Catch me if you can

[Maka]

Stephen watched, expressionless, as Alys nervously removed her clothes, obedient to his will. One hand still caressed Brae's head affectionately as a man might stroke the head of an unbroken young foal, reassuring her, getting her accustomed to his physical presence. Brae looked frightened and worried at the scene unfolding before her but just as there had been once before, when she'd spied on Stephen pleasuring Alys, there was a tell-tale hint of red to her cheeks, an eager sparkle in her rich brown eyes.

Alys cast one last glance at Stephen, as if to ascertain that he was indeed serious, then she remembered herself and dropped her gaze to the ground. Stephen made a note to add one extra lash for her forgetfulness. She looked at Brae, then turned her face away and braced herself against the bedpost, lifting up a sweetly curved, nude derriere that God Himself could have designed for pleasure.

Stephen approached, the lashes held against his shoulders. He whipped them through the air, testing their weight, their crack.

"Earlier tonight", he said. "You spoke for Brae when I asked her a question."

He brought the makeshift lash down with vigour. Although he was lean, Stephen's arms were corded with muscle and sinew that would not have shamed a blacksmith. He could punch out a bull and one blow of the lash, with his full force behind it, could have left Alys unable to stand for weeks. But he restrained his strength, striking hard enough that the place would sting for just a night, long enough for the lesson to sink in.

"You do not speak for Brae. She is your handmaiden but she is her own woman and can answer for herself when I address her. Do you understand?"

Two parallel rosy welts had formed across Alys' porcelain nude buttocks and Stephen criss-crossed them with his second blow.

"You hesitated when I told you to undress me. Your standing in the world and your noble blood has no bearing when you are with me. I am your lord and you swore to obey me, no matter what. Do you understand?"

Blow after blow rained down, Stephen curling and flicking the lashes with an expertise gained from years of riding -hot, swift blows delivered with exquisite skill and speed. Stephen had ceased to speak, his lashes instead speaking his ultimate message for him: Alys was his, heart and soul, and her body now belonged to him to admire and tease and pleasure and punish exactly as he saw fit.

 

[Little_Zora]

Alys flinched at the sharp sound that the two leather straps caused when he whipped them through the air tentatively, testing their strength. She braced herself for the pain. There was something threatening about him approaching, something almost predatory. She did not dare to look over her shoulder to meet his gaze.

"Earlier tonight you spoke for Brae when I asked her a question."

Alys did not reply to his statement. Yes, she had spoken for Brae, for her maid, as she was entitled. And had she not done so to protect her? To help her over her shame and her fear of the Norman lord? But her dissentient thoughts were cut short when Stephen brought the straps down on her derriere with enough force to make her cry out in pain and shock.

"You do not speak for Brae. She is your handmaiden but she is her own woman and can answer for herself when I address her. Do you understand?"

The sting of humiliation alone was enough to force tears to Alys’ eyes. Her fingers were curled around the bedpost so tightly, that they started to cramp up and hurt. Her lips trembled. It was yet another test of her obedience, and Alys was not sure if she would pass it. Tears rolled down her delicate cheeks. To be disgraced like this, and in front of a servant! It was almost more than she could bear.

But was that not the point he was trying to make?

Arrogance and haughtiness were the bane of her standing, and in an alliance like theirs, such traits might prove to be dangerous traps. He was right. It was a lesson she needed to learn, no matter how painful it proved to be.

“Yes, my lord”, she finally stammered. “I…I understand.”

Again the leather straps came down on her skin with a loud crack.

"You hesitated when I told you to undress me. Your standing in the world and your noble blood has no bearing when you are with me. I am your lord and you swore to obey me, no matter what. Do you understand?"

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she forced herself to bite them back. She would not cry anymore.

“I understand my lord”, she whispered through gritted teeth. It was hard not to give voice to her pain when blow after blow rained down on her with force and speed, setting her skin on fire, and stoking it with each new crack of Stephen’s makeshift whip. “I am yours, my lord”, she whispered, not sure if he would even hear it. It was important to her to say it out loud. She was his. She was every bit his vassal as she was his lover, and as she would soon be his wife.

Brae had come closer. She now kneeled at Stephen’s feet, eagerly watching him discipline her mistress, marvelling at the beauty of the welts blossoming on Lady Alys’ alabaster skin. Her body quivered at each blow, and Brae wondered what it was like to administer the pain that caused this. The thought aroused her beyond all measure.

Stephen was a beautiful sight. His leanly muscled body, the tension and grace in each blow – to Brae he seemed like a vengeful deity, creating a woman – a lover, a servant – at his will. Brae was too shy to reach out and touch the angry red lines criss-crossing Lady Alys’ behind and her thighs. She feared the sting of the whip, and did not want her fingers to be caught in its way. And yet she could not help but admire the pattern, admire the man who had edged it onto her mistress’ skin.

Hearing Lord Stephen speak like that of her, Brae, to her mistress was both deeply troubling and exalting. He defended her! Defended her in the face of a woman who had every right to treat her as she wished, who in the eyes of God and the law was able to punish her, to send her out in the snow, to keep her locked in the dungeons, who simply had power over her and her life. He defended her. A wild, insuppressible feeling rose in her chest. Did he love her? Would he want her to be his?

 

[Maka]

Stephen could see the exact moment that Alys submitted to his will. It was not a matter of what she said but the way her body suddenly relaxed its tension. She no longered stiffened at the blows landing down on her but remained still, accepting them, accepting his power over her.

The last blow did not fall. Instead, Stephen curled the makeshift lashes around his wrist and contemplated the beautiful sight before him. The beautiful, aristocratic Alys of Crowsdale, her glorious body with all its pale ivory perfection, bent over like a wanton harlot, derriere upturned invitingly and criss-crossed with glowing red marks. Desire roared up in Stephen. He wanted to seize her by the hips and thrust his huge, erect cock into her, replace pain with unthinkable pleasure. But he restrained himself. Brae came first tonight.

Instead, he gently took Alys by the shoulder, raised her up and turned her around. His eyes were shining with a fierce pride as he looked on his betrothed, his vassal.

"You did well," he whispered to her. "Now you may watch."

He bent down and scooped up Brae, her slender and petite body feeling like a feather in his leanly muscled arms. The handmaiden's big brown eyes were huge with excitement at the sight she had just witnessed and he could feel the thrilled, rapid pulse of her heart, beating as though like to burst from her chest. The massive length between his legs seemed like it might split her in two.

"All of your life," he murmured to Brae, "You have served others and placed them ahead of yourself. But tonight, your pleasure is all that matters -and you will have it in abundance."

He laid her down on the rush-strewn floor and stood over her for a moment before descending himself, bringing his mouth to her cherry-bud lips in a fierce hot kiss, the weight of his body pinning her down.

 

[Little_Zora]

Alys felt reassured when Stephen gently pulled her up, his touch as tender as it had ever been. She had to refrain from throwing herself in his arms to kiss him, to pull him away from Brae, take him for herself, make him forget about his promises to her pretty maid. But she knew that this, too, was a test for her loyalties.

“Thank you, my lord”, she whispered, her delicate cheeks flushed. Her skin was still burning like fire where he had whipped her, but the heat spreading from her derriere caused her whole body to tingle, doubling her arousal.

She watched with fascination as he pulled up the slender maid. The thought of Stephen taking Brae in front of her eyes made her head spin. Oh, would he allow her to seek relief? But Alys did not dare to touch herself without his consent, not after what had just happened.

Brae, ecstatic with anticipation, barely felt the hard, cold floor or the rough straw against her back. Lord Stephen de Valois treated her like a noblewoman, like an equal, like a lover. She wrapped her legs around him, her fingers shyly caressing the smooth skin of his back, tracing the lean muscles underneath. That such a man would want her!

Nobody had ever kissed her like this, not with such abandon, not with such force. Her head was swimming, and it took all of her willpower not to faint. It was happening! She felt his hard manhood pushing against her, and the slender maid held her breath. Would it hurt much? But she was willing to endure whatever pain was necessary to please him, and to achieve the pleasure he was promising her.

“My lord”, she whispered. “Stephen…make me a woman.”

***
Raven, wrapped in her thick woollen cloak, the hood pulled deep over her face and her gloved hands tucked under her armpits, blinked away the tears that threatened to form in her eyes.

She sat hidden in the branches of a tree, watching the fork in the road where she was supposed to meet Beval just before dawn. Myla had not succeeded to deter her, maybe because there had been so little she was able to bargain with. Everyone Raven had ever loved or cared about was either dead, or lost to her, and all she now risked was her own life. Somebody needed to warn Stephen of the traitors in his midst, and who else knew about Arnaud’s falseness? Who else was able to alert him of the danger he was in? Surely he would be grateful.

Eventually Raven had managed to convince herself that she was right, that she had to go to Castle Courtney one more time, that she had to see him, speak to him, prove to him that she was not what everyone said she was. Part of her needed to have his forgiveness before she left.

Part of her wanted to face him as Raven, as the girl he had saved from the boar only months ago.

This part was harder to admit to herself. All this time Stephen had known her as Rowan, the gentle peasant youth he had first turned into an archer in his company, and later into his squire. But Raven was curious, could not help to be curious, what the Norman lord would think of her, of the young woman who knew how to read and write, who knew how to shoot a bow better than most men he surrounded himself with, of the girl who had discussed Greek texts with him, advised him, had in some way protected him. Few knew Lord Stephen de Valois as intimately as she did, and somehow, Raven thought, that had to count for something.

The grief about her mother’s death, about Bethan, about Father Aldred weighed like lead on her chest, but she knew better than to let these emotions overwhelm her. The forest might seem calm, but Raven was aware that riders were scouring the environs looking for outlaws, and hunting for her, the witch.

Beval knew it, too. He would be careful. He knew the signal and he would call for her when it was time.

 

[Maka]

Brae was lying on her back, her face flushed and her eyes shining like twin stars. She had wrapped her legs around Stephen's back as though to pull him down to her, impatient for the unimaginable pleasure he was soon to bring her. The shy, demure maid had turned into an eager, wanton little creature, her snatch dripping with honey, the dark little nipples on her firm, pert breasts hard with anticipation and her supple young body quivering. She was fresh, sunkissed fruit ripe for plucking.

Not for Brae an inept, fumbled deflowering from some peasant boy. Stephen was a man and he knew much of women. He could effortlessly command a noble girl like Alys as though she were no more than a servant, and he could make a servant girl like Brae feel like a queen. He had expertly brought Brae to this point with his hands, strong but tender, and his kisses and a thousand small attentions to her, slowly fanning the smouldering core of lust hidden within her into a roaring inferno. She was already writhing, wriggling, her pink little tongue flicking out between her lips -her need for his cock written on her features.

Stephen's eyes were fixed on Brae. He knew that Alys was watching, watching her fiance fuck her maidservant on the floor of her bedchamber, but he did not need to look at her to know that she would simply quietly watch. She understood now the importance of following his commands -and perhaps was beginning to fathom the pleasures it could bring her.

In one single, swift movement, he lowered himself down and impaled Brae on his cock, pushing through her maidenhead in the same movement. Her virgin sex was so tight and so wet that he almost gasped out loud. He paused a while, letting Brae adjust to the huge girth and length of the cock filling her, pinning her down on the floor.


***


It had been the Devil's own luck. Beval didn't know who had informed on him, but it did not matter at present. Thomas Marnoch's men had been waiting for him at the tavern at the crossroads, and they'd taken him inside after a quick struggle.

Lord Thomas himself had been there, the aging veteran with his perpetual sour scowl. And he'd made it very clear that Beval could be hanged within moments -unless the rumours were true, that Beval knew something of a certain run-away squire, an unnatural female creature that masqueraded as a man...

Beval was no coward but he feared death as much as any other man. And Raven was not one of his brothers of the woodlands. Raven was... Raven was... the truth was that Beval had become fascinated by the quick-moving, slender girl. He had visited the cottage far more often than he had in the past, hoping to see her, to gaze at that fine, toned body in those boy's clothes or try to bring that quicksilver smile to her clear, sweet face. Mary teased him about it, although she had to admit that when she first took Raven for a boy, she'd had some ungodly thoughts of her own.

But all Raven would ever talk about was Stephen de Valois, that haughty Norman lord who'd stolen Robert's bride and ruined everything for Beval and his brothers. Beval didn't know why Raven cared so much for a man like that -a hard, cold stranger. But he'd seen the way that her face lit up when she talked about him and the time they'd spent together, noticed the ill-disguised eagerness with which she always asked for news of him. And then this lunatic idea of hers of going to see Stephen. She said simply to bid him farewell, and perhaps explain why she had done the things she'd done, and maybe she even believed it, but Beval knew better. Lord Stephen's absence had only sharpened Raven's feelings, Raven's nascent appetite. Raven's farewell would turn into Raven begging for Lord Stephen to fuck her, there and then. And the image lodged itself in Beval's mind and refused to leave.

And it felt like anything that could be done to stop that meeting should be done. And so he listlessly agreed to Thomas' plan, not even needing the 'encouragement' of the burly archers Thomas had brought with him.

He approached Raven's hiding place, sick to his stomach. What was he doing? Whether Thomas and Lord Marnoch sought to aid de Valois or help de Lacy bring him down, they would surely kill Raven. Was this what he wanted?

"Raven? Raven?" he called softly, part of him hoping that she had abandoned the plan and simply slipped away.

 

[Little_Zora]

Alys watched, transfixed. Only weeks before it had been her pinned to the ground by Stephen who had then not been much more than a stranger, both feared and desired in an hour of deepest desperation. Her maid, beautiful in surrender, had only eyes for him. Had she, too, looked like that when he had taken her for the first time?

Brae’s cheeks were flushed, her back arched as she welcomed the intruder. Her legs parted a bit more, as if to urge him on. Alys held her breath, as if she was to feel what her maid was about to receive.

The brunette girl’s head fell back as he pushed into her in one swift stroke. Her lips parted, but allowed for nothing more than a sigh. Her toes curled, scratching softly over the stone floor. Alys could see Brae’s fingers dig deeper into Stephen’s back, leaving faint red marks on his skin that immediately faded when her grip softened again. Buried to the hilt, Stephen stopped as if to grant her time to adjust, but Brae was already arching her back wantonly.

Alys knew there was pain the first time, but her maid did not show any signs of suffering anything but a strong desire for more.

***

When Raven finally heard Beval’s call, she almost cried out in surprise. Peering through the branches she spotted him looking up into the tree, his face half-hidden by his hood. A rush of gratitude almost made her smile. Raven knew that Beval did not think much of the idea to seek out Stephen de Valois, knowing that there was a price not only on her head, but his as well. And yet he had not abandoned her, was obviously still willing to help her.

Nimbly she descended, her feet not slipping even once on the icy branches, until she finally jumped into the snow with a soft thud. Light flakes showered down on her from the disturbed twigs overhead. “You came back”, she whispered. “Thank you.”

Only then did she see that Beval was not smiling back at her, that there was blood on his face, as if from a struggle. He looked grim, giving the impression that he suffered some silent illness.

“Take the witch.”

Several men stepped from the shadows of the trees behind her companion, some of them with their swords drawn. She recognised the colours of House Marnoch.

“Beval?”

The words were softly spoken, as if she still did not understand what was about to happen, and what these men were doing intruding on her and her friend like this. Beval looked sick. For a brief moment Raven stood petrified.

But her instincts, honed by a life spent outwitting the violence and injustice of her betters, were not easily subdued by fear. Assessing the distance between herself and her attackers, Raven reacted with the speed of a frightened ferret, darting forward and between two of the men who for an instant were too surprised by her speed to react.

Raven threw herself into the forest, tears stinging her eyes, her lungs aching. Behind her she could hear commotion, the sounds of feet, the clank of steel, angry shouts. Would she be able to outrun Marnoch’s men? Only a few yards ahead the trees merged into thick undergrowth, blackened by the night. If she was able to make it there, she might yet escape. Every fibre of her lurched forward, longing to reach the safety of the branches that to her seemed like hands reaching out, trying to save her.

Only a few feet more.

There was a hard blow to the side of her head, and for an instant the world blackened before she hit the ground, her ears ringing and unable to move. Rough hands grabbed her, turned her on her back while her eyes remained unfocused. Raven moaned softly, only too aware that this time she could not run.

“Should I take her eyes, m’lord?” There was a glint of steel. “They say that a witch’s powers are in their eyes.”

“No.”

The sound of footsteps in snow drew closer. The steel disappeared, but someone grabbed her wrists and tied them with rope. It hurt, but all she could do was whisper in protest.

“The witch was in on the attack on the hunting party then.” Lord Thomas now towered above her, his thumbs hooked into his belt, glowering. “Why else would she be in league with this scum?” He nodded towards Beval. “We should hang him right here, but we need to present them to de Valois together to prove their guilt.”

Raven squinted up at him, the blood stinging her eyes. He leant down, studying her face like he would the markings of an animal caught by his hunters. “Pretty little lass”, he mumbled, smiling without warmth or humour. “I can see why de Valois stepped into your trap.”

Never before had she been this afraid. “I’m not a witch.” Her defense sounded weak and unlikely even to her own ears. “Please believe me, my lord.” For a while he considered her, his gaze like steel. “It matters not what you are. The only thing that matters now is what you appear to be in the eyes of the world.”

Raven heard a faint groan of pain as Beval was pushed to the ground.

“Let’s go,” he growled, pulling her up roughly by the rope around her wrists. “It’s time to confess your crimes to your liege lord.” He spat in her face. “God willing we will send you back to hell soon enough and offer de Valois a last chance to bring peace to the North.”

 

[Maka]

Brae's exquisitely tight, virginal sex was as smooth and soft as velvet, clenched around his cock. Sweet moans and gasps came in ever-quicker succession, spilling irrepressibly between her cherry lips, while her high small breasts arched and quivered. Her large clear brown eyes were glassy with lust and pleasure. Every part of her lithe, firm young body was thrilling through with ecstasy.

Taking iron hold on the handmaid's firm, tight young derriere, Stephen plunged deep into her, pushing the massively thick rod of his cock all the way up inside her, bringing her into the same sweet realm of pure pleasure to which he had already transported her mistress. They were no longer lord and maidservant but simply and elementally man and woman, enjoying one another and serving each other's pleasure.


***


"I'm sorry."

The words were so inadequate.

The cells beneath Castle de Courtney had not been used since the fall of the de Courtneys. Lord de Valois kept his own prisoners on the upper floors, in conditions that were still harsh, but had more air and sunlight. He was said to have taken one disgusted look at the de Courtney dungeons and the rusty implements of torture that hung on the walls, and ordered them closed for all time.

And so Beval and Raven had been placed in cells down there, alone with the scurrying of rats in the darkness.

"But this is what comes of trusting lords and high-ups," Beval continued. He wasn't even sure if Raven was awake or could hear him, but speaking to the darkness was a way of keeping him from madness.

"You get to know them... him. You think he's different than the rest, that he cares about people who ain't got a title or Norman blood in their veins."

Beval spat.

"Not so. De Lacy squeezes with an iron gauntlet, de Valois with a velvet glove... but they'll both strangle you just the same."

 

[Little_Zora]

It was such an arousing sight. Alys had to steady herself against the bedpost, her breathing quickening against her own will. She could not help but watch the exquisite play of Stephen muscles, the lines of his back and buttocks as he plunged his cock into her maid again and again, with skill and controlled passion, attentive only to the moans and writhing of the girl beneath him. A sheen of sweat covered his smooth skin, testament to the sweet exertion of fucking the servant girl of his betrothed.

Brae’s ruby lips formed a perfect little o, her legs were shaking like that of a nervous fawn as she lefted them off the floor almost completely, balancing only on her toes and shoulders for a brief moment before Stephen pinned her down again, his hands wrapped around her behind, pulling her closer still. The petite maid looked like she was going mad with lust. Her thighs were quivering, her hips moving in unison with Stephen’s thrusts, her fingers digging helplessly into his skin.

Alys pressed her thighs together, desperate for some kind of relief. She wanted to prove that she was able to show self-discipline, that she would not give in to her need, that she would be the obedient vassal Stephen had commanded her to be.

But it was impossible.

Her hand snaked between her thighs as she watched, her throat dry, how Stephen drove his length into Brae’s sex, deliciously obscene wet noises mingling with her moans and sighs. She was so close. A soft blush had spread from her cheeks to her chest, and Alys longed to kiss those soft breasts, to close her lips around these nipples while Stephen kept fucking her, driving her wild with lust.

Alys’ fingers started playing with her sex, caressing and teasing, biting her lips to keep quiet. Her free hand cupped her own breast, squeezing it lightly, while her gaze was fixed on the beautiful couple before her. Brae’s eyes were closed as she writhed beneath Stephen, rocking against him until all of the sudden her eyes opened wide, her nails digging deep into his back, a scream of blissful ecstasy quickly muffled as she buried his face against his shoulder.

The young maid smiled as the waves of pleasure subsided, a glint in her eyes that Alys had never seen before.

“More”, she whispered, for the first time addressing Stephen with an order. “More.”

***

“He doesn’t know that we are here.”

Raven’s voice was a hoarse whisper, which was strange. Ever since Lord Thomas had thrown her across his horse she had not uttered a single sound, not even when she was pushed from the saddle onto the hard ground inside the castle, not when rough hands had dragged her down narrow damp steps, her feet slipping on the mossy stone, and not when the iron around her neck was clamped shut, chafing her skin.

She did not explain. Beval was scared out of his mind, and Raven knew that he should be. This was not how she had imagined her return to Castle Courtney.

Stephen had shown her the dungeons that de Courtney’s forefathers had carved out of the raw rock when she had been Rowan the archer. Raven had known people unlucky enough to spend their last days in these cells: thieves and poachers, mostly, all too hungry to care about the risk of stealing from their betters. She did not, however, know of anyone who had ever made it out these cells alive.

A rat scurried across the floor, her small paws scratching over the cold stone. Raven wondered why rats came down to the dungeons. Maybe to gloat, to eye the misery of those chained up here? It sat on its hind legs, sniffing the damp air. A rush of anger gripped her. Why did rats have the right to leave this place at will? Why did it have to remind them of pending death? She threw a pebble at it and with a squeal the rodent disappeared between the cracks in the rock.

“I am sorry, too.” She bit back tears. Beval, the brigand and outlaw, was unlikely to escape the liege lord’s justice. But some part of her still hoped that Stephen would understand, that he would save her, and by default, the man who had saved her life, twice.

“If you tell him what really happened, he will let you go. He is a just man.”

***

Thomas sank into a wooden chair and reached for the cup of spiced hot wine that a tired servant offered to him. It was done.

It was both defiance and caution that made Lord Thomas choose the cells that his liege lord had not found fit for his prisoners. He knew that he needed to move carefully now. When they had come back with the witch and her companion he chose the small gate on the back to avoid curious eyes. The news about the girl’s capture had to come from him, and they would have to be delivered in front of his family, of de Valois and of his men. If he stubbornly refused to believe what was so plain and right in front of his eyes he might just need the pressure of all those who believed it around him to force his hand.

The castle had been asleep when they had arrived back from their outing. Only a few sentries had patrolled the walls and the gates. De Valois had retired to his chambers, and his squire reported that the sounds coming from behind the door suggested he should not be disturbed. Maybe, the presumptuous lad had said grinning like a git, he had made good on his promise to summon the Lady Alys and her pretty maid? He had received a good slap for his insolent comment, but Thomas cared not if de Valois was already fucking his niece as long as he was willing to pay the bride price he had promised: peace and a strong alliance in the North, with House Marnoch at the helm.

“You found her.”

He looked up. His brother stood in the low doorway, looking exhausted and weary.

“I did. It was easy enough. The trial needs to be swift and widely announced. We need the witch dead just as much as we need to let everyone know that she is dead.”

Marnoch nodded, but Thomas could tell that he was still not comfortable with what de Valois might consider an important betrayal, depending on how strong the hold the little creature had on him was, or if he really had not known that she was nothing but an impostor.

“Tomorrow. We will throw the witch at his feet tomorrow, when the castle is assembled in the hall. We need witnesses if possible, people who were close to her. I’ll find out more in the morning.”

“What if de Valois refuses to sentence her? What if the witch lives?”

Thomas put down his cup down so hard that the dark red wine spilled over his hand.

“Then we’ll have war, and this time de Valois will find himself without any allies.”

 

[Maka]

All of Brae's slender form was convulsed with her orgasm, her large, melting brown eyes brilliant with lust. She had forgotten that the man bringing such unbearable pleasure to her gorgeous young body was her overlord, forgotten that they were watched by her own mistress -forgotten that she was a demure young maiden once sworn to proper Christian chastity. Stephen would wager that in the present moment she had forgotten even her name. All that was left was a lusty, earthy young wanton, as thoroughly pagan as her godless ancestors had been, whispering a shameless request for more.

And Stephen intended to oblige. At first, he had thought Brae too delicate and still too innocent -a shy and fragile creature that he might split in half if he were not careful. But she had taken everything he had given her with glee and asked for more. Brae's young body, he was beginning to realise, could handle rough treatment.

He put a hand to her smooth cheek, his tender, courtly manner contrasting with the violence with which he had been fucking her.

"More," he agreed, staring into her eyes. He kissed her -a long, lingering kiss, a kiss to steal what little breath she had left after her first climax. Then he slowly withdrew from her tight wet sheath, his proud, huge cock glistening with her juices, and got to his feet.

"Get on your hands and knees," he told her. He glanced at Alys. As though held helpless in the grip of her own desire, the beautiful young noblewoman had one hand pressed between her legs, one hand massaging a firm, ripe breast. Her angelic face deliciously flushed, her bosom heaving as though she had run a mile. Her gaze met Stephen's.

"Come over here," he said. His voice had been gentle with Brae but now there was a hard edge to it.

 

[Little_Zora]

Brae, her eyes full of adoration, nodded, still panting for breath. “Yes, my lord”, she whispered hoarsely, suddenly remembering his title and her station, all the while stretching provokingly beneath him. She could feel his seed dripping down her thighs and felt a wild pride that it had been him, and no other, who had introduced her to the pleasures of the flesh.

She turned, lazily getting onto her hands and knees, jutting out her rear proudly, a woman now, who had tasted unbridled lust and was now wanting for more. Throwing a glance over her shoulder she caught the eye of her mistress whose delicate face looked troubled and flushed, clearly not unaffected by the scene she had witnessed.

The slender maid, her thick brown tresses spilling over her back and down her shoulders, suddenly remembered their very first night together, when it had been Lady Alys who Stephen had fucked, expertly, from behind, and how she, Brae, had longed to be in her position, to feel his unyielding, skilled cock pierce her in just the same way. Now she would find out what Alys had felt then, she would become her, a lover in her beloved lord’s arms. A heady, powerful thought.

Alys followed her lord’s command without hesitation, knowing that she, before anything else, needed to pass this next test of obedience. The hard glint in his voice did not frighten her, it only added to her anticipation, to her arousal. Her thighs were dripping with her own juices, and all she now wanted was for him to take her, to bring her relief. But Alys was not at all sure that this was indeed his intention.

“My lord”, she said, walking over to him, her eyes downcast. “How may I serve you?”

***
Elwynn hummed a tired tavern song. It was the first time since she had been brought to the black cells of Castle de Lacy that Robert was not there. Someone had come to his cell when they had been sleeping, and dragged him away. She had no notion of how long he had been gone. Maybe it had only been a few hours, but the silence and the darkness stretched each minute into bottomless eternity.

What if he would never come back? What if he had been executed already? Who would bother to tell her that her companion from across the wall would not return?

Suddenly the door to her cell opened with a tired creak. The dim orange light of a torch preceded someone entering. Elwynn froze. Were they now coming for her, too? Would they take her back to the inquisitor? Or were they sentries that wanted to spend some time with the little whore from Courtney Castle, now that her protector was gone?

She scrambled back into one corner, her back firmly against the wall, her fists clenching the straw. Elwynn watched the door like a cornered animal, set to defend herself with the last shreds of life she still had in her.

“No need to be frightened, eh? I am not here to cause you any harm.”

She looked up. The man standing in her cell was thickly built, stout, with a greying dark beard and a shaggy mane that stood around his head like a dirty cloud. A ring of keys was attached to his leather belt, and he held a large wooden bucket from which plumes of steam rose in lazy curls and a bundle of what looked like rags.

“Where is Robert?” Her voice was thin and frightful, an attempt at keeping him talking, and away from her. The man frowned, momentarily confused. “You mean the bastard?”

The bastard? Whose bastard? Elwynn looked at her interlocutor, obviously unsure whom he meant. The jailor’s eye twitched. A nervous tick maybe. A thick scar ran from his right ear to the corner of his mouth, giving him a brutish air.

“Aye, the lord’s bastard son Robert.” He nodded sadly. “A bloody shame about that boy if you ask me, sweetling. De Lacy should thank his lord on his knees for such a lad, such a fine lad he is. Such a good heart, too. A shame, I tell you.”

Elwynn felt a cold rush of fear before she could even fully comprehend the man’s words of Robert being Lord de Lacy’s bastard son.

“What have they done to him?”

The jailor scratched his head.

“Nothin’ yet. But a traitor’s death ain’t a pretty affair, you know? All these guts and the endless chopping and cutting. But his father wants him alive, they say. For now.”

“A traitor? What did he do?”

He laughed, a thick rasping sound.

“He’s not told you, with all that time you two spent together down here, eh?” His face suddenly grew sad again. “Well, no wonder. It’s a heart-breaking story anyway. Wanted to make off with the bride his father wanted to steal from his liege lord, he wanted, risked his neck to be with his love, the fair Lady Alys. People say that he sacrificed himself to save her life. A good lad, I told you. A good lad, but done in by love.” Another sad chuckle. “The minstrels will make songs about those two, for all that it’s worth. But a shame that a father would kill his own son, bastard or not.”

Elwynn’s head was swimming. How could that young man, the Saracen, be the local lord’s son? Lady Alys – was that not the name of Lord Stephen’s bride? And Robert a traitor? Now less scared of the man, Elwynn stood up, her back still against the wall, wanting to know more.

“It’s not right, to lock up a wee lass like you down here. Not right.” He scratched his beard, and looked at her, the awkward grimace an attempt at a smile. He set down the bucket and folded a damp cloth over the wooden rim carefully. It was a maid’s gesture and looked strangely out of place in this place, at this man’s hands.

Then he set a bundle of what appeared to be a dress and a thick cloak aside in the straw.

“They’ve forgotten that you’re down ‘ere, they have”, he mumbled. “But I haven’t.” His eye twitched again, and he motioned towards the bucket with his head. “Some hot water, so you can wash, and some clean, warm clothes, too.”

He looked at her with such affection that Elwynn could not help but smile.

“Thank you.”

“I had a little lass that looked a lot like you, you know, but the fever took her from us, may God save her soul. When I look at you, it warms my old heart, it brings the memory back. Let me do you this kindness, God knows I ‘ave done enough bad deeds in my life.”

Elwynn said nothing, but she felt that he could be trusted.

“Has there been a trial? For Robert?”

“Not yet. They are always sticking their heads together, aren’t they, the bishop and de Lacy, scheming against their enemies. The word is that they still hope to lure the pretty Lady Alys in de Lacy’s bed, and what better bait than the life of her love as a wager, eh? But the plans of the noble folk make my poor old head hurt, and you shouldn’t concern with that either, sweetling. I’ll look after you, don’t you worry.”

At the mention of the bishop, Elwynn had started to tremble.

“Yes, not a good man, though they say he is a servant of God.” He shook his head disapprovingly, his shaggy mane giving him the appearance of an old dog. “One would think that God would choose his servants more carefully.”

With that he turned towards the door, without even taking the torch.

“Keeps them rats out”, he muttered, reaching for the door. “I’ll bring you some better food later. Now go on, before the water is cold.”

 

[Maka]

Brae's smooth ivory skin gleamed softly in the candle-light. She presented her firm, enticing young derriere to her lord, indeed practically wriggling in anticipation of being penetrated yet again, of having her supple little body so thoroughly and completely used for pleasure in every way. Her nipples were tight quivering nubs on her modest, perky breasts and her eyes shone with a kind of heavenly elation that went beyond anything the pious handmaiden could have imagined dreaming of Paradise in church.

Stephen meant to introduce her to yet more pleasures in a moment but for now his attention turned to her mistress. Alys was beautiful where Brae was pretty, with the elfin, aristocratic beauty of a queen of the fey. The Normans in London told stories of the North, the beauty and mystery of its forests and mountains and the stubborn, defiant fierceness of its people, still clinging to their own tongue and their own ways after a century of the invaders' rule. But Stephen did not believe that he'd find anything more beautiful, more mysterious, more sweet in her defiance and her eventual submission to his will than golden-haired Alys, pale winter rose -fragile and fine enough that it seemed she could be broken by a single man's hand, and yet harder underneath than the stones of her father's castle. What other woman would have made the choice she had made? What other woman could have been so powerful as to utterly submit herself to the will of another, to have the refined palate to savour the sweetness of her own total surrender?

And now, obedient, she approached him, her lovely sapphire eyes downcast, her cheeks flushed. Stephen's hands ached to run down the flawless creamy skin of her body, to cup those perfect breasts and lay his head between them. She had a body that a pagan goddess of love would envy, and the clear, heartbreakingly beautiful face of an angel -but an angel that had discovered the earthly sins of the flesh, to judge by her flush.

He pulled her to him, her generous breasts pressed against his hard chest, and kissed her -his mouth dominating hers, hungry, but also generous. He kissed her until she was panting for air, then released her and cupped her chin with his hands, bringing her gaze up to meet his. Should he punish her again? But this time, her crime was nothing but desire -and desire should not be a sin.

"Get beneath Brae," he commanded huskily. "Service her while I fuck her."

 

[Little_Zora]

Alys looked up at him, barely able to breathe. She did not want to give up the kiss, she did not want to give up the feeling of his naked skin against hers, and yet she desperately wanted to obey him, wanted to find her own pleasure in this surrender.

She nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

Brae, shivering with anticipation, shifted slightly to accommodate her mistress who did as Lord Stephen had commanded. Alys body lay beneath her now, and Brae admired the glow of her pale skin, the beautiful curves of her hips, her shapely legs. How beautiful her mistress was! And how her surrender, and the complete devotion to pleasure had increased that beauty! Brae wanted to bury her head between Lady Alys’ quivering thighs, and return the favour she was about to receive. But that had not been Lord Stephen’s command and for now the maid, aware for the first time in her young life of what ‘lust’ could truly mean, enjoyed the temporary change of roles, the domination of maid over mistress.

She parted her thighs a bit more, allowing Alys access to her most intimate spot, signalling that she was ready, that she wanted to be serviced by her, wanted to be driven to new heights of lust.

Alys’ hands slowly caressed Brae’s ivory thighs, taking in the feeling of her silken skin against her fingertips. She pressed her lips against the smooth inside of her thighs, close to her sex, making the young maid squirm and shiver with anticipation. It was not the first time that she would pleasure her thus – after the first fateful night the three of them had spent together there had been other occasions – but something had changed since then. Brae was no longer the scared, entranced girl, too frightened to either resist or to ask for what she wanted.

“Pleasure me.”

The words were as much plea as they were an order, demanding Alys to let her maid take control of this act for the first time. Would her mistress allow it?

Alys smiled, and for a moment her gaze met that of Stephen. This was how he wanted it to be.

Her maid drew in her breath sharply as Alys’ tongue flicked over the sensitive, engorged nub between her legs, once, twice. Brae closed her eyes and surrendered to the exquisite sensation, Alys’ skilful attentions. She could feel the presence of Lord Stephen, standing over them, watching only, for now. A sigh escaped her parted lips as Alys’ kisses and licks intensified, as her tongue parted the dripping lips of her sex, probing, driving her to rock her hips against Alys’ mouth, whispering for more.

 

[Maka]

Alys didn't hesitate for a moment before obeying Stephen's command. She gracefully slid under Brae, placing her golden head between the maidservant's legs. The two formed an astonishingly erotic vision in the dying light of the fire. Brae's gently tanned skin formed a delicious contrast with the flawless ivory of Alys' glorious nude body.

Brae trembled as Alys lovingly stroked her silky thighs. The highborn lady smiled in almost innocent delight, then looked at Stephen as though for a final approval. He had disciplined her earlier tonight, and she must surely still feel the throbbing welts across her buttocks. Alys was eager to reclaim her place in his affections, to show herself as being as ready to submit to her lord as Brae.

Brae whispered to Alys. Her tone was soft and reverent, but there was no mistaking the command underneath the velvet. And Alys complied, kissing and licking and lapping at the sensitive, swollen bud between Brae's legs with a kind of prayerful devotion and intensity. Brae shivered and sighed, her legs beginning to buckle under Alys' sweet onslaught.

Stephen watched in fascination, unable to take his eyes off the gorgeous sight. There was a thrilling intimacy to it, as though he were seeing into the bedchamber these two young women had shared for years, watching unseen the climax of Christ knew how many nights of half-understood impulses and desires, of sighs and shy glances, of whispered nighttime confidances and secret shameful thoughts. They were in their own world now, a world completely bounded by their own slender naked bodies, and he was the voyeur greedily watching them.

But they knew he was watching and that was the other side to the pleasure of the moment. Alys brought pleasure to Brae, hoping to please Stephen. If he had commanded her to whip her faithful, beloved maid, she would have done so with the same unhesitating eagerness. Alys' total devotion to the pleasure of submission had started to mold her in ways even Stephen could not have expected. Licking and kissing, she was trying to elicit more and more sighs and moans from Brae, proving to the listening Norman lord that she followed his commands well and faithfully.

And Brae? Brae too knew that Stephen was watching. Under Alys' ministrations, she wriggled and squirmed wantonly, to all appearances totally abandoned to her pleasure. But there was a particularly provocative, intentional air to the way her toned little derriere arched and swayed in response to Alys' gifted tongue; to the occasional coy glances turned back over her shoulder, large brown eyes so apparently demure.

It put Stephen in mind of when he had first caught Brae lurking outside the door, her face flushed and her eyes wide and frightened. Like those of a timid young doe, but something about them whispering Catch me.

It was different now. Brae knew what she wanted, had already had a taste of it on the rush-strewn floor of this chamber. Stephen had no intention of making her wait any longer for it. Striding forward, he placed his hands on her slim waist. He towered over her, physically dominating the petite, brown-haired girl crouching before him in every way. Then he pushed the head of his cock into her.

With all of Alys' loving licking, Brae's sex was soaking wet yet still deliciously tight. He exulted in every inch he slowly pushed into her, letting her absorb the pleasure of every movement, every shift, all the while Alys continued. Then he withdraw and suddenly rammed into her, all of the extraordinary controlled force and precision of his warrior abilities in the service of her pleasure, before withdrawing again and thrusting again, each new thrust plumbing new depths, each accompanied with a light but stinging slap to her rear.

 

[Little_Zora]

Brae threw her head back, moaning loudly as she felt him pushing into her with controlled strength. It was a new sensation, deeper this time, an edge of sweet pain lingering in each of his thrusts. But Alys’ tongue, her kisses and licks built up a head spinning counterpoint to his hard cock, making her mind spin with pleasure.

Alys, for a moment, had to stop and watch Stephen take her maid with beautiful force. It was a heady sight, his cock ramming into Brae’s tight sex so very close to her curious gaze, erotic beyond anything she had seen. She tentatively licked the girl’s lips again, her swollen clit, enjoying the spasm she was able to send through Brae’s body like that. She caught a taste of her maid on his manhood as he withdrew again, slowly, only to push back into the slender girl who was arching her back wantonly, pushing against him already, eager for more.

This was how it was supposed to be, just like this, the three of them. Alys had never guessed that such pleasure was possible, such wanton need for more. Maybe Stephen really was a warlock, but what of it if it was true? Here was a man who sought to serve the women he desired as much as he sought to be served by them – what was the sin in that? She closed her eyes, her tongue alternating between Brae’s sex and that of her future husband, her own thighs pressed together eagerly, hoping to create enough friction to find relief in this sweet, sweet torture…

Brae was bucking under the dual onslaught of her lovers, shivering like a deer caught between two vicious and skilled attackers, completely helpless. Alys wrapped her arms around her slender waist, her fingers brushing against Stephen’s, interlacing, holding her maid in place to be fucked, pleasured beyond anything she had thought possible.

The slender girl could barely remain upright, her arms buckling beneath her, her fingers digging into the straw on the floor. She came the first time, and a second time, obscene wet noises testimony to her defeat against Alys and Stephen’s skills, and still they were not done.

“I am dying, you are killing me…” Brae’s whispers were in the language only Alys was able to understand, but she was sure that Stephen, too, was able to decipher their meaning.

One of Alys’ hands had travelled up Stephen’s arm, missing his touch as much as feeling him deep inside her, fucking her in the same way he was fucking Brae, making her come like her, making her scream…her nails inadvertently dug into the firm flesh of his arm, urging him on, while her other arm was still tightly wrapped around the whimpering, shivering maid.

***
Elwynn carefully placed the wet cloth over the bucket. For the first time in ages she felt warm, and somehow safer. The dress the gaoler had brought her fit perfectly, and it was less torn, less tainted, as her old rags had been. She would thank him for it when he came back.

Robert the bastard.

She had wondered about this, hoped that she could ask him soon. What had he done? She remembered the first nights when she had heard him moan in feverish pain, when she had been afraid that he was dying in the cell next to hers, and that they both had been long forgotten in this godforsaken prison below Castle de Lacy.

Arnaud had told her once about Stephen de Valois’ plans to marry a Northern girl, from a rich and powerful family. Was that girl the one Robert had been trying to steal? The girl that he loved enough to risk…this? Prison? Torture and death? And what a girl it must be! Would Robert’s father really start a war over her? Would he kill his own flesh and blood?

She watched the flickering of the flame, her head on her knees. The gaoler was right. The plans of the noble folk were too hard to understand. Elwynn smiled, remembering that this was the advice she had once given to sweet little Raven, when they had lain in her bed, the dark, beautiful girl still shivering from her first taste of pleasure.

Where would this all end? What did they want of her, the whore? What could they want? It was easy advice not to meddle with lords and noble ladies. But what if they did not listen?

 

[Maka]

Brae was writhing, trembling, bucking -helpless under the wild onslaught of pleasure she was receiving from Stephen's manhood and her mistress' tongue. Her soaking, exquisitely tight sex clung to the huge, hard rod invading it as though trying to squeeze the seed from it. Alys alternated between her attentions to Brae's sensitive bud and loving, greedy licks of Stephen's cock as it thrust into Brae above her. The sensation was exquisite -the rasp of Alys' eager tongue-tip the perfect contrast with the lush wetness of Brae.

Brae let out a wail of pure pleasure, spasming in the wake of her second orgasm. Alys had wound her arms around her slim waist, holding her in place while Stephen crashed into her from behind with ever-greater force. The restraint and self-control so important to Stephen had vanished, leaving behind something primal and elemental. He was no longer the brilliant, impassive Norman lord but something more akin to one of the wild, lusty pagan gods that his ancestors had worshipped -giants on the battlefield and in the bedchamber, fathering heroes upon countless mortal women.

For all the delicacy and seeming fragility of Brae's young, slender body, she was revealing a steel running along her spine, an inner fire in those fearful, lovely big brown eyes. Supported by her mistress' loving arms, she was able to withstand the force and ardour of Stephen's thrusts -many women he'd known would have swooned into unconsciousness by now. But Brae, although dizzied and starry-eyed at the vertiginous heights of pleasure she'd ascended, was still conscious. Her mouth formed a perfect rosebud O of entranced, innocent surprise and, as though driven from it by Stephen's thrusts, a string of babbling, sweetly silvery words in her own language emerged in a whisper, as though Brae were scrabbling for words, for reason itself, in the face of these new sensations.

Stephen felt Alys' hand trail up his muscular arm, the nails digging in sympathetically as Brae shuddered once more. Stephen's mouth opened in a joyful, silent shout as he buried himself to the hilt in Brae, relishing the sensation. Time seemed to have no meaning. Again and again, he drove into her, her sex wrapped around his manhood, its every glorious inch sending thrills and shudders of pleasure through the young handmaiden until at last he exploded inside her, sending jet after jet of hot white seed into her. There was so much that it overflowed, mingled with her juices, and trickled down her thighs into Alys' waiting mouth.

Stephen slowly drew his cock from the exhausted, sated Brae and gathered her up effortlessly up in his arms. He bore her across the floor to his bedchamber and there deposited her between the sheets, half-conscious and murmuring broken, soft words in her own language. They sounded loving and tender, though Stephen could not understand them, and her hand clutched his for a moment as he set her down. He smiled, and brushed aside a lock of rich brown hair away from her pretty, slumberous face. She would need that steel, that fire he'd found in her, in the days to come, and for things less pleasant than loveplay. He'd used her, though it revolted him, just as he'd use Alys, as he'd use himself -because they were all of them locked in a life-or-death struggle.

It was so much less than she deserved. She deserved some kindly peasant swain, who'd spend all his life trying to please his fair, eager bride and be worthy of her. Not a harsh, hard Norman lord who would unhesitatingly send her hither and thither, into perils and travails, as he would the archers under his command. But there was nothing more that could be done. Stephen did not think that Brae could ever be happy now with the clumsy, hasty lovers of her class that once might have contented her. All he could do was make use of the body and talents that God had given him to do all he could to ensure that she never regretted the bargain she had made.

He returned into the antechamber. Alys still lay there, as he'd known she would -he had not given her permission to rise. She was glorious, queenly, in her pale nudity, her ivory skin shining softly in the dying firelight, her golden hair framing her face like a halo, adding to her elfin, unearthly beauty. Her lips still shone with Brae's juices and Stephen's seed, her nipples were hard and tender on her magnificent breasts, and her sex glistened wetly. She was panting hard, her breasts rising and falling, a pleading look in her cerulean blue eyes. She was begging to be ravished with every inch and iota of her being, mutely pleading for Stephen to take her as he had just taken Brae. She had submitted herself perfectly to his will. Watching her, Stephen found his cock, itself sticky and slick with Brae's honey, once again massively hard and ready.

Stephen lowered himself to Alys' level, and set about giving his betrothed, his friend, his ally and his slave her long-awaited reward for her faithful service tonight.


***


On a Sunday, after services in the chapel, Lord Stephen assembled his followers in the castle hall and heard all petitioners, great and small, who had grievance or complaint. It was a custom he had first initiated some months ago, at the suggestion of the impostor then calling herself Rowan.

If Thomas had been a merry man, the recollection of that particular fact might have amused him. But he saw no cause for laughter this morning -the stony expression on his face matched that of his brother, who was glaring at his daughter, Lady Alys.

Alys was seated demurely among the women, her hands folded in her lap and her eyes properly cast down. But she looked exhausted -her eyes heavy-lidded and slumberous, and every now and then she hid a yawn behind her sleeve. Even worse, at least to a suspicious observer, there was a dreamy, contented smile on her face -a knowing smile that one strongly suspected had no business curving the lips of a properly maidenly virgin. Standing behind her, her handmaiden Brae was in similar straits. She seemed in some danger of falling asleep on her feet, though Alys seemed indulgent.

Thomas did not share his brother's evident indignation. There was little harm he could see in de Valois fucking Alys before their wedding day -she was a delectable young creature, after all, and her maid was just as tempting. If anything Thomas liked him a little better for it, for proving that hot blood and not icewater ran in his veins. The north needed virile, hard men, after all -not gentle, pious little monks. But they also had to know when to bend and when to submit to circumstances, when to sacrifice their own desires to preserve what they'd built.

The next few moments would determine whether Lord Stephen de Valois was such a man. And when he looked into those hard, stormy blue eyes, Thomas' heart much misgave him. De Valois was not a man for compromise, not even in the face of destruction.

"Bring in the witch," Thomas commanded.

 

[zora_little]

Raven was pulled up the slippery stairs in a hurry, and a couple of times someone kicked her hard from behind, so that she had to try and find a grip against the rough stones of the walls, chafing them bloody.

I am not ready.

Curious onlookers stopped and stared as the strange prisoner was dragged past them. There was a shout of surprise. “Dearie me, that’s Rowan!” A maid, maybe, or a whore. From the corner of her eye Raven was able to catch a glimpse of the archery range through a window before she was pulled into another corridor. Would Lucais be there? Would Arnaud watch, tasting his triumph?

She recognised the tall wooden doors of the Great Hall, the throng of people clustering outside, hoping to be heard. Lord Stephen. He was there, in the hall, and she would have to face him, and his judgement. Almost unconsciously, Raven started to pull back against the chain, her heels digging helplessly into the stone, prompting the guard to yank her forward angrily, making her stumble.

“Make way!” He shoved a few people aside as they approached the doors.

This was not how she wanted to face Lord Stephen.

I am not ready.

***

Alys had trouble concentrating on the petitioners, but Stephen had wanted both her and Brae to be present in the Great Hall for the procedures. Her body was still sore, deliciously tired after the night’s pursuits in Stephen’s chambers. After Brae had fallen into a sated slumber, Stephen had tended to his future bride, in ways that had driven her half-mad with lust. She closed her eyes to recall the feeling of his strong hands pulling her against him, his deep, hard thrusts, his groans of pleasure. Alys had to bite her lips to keep a soft moan from escaping her lips at the thought.

Her eyes met that of her father, and she blushed deeply, unable to withstand his cold, steely gaze. It mattered not. The only man she would accept to take orders from was her future husband, her liege lord.

***

“The witch?”

The whispers and low chatter that had filled the Great Hall died down immediately. A witch! In Castle Courtney! Alys sat up a little straighter, her heart pounding in her chest. Her eyes searched for Stephen’s gaze.

The door opened and a guard half-pulled, half-dragged in a dark-haired young man by a chain fastened to a ring around his neck. He was stumbling awkwardly, almost too tired to walk on his own. His hands, too, were linked by iron chains. A peasant boy, judging by his appearance, who looked nothing like what Alys would imagine a witch to look like.

Brae peeked over her shoulder, fearfully holding on to Alys’ hand. A real witch? She had never seen one herself, but she had heard frightful tales of witches so powerful that whole towns and castles had succumbed to their spells. What if this one was one such? But the witch looked awfully like a battered, skinny peasant boy – was that a ruse maybe, to trick her opponents? Was he a warlock, and not a witch?

Behind the lad the guards pushed in another young man who looked like had been violently beaten. He limped into the great hall under obvious strain, softly moaning in pain with each step. Who was he? And who was his companion?

Alys put one hand over her mouth, her eyes widening with the shock of recognition.

The slender youth, dressed in the torn tunic of a peasant – there was no doubt that it was Rowan, Stephen’s lost squire that everyone had thought to be dead. His delicate face was pale and drawn, and his black eyes gave him a haunted, fearful appearance. There were dark bruises on his face, and traces of blood. His lips were dry and cracked from the lack of water, obviously his gaolers had not been kind to the boy. But why…? Alys silently prayed that there was a good reason for her uncle to treat Rowan this way – she knew Stephen well enough to know that he would not forgive such a daring trespass without ample proof that such treatment of his favourite servant was indeed called for. How could the kind, handsome squire suddenly find himself so monstrously accused?

When they reached Stephen, the guard yanked at the chain fastened to the ring around his neck and the lad dropped awkwardly to his knees, before Lord Thomas’ boot violently thrust him forward, sending him face first into the stone floor. “Kneel before your liege lord, witch”, he hissed coldly.

Alys stared at the kneeling creature, her fatigue suddenly gone. What in God’s name…? She looked up at her father who now studiously avoided her gaze. Had he known about this? A witch? Alys suddenly felt ill and had trouble breathing, Brae’s grip on her hand told her that her maid, too, had understood the implications of that word. Rowan, the liege lord’s trusted squire was in fact a…girl?

“My lord”, Thomas finally said in a low, steady voice. “We have managed to find the witch, the impostor that posed as your squire.” He looked down at the kneeling Raven, his face dark with disgust. It was all he could do not to crush the girl’s skull right there and then, suddenly aware that it was her, this sliver of a girl, that would be responsible for the unravelling of peace and prosperity in the North, all because the liege lord had been unable to resist this skinny peasant bitch. “She was responsible also for the attack on the hunting party, in which she conspired with de Lacy’s hired henchmen.” He motioned with his head towards Beval, who was standing a bit further back in the hall, his eyes downcast. “She is the reason that many of our men – and yours – died that day.”

He looked straight at Lord Stephen now, his voice cutting the tense silence like a steel blade. “We demand justice, my lord.”

***

Raven knelt on the cold floor, every bone in her body aching. Her head was swimming with fear and a leaden fatigue, the lack of food and water made her dizzy. She did not dare to look up at Stephen. Her bloodied hands were only inches from the tips of his boots, and she would have given anything – her life, really – if she would have been granted one chance to explain herself to him. But it was too late now.

She listened to Lord Thomas of Crowsdale accuse her of witchcraft and of treason, and her eyes filled with angry tears. None of it was true. Raven wanted to throw all of these horrible lies back in the nobleman’s face, she wanted to rip out his tongue that uttered such nonsense. A witch! She! The great hall filled with hissing whispers at Crowsdale’s words, and a high-pitched gasp from the amongst the ranks of the ladies bore testament to the fear his accusations caused amongst the congregation.

Panic rose from her chest and spread through her veins like paralysing poison. They believed him. How could they not? A witch. The iron rings around her wrists and her neck were unbearably heavy, chafing against her skin. A tear rolled down her cheek as the whispers were pierced by single angry shouts, calling for her blood. He would have to believe them. Even if he did not imagine her to be a witch, he would have trouble doubting the accusation of treachery. How else would he be able to explain her sudden disappearance after the fateful hunting day?

“I am so sorry”, she whispered, to no one in particular, her voice barely more than a hoarse croak. “I never meant for it to end like this.”

 

[Maka]

Whispers and cries of outrage spread throughout the great hall, until Stephen lifted his hand, and there was total silence. He looked from face to face of the players in this drama, as though hoping to seek out its true meaning in them.

He did not recognise the boy that Rowan had been brought in with -his face pulped and mashed by bruises, swelling closing off one eye. He stood with his eyes cast down on the stone floor but as Stephen examined him, he lifted his gaze for just a moment. Stephen was dispassionately surprised by the hatred and wrath directed at him from the youth's one good eye. Perhaps the captive thought that his beating had come on Stephen's orders.

By him stood Thomas staring at Rowan with a bitter hatred of his own. He too returned Stephen's gaze, his face set and implacable. Whatever the truth of this matter, there could be little doubt that Lord Thomas held Rowan responsible for the attack in the woods at Castle Marnoch. He had ambushed Stephen, arranged for this all to play out in public view -no doubt fearing that otherwise it could be swept aside, with rumours only continuing to boil and fester under the surface.

From there, Stephen's gaze travelled to Alys. It was clear from the look of total shock on the noblewoman's lovely young face that she had not been a part of her uncle's plot. Next to her, Brae's eyes were wide with innocent terror and she was squeezing her mistress' hand in obvious fright. Even at this moment, Stephen felt a moment of concern for her.

And from there to the archers standing on guard at the back, among them Arnaud. The others, Rowan's one-time comrades, were staring in disbelief, but Arnaud's expression was stonily unsurprised. Stephen remembered now a conversation with the Norman archer, after the ambush in the woods, in which Arnaud had hinted at knowing something about the squire's disappearance. Arnaud had known. And Arnaud might shed some light on everything.

Then Stephen's gaze finally came full circle, to the figure kneeling at his feet. Rowan -but that could not be her true name. What was it? It didn't matter. He saw it now. The slender body, its gentle curves disguised by a boyish, erect carriage. The delicate, finely featured face with its full lips and melting dark eyes, always just a shade too pretty for that of a boy. Ways his squire had had of expressing himself, a certain light that had come into those rich brown eyes at a new discovery in a Greek text, at the making of a difficult shot at the archery range...

How had he not known? There had been the stories from the brothel, but Stephen knew from experiences as recent as the night before that it did not take a cock to make a woman scream in ecstasy. Had he not known? Or had he chosen not to know, not to accept a revelation that would irrevocably change and complicate a relationship that he had come to depend on, that had come to play such a central role in his life. One could not shoot with a woman, or converse on such easy and intimate terms, or use their talents in bringing justice to the north. Women were for bedding and bearing children, nothing more.

And with that thought Stephen understood why Rowan had carried out this charade. Just as in their own ways Alys and Brae strained and chafed against the impositions of their class and gender, so that must have been Rowan's experience. A spark of light and life, her mind and body sweetly budding at once, so aware for just a moment of all the possibilities -and all destined to be muffled and eventually smothered under the brutal realities of a peasant girl's life -to lose her zest for life and her slender shape to harsh, raw childbirth after childbirth, to have her gift for thought and learning, nurtured by a kindly priest for a time, wither and die on want of further encouragement, for want of any company besides itself. And along he had come -the mighty Norman invader, the inhabitant of a world so far from Rowan's own he might as well have come from the middle air, and he had given her a glimpse of another way, at a chance of escape, if only for a season and at a cost.

That cost was due now. Stephen wondered if she would do it all over again. Had it been worth it?

There was so much between them unsaid, feelings that had been stirring for a long time, that had not or could not be expressed -that never would be expressed now. Stephen leant forward. He cupped Rowan's chin in his hand, brought it up, not ungently, so that her eyes met his. They stared at each other in silence for a long moment. Then the Norman lord sat back.

"You make accusations. You demand punishments," he told Thomas. "But you furnish no proof. Is this how we will restore justice to the north?"

He addressed the hall at large.

"The prisoners will be held -in quarters of greater comfort than their present accomodation. Brother William, the chirurgeon, will attend their injuries. They will have no contact with anyone until I have questioned all concerned in this matter."

This last with a hard stare at Arnaud, who gave a reluctant nod.

"Until such a time, we adjourn."

 

[zora_little]

Alys sat in front of the fire, staring absent-mindedly into the flames. She turned a cup of spiced wine in her hands, while Brae sat across from her, nervously occupied with needlework, unable to concentrate. She had been privy to a conversation between her mistress and Lord Thomas of Crowsdale just moments earlier, and she could guess the nature of Lady Alys’ concern.

If Lord Stephen did not sentence the witch to death, if Marnoch and his men would not be granted the justice they craved, the alliance was over, and the betrothal between Lady Alys and the Norman lord would be called off. Her uncle had been all too aware – Brae still blushed at the blunt way in which he had disclosed his knowledge - that Alys had already yielded her honour to Stephen, but he had, in no less brutal terms, expressed confidence that she was beautiful enough that some Northern lord in search of new allies would take her to his bed despite what her uncle called “her spoiled state”. There would be war, and the man who had shared such intimacy with them only the previous evening would become their mortal enemy, and chances were that Lord Stephen would not emerge the victor this time. Brae had to bite back tears at this certainty. Even a warrior and leader as skilled as the Norman lord would not be able to withstand the fury of a united, hostile Northern Alliance.

And Alys? She knew that Stephen would not condemn Rowan – or whatever name that unlucky creature actually bore – to death. He would not resort to torture to extract a confession, he would not be able to harm her at all. Alys had known this ever since the moment that he had looked down at the little witch, gently cupping her chin with his hand, his expression unmistakable, so clear for anyone to read.

He loved her.

Had Stephen broken her trust? Had he lied? Had he really not known? Alys felt rage spread through her insides like molten lead. The tasks that the girl had performed as his squire had never made him doubt her true identity? It was an odd sensation, the sting of jealousy. Not for a moment had she felt raw about Stephen bedding Brae, but this was different. The girl in the Great Hall had a hold on the Norman lord, and they shared a bond that no other woman would ever be able to destroy, not as long as that dark-eyed impostor lived. But Alys was not ready to surrender her future and that of her people simply because a clever peasant girl had managed to ensnare her liege lord with whatever little lies she had told him.

She emptied the cup in her hand and stood up, her decision made.

***

“Lord Stephen gave order that no one is to speak to the prisoners, my lady.”

Alys smiled, and put a glinting coin into the soldier’s hand.

“If you want to secure the favour of your lord, you should also concern yourself with that of his lady wife.”

The soldier hesitated for a moment, then stepped aside with a shrug. What harm could it do if the young lady of Crowsdale had a glimpse at the little witch? Alys stepped forward into the stone corridor, her heart pounding hard against her chest, all too aware that she was defying Stephen’s orders, and that she was about to commit an even more serious crime.

There on the left, separated from Alys only by a row of iron bars, sat Stephen’s inculpated servant, her head resting on her knees, her eyes closed. At the sound of Alys’ footsteps, she flinched in alarm, and upon seeing the young noblewoman, scrambled to her knees, unsure of how to react to the unexpected visitor.

“My lady?”

Alys considered the girl. Her eyes were wide with exhaustion and fear, her face pale and thin. Her torn tunic hung awkwardly about her slender body, probably not lending much warmth. And yet there was an unmistakable grace and beauty about her, a gentleness and intelligence that had impressed Alys already when she had been introduced to her as Stephen’s squire.

The cell she was now kept in was clean and dry, and the light of the late afternoon sun flooded through a small window, turning the pale straw on the stone floor golden yellow. The shackles had been removed, but the girl’s thin wrists and her neck still bore their mark.

“What is your name, girl?”

Raven stared at Alys. Why was she here?

“Raven, my lady.”

Had Stephen allowed his fiancée to come? Had he not forbidden anyone from coming to see her? And where was he? Never in her entire life had she felt this abandoned, and this afraid. She had not laid eyes on Lord Stephen after soldiers had whisked her out of the Great Hall, and she had no notion of his intentions.

Alys delicately cleared her throat. Raven. Did Stephen know her real name? Unbidden images of him whispering that very name and caressing the dark-haired girl’s face appeared in her mind, his lips claiming hers in a passionate kiss. Anger welled up in her again. How could he not have known, despite the intimacy he had surely shared with his squire?

“You need to confess to your crimes, Raven.” Her voice was hard, and aggressive. “You need to confess to what you have done.”

Raven looked up at her, confused.

“What I have done…my lady, I swear to you that I never meant any harm, that my only crime was the desire to escape the fate of a peasant girl.”

“Escape your fate? God made you a woman, Raven, and you defied his work. Does this not make you a heretic, as my uncle claims?”

The girl kneeling before her lowered her eyes. Alys felt a rush of guilt. Who was she to preach like this to this wretched little thing? Had she not defied all of God’s laws only the night before, and had she not rejoiced in each act? But she was a noble-born woman, and who was Raven? Surely, the rules were different for those whose shoulders did not have to bear the weight of responsibility, of peace and prosperity for their serfs.

“Your accusers may have mercy if you do not insist on your innocence.”

Raven looked up, her lips barely moving when she whispered: “They will kill me.”

Alys did not reply. Yes, they would kill her. They had to kill her. The guilt that was eating away on her insides almost made her nauseous. It was no use trying to lecture the girl on sins and heresy. She was no witch, and yet she was the biggest threat to Stephen’s victory, to peace, and to revenge. Alys stepped closer, and lowered her voice.

“You made a brave choice, Raven. But your defiance of all that is common, of all that is accepted might undo the fragile accord that Stephen managed to strike with my father and his bannermen.” Raven looked up at her, and Alys knew that this was a tone that the bright young woman would understand.

“Stephen might want to pardon you. But if you allow that, his work in the North was all for naught.” She paused. No more lies. “If you live, Raven, Stephen will face an uprising without allies. He would not survive it.”

Raven, still on her knees, felt tears well up in her eyes. It had been possible to deny their accusations of witchcraft, their mean attempts to label her a degenerate, and a cheat, a liar and traitor, since she had never wanted anything else but for Lord Stephen to finally heal the wounds in the North. But this? How could she possibly refute Lady Alys’ claims that her very existence gave grounds for rebellion, because it was not only her standing accused, but her liege lord as well? And that, without any doubt, was her fault, and nobody else’s.

“You made a brave choice once, Raven. I would like to ask you, no, beseech you, to make another, and save Stephen. He might not be able to save himself, but you can do it for him.” Alys felt sick. She could see that her words had the desired effect, but she was unable to feel the elation of victory over her rival. “One last time?”

The dark-haired girl, weak and tired as she was, nodded. “What would you like me to do, my lady?”

“Tell them that you are indeed a witch. Confess to the crimes that they want to hear. Give Stephen no choice but to condemn you.”

Raven reached out to hold on to one of the iron bars of her cell as if trying to steady herself. Alys softly put her hand over hers, urging her on.

“Very well, my lady.” Despite her fatigue, there was a defiant edge to the girl’s voice. “I will do as you ask. You have my word.”

Alys nodded, forcing a smile. She tried to banish images of Raven’s tortured, burning body from her mind. “And no word to anyone about our meeting.”

“No, my lady.” Her fingers slipped from the iron and into her lap. “Nobody will know.”

 

[Maka]

Arnaud was a brave man. He had followed his liege lord into the north, marched through the shadowed woods and cold mountains where every shadow seemed to hide an enemy waiting in ambush, fought hand to hand up to his waist in the icy cold water of a ford, and had been among the first through the gate when Castle de Courtney fell. But even he could not face Lord Stephen de Valois' furious, storm-blue gaze. He regarded the rush-strewn floor instead.

"How long have you known?"

Arnaud took a breath, and finally looked up to regard his lord. Lord Stephen was not pacing or gesticulating, as most men would have done. He was perfectly still, a tall, smoothly muscled statue of a man, his face expressionless. Only his eyes reflected his fury.

"Since the day before the ambush, my lord. I... overheard something."

"Yet you allowed the lie to continue."

Arnaud's head snapped upwards.

"I gave her a day to make her confession to you herself. She asked for that, and I felt I... I felt I owed her that much, at the least."

"A day...," Stephen said, almost to himself. "Then came the ambush... "

Arnaud nodded.

"I thought that she had just slipped away in the confusion, that she would never return. I did not think there was need, any more, to tell you of her secret."

Stephen stared at him for a long time, but in thinking of Raven Arnaud had found something inside himself that could withstand even the Norman lord's icy gaze.

"Forgive me if I did wrong, my lord, but I believed that too, I owed her. Row... Raven was so happy, in those months in your service. Mayhap happier than she'd ever been before. I thought that she'd want to be remembered as a loyal squire, as a good archer and a good man not... "

He trailed off but Stephen's gaze was no longer directed at him. It seemed to be looking straight into the past, perhaps at sunlit, impossibly distant days spent in the woods and the library with a slender, dark-eyed youth. Arnaud wanted to shake his head. He had never truly understood the bond between the young Norman lord and his squire, based as it was on dusty books and dead languages rather than whoring and fighting. The revelation of Raven's true identity just made it stranger. What had a woman wanted with all those books?

Stephen spoke after a time.

"I see."

There was no more, no words of punishment or approbation for the decision Arnaud had made. But the archer still lingered.

"My lord... ?"

Stephen raised an eyebrow.

"De Lacy has Elwynn. You know that. I know you that," Arnaud's growing anger made him forget the fear he had of Stephen as liege lord, and the respect he had for him as a battle leader, "So why do we just sit here? The longer we wait, the stronger de Lacy will grow."

Stephen looked neither angry nor affronted, his expression as hard to read as ever. He cocked his head to one side.

"Marching on de Lacy now would be suicide -our allies would melt away with every step. But executing Raven would weaken de Lacy. It would secure the Marnoch alliance. You might have your Elwynn back within weeks of her death. Peace might be brought to north. All at the cost of one peasant girl's life. Would you give that order?"

He looked at Arnaud. Arnaud's anger drained from him. This was the kind of discussion Raven herself had enjoyed -questions of good and evil, right and wrong, the rights and duties of kings. But it was not something Arnaud could ever understand.

"I... I don't know, my lord."

For a moment, Lord Stephen's mask dropped and bleak exhaustion seemed carved into his finely-made features. He sighed.

"Well, I do know. God save me, I do."

 

[zora_little]

Brae nervously watched Lord Stephen across the Great Hall.

After making an unprecedented decision she now deemed rash, she had gone to him to inform him that her mistress – who would never suspect such treachery from her maid – had disobeyed his orders and talked to the prisoners. Brae did not know that Raven had been Lady Alys’ main interlocutor. She assumed that Alys had only talked to the other, less prominent, captive – the man who had fought alongside her lost love Robert on the day of the ambush.

The young maid could be excused for jumping to such conclusions since her mistress had indeed both talked to Beval, and told her about the encounter. Brae had been livid to hear that the hapless brigand had informed Lady Alys that Robert was still alive, that he suffered painful abuse at the hands of his father, and that his former comrades expected him to be executed before the winter was over. But if she, Alys, was able to put in a good word with her fiancé he would do everything in his power to reunite the two lovers, and bring their romance to a happy conclusion

Brae bit her lip, frowning to herself as she recalled what Lady Alys had told her in confidence. She was convinced that the outlaw was lying to save his own skin – Brae did not blame him for that – but she was worried that her mistress might suffer from a relapse into her doomed passion for Lord de Lacy’s bastard son.

Having witnessed first-hand Lady Alys’ blossoming love for the young half breed, and the dire consequences that her infatuation had brought upon her family and her future husband, Brae had seen it as her duty to tell Lord Stephen all that she knew. But now she felt guilty for what she had done. What if the conversation between Lady Alys and Beval carried no weight in the eyes of her mistress? Then Lord Stephen would punish her for no reason, but she would never forgive her maid such a trespass. Stephen had promised her discretion – and Brae prayed that his sure anger would not make him forget that.

But she was soon distracted from her worries by the entrance of the slim peasant girl – now, that Brae knew that she was not Rowan, but whoever his female twin sister would be the, the disguise seemed impossible – who was led into the Great Hall by a triumphant Lord Thomas of Crowsdale. The hurried voices around the stone hall never rose above excited whispers, but everyone had heard the rumours that the dark-eyed lass wished to confess her crimes before her liege lord.

Lady Alys’ hand reached for hers, and with surprise, Brae noticed that her fingers were ice cold and moist with ill-concealed fear. The maid assumed that the terror of facing a real witch had finally gotten the better of her mistress, and she squeezed her slender hand encouragingly.

***

Raven was barely able to carry herself. What had she agreed to? She would willingly march to her own death, confess to crimes she had never committed, leaving Lord Stephen no other choice but to condemn her. Something told her that it was this – and not the misdeeds she was about to spell out – that he would have trouble to forgive her for. But Lady Alys was right. This was the only choice any of them had now if the project of peace and prosperity for the north was to come to full fruition.

The anxious stares around her in the Great Hall were testament to the impression she had already made, that all she needed to do now was to confirm what all of them were thinking. But she was too afraid, too heartbroken to play the role of the terrifying witch, and much too tired to attempt the effort.

“My lord”, her lips were dry as she spoke, her voice hoarse and shaking. “I wish to confess.”

Raven was unable to make eye contact with Lord Stephen. He was there, only a few feet from her, and yet she was utterly incapable of acknowledging his presence. A rough yank brought her down to her knees, and Lord Thomas’ voice echoed through the hall.

“Speak up, witch, so everyone here can hear you!”

She took a couple of deep breaths. Alys fingers curled so tightly around that of her maid that the poor girl gasped in pain. Lord Thomas leant forward ever so slightly, anticipating his triumph.

“I am a witch.”

A frisson of moving, shifting bodies rippled through the congregation in the Great Hall. A witch! So it was true! Alys frowned, her body tense and alert. Louder, girl, and firmer, she thought, as if her thoughts were able to will a more theatrical confession out of Raven. Convince him.

“I have lied to you, my lord. I have committed treason.” Her voice sounded firmer now. What else had she to lose but her fear? Alys almost nodded in approval.

“It was no coincidence that you have found me in your forest, where you happened upon me as a poacher and a thief.” There were gasps and huffs of indignation coming from the crowd. What a cunning, dismal little creature the girl was! What a mean spirit was hidden behind such a delicate, lovely face!

“It had been my plan all along to bewitch you, to…to…bring you under my spell.” Bite back the tears, Raven thought. A witch would not cry at her defeat. A witch would be angry maybe, or bitter. She attempted a frown, tried to lift her gaze at the man who had saved her, and whom she now forced to revise that decision.

“I meant to thwart all efforts to unite your house to that of Crowsdale. To that end, I conspired with your worst enemies. I meant to destroy you, and all your allies.” The lies choked her. She forced herself not to remember the hours Lord Stephen had spent teaching her Greek, the delight she had felt when he had given her the scroll, the only and most wonderful Christmastide present she had ever received, the moments of illicit intimacy when she had tended to him as his squire. Raven tried to look at him as a man she hated, tried to convince him that she did. It broke her heart.

“You have been an easy victim for me”, she hissed, her own voice scaring her now. “Easily deceived by beauty and spirit, easily seduced by sin and pleasure. You are no lord. You don’t deserve to rule the North, or any shire!”

The whispers in the hall rose to outrage. Raven tried to block out anything else but the thought that her execution alone would be able to save Stephen now. I love you, she thought. I love you. Please be safe.
But aloud, she said, her voice cold and splintered like ice:

“You are a doomed man, Stephen. A defeated man. My spell will kill you and yours in the end.” With that, she spat at his feet, shaking with what she hoped he would believe to be rage.

 

[Maka]

Stephen was transfixed by Raven's stare for a long moment.

He had never seen her face this way, it loveliness seemingly twisted by rage, contempt, and hatred. His gentle, sensitive squire stalking and spitting with fury, delivering the lash of hateful word after word.

Was she mad, broken under the strain of her strange double-life and the trials she had faced afterwards?

Was she possessed? Stephen had seen demoniacs. The mildest, sweet-tempered man might suddenly rave and scream curses, or flail and bite at those holding him, or throw himself into the fire like the child in the gospels.

Or... could it be... no. A thousand times no.

He had seen those possessed by demons. He had seen many strange things on his travels. But Lord Stephen de Valois had never seen nor heard reliable report of witchcraft -just harmless, mad old crones who lived alone and hysterical, fearful and superstitious villagers. He had come to think of it as just one more lie told by the Ambroses of this world, yet another way to better advance their own dominance through fear and hatred. But he wondered, for just a moment...

Could such things be? Might the pleasure Raven took in learning and books be simply cold artifice? Might that soft light in her dark eyes around him have been nothing but a snare of the Evil One? And might the love he felt even now, that aching need he felt for her like a sword piercing his heart -might that be the product of black magic? Wasn't the strength of the emotion proof in itself?

For a moment, the young Norman lord warred with himself, his whole philosophy of life teetering on the verge of a great abyss. He looked at Raven, as though for the first time.

She stood with her head thrown back and her slender shoulders squared in proud defiance -her very delicacy and fragility giving her a strange mesmerising quality for all present in the hall, as though she were the true Queen of Air and Darkness. Stephen held her gaze, as he had once a long time ago, when they had first met in the greenwoods below this castle.

Raven had closed her eyes for just a moment. And when she opened them again, Stephen saw all the proof he needed. The corners of her dark eyes glistened with unshed tears. There was a deep pleading in her gaze for just a moment -before it iced over with that facade of hatred, before she stiffened her shoulders again.

Raven, you sweet, sweet fool. Oh, my sweet brave darling...

It was all clear at a glance. His gaze travelled to Alys, seeing what he should have seen before. Alys had been watching the trial, watching the performance, like the master of a troupe of mummers might his men. Brae's report came back to him -she had visited the prisoners against his orders. And she had suggested this... foulness.

The cold storm of fury rose in Stephen's eyes. Lord Thomas, standing near his niece, gave a tight and satisfied smile, anticipating the sentence to be passed.

"The accused is innocent."

A shocked wave of whispers ran all through the hall. People were staring in disbelief. Stephen had gotten to his feet.

"She knows no more of spells and black lore than I."

That was greeted with total and sudden silence. Stephen recalled the foolish superstitions that had always surrounded him but cared not, still ice-cold in his fury.

"Her only crimes are wishing to live a life better suited to her talents than that to which her class and her sex had condemned her... and trusting the council of those who deserved neither trust nor love."

These last words were bitten out, while he glared at Alys. The lashes last night will seem a sweet caress next to my punishment for this.

"In a just world, she could continue in my service."

This was too much, even for the audience cowed by the frigid rage contained within those blue eyes sweeping th room. There were murmurs and, from the back, cries of outrage. Stephen continued, softer now.

"But this is no just world. And so she will be sent to a convent. Does that satisfy you, my noble lords? My fair ladies?"

A life sequestered away, a life of prayer. How Raven would chafe, denied archery, denied the woods, denied the world her slender body had rode and run through. But at least she'd have books, and time to study them, and a chance to live a peaceful life. It was not what he wanted. It was so far from what he wanted. But it was the best he could do.

"I will hear no more cases today."

He did not trust himself to look at Raven again as he walked out alone.

 

[zora_little]

"The accused is innocent."

For a moment it felt as if all air had been sucked out of the room. Raven suddenly felt lightheaded, as if suspended from a dangerous height by a thin thread. What had he just said? Innocent? After all that she had admitted to! After the horrible words she had thrown in his face, the disrespect she had shown him, and the accusations she had made! Innocent! It was impossible.

"She knows no more of spells and black lore than I."

Raven did not dare to look up at him. The ice in his voice scared her, even though it started to dawn on her that his fury was not directed at her, that Stephen de Valois had decided to forgive her, despite everything that she had done.

"Her only crimes are wishing to live a life better suited to her talents than that to which her class and her sex had condemned her... and trusting the council of those who deserved neither trust nor love."

The tears that had been welling up in her eyes finally started to flow. It was over. There was no need to pretend anymore, because he knew. He knew who she really was, and what she had been trying to do. She did not need to play the role of the angry witch, because he knew – even if nobody else believed it – that she was lying. It also meant that there would not be the execution that his allies were longing for, and that his last allies would melt away, just as the prospects of his marriage to Alys of Crowsdale would.

“If you live, Raven, Stephen will face an uprising without allies. He would not survive it.”

Those had been the Lady Alys’ words when she had visited her in her prison cell. Raven knew that the young noblewoman was right. But it was too late now, and the relief of being forgiven by the man she loved above anyone else was too strong to cling to false hopes of being still able to convince him of her guilt.

She heard his sentence, but was barely listening. Her head was spinning. A convent. She would live! Raven had entered the Great Hall a walking corpse, convinced that she would be condemned to die. Timidly she raised her gaze, but Stephen did not look at her when he spoke. Raven knew, when he walked past her, that she would likely never see him again.

It was too much. The fatigue, the fear, the overwhelming emotions battling inside her finally caught up with Raven, and she slipped into deep, black unconsciousness.

***

Alys pushed past the murmuring crowd, her vision blurred with rage. Her brother called out to her as she walked past him, but she shook off his hand on her shoulder. How could he do this? Had he gone mad? Maybe he really was under the little peasant girl’s spell, and her charade had them all fooled!

She needed to talk to him now. Did he not realise that he had thrown everything away?

***

Brae did not know what to do. She hesitated to follow her mistress as she strode off angrily to find Lord Stephen. She looked around the Great Hall. Lord Thomas stood in the centre, his hand still limply holding on to the chain attached to the iron collar around the girl’s throat. Raven had fainted, and her slender body lay limply at the foot of the stairs.

“By god, I will finish her myself”, the Northern lord growled, drawing his sword. “I will send her head to de Lacy if I have to if de Valois is too much of a coward to sentence a little girl.” But before he could make good on his threat, two of de Valois archers blocked his way. One of them, a dark-haired young man, hissed, his hand on the hilt of his dagger: “We don’t hurt unconscious little girls in this castle.”

For a moment it looked like Lord Thomas would simply cut down the impetuous man, but Lord Marnoch of Crowsdale, himself pale and tired-looking, called out:

“Brother, leave it! The sentence was final.”

Thomas hesitated, his eyes glinting with unfettered rage. “I will enjoy watching de Lacy smoke you out of your damn castle then.” He dropped the chain in disgust, and spat at Arnaud’s feet. The archer did not move a muscle.

The second archer had picked up the girl and cradled her in his arms.

“Lucais, get her out of here.” Arnaud did not take his eyes off Lord Thomas and his men who had started to gather behind him. “It seems that our guests forget who they owe their allegiance to.”

***

Alys pushed open the door to Lord Stephen’s chambers without asking for permission to enter. She trembled with fear and anger.

“My lord, what have you done?”

 

[Maka]

Alys was pale with rage and fear. She had always resembled an elfin lady of the fey -now, she could have been a terrible and beautiful queen among them. But Stephen was now mollified by her beauty, or the fragility that he knew underlay it. He had forgiven her once, when her schemes and romantic folly had led to bloodshed in the winter woods beyond her father's castle. He would not forgive her this time.

He met her rage with his own, stepping forward so as to force her gaze up to meet his own, his height and powerful form dominating her slender frame.

"What have I done? What did you do? You went and talked to that girl, put fool notions in her head. Is that how you want us to save the north? One butchered peasant girl after another?"


***


"Saint Phoebe," Lucais mused aloud. "Never heard tell of a Saint Phoebe. What are the stories they tell of her?"

Arnaud shrugged. His mind was on other things. He did not know that Lucais really cared either -he just wanted diversion, distraction, from the strange and ominous events of the day.

"I think she was the sister of our Lord," he said. Lucais frowned.

"But our Lord was Mother Mary's only child, and they say she was a virgin forever. How could... ?"

"Perhaps you should ask the sisters when they arrive."

That quieted Lucais down. The sisters of Saint Phoebe were more intimidating to peasant stock than knights on horseback. The two of them were awaiting their arrival in the early morning mists of the courtyard of Castle de Courtney.

So Lord Stephen had made his decision -and Arnaud knew now that it was only decision the young Norman lord would ever have made. It was not the wisest or the most politic of choices but it was the only just one. He'd felt such fierce love and admiration for his lord when he'd heard him make that pronouncement, even if afterwards it had been drowned out with fear. Fear for what this might mean for Elwynn.

They had made Raven as comfortable as possible, on a pallet just within the gatehouse. The sisters were said to have herblore -they could probably do more to assist Raven's recovery than anyone in the castle.

And at last they emerged out of the mist -three feminine figures on palfreys, dressed in the black and white robes of the female religious. Their leader -a severe, handsome young woman, younger than Arnaud would have expected, fixed him with a stern stare.

"Where is she?"

Arnaud, rendered mute, simply nodded towards the gatehouse. As the two other nuns dismounted to enter, he found his voice.

"She's been... hurt. She's tired, and she's seen terrible things. Will you... be kind to her?"

The mother superior stared at him for a long time, as though reading Arnaud's fate on the Last Day.

"There is rest for the righteous in the home of Saint Phoebe. There is no peace for sinners anywhere in this world or the next. Only time will tell which your Raven is."

 

[zora_little]

Alys had difficulties meeting Stephen’s icy stare, but she did not want to submit to his rage. Was this really the same man who had tenderly kissed her, who had whispered words of love and devotion into her ear, who had introduced her to the most delicious of erotic pleasures just nights earlier? The man who had promised to fight for and with her, to become her devoted husband? There was contempt in his gaze, and much anger. Alys held his stare defiantly, reflecting his fury in her own sapphire eyes.

“You decry one butchered peasant girl, my lord? One?” Alys was barely able to control her emotions. Why was he so blind to what was plain to everyone else? “You have saved that unnatural creature, saved one hapless peasant girl. But in so doing you have condemned hundreds, maybe thousands, to die in her stead.”

The young noblewoman clenched her fists, determined not to cry. “You have just thrown away your last chance to rally the North behind you, don’t you see that? If it wasn’t for my father, the Northern lords would turn this castle into a bloody battlefield this very moment.” Alys knew that this was true. Her uncle had made his stance very plain. Even if her father wanted to, he could not risk marrying his only daughter to the invading lord who endorsed witchcraft and whatever other sinful temptation this Raven offered. The thought of Stephen succumbing to that dark-eyed little harlot tightened her chest in jealous fury.

“You have acted selfishly, my lord. You refuse to give up the girl, because you love her, and you desire her. You value your own passions higher than the people you have been appointed to rule.” Alys looked up at him, knowing that she had likely gone too far, that he would not tolerate such disrespect. Her thoughts wandered to Robert, to her own selfish desires that had claimed the lives of so many good men. But she had agreed to give up on the man she loved above all others, in order to bring peace to the north. Stephen could no longer say the same for himself. “You also value her higher than me, Stephen.”

***
Brae scrambled to her feet as the two women entered the gatehouse. They were young, dressed in the simple habits of nuns.

“Sisters”, she muttered shyly, hinting a curtsy, unsure how to address women of the cloth.

“Is this her?” one of the nuns said kindly, gesturing towards the unconscious Raven who was lying on a bed of straw, pale and still marred by bruises.

“Yes, sister”, Brae said, adding hastily: “She is no witch.” She did not know what else to say. One of the nuns looked at her, a faint smile on her lips. “That is reassuring indeed.” Brae blushed, conscious that she was being mocked by the learned woman in front of her. “You are…her friend?” The maid squirmed under the calm gaze of the nun before her. “I…no…but she was all alone here.”

The young maid had felt a strange mixture of pity and responsibility for the peasant girl. It had dawned on her that her mistress was partly to blame for her desperate confession, that she was no witch, that she had simply been forced into choices by her birth and her station, just as Lord Stephen had said. In some ways, Brae felt sympathy for Raven, and admired her courage to risk so very much to defy the state of the world. The other reason she had decided to watch over the beautiful impostor until the arrival of the nuns had been that Lord Stephen obviously cared for her very much, and Brae felt that for that alone, Raven deserved her attention, even though Brae also knew, very clearly, that she was also reason that would sever the ties between Crowsdale and the Norman lord from the south. The thought made her nauseous.

“We will need some warm water and a couple of herbs”, the other nun said softly, kneeling down beside Raven. “The girl is not fit to travel in this state.” She looked up at Brae expectantly. “She also needs some clean clothes. Can you fetch all of that for us, please?” Brae nodded, happy to for each clear instruction.

***
Elwynn felt a jolt of fear as the keys turned once again in the door of her cell, but she relaxed as she watched the old jailor enter, holding a bowl with steaming soup. But from the expression on his face she could see that he was not here to bring her food. Had they…?

“What happened? Is it Robert?”

The old man handed her the bowl with a sad smile.

“Oh lassie, your care for him is noble, but it is you I am worried about. There are whispers about the castle that talk of war against your lord, my sweet. And I fear that they will use you to stir up hatred against him.”

Elwynn’s heart sank. War! And how…? Then her thoughts wandered to the bishop, and she had to put the bowl down, in order not to spill its precious contents with her suddenly violently trembling hands.

The old man patted her head. “You should tell him what he wants to hear, sweet girl. Lie if you have to. Don’t give that vile man a reason to make you suffer, will you promise me that?”

The red-haired girl nodded, too numb with fear to grasp the full meaning of his words. With one last sad smile, the jailor left, leaving Elwynn alone again with her thoughts.

 

[Maka]

“You have saved that unnatural creature, saved one hapless peasant girl. But in so doing you have condemned hundreds, maybe thousands, to die in her stead.”

Alys was trembling with fury, her eyes hot sapphire stars meeting the full icy force of Stephen's gaze as few could have done, man or woman. Stephen growled.

"My war in the North is not just against de Lacy or the Bishop. It is against ignorance and prejudice. If I use my enemies' weapons even to defend myself, I have lost, and the North has lost."

But Alys did not heed him, or the warning cold light in his eyes, the herald of the gathering arctic storm. She was clenching her fists, fighting back the tears that were starting to glitter in the corners of her eyes.

“You have just thrown away your last chance to rally the North behind you, don’t you see that? If it wasn’t for my father, the Northern lords would turn this castle into a bloody battlefield this very moment.”

Stephen said nothing, knowing that this was true. But he was a fighter. He had been trained for war since childhood. His ancestors had been fighting across dark pine woods and over frozen lakes since before the Romans had held Britain. Battle was in his blood.

"I took the North before, with little or no help from these lords of yours," he said, a note of contempt in his voice. "I can hold it now, with or without them."

“You have acted selfishly, my lord. You refuse to give up the girl, because you love her, and you desire her. You value your own passions higher than the people you have been appointed to rule. You also value her higher than me, Stephen.”

And the storm broke. Stephen grabbed Alys by the scruff of the neck, lifting her up so that their eyes were level and her feet dangled in the air, his eyes blazing with his cold rage. He had lifted up the slender noblewoman, manhandling her with the same ease and power that he had once brought to bringing her pleasure.

"You know nothing," he said, with an ominous, toneless quiet. "At heart, you're still the spoiled, selfish noble girl you've always been -and to you, the life of a peasant girl has no more value than the life of a dog. Even Brae... even after your instruction... you think of her as a pet or a plaything."

His expression was implacable, his body as still and strong as unyielding stone. He would not give Alys the pleasure of showing her that her words had cut home, but the fact was that Raven herself could not have hit a target so well. She was right. He was in love with Raven. Perhaps he had been for a long time, perhaps a part of him ever since they'd first met.

And was she right too, that he was throwing away everything for that love?

He stared into Alys' eyes. They were so close that their lips almost touched, animatd as they both were by a kind of lustful fury. He wanted her as badly as he ever had, his rage at her words only seeming to fuel an urgent desire for her slender, pale body. He wanted to take her there and then, using her more brutally and forcefully than he had ever done before, using her only to sate his own desire, then discarding her. He quelled the thoughts coldly, clamping down on the dark desires.

"You take your commands from me," he said slowly. "And I tell you now that it doesn't matter what your father orders. You will stay here and wed me. You once said you would become my servant, my whore if need be. Were you lying?"

He set her down on the floor again, tilting his head back as he regarded her.

"And if you will not, get out of my sight."