On French Soil 3 - Of Hot and Forcing Violation

by T S Fesslen

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© Copyright 2006 - T S Fesslen - Used by permission

Storycodes: M/f; bond; kidnap; reluct; X

(story continues from )

Disclaimer: This is a work of amatory fantasy. Any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental. If you are under the age of 18, please stop reading here. If you are a bit squeamish about graphic depiction's of rape, bondage and sex, please stop reading here. The author takes no responsibility for those who wish to reenact anything written below. Permission is granted for private use. The author wishes any agencies that wish to publish this work, to please contact him at [email protected].
Any comments are gladly accepted and encouraged.

Chapter Three - "Of Hot and Forcing Violation"

"M'lord de Valence!"

Catherine had barely licked the last of Edward de Valence's seed from her lips when she heard someone yell outside Edward's baggage wagon. Sir Edward de Valence, her captor, heard it too and with wolf-like speed, he grabbed a piece of cloth and forced it between Catherine's lips, gagging her. For Edward, there was no time to waste upon making Catherine D'Astier comfortable. If anyone knew he took a prisoner to ransom without the King's permission, his very life may be forfeit. He shoved his prisoner down and quickly pulled a wool blanket and tapestry down over her. The bulk of the tapestry seemed to cover her little struggles and he could barely hear her screams through the gag.

"Sir Edward de Valence!" the man called again.

Edward pulled on his hose quickly before stepping out in the gray stained morning. A fine, misting rain greeted him coldly as he stood in the doorway. At the edge of his camp, Richard Corfe, Edward's best man-at-arms and sergeant, walked his horse through the mud escorting another man, the King's Herald. Richard still had the grime of battleground into his skin and his armor was well worn while the herald, mounted on a light gray horse, looked as clean as any bishop.

"M'lord de Valence?" the herald asked, a grim look about him.


"His Majesty, King Henry the V, wishes your council immediately. You may find him in St. Martin's church."

Barely had the words left the herald's lips than the man wheeled his horse around and started back toward Harfleur. The two men were silent until the misting rain swallowed the herald.

"How now, Richard? Why such a grim face?" Edward asked.

"I could not pry any words out of that man, m'lord. His bearing is not good and I fear what news you may hear," Richard replied, his clear blue eyes now red with burden of war.

Edward nodded, "The men taken care of?"

"As well as can be, m'lord. We have a roof over our head and a bit of wine we found, but they are as starved as we are."

Edward again nodded, "Water the wine down with this rain water. I fear that the devyl may have pissed in the river. See what you can fill our bellies with so long as it hasn't crawled from the sea. Take a few of our archers afield and see what fowl you can put on the spit."


"And see to it this wagon is dragged to a suitable site within the walls. I will not have some errant French lick-pizzle steal what little comforts I have. Guard it well and let no one inside save me."

Richard nodded, wiping his soggy, blonde hair out of his eyes.

"Now I will see what the King has to say."


Catherine struggled once again at her bonds and once again was frustrated by their effectiveness. She was on her back once more and the rough wool against her skin felt like thousands of fleas crawling over her breasts, belly and legs. The cold wood she lay upon was rough and chaffing and with her wrists bound as they were behind her back, made her even more uncomfortable. But even more than that, Catherine felt an itch between her legs that she could not sate. It troubled her in many ways; chief amongst them was the idea that she was wanting of Edward's manhood despite his ill treatment of her. He had not respected her station. In fact, quite the opposite, as if she were a common slattern. However, no matter how she was treated by the English and how detestable it was, there was no turning away from the fact that her quim was wanting his touch.

The wool was rough against her nipples as she squirmed. Each movement, a little blissful agony sparked within her womb and heated the embers there. Catherine strained her hands down and her legs apart, knocking about the empty bottle of wine Edward and her had shared, but her fingers could not solace the need rising in her. Her position and bindings worked against her. Then Catherine heard something and froze. Even beneath the blanket and tapestry, Catherine could hear the muffled voices of men outside and their thumps against the wagon. The thought of them finding her both horrified and thrilled her and sent her passions rushing through her like a wild fire. Struggling, Catherine tried to assuage her need with the heel of her foot but found that it would not but brush her swollen lips, teasing herself.

Catherine rocked her shoulders so that her nipples would enjoy the friction against the wool. Total rapture was so close yet still unreachable, like a delicious quince hanging just at the fingertips' touch. The smell of her own natural perfume hung in the cloistered air beneath the blanket like an exotic incense, exciting her more. She rocked her hips and tried to rub her thighs together, but to no end. Then Catherine felt the wagon jolt. Her own mewls of need had drowned out the sounds outside and left her isolated. The wagon was now moving and she was now very aware she was not alone. The rocking and jolting of the wagon across the muddy ground cause the bottle to roll beneath Catherine's splayed legs. She felt it's slender neck against her thigh like the prick of an ardent lover. Before the bottle could roll away, Catherine trapped its base between her feet, aiming its slender neck at her moistened quim. The baggage wagon jolted again. The bottle slipped from her grasp.

A moan of despair erupted from Catherine's lips as she sought to entrap the bottle again. She felt it's cool, smooth surface upon her thigh and began to squirm around, hoping to roll it back to her grasping feet. Undulating and writhing, she felt the bottle roll toward her tied ankles. With grunting effort, she trapped the bottle again and tried to slowly point its neck towards her quiff, holding the bottle firm over the larger bumps. The effort took great concentration but Catherine now had the lip of the bottle against her own moistened lips, a prize so tempting she could not refuse it's blissful invasion. With one quick push, she rammed the bottle's neck inside herself. The bottle filled Catherine, her slick muscles bearing down upon the glass phallus as if she were possessed by a daemon. Using her heels, she pumped the bottle in and out of herself, fanning the fires within her, building her pyre of ecstasy until it consumed her in rapture. . .


The destruction wrought on Harfleur by the English engines and cannon was even more apparent in daylight. This was the first time Edward had been within the town walls since the night before. His charge was the guarding of the siege artillery and as the town surrendered, Edward had to maintain his vigil until all the canon were safe behind the city walls. The smell of smoke still clung to the air, even in the misting rain. Charred timbers of homes and stores poked up through the rubble like ribs of a burnt carcass. But most of town was spared ruin.

St. Martin's bell tower stood like a lone sentinel over the town. The roof over the chancel had collapsed but the tower stood firm. It was here that King Henry had walked barefoot to give thanks for his victory and it was here that he made plans for the future of his France. The men-at-arms bowed slightly to Edward as he mounted the steps to go into the church, their faces grim. He remembered the look on the faces of the men-at-arms in England when he escorted Sir Thomas Grey to his audience with the King. The guards seemed to know what was to happen to the traitor Grey. They had the same look as the guards he just passed.

John Duke of Bedford greeted Edward with a slight smile. The wear of war had turned his skin sallow and hair a dirty gray. John was one of Edward's mentor and had taken young Edward under his wing when Edward's father had died on the end of a Scottish pike.

"He awaits you in the tower," Bedford said in barely a whisper.

The stairs were steep and each step made Edward's knees ache. The cold, misty rain seemed to bring out a man's infirmities, Edward thought to himself. He wondered if these thoughts crossed the minds of men walking up to the gallows. The door to the tower was unattended and with a hesitant hand, Edward turned the latch to open it.

"Come, gentle Edward de Valence, and stand with ourselves and advise," King Henry spoke as he stood before the open arches and peered out over Harfleur cloaked in the mist.

"My King," Edward bowed and moved beside him.

For a moment, neither spoke but looked out at the rain and the rooftops and the men below. The King had a great cloak about him as he stared. This man was a soldier first and King second. The heated lust for battle still glowed in the man's eyes.

"'Tis a cold and piercing mist, Edward, as cold as a blade. Winter is to come soon, I fear, and We must show France how to kneel."

"Yes, my Lord."

"To do this, France must take Us to her bosom like a mother. France must both love Us and fear Our resolve. France must abide by God's and Our will. How shall we do this, Edward?"

"Our swords must have lead points but sharp edges, my King."

"Mercy will be our sword, Edward, but not without profit first. France is coffer enough for all, Edward."


"Our debt to you, Edward de Valence, is great. Or so my exchequer tells. Your service to Ourselves and England is great."

"Thank you, My King."

"So We will forgive any looting that you may have done despite Our commands. But you will remain here to watch over Our new prize until next spring when We shall begin anew. Ourselves will march to Calais and then to England."

"Thank you, My King."

"There is still much to do, Edward. The towers on the sea have not bowed to Us and England. You must remedy this. You are well versed in the art of siege, I am told and from what I have seen. My brother Bedford will detail Our plans for Harfleur. You may go."

Edward bowed again and started to leave.


"Yes, my King."

"As a man, was she worth the price?"

Edward paused.

"There is no price on vengeance that is not high."


The house was near the town square and overlooked the Leure as it wound it's way through the port. Edward's baggage cart was in front as was two of his men-at-arms. Their faces were set against the cold of the drizzle.

"As soon as I survey the quarters, we'll get this baggage in and gather around a fire," Edward said, patting one of his men on the shoulder.

The first floor was set slightly into the ground and the large doors in front belayed the building's purpose. As Edward stepped inside, his eyes adjusting to the damp darkness, he saw that any stores this place had were gone and only the lingering smells of tanned leather and suet remained. The store window was barred and there was but a broken stool and some scraps of leather left. Even the fireplace was dead.

"First thing, Talbot, is to get a fire started in this place! I am sure there is enough wood in those wrecked buildings to build a decent one. The cart will go over there and our stores of powder and shot will fill this up well."

"Yes, m'lord," the man at arms answered tiredly.

They made their way toward the back and up the narrow stairs to the second floor. Already his men had started dropping their personal gear and picking their spots to lay. The windows let in the cold, gray light and there was a small, sputtering fire in the chimney. Two of his wounded men lay on the floor near it, huddled in their cloaks and sleeping their pain away.

The second story rooms themselves were well maintained and whitewashed. There were two benches and a table as well as an oil lamp. Through the windows overlooking the gray-brown Leure, Edward could see his challenge towering over the bay, curls of smoke and mist enwrapping it like a vampirish wraith.

However, Edward's thoughts were upon the girl still bound in his baggage wagon.

continues in Chapter 4 - Laid In Bed Majestical


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