by Louise
by Louise
Ah, my lady, my lady...
You weep, and I would have it not so -- but I cannot change what is in my
heart and I would sooner be responsible for a brief instant of pain than for the
years of lies and deceit and betrayal that would lie ahead if I were to give in
to my midsummer madness and marry you.
I know this isn't what you want or had hoped to hear, Jocelyn.
But for the love I bear you, I cannot but speak the truth and set you
free to find someone who will love you in the way you deserve -- the way I can
not.
I see your tears, and hear your bewildered questions -- did I *ever* love
you? Did I *ever* care for you?
When I said I loved you, did I speak false or true?
Ah, Jocelyn; I spoke true when I said those words.
I meant them for as long as it took me to say them and beyond.
But at the back of my mind I think I've always known...if I am true to
*myself*.
I remember that night after the tournament at Rouen when we danced
together. Like the teasing
challenge of repeating the words he taught me to say to you felt good, so the
initial rush of excitement fired my blood and made me giddy. I was there, dancing with you -- and you are a graceful,
capable partner, Jocelyn. The
physical exuberance of the dance was a gift to me -- the sheer pleasure to be
found in putting Kate‘s lessons into practice and finding that youthful joy
and high spirits can lend grace to the poorest of dancers.
And yet, treading a measure with you wasn't truly the pleasure I thought
it would be. I should’ve felt as
though I had the very world at my feet...and I did not.
Because all I could think of was *him*.
I was there in all my glory after my success at the tournament.
I was there with you, my lady, the focus of every eye and basking in the
attention. I should have had
nothing more on my mind -- *needed* nothing more than my success, and your
beauty.
And all I could think of was the man who’d taught me what to say to
you, wishing he were there with me, watching me dance, wondering what dry,
waspish comment he might have to make about the way I move my body when I dance.
Knowing that he would tease me and look up at me with a child’s
innocence from beneath his eyelashes, nibbling at his lower lip as he gently
mocked me. For with me his barbs
are blunted, their tips sheathed as with coronals so that I am never wounded.
Yes, I thought of my dearest friends, who would be waiting for me on my
return to hear of how well the banquet had gone and if their tutelage had served
me well. But above all, one thing I
knew. *He’s waiting for me...*
When did I know that I wanted him? That
day at Rouen. When he told me what
to say to you at the tournament he had to repeat it several times before I could
take in what he’d said. At first
I believed he thought it was because I was tongue-tied by love and overcome with
the emotion of the occasion, but in truth it was not.
If I was tongue-tied -- if my emotions were in turmoil -- then it was
because of how it felt when he threw his arm across my shoulder and put his face
close to mine, whispering the words to seduce you into my ear.
Suddenly you were the furthest thing from my mind and the tournament
ground at Rouen spun to ashes as the warm musky scent of him and the tang of his
soft leather coat filled my nostrils; as his hair brushed my skin and his warm
breath against my cheek and ear made me shiver. As his nearness felt like an embrace and I wished he were
whispering those words of love to *me*... *Perhaps
angels have no names...only beautiful faces...*
Suddenly feeling that I wanted him to pull me closer, harder...to kiss
me, even if it were no more than a brief brush of his lips against my ear.
When he released me, ready to send me on my way, I stepped back and
half-stumbled, staring at him, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth agape, not wanting to be
abandoned, feeling bereft away from his embrace...
And he knew. God damn him,
but he knew. Those expressive blue
eyes told me that I could not keep -- could *never* keep -- secrets from him.
But he didn’t rush me. Oh
no, he didn’t rush me. Didn’t
push me faster than I felt ready to go. But
when I *was* ready...when I knew he loved me...
I knew for certain that he loved me on the last day of the tournament in
London. If his despairing response
to my question about running (*With all the pieces of my heart...*) hadn't been
clear enough, then his heart-broken speech to the crowd at the stocks was; I
heard the pain and tears in his voice and I knew.
And rejoiced in that knowledge.
It took me a while to realise that he desired me -- and yet it
shouldn’t have, given that slow, appraising look he gave me when we first met.
And I desire him.
I drown in the blue of his eyes and burn in the heat of his mouth.
I bask in the sun of his slow, seductive smile and melt in the glory of
his alluring, unhurried swagger, his eyes all irreverent promise and blatant
craving. He's no Adonis, no gilded
statue or painted plaster saint -- but when I lie in his arms and he wraps those
long limbs and his lanky body around me, I might just as well be in heaven,
surrounded as I am by hard, warm flesh and unconditional love.
And when he fucks me he mounts me like the great, golden cat he sometimes
seems to me to be, taking advantage of his greater height and the surprising
power of that rangy body as he bears down on me.
He sinks his teeth into the back of my neck, biting and nipping as he
presses my hands with his into whatever we’re kneeling on until my wrists ache
and my fingers go numb. The pain and discomfort of all these sensations mixed with
the exquisite pleasure of his long, thick cock thrusting into me without mercy
takes away every last shred of self-control and -- yes -- decency that my soul
possesses. I howl and writhe and
moan and shove back against him, all but baying at the moon as he takes me and I
beg him to fuck me harder...ah God...sweet Jesus...fuck me till it hurts...to
never ever stop...
And when he comes, his voice hoarse and indescribably erotic as he gasps
out my name, I know that I am his and his alone...heart, body, soul...just as he
is mine. That without him I am
nothing, would be nothing more than a humble thatcher’s son who found himself
ennobled. Wat, Roland, Kate,
you...I will love you all till the day I die and I know that you love me.
But none of you love me -- *can* love me -- the way *he* loves me; nor
can I love any of you, dear as life to me as you are, as I love my hare-brained
poet.
...And that’s why I know that beautiful as you are, Jocelyn, there is
nothing -- *nothing* -- that you can do...will ever be *able* to do...that can
even begin to compare with the pleasure my beautiful, madcap herald gives me.
And now I must go.
Because he's waiting for me, my lady Jocelyn.
Waiting for me in a warm bed of straw and furs, fearful that I might
choose you over him despite all my promises and protestations of love.
But his fears are groundless. I
could never leave him. Not now.
Not ever. Not for *you*.
Ah, no, dry your eyes, my love. You
will love again, and be happy, and I pray that one day, mayhap I will dance at
your wedding and rejoice with you. I will drink to the health of yourself and your husband, and
wish for you a long and happy and healthy life.
Oh, my lady; the day will come when you will look back and laugh and
wonder that you ever thought you were in love with a rough peasant masquerading
as a knight. And so weep no more,
my lady -- weep no more.
And I must leave you.
Because he is waiting for
me.
He is waiting...