The storm broke the following eve. The hour was late, but Claredon’s great hall echoed with sporadic bursts of ribald laughter and the bawdy music of a wandering minstrel.

Rather than retiring to the solar, Ranulf had stayed to dice with his men, and wound up singing songs and watching them dance with the castle wenches. By now most of his knights were befuddled with drink. For some time they had been passing around a wineskin and the strumpets who entertained them, with Bertran de Ridefort leading the frolic.

The revelry had gotten somewhat out of hand, yet Ranulf was reluctant to end their harmless pleasure. His men needed release after the months of service they had given him. Unaccountably, the merrymaking lowered his spirits rather than raising them. Yet it was difficult to ignore the clamor.

When a brown-haired, disheveled wench with huge, jiggling bare breasts lifted her skirts to expose her cunny and challenged Bertran’s manhood, the knight threw back his dark head and roared with good-natured drunkenness. Amid shrieks of laughter, he tossed the whore flat on her back upon one of the long trestle tables. Shoving her tunic up to her waist, he loosened his braies and plunged his organ between her fleshy white thighs, grunting with pleasure as she squealed. Each of his big hands gripped a thrusting breast while his hips pumped rhythmically, his lust incited by the obscene jests and cheers and shouts of encouragement of the rowdy onlookers.

Sitting at the lord’s table on the dais, Ranulf stared broodingly at the hearth fire. Occasionally in the past he had been known to whore with his men, but tonight he was in no mood to enjoy the sport, or to appreciate the attentions of the serving wench, Dena. When she sauntered up to him and lowered her bodice to press her naked breasts against his face, he drew back without interest.

He had no particular desire to mount her. Dena had doubtless been enjoyed by half the garrison since the occupation of Claredon, and she stank with the musky odor of stale sweat and sex and ale, a scent utterly unlike the clean, sweet fragrance of her former mistress—who was no doubt slumbering upstairs in her chaste bed.

“I can show you pleasure as sweet as the honeyed wine you drink, lord,” Dena purred in his ear.

Distracted from his thoughts, Ranulf glanced at the couple mating on the lower table, panting and heaving to the cheers of the crowd. “Not this eve, sweeting. I fear I would not do you justice tonight. Doubtless Bertran would provide you livelier sport.”

Dena pouted prettily. “That Bertran is a clumsy lout, with no notion how to please a woman.”

Beside her, Payn chuckled and reached out to fondle her shapely buttocks. “Take care Bertran does not hear you disparage his skill, wench, or his pride will be offended.”

With a saucy grin at Ranulf’s chief vassal, Dena turned her attention back to the lord. Clasping Ranulf’s hand, she drew it up under her skirts, pressing his fingers against her cleft that was wet and slick and hot.

The arousing feel of her made Ranulf set his teeth. After the night’s revelry, culminated by Bertran’s exhibition, he was stiff and aching for a woman. And release was at hand. He needed only to free his swollen manhood and draw the eager wench down onto his lap in order to ease his ache.

He was half sorry when Payn reached over to grasp Dena by the arm and draw her off him. With a flirtatious toss of her head, though, she refused to leave. To the surprise of both men, she settled her hips on the table between them and boldly lay back with her elbows braced behind her. Hiking up her skirts to show the dark bush between her naked thighs, she spread her legs wide, one hand clasping her woman’s mound in carnal invitation.

The sight of that hot pink flesh tempted Ranulf, in truth. Already his shaft was swollen and thick, straining at his braies. He was actually thinking of covering her when the hall suddenly grew deathly quiet, except for Bertran’s gasping breaths.

When Ranulf realized all his men were staring behind him, he glanced over his shoulder. His eyes widened to see Ariane standing at the foot of the stone stairwell, gazing in stunned dismay at the company.

For a score of heartbeats, she remained rigid with shock at finding Ranulf and his knights fornicating on the tables in her father’s hall, but anger burst on her swiftly.

“Mother Mary, have you noshame ?”

Not a single man responded, not even the two guards who were escorting her from the kitchens to her chamber at the end of her day’s labor.

“Not in my father’s hall,” she avowed, her voice trembling with rage and scorn. “And not on the tables. You will not dishonor Claredon this way!”

Before anyone could respond, she marched determinedly to the lord’s table, where she snatched up the first weapon in sight, an eating dagger. Both Ranulf and Payn stiffened in their seats, their instinct for danger on full alert, but Ariane ignored them as she brandished the knife in Dena’s face.

“Get out! Go and carry on your debauchery in the stables with the beasts—and do not dare show yourself here again.”

Dena whimpered in fear and slid from the table to her knees. With Payn’s aid, she struggled to her feet. Edging past Ariane, she fled, almost tripping in her haste to reach the great door.

When the frightened Dena had gone, Ariane turned her outrage on the company. In a state fit to poison the lot of them, she lashed out blindly, pointing at the door with the knife. “Out! All of you, out, now! Be gone with you.”

The startled knights looked to Ranulf, whose face had darkened to an enigmatic mask. When their lord made no move to countermand her order, though, a few began backing toward the entrance, away from the knife-wielding fury.

“Out, I say!”

Several of the soldiers stood their ground, until Ranulf gave an almost imperceptible nod, endorsing her command. Then even Bertran hurried to obey, tugging up his braies and marshalling his wench from the keep after the others, leaving the hall in sole possession of the lord and his household minions, who had been vainly attempting to sleep on the pallets arrayed along the walls.

“By the Virgin’s milk,” Payn said with a chuckle of admiration. “They did not even draw their swords. My compliments, demoiselle. Never have I seen them move their lazy arses so swiftly. What a Valkyrie she is, Ranulf.”

She did indeed resemble the legendary Norse maidens, with her knife drawn and fair hair swirling in a cloud about her shoulders, Ranulf reflected. She looked magnificent, a warrior woman staking a claim to her throne.

Except that she was supposed to be his slave. He had been fascinated, perhaps even amused, to see her drive his valiant knights and men-at-arms from the hall—and somewhat chastened as well. He had violated his own rigid code by allowing such debauchery in his hall. In his own defense, he had never expected Ariane to see it. And while her outrage might be entirely justified, it was not her place to order his men about.

Ariane must have realized the extent of her infraction, for she stiffened suddenly, and looked down at Ranulf as he lounged in his high-backed chair.

Tags: Nicole Jordan Historical
Source: readsnovelonline.net