index


Message-ID: <35496asstr$1015038613@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: graciefemme@netscape.net
Subject: {ASSM} Revised story: The Bliss of the Virgin (FF, Rom, Hist, BBW, Religious themes, Crossbows)
Date: Fri,  1 Mar 2002 22:10:13 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d



-- 




__________________________________________________________________
Your favorite stores, helpful shopping tools and great gift ideas. Experience the convenience of buying online with Shop@Netscape! http://shopnow.netscape.com/

Get your own FREE, personal Netscape Mail account today at http://webmail.netscape.com/


<1st attachment, "bliss.txt" begin>

This story is inspired by Oosh's deliciously clever "Pavlova"
novel, albeit set in a different era, and featuring somewhat
different themes. I dedicate this to you, Oosh, with gratitude
for your writing, and hope you find it enjoyable. Much of the
backdrop to this story is historically accurate, though the
principal characters are my invention. Note that the yummy 
butch-babe nun described below is *not* supposed to be the 
famous English mystic Julian of Norwich, who lived some three 
hundred years after the events in this story.  I've made King 
Henry I a nicer character than he probably was.  Couldn't resist 
the impulse to make the old blighter talk like Col. Blimp, what?


The Bliss of the Virgin
by GracieFemme
graciefemme@netscape.net


Freighbury Castle, Norfolkshire, 1127

"Listen to that wind howling out there, my Lady," muttered
Aedgyth the cook. "But the thaw won't be more'n a few weeks
away, howsomever hard the winds blow right now. The cattle are
already impatient for breeding." 

Aedgyth and Lady Emma sat companionably in the kitchen
house. They were almost finished with the last batch of honeyed
wafers for the morrow's feast of St. Peter, the wizened old cook
brushing the thick batter onto the iron baking racks, while the
stout, middle-aged Duchess loaded them into the oven. Aedgyth
didn't really need her supervision, Emma knew, but the aroma of
the baking wafers was pleasant, and the warmth radiating from
the ovens offered respite from the dank February chill of the
castle keep, and from the monotony of spinning and weaving. And
besides, Aedgyth was helping her practice the villein's
language, English.

"Pardon, Aedgyth, what is 'breeding'?"

"The same as 'fucking', my Lady. I know you know that word:
I've heard you use it yourself."

Lady Emma blanched. "Holy Virgin! That impudent knave of a
priest, Father Cuthbert, said that my daughter Isabelle was a
lady of 'good breeding'. And I took it as a compliment."

Aedgyth cackled. "And so it was meant, my Lady." Suppressing her
laughter, she explained. "'Good breeding' means 'nobility,' or
'noble birth.'" 

"You English must be lewd indeed," the Duchess shook her
head in mock indignation. "The same word for 'fucking' and
'nobility'," she chuckled with amusement. 

They returned to their task. She could not neglect St. Peter's 
feast at Freighbury Castle. It had been the nameday of her late 
husband, Peter de Bracy, Duke of Norfolk, dead these five months 
past. He had been a ruthless, violent, grasping man; she did not 
mourn his loss. Nevertheless, her knights would be expecting the
customary feast. And now that she had survived him, she could
afford to be gracious to his memory. After all, her son Hugh
was now Duke of Norfolk, her three daughters had married well. 
And she herself was left, at the age of two-score and six,
holding Freighbury Castle and the surrounding lands as her dower
right. Nor would King Henry force her to remarry, selling her
off to one of his barons, eager for her lands: her younger
brother was Bishop of Lincoln, and he had sufficient influence
to block any marriage that Emma objected to.

They were startled by the sound of shouting from the bailey. Emma
emerged from the kitchen house, wrapping her ample figure in her
fur mantle against the biting wind, to see the sergeant of her
men-at-arms, one Barnabas, yelling at a stranger, a raggedly
dressed youth who was staggering, queerly, through the postern
gate, pushing past the outraged Barnabas.

"I said to be off, you drunken lout. Before I cleave your
skull with this axe."

"Barnabas, that will be enough!" the Duchess commanded.

The youth wheeled round towards her. His features were fine,
almost delicate. He would have been quite handsome, despite his
dishevelled state, but there was a disoriented, frightened look
on the lad's pale face. This is not drunkenness, she thought. 
He lurched forward.

"My Lady, I pray you, help me. I... I've been wounded. By
brigands." He spoke good Norman French, though his voice was
high and weak. Then he collapsed in the snow at Lady Emma's
feet. The sergeant turned white.

"My Lady, I... well, he appeared to be a common vagabond."

"Even common vagabonds are entitled to alms at Freighbury,"
she snapped, "now that I am Lady of this castle. But this is no
vagabond, nor drunkard. See, he's badly wounded in the thigh;
and now he's fainted. Help me get him into the great hall." 
Taking him by his shoulders, the two carried him into the hall.
He was surprisingly light. They laid him down on the rushes
before the roaring hearth. 

The youth's skin felt feverish. "Sergeant, hasten and fetch
Alfwith from the village. Leofwyn, boil me a kettle of water and
bring me some clean strips of linen, quickly girl!"

Taking a knife, Lady Emma gently cut the mud-caked chausses away
from the youth's thigh. The wound was deep and festering. 
Tenderly, she began cleaning the wound. Even unconscious, he
flinched at the slightest touch. Then she noticed the broken
stump of an arrow shaft protruding from the lad's shoulder. She
cut a slit in the tunic and drew the cloth back from his
shoulder, when she saw... a woman's breasts?

"Mother of God, it's a maid!"

                          =======

They moved her to Lady Emma's own bedchamber. Alfwith, the wise-
woman, drew the arrowhead from the maid's shoulder while the
Duchess and her women held the delirious girl down. The maid
lapsed back into a coma as the wise-woman staunched the bleeding,
and set poultices of comfrey and aloe to the wounds in her thigh
and shoulder. She said prayers to the Virgin and the old gods,
and tied an amulet to the maid's wrist. Lady Emma rewarded her
handsomely for her services, with a young sow and a crock of
honey. 

The maid slept fitfully. At times she kicked the covers from her
naked body, sweating with fever; and Lady Emma sponged her with
cool damp cloths. At other times, she shivered with chills; Lady
Emma covered her again, with wool blankets and her own fur
mantle.  At last, around dawn the next day, the fever
broke, and she slept peacefully. 

Her son Hugh arrived from Norwich, to preside over the feast
of his father's nameday. But Lady Emma absented herself from
the hall, watching instead over her mysterious patient, sometimes
dozing beside her. Even with her hair cropped short like a boy's,
the maid was beautiful, in a queer, elfin sort of way, that
tugged at Emma's heart. 

                           =======

Towards evening, the maid awoke. The fear and tension suddenly
returned to her eyes. It grieved Lady Emma beyond measure to see
terror on the face of such a lovely young woman. It was not, the
Duchess guessed, a mere skirmish with brigands that had given the
maid these wounds, this fear.

"Easy, my dear. You are safe here. No one will harm you." 

"Where am I?"

"At Freighbury Castle. I am Emma de Montvert, Dowager Duchess of
Norfolk. And upon my honour, I pledge all the forces at my
disposal to your protection. Now, drink this decoction of
willowbark: it will ease your pain." The maid looked at the
beaker warily. "Very well," sighed the Duchess. "I will swallow 
some myself.  Ugh, it's bitter, but see, no poison. The wise-
woman told me you are to drink as much of this decoction as I can
get into you."

The maid took the beaker, and with some effort, swallowed it in
a few quick draughts. "I am sorry for my mistrust, my Lady. You
have been exceedingly good to me, and I pray the Holy Virgin
reward you for your kindness. But... I was recently betrayed
by... by one whom I trusted most."  

"Are you hungry?" The maid shook her head. "Nevertheless,
you should try to take a little food. Try a honey wafer."

The maid took a nibble. "It is very good," she smiled. That
glimpse of a smile seemed to lighten the chamber like a ray of
midsummer sun. She devoured the wafer, then took another. "It
seems," she blushed, "that I am hungry after all. I suppose it is
several days since I last ate."

"Here then, try a herring pasty; and a little wine will strengthen
your blood."

The maid sat up, wincing at the throbbing pain in her shoulder.
She took the food and wine that the Duchess set before her. Lady
Emma could not help staring at the maid's bare breasts. The
Duchess had not often seen other women naked, other than her own
daughters when they had been girls. The sight of this maid's body
had been creating unfamiliar stirrings within her. Presently, she
realized that the young woman was gazing back at her, a quizzical
smile on her face. The Duchess blushed deeply. "I, yes... well,
I... I have here a clean linen shift that you may put on." 

"Thank you, my Lady." She pulled it on over her head, again
wincing as she moved her shoulder.

"Do you feel strong enough to tell me your story?"

The maid nodded, and sighed. "My name is Julian. I am a
Benedictine novice at Thurbridge Priory in Essex." She looked
down, somewhat guiltily. "I... I will not hold you to your
promise of protection. It was unfair of me to ask your aid, to
tell you it was brigands who had attacked me. I do not wish to
bring danger down upon you, after you have been so good to me. 
But my predicament concerns the King's life, and that of his
daughter, the Empress Maude. I will perhaps be well enough to
ride by tomorrow. If you could lend me a horse, I will try to
make it to the King's court at Westminster."

"Little good that would do, my dear, since the King keeps Lent
this year at Oxford. And you would not make five paces on a horse
before you fainted with pain. Come, my dear Julian, I appreciate
your concern for my safety; but it is not your place to tell a
Duchess that she should foreswear her oath, is it? Perhaps you
could explain to me what a Benedictine novice has to do with
kings?"

Julian blushed. "Yes, my Lady." She took a deep breath. 
"Those who seek my life are Walter de Carcassone, the Earl of
Essex; Peter FitzHugh, the Archbishop of York; and," she
shuddered, "Dame Eleanor de Carcassone, Prioress of my own
convent."  

Lady Emma was too intelligent not to be frightened by this. The
two men Julian had just mentioned were among the most powerful
and ruthless in the kingdom. Nevertheless, she chuckled drily,
"You have good taste in enemies, my dear. Go on."

"A week after Ash Wednesday, our Prioress received certain
visitors: her brother the Earl, and the Archbishop... and one
who gave his name to our porter as 'Anonyme de Lobis.'"

"A curious name..."

"My Lady, 'anonyme' is Greek for 'nameless'."

"Is it indeed? Continue."

"Two other novices and I were called upon to pour wine and serve
the supper to the Prioress and her guests. At a certain point, 
their conversation switched into Languedoc."

"The language of Aquitaine? How peculiar."

"They trusted no one else would understand their speech. But, as
it happens, my mother was from Toulouse: Languedoc was our
private language when I was a girl. I understood their speech
well. The nameless one, he said it was getting late, he had to
ride for the coast that evening; he must know then and there,
where did the others stand regarding his claim? The Archbishop
addressed him as Stephen, saying they supported his claim well,
why did he think they were here? The Earl added that he would
never accept Maude as his ruler, no matter what King Henry
wished. And what were they going to do about it? asked this
Stephen. Essex informed him that King Henry and his court would
be keeping Whitsuntide as his guest at Bufford Castle. It would
be easy enough to arrange for Maude to take some drink that
disagreed with her, and for the King to have a hunting accident,
such as had befallen the King's brother Rufus. Essex would ensure
that the barons then declare Stephen King, and the Church would
back him. 

"Stephen responded that this was heartening news indeed. The
Archbishop said that Henry Beauclerc was a pagan, and
insubordinate to Holy Church. And of course, rule by Henry's
daughter, or any woman, would be anathema. The Church wanted a
new King who would support ecclesiastical reform in the matter
of investitures, clerical celibacy, and such.  The Prioress then 
asked what reward her brother could expect for
his services. The Earl proposed that in return for the crown of
England, he be granted the southern parts of East Anglia and 
Kent, for him and his heirs, free of the royal writ, like the 
Welsh Marches. Stephen readily agreed."

"It is Stephen of Blois you are speaking of," said Lady Emma
slowly. "King Henry's own nephew. But of course, 'Lobis' is an
anagram of 'Blois'. So Stephen would let England fall back into
separate principalities, as in the days before good King Alfred.
Continue."

"I was horrified by what I was hearing. You see, my... well, my
particular friend at the Priory, my teacher and adviser, Dame
Margery, she had been a tutor and companion to Maude in her
youth, before she wed the Holy Roman Emperor; and Dame Margery
had often spoken to me of her before she died. I felt a loyalty
to the Empress Maude, but I did not know what I could do to help
her against these..."

"Traitors."

"Yes, traitors. I simply tried to mask my own alarm. But it must
have shown in the trembling of my hands. 

Julian was quiet a moment and then continued:

"The next day, the Prioress summoned me. She commended me on my
service the night before. Then she asked me if I had understood
any of the talk. I said I had understood none of it. Too late,
I realized that her last question had been in Languedoc. 

"We glared at each other. Finally, she said, 'I'm sorry, little
one, but we cannot let you remain alive.' My own Prioress, head
of the community of sisters to which I had pledged my life, she
who should have protected me, she who claimed to be a friend to
my Dame Margery..." Julian fought back a sob of helpless rage. 
"She lunged at me, tried to get her hands round my throat, but I
grabbed a stick of kindling from the hearth and struck at her,
enough to stun her. I bolted from her chamber and made for the
stable. One of Essex's knights was running after me. I stole a
horse and galloped out of the priory, not thinking where I was
going, for I soon heard several knights riding hard in pursuit
of me. Fortunately, the horse I had taken was faster than theirs.
In my terror, I continued riding till well after dark. Stupid. I
might have lamed the horse, and then I would have been at their
mercy. 

"Oh, my poor angel..." Lady Emma took Julian's hand in her own.

"I rode north, I suppose. It grew cold, and I had no mantle. I
left the road and eventually found an outbuilding of a farmstead.
There were some sheep within, and a hayloft above. I was wakened
shortly before dawn by the 'chink-chink' of a knight in hauberk,
on horseback, drawing near to my hiding place. I scrambled into
the loft. He threw open the door and saw my horse tethered to the
centre-beam. 'Come out, little nun,' he called, 'I won't harm
you.' But he drew out his axe. 

"He began searching the dark corners of the barn. I noticed some
large stones in the loft, such as are used to hold down
thatching. When his back was to me, I threw one down on him. 
It glanced off his helmet. He chuckled, looking up at me, and
began to climb the ladder to the loft. I flung another stone;
this one caught him full in the face, smashing his jaw and
cheek. He lunged at me, swinging wildly with his axe. It bit
into my thigh. But he lost his footing, plunged from the loft,
and sprawled unconscious on the ground. I hobbled down the
ladder, and I... I finished him off with his axe. 

"I bandaged my leg as best I could, and donned the dead knight's 
clothes, thinking they were better suited to riding than my novice's 
habit. I also took his dagger and crossbow, and continued on
my way. As a Benedictine novice, my hair was already
close-cropped, and so I suppose I looked like a rather unkempt
young squire, to any whom I passed. 

"All the lands about the priory belong to the Earl of Essex, or
his vassals, so I didn't dare stop and ask for help. I just kept
riding, thinking only of getting beyond Essex's reach. On the
third day, another of the Earl's men-at-arms overtook me on the
road and gave me a crossbow bolt in the shoulder. I fell from my
horse, but scrambled off into the woods on foot. He rode into the
woods after me, not realizing that I too had a crossbow. I hid
behind a tree. With great difficulty, I spanned the bow with my
good arm. I loosed the bolt right up into his neck as he plodded
by me. His horse galloped off. I went back to the road, but my
horse was dead: he had cut its throat. I went on by foot. But
with a gash in my thigh, and an arrowhead in my shoulder, I could
not travel far. I grew weak with fever, and with hunger.  As it's
still winter, I could find no food nor healing herbs. I stumbled
on a patch of thin ice; it cracked and I sank into the bog
beneath, up to my teats. I almost did not make it out. I prayed to
the Blessed Virgin. I saw this castle in the distance, and headed
for it, not knowing if you would be friend or foe, but knowing I
would die unless I could find help."

"Oh, Julian..." Lady Emma took the maid's hand and kissed it, her
redoubtable bosom heaving with emotion. "I would give my
very life to help you. And to defend my King and his daughter
from this treason. But... tell me, why did you not flee to your
home, to your family?"

"My Lady, I have no home nor family but Thurbridge Priory. Now
I have not even that. My mother was concubine to a mercenary
knight who came to England with William the Bastard's army. He
died in a raid on the Welsh border. His heir drove my mother and
me from his lands when I was but a babe. My mother, trying to
keep us from starvation, found herself a place at Thurbridge
Priory in the kitchens. When my mother died, Dame Margery, the
priory librarian, took me under her wing, taught me to read,
taught me Latin and Greek and music. We grew very attached to
each other. She prevailed upon her brother, the Earl of
Leicester, to pay my dowry to the Priory, so that I might
become a nun, and so we could remain together always. But 
then she died of a fever, and I was left alone." 

"Not alone. God's Mother surely must be with you, for you to
come through this terrible ordeal alive. She has brought you to
me, and I will not fail you. Now, you must rest, my dove. You
are still very weak."

                          =======

It was only a matter of time, Emma knew: if one of Essex's men
could track Julian to Herns Forest a day's ride away, other men
would eventually track her to Freighbury Castle. They could all
flee the castle, but what if Essex attacked them in the field,
before they could join with King Henry's forces?  It was safest
to remain at Freighbury. 

Lady Emma strode into the rush-lit hall. The musicians stopped
playing. The guests and retainers turned their eyes upon her.  
"My Lord of Norfolk," she curtsied to her son. "I have dire news.
Freighbury may soon be under attack from the Earl of Essex. We
must prepare for a siege."

Her son lurched from the table, and collapsed in a drunken
stupor. The Duchess shook her head grimly. Mustering the few
knights and men-at-arms who were still sober, she gave orders for
the villeins to be brought into the castle, the drawbridge
raised, and a double watch set on the castle walls. 

At dawn the next day, she sent young Simon White, her best rider,
on her fastest horse, with a message to the King and the Empress
Maude at Oxford, warning of the treason. She prayed he could
avoid interception by Essex's men. Hugh, nursing a hangover,
reluctantly sent word to his seneschal at Norwich to muster his
knights and bring them to Freighbury.

"But why can we not simply hand the girl over to Essex, if he
wants her so badly?" he argued. "Why risk our lives for a low-
born nun? We can't match the kind of army Essex can raise,
particularly with the Archbishop's money backing him."

Lady Emma fumed. "God's death, I did not raise you to be the sort
of knight who would betray the King and deliver an innocent maid
to a murderer! Besides, *think* boy: Essex knows that by now we
know of his plot against Henry and Maude. He would not trust us
with that knowledge. He would put us to death too. But even if he
allowed you to join forces with him, how long do you think you
could hold onto your honours of Norfolk, with a strong,
independent principality of Essex on your southern border, and
Stephen of Blois on the throne? And by the way, that 'low-born
nun' has shown more honour, fortitude, and prowess in combat than
you or any other knight since the days of Charlemagne."

The Duchess in her wrath was a daunting force. "Yes. You are
right, of course, mother." The Duke of Norfolk withdrew from the
solar with his tail between his legs, thankful that no one
besides his dull-witted wife Adele had witnessed the exchange. 
He went down to the bailey and sent out several scouting parties
to report on movements of Essex's army.

                            =======

To most of the inhabitants of Freighbury, the next few weeks were
like the calm before the storm. The weather grew warmer, turning
the fields to mud. The villeins sowed their wheat and barley
under guard of the Duchess' knights, ant slept within the
protection of the castle walls. The scouts found no army
encroaching upon Norfolk, though they encountered and slew one of
Essex's trackers who had been following Julian's trail just south of
Herns Forest. And Julian grew stronger daily. Soon she was on her
feet again, though she limped for a few days.  She spun and
wove alongside Lady Emma, and played upon the harp to regain
strength in her arm and shoulder. "The young heal quickly,"
Alfwith cheerfully observed when she checked in on her patient.

But Lady Emma's heart was far from calm. Julian, the wounded,
frightened waif who had so appealed to the Duchess' protective
impulses, was no more. In her place, Lady Emma found Julian, a
robust young beauty, with spirit and intelligence, who awakened
much more unsettling impulses within Lady Emma.  For example, 
she noticed a certain curious rapport between Julian and Alfwith, 
and Julian addressed the wise-woman as "Sister": inexplicably, this 
observation caused her a slight pang of jealousy.

Emma had never met a woman like Julian before. She moved with a
kind of easy freedom, even when she limped; she spoke her thoughts
with candour and confidence. She behaved with courtesy, always;
she broke no social rules, or if she did, she mended her
behaviour when it was pointed out to her. But her attitude was
that of one playing at a parlour game, unaware of the power
relations, the menace and fear that underlay these conventions. 
She did not, for example, refrain from making clever comments in
the presence of the knights. The rules of courtesy did not
prohibit such behaviour. But any other young woman, in Emma's
experience, would have known instinctively not to do so: it
marked her as odd, as too forward, or so the knights would think.
Perhaps, the Duchess conjectured, this is how all nuns behaved.
She had never known a nun well before.  If so, she envied Julian
her years at the priory, in the community of women, free from the
fear and violence of secular life. But of course, in Julian's
case, the violence of the secular world had reached into her
cloistered life and smashed it to pieces.

The other unsettling thing was that she constantly felt Julian's
eyes upon her. She would look up from her loom and see Julian
gazing at her, unabashedly, with a devil-may-care smile on her
face. 

"What are you smiling at?"  

"I just enjoy watching you." The two women would grin at each
other for a minute, burst into giggles, and then return to their
weaving. 

In the Duchess' youth, men had, from time to time, looked at her
something like that. But those looks had made her uncomfortable.
Julian's gaze, on the other hand, felt like a caress upon her
skin, made her glow with pleasure. As the gaze persisted, Emma's 
nipples would harden. That unexplored place between her thighs 
would salivate with an unnameable hunger, till she could feel wetness 
trickling down her legs, and smell her own arousal. Could Julian smell it?
How had she ever lived without Julian? How could she keep living
with her with these queer and increasingly intense feelings?

                            =======

Early one morning, Julian brought a beaker of mulled cider
up to Lady Emma's chamber. Emma was already up, sponge-bathing
herself, naked before a basin of water, and did not at first
notice Julian entering. She soon became aware of Julian's eyes
upon her. She looked up. Julian's face was flushed, she was
breathing rapidly; and the look of frank lust on Julian's face
made Emma's knees go week.

"You're so beautiful, my Lady."

Emma felt very confused. "I... I'm no such thing. I'm a fat old
woman," she muttered gruffly, and quickly pulled on her shift.
When she looked up again, Julian was gone.

A deep sadness engulfed her. She collapsed upon her bed and wept. 
Beautiful? The idea was absurd: the poets, the
troubadours, all described beautiful women as slender, young,
high-bosomed, flaxen-haired, with blue-grey eyes and broad
foreheads. Lady Emma was nothing like this, never had been, even
before childbearing had caused her figure to fill out. Her
breasts were heavy and low-slung, her waist was thick, her hips
broad, her face round, her hair grey. Her husband had begotten
children upon her, but their marital relations -- "breeding"
Aedgyth called it -- had been naught but a grim duty, for both of
them. He had never loved her, never found her beautiful. It had
been one of his nasty quips that it was only the enormous size of
her dowry that made up for the enormous size of her arse. 

How then could Julian have said she was beautiful? Emma could not
imagine Julian intending this as a sarcastic taunt. The young
novice was so different from other people in so many other ways,
perhaps she had her own eccentric sense of beauty as well. This
thought gave Emma a rush of joy. Certainly Lady Emma found Julian
beautiful -- painfully beautiful at times -- though Julian did
not exactly fit the poets' ideal of female beauty either. In fact, the
sight of Julian's close-cropped, dark hair, when she removed her
wimple, filled Emma with an unbearable longing to run her fingers
through it. Conversely, in the courtly songs of the
poets, there was a certain ideal of male beauty as well, but Lady
Emma had never felt any attraction to knights with such features.
Well, if her own sense of beauty did not match convention, why
might not Julian's? 

Fuck the poets, the Duchess thought.

She gazed down at her own body. She hiked her shift up to her
armpits to have a better look at her large, pale breasts. She 
remembered the pleasure they had given her when she had nursed 
her babies. She stroked them, cupped them. They felt good in her 
hands. Her nipples felt very good. The place between her thighs 
begged for attention. She cupped her hand over the shaggy mound, 
rubbing it gently. Her fingers, of their own volition, crawled down 
into the slippery cleft, touching a previously unknown, hard, hot 
little bump of flesh, which gave her a jolt of pleasure. She continued
lightly circling it with her finger. The pleasure escalated. Emma was 
frightened by what her body was doing, but she could not stop her 
fingers.  Then, unbidden, an image arose in her mind: Julian touching 
her there, *right there* -- an idea so deliciously lewd and
unladylike... She clamped down hard on her fingers, biting her
blankets to keep from crying out as a wave of bliss lifted her
out of her body. Was she dying? She didn't care. Gradually the
feeling subsided. Her legs were still trembling. When she opened
her eyes again, she half-expected to find herself before the
throne of God. But she was still in her chamber at Freighbury
Castle. At last, she sat up and dressed herself. 

She had no name for this experience. A priest might have called
it possession by the Devil. But she had long ago surmised that
"the Devil" meant anything the priests didn't understand. She was
sure the priests would have no interest in understanding that
bliss that she had just felt. It had been a holy feeling, though;
she was sure of it. Some women spoke of feelings of intense
pleasure in their -- "cunt", the English called it -- when their
men fucked them. Was that akin to what she had felt? If so, that
feeling had come from her body itself, not from the Devil. Nor
did she need a man to achieve it. Could Julian possibly know of
this pleasure? Julian had once spoken vaguely of sharing with
Dame Margery "the love and bliss of the Virgin." Was this what
she had meant? What if she were wrong; what if Julian was
repulsed by Emma's discovery? Then she remembered how she
herself, not an hour before, had gruffly turned away from
Julian's expression of desire. Oh, Mother of God, she thought,
what have I done? 

                            =======

Lady Emma found her in the stable. Julian was saddling up a roan
stallion. 

"Julian, my love ..."

Julian's eyes had a hard, hurt look that she had not seen before.
"My Lady, it's been two weeks since you sent Simon to Oxford. We
should have heard some response by now if he had gotten through
to the Empress or King Henry.  I'm able to ride now. I must try
to get through myself. I'll return your horse if I can make it
there and back."

"NO!"

Julian climbed into the saddle. "I've stayed too long already."

"Damn you, you'll be killed! You're breaking my heart."

"My Lady, you're not the only one whose heart can be broken." 
Julian wheeled her horse round and galloped out of the stable,
and out through the castle gate before the Duchess could order
it shut. She collapsed onto her knees in the bailey, sobbing,
wailing Julian's name, not caring what her servants thought.

                            =======

Lady Emma hardly emerged from her chamber for the next week,
leaving the defence of the castle in her son's hands. At last
he brought her word that Essex's army was encamped before
Freighbury. The siege had begun. 

It took every bit of moral fibre Lady Emma could summon to rouse
herself from the despair she felt at the loss of Julian. But her
people's lives were at stake; she could not let Freighbury fall.
Essex's herald approached the castle wall and demanded the
surrender of "a certain reprobate nun who unlawfully ran away
from Thurbridge Priory, and subsequently murdered two knights."
The Duchess took heart: Julian had not yet fallen into their
hands. 

Hugh, to his credit, answered the herald astutely, telling
him the siege was useless: the King had already been warned of
their treasonous plot. 

"Warned, indeed?" replied the herald. "I think that message
somehow never got through."  He pulled something out of his
saddlebag.  Lady Emma felt sick. It was Simon White's head.

Hugh laughed, "Do you think we only sent one messenger? There
were ten, all travelling by different roads. Nine of them
have returned, with news that Henry is mustering an army against
you. The Archbishop of York is in Henry's hands already. You
took too long tracking the nun here, and now it's too late: your
heads are in the noose."

The herald blanched. He was obviously badly shaken. Lady Emma,
for the first time in years, felt a surge of pride in her son:
Hugh had the makings of a clever Baron after all. 

"Then why aren't the King's army here already?" the herald at
last replied, before galloping back to his own lines.

The next morning, Essex's soldiers filled part of the moat, and 
tried to approach the walls with scaling ladders, testing the castle's 
defenses, but her own men-at-arms easily repulsed them with a 
volley of crossbow bolts and stones. Then the Earl brought 
forward his two siege engines, which lobbed burning bundles 
of pitch-coated straw against the castle walls. This might have 
been devastating against the old wooden castles built in King 
Knut's or King Edward's day. But Freighbury was one of the new 
stone castles, and the burning pitch had no effect, beyond making 
the air stink. On the fifth day, a party of Essex's men approached 
the gate with a battering ram, but the were cut down, every one of 
them, by the Duchess' crossbowmen, before they got within ten 
yards of the gate.  The Duchess had enough men to hold
the castle, but not enough to lift the siege.

It was by now obvious that the Duke of Norfolk had been bluffing 
about the nine other messengers. 

Essex's men ringed the castle, digging in for the long
process of starving them out. It would take but a month
and half: by then, either the defenders would starve, or Henry
and Maude would have fallen into Essex's hands and Stephen would
be on the throne, making Freighbury's further resistance futile.
Indeed, the Earl would have been heartened had he known how
little food Freighbury had been able to store up before the
siege. The defenders were down to one meal a day.  Easter
Sunday came and went, with little observation on either side.

                            =======

On the morning of the fifteenth day of the siege, Hugh came to
his mother with news that another army could be seen. She ran to
the battlements. The army were now fording the Freigh, and
pouring onto the field behind Essex's camp. But whose forces were
they? Her heart in her mouth, she caught sight at last of the
King's standard: three lions rampant. A cheer went up from the
castle. 

Her son turned to her. "We've got them. I'd best take out
my knights and foot soldiers.  We owe them something for 
poor Simon White." The Duchess grimly nodded.

Between the King's army, Hugh's knights pouring out through
the gate, and the crossbowmen on the battlements, the Earl of
Essex's forces were cut to pieces in a matter of minutes. Lady
Emma saw the Earl himself, separated from his guard by Hugh's
knights, make a desperate dash for freedom, but he rode too
close to the castle wall: he was picked off by a crossbowman. 
The sight should have given her satisfaction, but all she could
feel was revulsion at the scene of carnage before her, the
severed limbs, the frightened boys screaming as their lifeblood
ebbed out of them into the mud. All because of some Barons'
infantile desire for even more worldly power and wealth. 

At least, thank God, it was over. 

                            =======

A rider bearing the Empress Maude's standard emerged from the
King's wagon train and galloped toward the castle gate. Lady Emma
gasped with joy. The portcullis was raised again, and the roan 
stallion rode inside. Lady Emma raced down to the bailey. Julian 
dismounted, and the Duchess threw her arms round her. A second 
later, Julian was mobbed by the Duchess' soldiers, servants, and villeins,
hugging her, slapping her on the back, laughing, cheering,
lifting her up on their shoulders and parading her about the
bailey. She had, after all, risked her life to save theirs; even crusty 
Sergeant Barnabas gave her his grateful cheers.

It was a bit of an anti-climax when, a few minutes later, Hugh
and his knights rode in, with King Henry and his daughter Maude. 

"My Lord of Norfolk, my Lady Emma, we believe we're somewhat
in your debt, what? Flushing out that rascal Walter de Carcassone
-- good show. I've got the Archbishop of York, and that Prioress,
in irons at Oxford; the Church wouldn't approve if I hanged a
cleric y'know. A pity that snake of a nephew of mine got away to
France." The King looked about him. "A good, stout castle you've
got here. Damned glad it's in your hands, my Lady. I say, Hugh,
Essex's lands are forfeit: suppose we give 'em to you. I believe 
that makes you the richest Baron in England, what?" 

Hugh was stunned. "Your Grace is most generous." He turned to
Julian. "But your debt is to this nun here." He draped his arm,
most unaristocratically, round her neck.

"We're well aware of our debt to her, Hugh. Our daughter reminds
us of it every five minutes." Lady Emma turned her gaze to the
Empress Maude -- a pale, striking young beauty, much closer in
age to Julian. A sudden fear possessed the Duchess: surely the
Empress now claimed Julian's heart. Emma had no one to blame but
herself. Julian had come to her, made clear offer of her
affection, and Emma had rebuffed her. And, now... how could she
ever win her back from the woman who would be Queen of England?

"I'm most grateful to you, my Lady of Norfolk," nodded the
Empress, "for your aid to Dame Julian. She has well acquainted
his Grace the King and me of your part in putting down this
treason."

Lady Emma curtsied. "You are most welcome to Freighbury, your
Grace and my Lady Empress." She had to fight to get the words out
of her throat.

As they entered the hall, the Empress took Lady Emma aside.
"You'd best keep an eye on that girl in the future: see that she
stays out of trouble. She's headstrong, half-mad at times, but
positively the bravest human being I've ever met. My father and I
owe her our lives. She made a bit of a nuisance of herself at
Oxford, though. She was frantic to ride back here, to see that
you were safe. She's extraordinarily devoted to you. Couldn't
wait for us to muster an army. Tried to ride off alone. Essex
would have killed her, of course. The only way we could stop her
was to lock her up. An awfully shabby way to treat her after she
saved our lives, but we had no choice. I'm afraid she rather
hates me now."

"My Lady Empress, may I claim a boon?"

"Today, you might claim half the kingdom. What would you have?"

"Let me speak with her now, privately, for just a few minutes,
and hold me excused for this breach of protocol."

Maude arched an eyebrow, and smiled. "So the devotion is mutual,
hm? That's good. Of course you may speak with her. Oh, and would you 
put in a good word for me with her, help make peace?  She'll listen to 
you.  I wouldn't want to have a maid like her holding a grudge against
me."

                            =======

"When you rode off like that, I was so sick with fear for
you, so sure I'd never see you again, I honestly wanted to die."

"Oh, my Lady, I'm sorry I caused you pain. I regretted my last
words to you as soon as I spoke them. And once I reached Oxford,
I was out of my mind with fear, afraid the castle would fall and
you'd be slain.  King Henry took so long to move his army."

"I know, the Empress told me. She craves your pardon for having
to lock you up, by the way. Well, you saved our lives, you bull-
headed idiot." There were tears in Emma's eyes. "And we're both
alive today, and I'm just so joyful to be looking on your lovely
face again, my darling... As they say, 'All's well that end's
well.' I've been regretting something terribly, though. When you
came to me in my chamber, that morning before you left, when I
was bathing..."

"It was outrageously forward of me. I'm sorry."

"No, it wasn't. It was the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to
me. I regret how I responded to you. I should have done this..."

Lady Emma took Julian in her arms and kissed her on the mouth. 
"I love you Julian. I want to hold you and caress your beautiful
body, I want to kiss your eyelids and gaze at you and run my
fingers through your hair and--"

Julian stopped her mouth with another kiss. Emma's lips opened to
Julian's tongue. She'd had no idea kissing could be like this. 
She grew dizzy, her knees buckled; she might well have keeled
over, but Julian held her in her strong arms.

"Emma, I've wanted you so badly. Ever since that first day, after
my fever broke (kiss). By Our Lady, you smell delicious (kiss), 
you feel delicious (kiss)! I love you so much." They kissed again, 
and Julian's hands began fondling Lady Emma's heavy breasts 
through her kirtle. 

"Oh, yes, love, oh that feels so good... Oh... but, we must
stop... we can't continue this now."

"Why not?" 

"The King and the Empress await us below. We must go down to the
feast now. And truth be told, I'm ravenous. We haven't eaten well
here since the siege began."

"Of course, love. I had forgotten."

"I'll sit with you at the feast. Come to my bedchamber tonight as
soon as you can."

                            =======

The feast was a relatively frugal affair, simpler than most. 
Enough good, plain food for everyone, but no elaborate subtleties
such as usually graced the King's table. It was briefer than most
as well; for the King and his council had a number of pressing
matters to attend to afterward. To the Duchess, however, once
she had properly filled her stomach, it seemed interminable. It 
was made more unbearable for Emma by the fact that Julian kept 
fondling her legs, under cove of the table linen. She might have asked 
Julian to stop, but touch of that dear hand was something she simply
couldn't bear to forego.  By the end of the feast, she was sure 
everyone in the hall could smell the juice dripping down her thighs, 
wetting the shift and kirtle under her arse. 

                            =======

When Julian slipped into Lady Emma's chamber, she saw, in the
soft, flickering rush-light, the Duchess standing naked 
before her washbasin, just as she had that morning a month
earlier.

"You're so beautiful, my Lady."

"I wanted to do it right this time. Come to me, love." 

Julian doffed her shift. She moved Emma's long, thick braid of
silvery hair out of the way. Then she dipped the sponge in the 
warm, soapy water and ran it over Emma's shoulders, down her 
back, while she kissed her neck. Emma shivered and sighed. 
Julian washed her broad, full backside, and the backs of her legs. 
Julian's impudent, soapy fingers even explored the deep cleft of 
her arse. I love this, Lady Emma thought. Holy Virgin, how I've 
needed this. She's baptizing me, washing me free of shame, 
awakening my body to bliss.

Julian's arms went round her now, cupping her soft, heavy
breasts, kneading them. She rubbed them with the sponge. Emma's
nipples ached with desire. She could feel Julian's breasts
pressing against her back, could feel Julian's warm, excited
breathing on her neck. Julian turned her round. Her head dipped
down, and suddenly Emma felt Julian's hot mouth on her breast. 
Mother of God! Such sweet torture. Emma cooed Julian's name, 
cradling her head against her bosom, running her fingers through 
the soft, short hair, kissing her head. She felt the wet sponge 
washing her quivering belly, washing between her thighs. Oh Jesu, Oh 
Queen of Heaven, she's touching me *there*!

"Love, I'm about to fall over. My legs will give out." 

"Let's go to bed."

"Oh." Why hadn't that occurred to her?

Emma dried off, lit a taper and set it in the sconce in her headboard. As
she and Julian climbed into the feather-tick bed, she drew the
bed curtains about them. They were safe for the moment in their
own private world. Emma poured a cup of wine, and they shared a
few sips. 

"I don't know what to call what we're doing," Emma confessed. 
"I don't know what comes next. But whatever it is, darling, I
want it."

"We're making love, sweet. You're going to feel great pleasure
in a few minutes."

"I was feeling great pleasure already, as you were washing me. 
Is there a feeling of bliss as the pleasure reaches a certain...
climax? And then a floating, soaring feeling, that leaves you
radiant afterwards?"

"Yes. You've felt it before, then. With your husband?"

"With my own fingers, thinking about you. Is this what you meant
by the love and bliss of the Virgin, that you shared with Dame
Margery at Thurbridge?"

"Yes. Though it's not the Virgin Mary of Holy Writ that I was
speaking of. This is a rite far older than Christianity. I mean
the old Virgin Goddess, the Moon-Maiden."

"You speak like Alfwith, our village wise-woman."

"I *am* a wise-woman. Many nuns are. Dame Margery taught me. 
Do I shock you, my Lady?"

"You delight me, you mysterious pagan. So that's why you and 
Alfwith seemed to understand each other so well.  Well, I want 
you to teach *me,* everything."

"Show me how you touch yourself with your fingers... Ah, 
your belle chose is so lovely.  And so full of juice, like a 
luscious split peach.  Please, do you think *my* fingers 
might have a go at it?"

"Oh, please... yes, right there... don't stop... ahhhhhh!"

"And then my mouth."

"Your mouth? What? -- ooh, Oh Mother of God! Oh, yes, yes,
yyyyessss ..."

                            =======

The King's council met in the chapel. Hubert Beaulac, the Bishop
of Durham, joined the council meeting late. Roger de Salisbury,
the King's Justiciar, was suggesting that the King call a
Parliament of the Barons and have them all swear fealty to his
daughter. Then they would be legally bound to accept her as Queen
of England upon Henry's death, and the succession problem would
be solved. If any refused to swear fealty to a woman, Henry would
then know where the opposition lay.  And somehow, Henry would
have to achieve a reconciliation with Stephen of Blois.  Snake though 
he was, Stephen commanded too much support from the barons to
be shut out.  Henry, and Maude, needed to win his support.

"Your Grace, my Lords," interjected the Bishop, "you'll never
guess what I saw on my way here a few moments ago. That mad
Benedictine novice -- I saw her walking down the corridor in her
shift, and she went into the Duchess of Norfolk's bedchamber."

"In her shift, eh?" said King Henry. "And what would you
have her sleep in, Hubert, a hauberk and helmet?" 

"But why should she be going to the Duchess' bedchamber at this
time of night? If it were a young man's bedchamber, we would
know clearly what was afoot. But what can it mean when a lady
sneaks into the bedchamber of another lady? And I heard noises
within. Noises such as a woman makes when... Well, had I not
known it was two ladies within, I would have sworn on the True
Cross that there was... well, something very queer going on
inside."

"What is your point, my Lord Bishop?" asked the Justiciar. "Are
you concerned that the Duchess will get the nun with child?"
There were several snickers in the room.

"Have a care, my Lord Justiciar," Beaulac spat back, "how you
speak to a prince of the Church."

"My Lords," said the King, growing exasperated. "What women may
do amongst themselves is no concern of ours. It grows late. We
have important matters to decide tonight. Let us get on with this
business of calling the Parliament." Henry was glad that young 
Hugh had been too exhausted to attend this council meeting; with 
this fool of a Bishop talking of snooping round his mother's 
chamber door, a brawl might have ensued.

                            =======

The following morning, the soldiers and the villeins of
Freighbury settled down to the grim task of burying the dead of
Essex's army. The Empress Maude made provision that Freighbury
be supplied with grain from nearby royal holdings to compensate
for the damage the besieging army had done to the village's fields.  

After the mid-day meal, the King and his daughter held court in
the solar. The Duchess and Julian were summoned. If the two women
seemed unusually gay -- full of smiles, whispers, and quiet
laughter -- no one remarked upon it.  Once the burial was out of the
way, everyone's mood had lightened: after all, the siege was lifted, 
and the threat of Stephen of Blois was, for the time being anyway, 
abated.

"Dame Julian, we must depart on the morrow for Winchester," said
the King. "But ere we leave, we would settle our debt to you. 
You've not yet taken final vows as a nun. The Duke of Somerset
seeks a wife. He's handsome, young, and much in our favour. He
agrees to the match. What say you to becoming Duchess of
Somerset, with a generous dowry from our own coffers." 

Julian's face fell. "Your Grace does me great honour. But, I do
not aspire to marry."

"Eh? You wish to return to the cloister then? We'd not have
thought you were a candidate for sainthood. A handsome, spirited
lass like you could breed a fine crop of little knights, what?"

"No, your Grace, but I would remain with..."

Lady Emma interrupted, "I too wish to retire from the world, your
Grace, and take the veil. These intrigues and treasons have left
me weary of worldly life. I would spend my latter days in
contemplation and pursuit of the holy love and bliss of the
Virgin." She beamed a knowing smile at Julian.

"You too, my Lady Emma? Is the whole world turning saintly? We'd
be grieved to lose your watchful rule of Freighbury
Castle."

"Father," the Empress spoke up, "may I suggest a more fitting
reward for these two spiritually-minded women? As I recall,
the Abbess' chair at Wenneston Abbey in Lincolnshire is vacant.
The Papal Legate could be persuaded to appoint Dame Julian. The
young Duke of Norfolk has shown himself to be a capable Baron: 
Freighbury will be secure under his rule. So let my Lady Emma 
retire to Wenneston Abbey as well. For I've observed that these 
two women are very devoted to one another, and it would grieve 
them to be separated. Lady Emma, having ruled a castle, could 
advise and assist Dame Julian with the more mundane aspects 
of ruling an Abbey. The Bishop of Lincoln, who has the oversight 
of the Abbey, is of course, Lady Emma's own brother. And we 
could have no more loyal, courageous, and honest a Lady in the 
Abbess' chair than Dame Julian. 

"Wenneston Abbey, eh? Hm, not a particularly rich house, as we
recall."

"That is why you shall endow the Abbey with a generous gift of
land, and some silver chalices, reliquaries, and such rich
things -- in lieu of the dowry you offered a moment ago. The
ladies there will welcome their new Abbess right joyfully if she
brings such gifts with her."

"Hm, yes. We like the idea well enough. What say you Ladies?"

"Nothing could please me more, your Grace," said Julian.

"Nor me, your Grace," said Lady Emma.

"Thank you, my Lady Empress," added Julian, with a curtsey and a
very big smile. "I am deeply grateful." The Empress arched an
eyebrow and, with a slight nod, smiled back.

"Roger," the King turned to his Justiciar, "see that the proper
documents are drawn up, what?"

After the women had withdrawn, the King turned to the Bishop of
Durham.

"Well, there's your answer, Hubert. The nun went to the Duchess'
chamber last night to counsel her to take the veil. They were
praying and having holy discourse, not doing... well, whatever it
was you thought they might be doing."

"Yes, your Grace. It was wrong of me to suggest any
impropriety. I had drunk too much wine at the feast. I pray you
forgive me."

"Very well, Hubert, we forgive you, for you knew not what you
did. You see, even old Henry Beauclerc is turning saintly. What
is the world coming to?"

                            =======

Epilogue: Wenneston Abbey, Lincolnshire, 1134

The chapter meeting was drawing to a close. Dame Susan had 
proposed, and the Ladies had agreed upon, the purchase of some 
costly books for the library: volumes of Aristotle's Rhetoric, Poetics, 
Metaphysics, and Nichomachean Ethics; Boethius' Consolation of 
Philosophy; and, in a lighter vein, a volume of some new tales of 
chivalry and courtly love coming out of Brittany.  Dame Emma had 
called the Ladies' attention to the disrepair of the stone fence to the 
north pasture, and the urgency of mending it before winter 
arrived.  And the Abbess, read aloud a letter from a German 
Anchoress, one Dame Hildegard, commending them for their works 
of sacred music, expressing pleasure at news of their growth, and 
inquiring if some of their Ladies might undertake to travel to 
Germany to teach her the Wenneston style of antiphonal singing, 
which she would like to incorporate into her own musical 
compositions.  There was no shortage of volunteers. 

Finally, Dame Godewith, mistress of the novices, brought up a 
maid named Alice Wise, of Freighbury, in Norfolkshire, who 
sought admission as a novice.  The problem, Godewith explained, 
is that the girl is very bright, with a beautiful voice, and shows 
a sincere vocation, but her mother is but a village wise-woman, 
and can pay no dowry.  The Abbess and Emma looked at each 
other with raised eyebrows.  

"Is the maid's mother named Alfwith?" inquired the Abbess.

"Indeed she is, my Lady."    

Dame Emma spoke up.  "I know her mother well, and the Abbess 
and I both owe her much.  I can promise you that my son, the 
Duke of Norfolk, will gladly pay her dowry.  If the maid is 
anything like her mother, it will be a joy and privilege to have 
her join our house."  

"Does any have a concern about her admission?" asked the 
Abbess. "Then, Godewith, you may crop her hair, and tell 
the maid to don her novice's habit, and to join us in the 
refectory tonight.  If there is no other chapter business, 
Ladies, you are dismissed." 

The Abbess strode over to Emma.  "Would you take a walk
in the garden with me before supper, love?"

"Do you want my company, or are you going to quiz me
on the planetary correspondences of herbs again?"

Julian arched her eyebrow, a mannerism she had acquired
from the Empress.  "You're in a foul humour today.  
You know you needn't have brought up that matter of 
the fence in chapter; you may handle such
matters yourself without consulting us.  You just wanted to 
embarrass Dame Mildred.  Now come walk with me:
of course I want your company, even if you are foul-
tempered."

"I'm sorry, darling.  It must be the change again.  I've been 
getting hot flashes, and feeling weepy or feisty, all this past week."

"And sometimes desirous of lovemaking?"

Hesitantly, she looked into Julian's eyes.  "Sometimes 
desirous of particularly hot, rough lovemaking."

Julian linked arms with Emma as they walked into the garden.  
"I think," said the Abbess, with a mischievous smile, "that the best 
way to get you through menopause, then, is with lots of such 
lovemaking."

"Oh really?" smirked Emma, facetiously putting on an 
aristocratic hauteur.  "An expert on menopause, are we, at 
the age of twenty-six?" 

The Abbess' grin widened. "Are you being insubordinate 
to your Abbess, Dame Emma de Montvert?  Need I remind 
you what St. Benedict's Rule says about the obedience you 
owe me?  Or do you think your noble birth and former worldly 
title exempts you from such duty?  If, for example, I tell you 
to come with me into this hut, what must you do?"

"Come with you, my Lady."  

"Yes, I do like the sound of that phrase: 'Come with me'.  
Let us go in then."  They stepped inside the wattle-and-daub 
outbuilding, fragrant with bunches of drying herbs hanging 
from the rafters.  There was an old blanket in the 
corner; Julian spread it over some bales of hay.
   
"And if I tell you to bend over these hay bales and hitch up 
your skirts above your waist, what must you do?" 

"This, my Lady," replied Emma, resting her weight on the 
bales, lifting her habit and shift, and feeling cool air on her 
bare rump.  How did Julian always seem to know just
exactly what would get her the hottest?

"I do love the sight of your arse and cunt, darling. There's 
so much of you to love back there: it quite takes my 
breath away. I love the way it jiggles about as you move,
like two enormous flans, and just as sweet and creamy.  
Perhaps someday I'll dribble a caramel sauce all over your 
big, lovely arse and then slowly lick it off."  Julian was getting 
her so wet, just with her words.  

"And I love the way it feels," she cooed, gently 
stroking the skin.  Emma groaned. "Tender and warm as an 
infant's breath.  But ... lovely though you are, you've 
nevertheless been very impertinent toward me, and I must 
teach you a lesson."

Julian's hand rose and fell in a series of sharp stinging blows 
that left Emma's buttocks quivering.  They were noticeably
rosier than they had been a moment before.  Emma could 
feel a drop of her juice trickling down her calf.

"There. You *will* try to be more helpful towards Dame Mildred 
in the future, won't you darling?"

"Yes, anything you say, my Lady."

"Very well.  A chastisement performed with love should 
always be followed with some affectionate consolation, 
don't you think?"  

Emma groaned.  "Oh, Great Goddess Freya, yes, please ..."

"Fortunately, I have my instrument of consolation with me."

Julian opened her scrip and drew out her godemich  and 
harness.  Her hands were trembling.  The truth of the matter
was that her performance had gotten her no less excited
than Emma.  Impatiently, she tore off her habit and shift, 
and tied the harness tightly about her hips, the base of the 
godemich  snug against her mound of Venus.  

Julian took Emma by the hips.  Emma gasped loudly as 
the leather-encased bone slid into her wet tunnel at last, 
filling her so perfectly.  

"Sssh!  Quietly, love, if you can.  We don't want to have 
the whole community peering in on us."  

Julian began slowly, gently, picking up speed and force
as Emma rocked her huge arse back to meet the 
thrusts, till at last Julian was slamming into her with all
her strength.  

In the novice's chambers of the Abbey, Dame Godewith 
was helping a very happy young Alice Wise wrap her 
wimple about her newly shorn head.  They heard a low, keening
wail coming from the garden, through the open window.
This droning cry was intermittently punctuated by a 
series of frantic, higher-pitched squeals, the two pitches playing
off against each for several minutes.

"What is that fearsome cry, Dame Godewith?"

"Don't be alarmed, dear.  It's just the Abbess and Dame
Emma.  They do this several times a week.  Dame Susan 
and Dame Jehanne are also a particularly noisy couple.  
You must get accustomed to the sound.  It occurs so 
often, in this Abbey, since the new Abbess came here,
that Dame Berthilde began notating the pitches and 
rhythms, and incorporating it into our liturgical music.  
She calls it 'antiphonal singing.'"  We're rather proud 
of it.

"But, are they hurting each other?"

"Hm ... not very much, I should think."  A mischievous 
twinkle in her eye, she said, "You might ask Dame Emma 
tonight, at supper, whether the Abbess was hurting her when 
she cried aloud in the garden."

Alice, regarding Dame Godewith's amused expression,
decided that such a line of inquiry might make Dame Emma
uncomfortable.  

"What are they doing, then, that makes them cry out so?"

"Well, you must understand that they love each other - not that
the Abbess doesn't love all of us, but not in quite the same way -- and
it gives them bliss to lie together and touch each other ... well, like 
your Mum and Dad do, no doubt?

The young novice's eyes widened.  "Oh, *that*." She thought
for a moment.  "Still, I've never understood why adults 
cry out so when they lie together."  

"That, I think, is something you'd best wait a few
years to discover.   When you're ready - and you'll
know when that is - the Holy Virgin will show you that
particular path of bliss.  It's a very sacred thing.  And there are 
many other paths to bliss as well, of course.  One for every
hair on the Virgin's head, as we say.  But ... for me
right now, I'm hungry, and 'bliss' means good food in my 
belly, and more still on the trencher.   Let's go down to supper.  
There might even be a special pudding, to welcome you 
to Wenneston.      

                              End

<1st attachment end>


----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------
Notice: This post has been modified from its original
format.  The post was sent as an email attachment and
has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation software.
----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html>  Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository |
|<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations.         |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+