Royal Sentence Ch 06 07

Dear Readers,

I apologize for this very long interruption. Life, work, and a very unexpected baby granddaughter with a fragile health tend to get in the way of my writing. Also, long chapters aren't something I'm used to write and I find them difficult to deliver.

Anyway, here is your fix of Sabine and Roland's story, mostly build up and insight into Roland's character.

All historical characters and events are true to History, and I kept the exact French names and titles as well as a few French words to add to the atmosphere (I have native French). I hope you'll enjoy it!

Please let me know your thoughts in your ratings and comments, feeling the love might motivate me to get the next chapter out faster ;).

And if you don't like it, feel free to voice it but please, pretty please, explain why, there is nothing more frustrating than negative comments limited to 'this is crap'.

I leave you to it. Thanks for reading!

***

Sabine lay on her side, exhausted. She had told the courtier everything she could, everything he would have needed to capture her friends, had his men departed a couple of hours ago. As it was they would arrive too late, and knowing it brought a little light into her otherwise gloomy situation.

Her captor had left a while ago to give his orders, and take his notes to whomever he reported to. Left unattended, the fire had gone down, and the residual chill permeating the walls had crept in, worsened by a draft that made short work of her thin blanket. It had been a harsh winter, and despite it being mid-May, the thick layers of stone had not yet warmed up. The combination of tiredness and immobility had Sabine shivering, preventing her from getting some much needed rest.

She curled tighter on herself, trying to preserve her body heat, and nearly jumped out of her skin when the door banged open.

She expected the courtier but it was just his page, carrying a loaded tray covered in white linen. His burden tilted dangerously as he kicked the heavy pane closed, but he somehow avoided the coming disaster and landed it on the desk in one piece.

He lifted the fabric, bowed to Sabine, and then pointed at the large bowl of soup, roast chicken, goat cheese, and loaf of bread. "Monsieur le Comte thought you might be hungry, Madame. He sends you this light collation. I can fetch you something else if it is not to your liking."

Sabine rubbed her eyes, wondering if she was dreaming. Why would the courtier care about her tastes? Prisoners weren't usually offered a choice of food, if fed at all. Was it his way to apologize? Whatever his motives, she had no reason to refuse. She had not eaten since the previous day, and her stomach, although well used to fasting, growled at the enticing smell.

She still took her time answering. Perhaps there was an opportunity there. The page was young, no older than fourteen, smaller than her and light framed. If she could convince him to free her, she might be able to overpower him.

Summoning her most innocent voice and charming smile, she cooed: "How very gallant of him! Thank you, this is perfect. Did you choose these yourself?"

The boy had been slicing the bread. He put down the knife, cheeks flushed from the compliment. "I did, Madame. I would have added fruits or jam, but I couldn't find any."

She nodded her understanding. "In this season and in a military camp, it would be nay short of an impossible feat to achieve. You've brought me a feast. Would you mind untying me so that I can sit at the table?" She paused, shivered ostensibly, and hugged herself, her eyes widening. "It would be so much more comfortable than this cold floor..."

The page tilted his head and frowned, vaguely offended. "I might be young, but I am not stupid," he grumbled, lowering the tray within her reach. "I have served Monsieur le Comte for a year now, and the first thing he taught me was not to take sweet talk at face value."

His lips stretched into a near perfect replica of his master's crooked grin. "I have seen many a haughty woman leave his chamber crestfallen and far more humble than she entered. Not that it applies to you, Madame," he quickly added, "you are much lovelier than them..." Reddening further, he turned around and poked the embers.

Sabine sighed and tore into the meat, pondering what the courtier might have done to these ladies. Could he have treated them as badly as her? The idea, albeit ludicrous, was vaguely comforting. If he did this to all women, could it just be the usual way of men? And if it was, perhaps he didn't mean to humiliate her?

She wiped her greasy fingers on the towel and stared at the bowl of soup. The tray was devoid of cutlery, not even a spoon. They really didn't trust her. She gave a forlorn glance at the knife, abandoned by the page on the desk, out of her reach. If only she could get out of this belt... But it wasn't meant to happen. Yet.

Disappointed and still hungry, Sabine raised the bowl to her lips and took a cautious sip. It was a thick mix of carrots and neeps and herbs, a simple yet savory recipe. Her movements were clumsy, the mere weight of the wooden recipient a strain on her tired limbs, and she struggled not to spill its contents. More of her strength had been drained than she was willing to admit; she was in no condition to fight or run when she could barely sit. There would be no escape until she had rested.

Leaning back, Sabine finished her meal. The page had restocked the chimney, and the combined warmth of the flames and food soon chased the chills away, driving her increasingly drowsy. She yawned in her sleeve and pushed the tray aside.

The boy sprang to her help, taking the leftovers to the desk and returning with a bowl of water, a cake of soap, and a fresh linen towel, to wash her greasy fingers.

"Thanks yooou..." Sabine yawned again, her eyelids drooping irresistibly. She slid down to her side, failing to notice the cushion being slipped under her head, or the blanket draped over her curled up body. She was already asleep.

The weather was atoned to his mood. Roland made the grim observation as he rode back from his visit to the King. Within five minutes of leaving the manor house where Louis had established residence, the sky started pissing on his head, a fitting end to a disastrous day. Well, maybe not all that terrible. The morning had been quite... interesting, he acknowledged with a smile. But the little minx had played him. She had spoken all right, when she deemed it safe, and as a result his men had returned from their mad dash to town empty handed. Not that it mattered; he would catch her friends anyway. But being the bearer of more good tidings might have dampened the King's anger.

Where had he gone wrong? Roland had presented the case to Louis, and waited patiently while the sovereign read through his notes. He had made sure to plead Sabine's case with enough detachment to lead them to believe he didn't care. And he really didn't. He just wished to do right by her, in the interest of justice. Nothing personal.

The King had nodded, listening carefully and asking a few questions, as he usually did. He paid great attention to details and weighed the pros and cons of every decision, a laudable trait in someone in power. Then he had pushed the papers aside, and from there, the dice had rolled downhill.

"You appear to recommend leniency, Monsieur le Comte, towards a woman with blood on her hands. The blood of MY tax collectors. How do you justify this?"

Roland straightened his shoulders under Louis' scrutiny. "Your Majesty is aware of her circumstances. God forbids anything of the kind might ever happen to Your Majesty's sisters, yet if it did, shouldn't we extend to them our compassion? These tax collectors were criminals, who were not worthy of their task. Having been robbed of the tax coffers the previous day, partly due to their own negligence, they took upon themselves to return to the farms and pressure the peasants into paying a second time. Those who couldn't were badly beaten, their wife or daughters raped. Mademoiselle de Brissard passed by a farm as they were assaulting a woman in view of her husband, who stood there, bloody and restrained by two guards. Sabine de Brissard knew this couple, they used to be her tenants. She defended them, killing both rapists and wounding one of the soldiers. The last one fled the scene, and later admitted their wrongdoings to me."

Louis frowned. "She was alone? How could one woman defeat four men? Could she be a witch?"

Roland shook his head, refraining to smile. "No, Sire. She shot the first and threw knives at the others. I've heard that she is quite proficient at both."

"I see. Women shouldn't be allowed near weapons. They are troublesome enough in their natural state."

Roland winced; this was an unfortunate reminder of the reason for their presence in this god-forsaken place. The dowager queen, still seething from her forceful removal from power by the son she had deemed a simpleton, had sunk her greedy claws into the town of Angoulème and started a civil war. She had since signed a truce and fled, but rebel troops still held the city and the King's army was there to see them gone. None of this would put the young sovereign in a forgiving mood.

The gentlemen present snorted their approval. Louis raised his hand and they fell silent. "Mademoiselle de Brissard took justice into her own hands, when she was herself a rebellious criminal. No matter how good the deed, it doesn't excuse her actions."

"If I may, Sire, had it been her father acting so, we would have praised him. He had rights of high and low justice in his lands, which his daughter had inherited prior to her misguided conduct. Your Majesty himself has been known to correct a miscarriage of justice when stumbling upon it..."

Louis rubbed the stubble on his chin, the instinctive gesture reminding his entourage of his age. His attempt at growing a fashionable goatee was yet to be successful. "I will take this into consideration and let you know my decision later today. As for now, there is another matter we need to discuss. I have heard complaints from some ladies in my court, regarding your behavior towards them. I wonder what you have to say about it?"

A few stifled laughs echoed his words. Roland's jaw clenched, as he wondered which of the gentlemen present had whispered the court's gossip into the ear of the prude teenager, and how much they had said.

His money was on Luynes, whose young and beautiful wife, Marie de Rohan, was notoriously unfaithful. Her birth rank was far higher than her husband's, to whom she would never have given the time of the day, had he not been the King's favorite, and her marriage arranged by Louis' will. She had tried her charms on Roland and did not appreciate being curtly turned down, as he wouldn't risk falling afoul of her husband. A useless precaution, as it transpired. She might have painted a black picture of him to Luynes, and the man's talents had more to do with his looks than his brain. The trouble was, whatever she had said might well have been the truth, as Roland recalled giving a lesson in humility to one of her friends. He had assumed the woman would be too mortified to tell anyone, but he could have been wrong.

The other contenders were Vitry and Bassompierre, although the former was too basking in self-glory to care, and the latter too busy trying to bury his reputation of debauchery since his not-so-secret wedding with his lady love, the Princess of Conti, to bring attention to another man's mischief. No, it had to be Luynes.

How much did Louis know? He was too innocent to have been given the crude details. Better play it safe. "I do not recall any untoward behavior, Sire. Would your Majesty care to enlighten me? I would gladly apologize to any lady I have unknowingly affronted in words or actions..."

The King's cheeks were suddenly aflame, and he turned to his favorite for support. Definitely Luynes, then.

The latter took over. "It has been reported, Monsieur le Comte, that you treated a few women of good rank and name in a debasing and sinful manner after seducing them. Do you deny it?"

Roland cocked an eyebrow. "I would have thought, Monsieur, that seducing women was sin enough in itself, and that those who succumb, especially married ones, do not deserve their good name, regardless of their birth. I, however, did not engage in such activity."

The newly made Duke furrowed his brows while pondering whether he should feel insulted. His instinct told him that there must be a pique in there somewhere, but what if there wasn't? He didn't want to make a fool of himself, again. In the end, he chose to aim his indignation at something else. "Are you calling me a liar? I am well informed; the person who reported this heard it from the very mouth of the injured party. If our King didn't forbid it, I would challenge you to a duel for your insolence!"

Always the diplomat, Bassompierre patted the shoulder of the ruffled minion. "Allons, allons, I'm sure Monsieur d'Ypagne meant nothing of the sort. Shouldn't we hear his version before jumping to conclusions?"

Grumbling, Luynes agreed. He was usually of the opinion of the last one to speak, having little more than hot air in his handsome head. "Well, Comte, we are waiting."

Smiling amicably, Roland obliged. "I told the truth, I do not pursue maidens, nor do I chase married women. However, men are often not hunter but prey when it comes to our highborn ladies, who tend to regard any resistance to their charms as a mortal affront. I am certain that you, Monsieur le Duc, of all the gentlemen in this room, have found yourself on the receiving end of these many a time."

Roland surveyed his audience, glad to notice a few smirks and some proud moustache stroking. Flattery was a flawless recipe at court. "I admit to succumbing to a few ladies, out of male weakness, and I confessed my sins to my parish priest afterwards. I already did penance for them..."

Luynes' face had reached such a deep shade of scarlet that Roland feared steam would soon burst out of his nose. "Did you fill the ears of this holy man with the tales of your debauchery? Did you give him a list of your deviant practices? What I heard of them was enough to give me nightmares, so what about your victim? That poor, innocent woman..."

Roland interrupted him. "Again, I hardly think a cheating wife qualifies as innocent, and while I do have some rather... strong tastes in bedding manners, rest assured that those who enter my bedchambers are fully aware of it, and free to leave should they dislike it. Whether they regret their choices afterwards is affair between them and their conscience, and I bear no guilt in it. If the lady you are defending is your wife's friend, she had no complaint until after our coupling, when I refused to see her again, which she didn't take kindly. I make a point of never drinking twice from the same well; erring once is a momentary lapse in judgement, repeating it shows an enduring lack of wits. As for my 'disgusting' practices, this lady's tale must have been swollen to match the size of her rancor. There is little truth to be found in an angry woman's mouth..."

Well, there had been things in her mouth all right. Hard things, creamy things. Her throat had milked him nicely while she heaved and coughed and drooled, his hands pressing her relentlessly forward until she couldn't breathe, her eyes wide and watery, tears digging messy lines in her thick make-up. How she had struggled to swallow his seed and thanked him for teaching her how to please a man. How she had begged him to take her in any way he liked, and how she had wished she didn't when he buried himself deep inside her plump bottom. How she had screeched like a witch in the pyre upon reaching her peak, forcing him to squash her face in the pillows to avoid attracting the guards. How she had dragged herself after him on her knees in a desperate plea for him to keep her, and how dejected she had been when he sternly refused, telling her he didn't care for harlots, and sending her back to her husband. And he meant every word of it.

At first, he had paid no mind to her and her pitiful attempts to catch his attention. The chit was too young for a potential quarry. His prey were the older ones, the high and mighty bitches who had once mocked and ridiculed a young country noble until she fell into a deep melancholy, until she died of sorrow, despite the love and support of her son and husband.

His mother.

Roland clenched his fists at the painful memory. As soon as he had been of age, he had sought to punish them, to make them feel the humiliation they had once inflicted on a sweet, defenseless girl. A famous Venetian courtesan, appointed by his father to initiate him to the pleasures of the flesh, had obligingly provided him with the weapons he needed to bring his plans to fruition. She had taught him females' most secret desires and how to fulfill them, how to seduce and entice and bend them to his will, although Roland drew a line at using force or causing bodily harm. No matter how strong his wish for vengeance, he would not sacrifice his honor or his soul.

So he had ignored the flirty young baroness, until he overheard her laughing while mimicking the limp of an elderly dowager, and later loudly criticizing the old-fashioned guise of an impoverished lady's dress, pushing the ashamed woman to flee to the gardens.

Her despicable attitude put her well on her way to joining the clique of bejeweled abusers, and Roland thought it better to cut it short. So he waited until the clueless airhead once more batted her eyelashes at him, the motion of her fan spelling wordless promises, and he sprung his trap. She had swallowed the bait greedily, eager to discover the bare bones of the sulfurous gossip surrounding the oh-so-handsome and notoriously hard to catch Comte d'Ypagne. Roland liked to think she had not been disappointed.

He held in a sneer and forced his mind out of his reverie. Bassompierre melodious bass was pleading his cause, arguing that virile bachelors couldn't be expected to live like monks amongst so many willing beauties, and that males had needs inherent to their nature, which they could neither ignore, nor satisfy themselves, without risk for their health or their eternal souls. He went on to demonstrate that Roland's approach to the issue was somehow moderate and sensible, as surely the weight of the sin was heavier on the person initiating it, especially if said person had sworn a vow of fidelity to another before God. Therefore, Roland, having made no such oath and being neither the prime perpetrator nor an unrepentant sinner, should not be blamed.

As usual with the charming and well-read Bassompierre, the logic was flawless and the delivery smooth as lovely Sabine's bottom. The King's entourage nodded enthusiastically, yet the King himself wasn't swayed. Though his father, King Henry, had seen the underneath of more skirts than anyone cared to count, the son was shy to the point of stammering upon uttering long sentences, and more chaste than any monk in the realm's many abbeys.

Roland was cringing inside; rather than helping, Bassompierre was antagonizing Louis. This Hell was indeed paved with good intentions.

"My dear Bassompierre, we have heard enough. I will ponder over all this and give my sentence this eve, when visiting the camp and our prisoner. Comte, you are free to leave."

Roland could do nothing but obey. Before departing from the manor, he had called for the steward of the house and bought a maid's garb. It would be better for both him and Sabine if she appeared as a feeble woman, rather than the warrior she was.

Perhaps seeing her there, helpless at his feet like a blonde angel would mellow Louis' mood. Which would be good for both of them.