The Princess Of Cleves 15

The Queen was delighted to have Mme. de Martingues back at court. After the King's coronation at the new Chateau Chambort, settled in to spend their summer in the country side. Mme. de Martingues caught the attention of the entire court as she related to them her visit with Rosalind at Colomiers. She told of the charming solitude in which this woman spent her time, sending away her servants so that she might stroll the gardens in quiet contemplation. It was a cloistered existence, her days spent out of doors and her evenings practicing the arts of the finer sex. She displayed for the court a lovely handkerchief Rosalind made for her. What she didn't tell them was how that clever lady had hidden the initials of her lover, the Count, in the design. When Rosalind showed her, Mme. de Martingues wondered how she had ever come up with such a thing.

The Prince was listening intently to Mme. de Martingues' account of his wife. Her absence softened his anger, and the Chevalier reproached him for his callousness. At his urging, the Prince had sent her a sincere letter of apology. She had written him back, a respectful but reserved note. At first he feared he had forever lost her esteem, but then a more sinister thought occurred to him. What if she was planning on leaving him? What then? He would appear to be a fool in front of the whole court. Though, it could be a blessing as well. His heart was already broken, whether his wife lived in solitude at Colomiers or ran off to Austria with the Duke. He could remarry, or go back to being the happy bachelor. No one in court would reproach him for swearing off women. As it was unlikely the Chevalier would ever marry, they could live with one another for company, as two sworn bachelors sometimes would.

Looking around for his lover, he found instead the Duke staring at Mme. de Martingues, frozen as though her words had turned him to stone. The glittering light in the Duke's eyes made the Prince uneasy. What plans were in that man's head? He couldn't be planning to slip off to Colomiers to see Rosalind? The crooked smile that lit the Duke's face confirmed the Prince's suspicion. He stayed at the royal audience, and trailed after the Duke when he went to speak to the King. The Prince overheard the Duke explaining to the King that he had urgent business in Paris. There was no doubt in the Prince's mind: this was a lie.

Later, when the Chevalier had snuck into his chambers, the Prince spoke to him of the matter. "Mme. de Martingues returned from visiting Rosalind at Colomiers today."

The Chevalier, who had been brushing the Prince's golden hair, stiffened. "I had heard this."

"You don't have to be worried love. While our marriage will never be a happy one, we've come to an understanding. Besides, for once, it isn't my wife who is troubling me. At least, not directly."

"Oh, what is it then? Who has you worried, is it the Marechal?" the Chevalier asked, returning to brushing the Prince's hair.

"The Marechal, why should I be worried about him? His cabal has lost all its power. No, what concerns me is the Duke. He is to leave for Paris in two days, but I believe he means to go see my wife at Colomiers."

"And what makes you think this?"

"Just the way the Duke was listening to Mme. de Martingues speak of Rosalind. He looked like a dog drooling over a bone. Directly after, he tells the King he has urgent business in Paris. I think I will excuse myself and see if I can't surprised the Duke on the road by Colomiers."

The Chevalier shook his head. "You don't listen to me at all when I try and teach you to play court. If you leave, you will have to tell the King, and the Duke will surely hear of it. He will be too spooked to go and visit your wife. And that's what you wish to know, if your wife is still having an affair with the Duke?"

"Yes, at least, I think I do."

"Don't think ill of me, but I wish she'd just run off with someone," the Chevalier said sighing.

A laugh escaped the Prince. "Yes, I thought much the same thing at the audience this afternoon. I can't say I wish I never married her." The Prince took the Chevalier's hand, and the two men smiled at each other. There were times when the Prince wondered if he and the Chevalier would have ever become such close friends were it not for her. "If she runs away, we will get a house together."

"I think my family gave up on the notion of my being with anyone, man or woman. If I don't have a wife and children, I can come and go as I please to spy. My father would be happy to sacrifice a few heirs from this stunted branch for a spy." The Chevalier leaned down, draping his arms around the Prince's chest, touching his lips to the Prince's throat. "We might even be able to encourage your wife to run away. Do you have a man you'd trust not with your life, but your dearest secret? It's not always the same man who will die for you and who will keep your business to himself."

The Prince thought. "Yes, yes I do. I'll send him to Colomiers, to spy on the Princess."

The Chevalier kissed the Prince, his mouth loose and wet over the Prince's, their tongues moving together. "Maybe you do listen to me."

They stripped each other before laying down in bed. Kissing, their hands wandered freely, stroking, cupping, pinching. Making the Chevalier get on his hands and knees above him, the Prince brought his lover's musky anus to his lips. With his hands, he caressed the Chevalier's sex, working up and down the thick ridge on the underside of his sex, rubbing little circles on the head with his thumb. The Chevalier moaned, his chest resting on the Prince's groin, his cheek on the Prince's thigh. Thrusting his tongue into the Chevalier's anus, the Prince felt his whole body undulate on top of him. The Prince's phallus was so hard it hurt.

When he felt the Chevalier's body begin to clench and release, he moaned. He gripped the Chevalier's waist as his body shook violently. He felt the Chevalier come over all his stomach in a few hot licks. After the Chevalier recovered, he laid him down on his belly to take him from behind. He had worked the Chevalier's anus soft and pliant with his tongue, and his saliva served as lubricant. Beneath him, the Chevalier happily sighed and grunted as the Prince sheathed his sex inside him.

The Prince buried his mouth in the nape of the Chevalier's neck. He nipped at the Chevalier's skin, and in response the Chevalier arched his back, bringing his ass up against the Prince's hips, sinking the Prince's sex deep into him. Their bodies moved together, the Prince panting, and then he came. The Chevalier carefully rolled them onto their sides, and while the Prince was still hard, he caressed himself, coming for a second time.

In a moment, they had themselves cleaned off. They had a routine now. They made love, they cleansed, they slept. When everyone woke from their first sleep, they lay in bed and talked of court. After the Prince was dreaming once again, the Chevalier would creep away. A few times, he accidentally spent the night. He managed to creep away without anyone seeing him. Even if they had though, they would have assumed he was about family business.

The Prince sent a message summoning his man, and locked them in his chambers as he explained what was wanted. Giving the man a large purse, he sent him on his way, preceding the Duke by a day. Every time the Prince caught a glimpse of the Duke, and the small smile that lecherous man could not suppress, he became angry. The Prince could just imagine, his wretched head filled with voluptuous pictures of Rosalind, her chemise drooping off her shoulder, the pale length of her stockings showing beneath her petticoat.

* * * *

The Duke rode to Colomiers whistling until his mouth was sore. He had borrowed a cloak from the Chevalier, and thought himself very clever. Well, borrow wasn't really the right word; he had stolen it, but he as his intention was to return it after this trip, he thought of it as borrowed. Finding a tavern near the manor, he left his horse there, and cut through the woods to sit outside the garden. He thought it prudent to wait until full dark, so he rested with his back to the palisades that surrounded the grounds, and drank a bottle of wine.

At sunset, he had a light meal. As the stars began to show, he started to pace. When the darkness became inky, he fought his way into the garden. Everything was as he remembered. His knees felt weak when he approached the bush where he had overheard her confession of love. It bore clusters of small red berries, and he plucked a sprig as a souvenir.

Moving slowly through the garden, he kept to the deepest shadows, listening for any speech or movement. His heart stopped as he caught a glimpse of Rosalind inside a small pavilion, the windows thrown open to the warm night breeze. The Duke found himself able to peer inside to watch his love. She was alone, her women moving about inside the house. There was a painting in the room, and the table was scattered with bits of embroidery floss and ribbons.

She was piling together the ribbons, holding up different combinations of colors. First, she sighed, holding up green and purple ribbons, the colors the Marechal wore to the tourney. The Duke's vision blurred as tears formed in his eyes. In a moment he would blindly flee from the garden, crashing into everything and getting caught by the servants. Next, she pulled out a white ribbon and placed beside it every shade of pink. She laughed, combining them with the colors of the House of Cleves. He did not know what to make of her amusement, only it did not stir his jealousy. Her face became solemn as she shoved aside the other ribbons to contemplate a pair of black and yellow ones. She stroked the silk with her fingers as two shining trails appeared on her face. She was weeping over him.

The Duke snuck closer, enraptured by her sweet sorrow. Taking a candle, she sat gazing upon a portrait of the heroes of The Siege of Mets. Her eyes seemed to turn from one man to another. His heart was pounding, and he moved so he could see her face. Who was she looking at? When she took a deep breath and touched her lips, was she thinking of him or the Marechal? Could it be the Chevalier, or even the Prince? Her eyes darted to where her women were, and she turned her back to them so that she now faced the Duke. It was as if she knew he was watching, for she lifted her skirts up to her waist, revealing the flushed petals of her sex. Reaching behind her, she took out a pretty little whip.

Surely this garden must be Eden, so full of earthly delights. The Duke rubbed his breeches as Rosalind held her flower open with one hand, using the other to tease her little bud with the smooth handle of the riding crop. She kept dipping the handle into into her womb to moisten it and lazily stroke herself. When she inserted the whip into herself, he withdrew his painfully swollen sex, and with a few strokes he came.

His mind clearer, he focused on watching Rosalind pleasure herself. For the rest of his life, he would have sweet dreams of this. Pinching her bud, she worked the riding crop at a fiendish pace. Her face scrunched up as her mouth popped open. A quick glance over her shoulder to make sure her women were still busy, and she thrust the handle farther into herself, working her bud with such fervor the candle beside her flickered wildly.

Her face turned red as she held her breath, and blanched white as she came. A small jet of liquid gushed from her, flashing in the candlelight. She sighed, flopping back against the chair. The riding crop jumped up and down as her body twitched in the aftershock. Again, she checked on her women. Assured she'd remain undisturbed, she thrust her fingers into her mouth and moaned as she reached down to touch herself again. The leather tip of the whip waggled up and down in the air as she rubbed herself. Her eyes were tightly closed, her breath a rapid pant.

The Duke could not stop himself. Rushing to an open window, he vaulted inside. Rosalind's eyes few open at the sight of him, and she bit her hand to keep from crying out. He fell upon her, his sex hard and lubricated with his seed. There was a mix of terror and lust in her eyes. Straddling her, he grasped the riding crop. Pressing his sex against her, she only yielded to the very tip. The smooth grain of the varnished wood squeezed him from one side, and her hot slick flesh from the other. Grunting, he continued to work her until he could move the entire head of his phallus in and out of her swollen sex. She moaned as he thrust himself in further. It felt like the whip quivered against his sex every time she made a sound. Her skin was taut and pulsing. The orgasm he coaxed from her forced both him and the crop from her contracting womb. She spasmed and gasped, then opened her eyes as the Duke spilt his seed on her sex.

Snatching the whip from the grinning Duke's hands, she raised it to hit him. The blow caught his cheek and he fled the bower. She did not pursue him into the night, so the Duke crouched in the shadow of a tree to collect himself. What had he done, by giving into his lust? First, he fills the courts with stories of her sweet and gentle confession of love, and now, when he finally has a moment to tell her he was sorry and offer some sincere proofs of affection, he treats her no better than a common maid. He should have been declaring his love, not sticking her like an eager groom.

The damage had been done though. He could not return, not tonight. Her face as she struck him had been terrifying. Every emotion he had ever seen shape those dear features had crowded out at once, creating an ugly amalgamation of fear, lust, sorrow, confusion, and so many others he could not name. He needed to go to his room and sleep, it was the only thing that could help him now. Dawn was starting to show as a gray light on the horizon. He needed to be gone from here anyways, lest he be seen. Making his way back to the tavern, the Duke kept looking behind him, hearing the snap of a twig or a rustle of branches. He could feel eyes on his back, but he assured himself it was only paranoia.

That day he lay in his room sighing, dreaming of Rosalind. In some, she came to him clothed in flames with whip in hand, and she scourged him for every crime he had committed against her sex. In his bed, he sweated and shivered with excitement. Others were the pedestrian type of dreams one had about ever lover, laying in bed together, walking in a garden of flowers. One did wake the Duke, and it was no dream but rather a nightmare.

He and Rosalind were strolling by a little brook, and she slipped and fell into some reeds. They laughed, for she was covered with mud. Only, when he tried to pull her out, the earth began to consume her, the plants reached out their cold leaves to wrap around his arms. Her mouth opened, and there was a sucking sound. The Duke fell out of bed screaming, tangled in the bed clothes.

Laying on the floor, Lignerol's voice sounded in the back of his skull, that woman will be the death of you. His head throbbed with the warning, a steady ringing pain. He felt like he was sinking into the floor, and he started flailing. Bumping his head, he cried out. A moment later the innkeeper flung open the door, his wife at his heels. They soothed the Duke, got him back in bed, and, judging him not greatly injured, they gave him some brandy then left him to rest.

It was full dark when he awoke. His mouth was dry, and he was hungry, but he neither ate nor drank. Instead, he threw the Chevalier's cloak over him, hiding his face. He left for the forest, his body shaking with a wretched headache, to find if his Rosalind waited for him in the garden. He wanted her to be sitting there, gazing at his portrait as much as he wanted to be free of her. This night he took no souvenirs, but made his way slowly to the pavilion. There were no candles, could she be waiting for him in the dark? As he came closer, he saw that there was a single candle, and the window was open.

He was surprised to find the room empty. The candlestick sat on the table, now cleared of all its bits of ribbon and thread. There was something beside the candle, almost invisible in the flickering flame.

A bouquet, bound with ribbons. The flowers every shade of violet with many glossy leaves, and the ribbons the one he had seen her contemplating first when he spied upon her the other night.

What could this mean? Was she telling him that she had made a choice, that she loved the Marechal? A tear fell upon the mocking blooms, the colors the man she loved had worn to the tourney. Tonight, she would creep in here at some unholy hour to hide them, never dreaming a man would want to keep such a memento. The Duke did; Lignerol would weep with joy when the Duke told him the tale. He also liked the idea of Rosalind fretting all night that her attendants would find the sign, and finally sneaking in here to find there was nothing to worry over.

His vision was blurred as he carried away Rosalind's token. When he arrived at the inn, he asked a meal be brought to his room. Eating and drinking his fill, he fell asleep, grateful that he did not dream. He left the innkeeper a hefty tip, with the instructions that he had never seen the Duke. The bouquet he wrapped in a scarf and tucked into his pannier, a gift for Lignerol.

* * * *

The Prince made his man repeat his story several times. He'd been anxiously waiting for his return. When the Chevalier was sent away on an errand, the Prince thought he would fall to pieces. Thinking back, he recalled all the tricks his wife employed to avoid the society of the court. In the morning she would rise and arrange her coiffure and dress perfectly, then carefully pick apart her hair and wrinkle her dress. In the end, she looked like one who was trying to hide an illness. Where there was a dark corner, she would linger. Whatever garden path was abandoned, she would tread.

It was into this melancholy that the Prince's man rode. The solemnity with which the Prince received him made the man nervous. He paced the room as his master settled himself in an armchair.

After several deep breaths, the Prince felt himself steeled to hear of his wife. "So, how was the Duke's journey?"

"I do no know my Prince."

"What do you mean? You're being coy."

The man started to bounce on the balls of his feet. "I stopped where you instructed me to. I waited in the woods and watched the road. The first night no one came."

"And the second?" the Prince asked, impatient for whatever blow waited for him. His stomach twisted around itself as his throat constricted.

"I saw a man, and I recognized his garments. It wasn't the Duke, but rather the Chevalier that I saw disappear into your garden, Prince. I recognized the cloak he wore."

The room was silent. The Prince thought he would retch the bread he had eaten onto the floor, and his bowels gave a threatening howl. Taking a few deep breaths, he calmed himself. "I beg your pardon?" Despite his efforts, his voice veered off into a high pitched squeak.

"I saw the Chevalier creep into your garden, two nights in a row. The first night he crept away before dawn, and seemed deep in thought. The second night he stayed for only a little while, and came away very distraught, carrying something."

"Did...did you see what it was?" the Prince asked.

"No."

The Prince unlocked a cabinet and fetched a bottle of strong liquor. Pouring two glasses, he gave one to his man and drank down the other. He sat, bottle in hand. Halfway through his second glass, he made the man repeat his story.

"When he left the first night, was he happy, displeased?"

"I don't know, I didn't see his face. If I had to say, he seemed pensive," the man mumbled.

The Prince noticed he had not touched his drink. Here he was, making his servant uncomfortable with his wild behavior. He sent him away with instructions to make excuses for the Prince's absence, a sudden illness. Unable to think, he crawled into bed with the bottle and wept until he finally fell asleep.