Seeds of a Glowing Ember - 02
#3 of Seeds of a Glowing Ember
The grooming brush passed vigorously along the horse's flanks in a ritual Friar William had done so many times that his mind was seldom involved in the task. Everything in the stable was damp from the rain, and though he wished very much to find a bath and a bed, he felt unusually on edge, and was not certain he would sleep were he to find such a place.
It was not new for William to witness noble houses in decline. The suspicious lack of servants and rooms which appeared light on furniture had been a common sight among those who had made their fortunes in the support of the Templars. Many abandoned the old ways the moment the Pope disbanded them. Others held onto their beliefs, but as the wealth of their order was seized by greedy monarchs, the families which had supported them were falling into hard times. Of course this family had lost its men, and thus been doubly cursed.
These woes were not what was bothering William, though. Since he had been a page, he had always seen Father Harold with a calculating gaze and an easy smile. No matter the issue, no matter the day, the good priest always appeared to be in control of his world. Neither mystery nor tragedy dried up his bits of advice or the plain and simple answers which even common men could grasp. But since receiving the letter from Countess Cunningham, Father Harold had lost his color and quaked with uncertainty.
Though there should have been a servant boy to care for their horses, Friar William assumed the family could no longer afford one and completed his duties without complaint. The squall of the storm had lessened to a rolling mist and patches of stars now danced behind the black clouds. Knowing there would likely be a garden, he decided to walk around to it and engage in a few of his favorite pastimes. Darkness allowed him to pass by the ridged guards without questioning and the lack of servants allowed him privacy when he arrived.
The smell of fresh rain saturated the ground but he was forced to remain on the stones which carved their path through the rows of flowers and mud. When at last he reached the center, he closed his eyes and listened to the silence. The night creaked, croaked, and cried all around him, and a slight breeze raised goose bumps along his skin. Then, in the quiet, he heard something it ... a sound which, on rare nights, he was blessed to hear.
Sweet whimpering moans of breath huffed excitedly into the night. Like a tom on the prowl, he crept close to the open window, and he knelt to listen. Sweat soaked him as he glanced around to make certain he was not caught. The mind's eye wandered and he imagined the great beauty within. A lady of fine garments, being pleasured by her lover ... no ... not her lover ... there was no rhythmic pounding ... she was alone.
_The lady is pleasuring herself? _ The thought was layered in sinful scandal ... and though he knew he should leave the garden, the voice's majestic call drew him forward ... and he knew he had to see. Looking around the garden, he spotted several places he could perch from to peer into the room. The gardener's shed looked the easiest to climb, but it was also the farthest away. Two trees and a stack of crates were all tempting, but it was the statue of a soldier which caught his eye. Moving quietly, he hoisted himself up on to the dais, and stood at attention, back-to-back in the cumbersome silhouette.
There was a special type of irony which William enjoyed as he gazed through the window of the maiden and waited for his eyes to adjust to the interior candlelight. The statue faced away from the most approachable window, gaze to the horizon, searching for ruffians who might wish to invade the sacred garden. Now the superstition allowed this tom the perfect vantage in which to scout from, and it did not take long for him to receive his reward.
Through the window he could see the luxurious pale complexion of the writhing maiden's legs and the swelling of her bosom. Skilled hands played along ample flesh, drawing sounds which the Friar could not help but be captivated by. Like a beast to music, he was enraptured by the seductive tone of her voice.
With increased breath, he loosened his trousers and caressed the length of his passion. Holding as still as he could, his eyes briefly darted away from the window then refocused on the joyful sight. The maiden bucked herself in the rhythm of an invisible lover, diligent hands working moisture to the surface which glistened in the candlelight.
Sheet crawling whines rose then fell in gusts of enchanting calls. The maiden's lustful tone then climbed to a peak, and though she covered her mouth with a pillow, the voyeur could still hear the pitch of her scream. There was then a whimper from his own throat, as the chill of the night's air greeted his manhood. The call of the maiden drove forward his lust, and with a ravenous tremble, he reached the apex his own journey.
When the maiden's voice began to recover, so too the young prowler endured his trembling emissions and then tucked himself away. From his perch he swore he could smell her, and this added to the tingling sensation which accompanied the cooling of his blood. _What in the hell is wrong with me? _ Deep breaths worked hard to keep him upright, as he leaned back against the stone for support. Then, the maiden rose from her bed, put on her nightgown, and leaned out of her window.
The blissful euphoria was quickly struck aside by a horrid, sickening, rush which nearly made him cry out. She looked straight at the spot where he stood, and while half of him prayed she could not see him, the other half took in her features and the problems of the Cunningham House were suddenly clear.
The count's son had been knighted by the Templar and, unfortunately, had been captured by King Philip's men. Now he was an ashen corps, burned at the stake with the other Templars in France, and upon hearing the news, his father had died of a broken heart. Now all that was left was the countess and her daughter ... the latter being of the unfortunate sort.
Good food had added a girth to her body, which had been pleasing when she lay upon her bed, lit only by the flicker of a dancing flame. When she came into the light, though, it was obvious that she ate too much and moved too little. Dark brown locks burst free in an unsightly manner. The eyes were calf-brained but the rest of her face was too broad, with a second chin that wobbled when she moved about.
Worst of all, her jaw made her look mannish, and he began to wonder if the girl had somehow been cursed. Perhaps the health of the order was directly linked to her own ... or her mother's foul dealings had done this. Rumors had spoken of her dangerously unnatural ways, and now the sinful nature of the countess had warped the face and body of her daughter, who inherited not one ounce of her mother's allure or charm. Then the friar realized that he had just pleasured himself to her, and he felt the need to bathe with gravel.
A noise caused the unfortunate maiden, who turned, and the ruffled tom took the opportunity to jump down from his hiding place. As he circled round to the back of the manor, Friar William was amused that The Lord's justice had just slapped him for his mischief. A mental note was made to behave for the rest of his stay at this manor, for obviously he was watching.