw her wince a little, but this soon vanished as she accommodated him. He took slow strokes, working himself deeper and deeper, until his full length rested inside her. He gently moved her hips on his length, letting her get used to the sensation, and when he saw the acknowledgement of pleasure in her eyes, he started thrusting into her.

The shirt had come down and covered her breasts slightly with the motion, and he moved it back up where it had been bunched up around her neck. He liked the way her breasts moved in time to his thrusts. Isabel closed her eyes and let out a soft moan. She wrapped first one leg, and then the other around his hips, drawing him slightly deeper, wanting to feel all of him.

He braced his hands either side of her shoulders and leaned over her, watching the changing expressions on her face, taking great delight in being the first man to make her feel this way. He leaned down further and kissed her, his tongue in her mouth. She moaned against his mouth and it was enough to make him moan also.

He knew he wouldn’t last much longer. He leaned back, grabbed her hips and slammed into her roughly. On the last thrust he held her there, his seed spilling deep inside her, his moans matching hers. He started to go flaccid but made no move to exit her. He held her in place, wanting to savour this moment. The Aquitanian evening was bathing her in an ethereal gold glow. She looked so beautiful.

And when he finally did pull himself free of her, he flopped down on the bed next to her. Isabel was too scared to say anything. What did one say after such an experience? How did one behave? This was all so new to her.

‘Take me back to England with you,’ she finally said, turning over to face him, leaning her head on her hand.

Giles sat up also and gave her a quizzical look. ‘What?’

‘Take me to England with you,’ repeated Isabel.

‘As what? Under what capacity? My slave girl? My French prisoner? Am I to be your captor in my homeland?’ he asked.

Isabel shook her head. ‘Your maîtresse en titre.’

‘Maîtresse en titre?’ he asked. ‘My official mistress?’

Author's Note: For the most part, this story is fictional. There was not a battle of Montignac during the Hundred Years War of the Middle Ages, though people, places and dates are for the most part accurate. The phrase Damoiselle is the polite way of referring to a girl, specifically an unmarried one as 'damsel' or 'mistress'. The phrase  Vous êtes le diable translates to 'you are the devil'. Check out my other stories, the Jeff and Brianne series, Lesbifriends, Lesbinaughty, The Holiday, Revenge Affair, Another Revenge Affair, Love Nest, Our Little Secret, Paradise lost & found, Misfit Love, After-hours Antics and The Bachelor Party.