A
tale very loosely based on the activities of mercenary bands who ravaged France
during the Hundred Years' War. Rape, pillage and mass murder were a way of
life, the norm and not the exception.
Routiers
A tale by Ivor Sukwell
"Not
that one!" James Acre shouted to the burly German pikeman who was about to slit
a squirming peasant boy's throat, "Can't you see how old he is? He goes in the
cart."
"Mein
Gott!" the pikeman hissed, holding the struggling boy at arm's length by a
handful of what might have been his shirt before the German grabbed it, "He
tries to kill me with an axe and I must ask his age?"
"Take
more than a boy with an axe he's not big enough to more than lift to kill you,
you hairy arsed German butcher," Acre grinned, "But I warrant Sir Robert will
have your balls off if you don't put him gently in the cart. You know his
orders and you know how he deals with those who disobey."
Gotfreid,
the burly German pikeman did, and he still had a use for his balls, so he slung
the kicking boy over his shoulder and trudged off to the cart that already held
some dozen others, boys and girls of the age Sir Robert required.
Sir
Robert Mountjoy, once a respected knight, though a penniless one, was no longer
penniless, and respected now for his ruthlessness rather than for any knightly,
chivalric reason, led a band of more than five hundred routiers, mercenaries
left over from the war that ravaged France, not needed by either the King of
France or the King of England, during a time of temporary peace.
Not
needed for an official war, these routiers conducted a relentless unofficial
one, raping, burning and killing their way through France, down into Italy and
back up to France again, looting churches and destroying villages as a way of
life.
They
were men born to kill and they killed for pleasure and they were very, very
good at killing.
When
Edward of England and Jean le Bon of France decided on a temporary halt to the
endless wars that had raged on and off about whose head the Crown of France
should rest on, men such as Sir Robert Mountjoy, his archer James Acre and the
German pikeman, Gotfreid, and thousands more the same, had no-one to pay them
for killing, so they took, like ducks to water, to murder, rape and pillage,
keeping their hands in until war came again.
Sir
Robert's band of killers was more disciplined than most such bands, kept as
content as such men could be by Sir Robert's careful leadership. If called upon
to fight a battle, as even now they sometimes were, perhaps against the French
or, more likely, another routier band who had foolishly strayed into lands Sir
Robert regarded as his, no lives were thrown needlessly away; Sir Robert's
choice of battlefield and his deployment of his two hundred longbowmen ensuring
victory before the first arrow took flight.
That
alone would not have ensured the loyalty of his mercenary killers; such men
needed food and plunder, so Sir Robert led them to unprotected villages where
they could raid churches for gold and silver, rape and burn and leave nothing
living behind them.
Such
was good enough for the killing season of summer, but men needed to be fed and
satisfied in winter as well, and that was why he had issued his order, and why
a peasant village boy did not have his throat cut by a German butcher.
"Boys
old enough for a priest or monk to fuck, but with balls not yet dropped and no
hair upon them, and girls not yet of an age to bleed, will be taken and not
slain," he had ordered, "Nor will they be raped, but taken to Chateau Rouliers
to serve us in the winter."
His
men would mount any female they could find, but the tight cunnys of young girls
and the tighter arses of young boys, Sir Robert knew, would keep them content
when the snows came.
Chateau
Rouliers became Sir Robert's home when he took it from its previous owners, a
routier band who had foolishly thought that his wolf pack was small enough to
overcome with ease, slow moving as they were, encumbered by their wagon train
of plunder looted from the churches and monasteries of northern Italy, but Sir
Robert had two hundred English archers and those men could put two thousand
cloth yard shafts in the air in a single minute and a war bow can send those
deadly shafts to kill at four hundred paces.
A
war bow is a fearsome weapon; two cloth yards of yew, it needs a man of
strength and skill to wield it, the stave as thick as a young boy's forearm
needs muscle in shoulders, arms and thighs to manage the two hundred pound draw
weight and a man must learn to use such a bow when he is a boy or never will he
master the art of it.
The
page who sat horsed beside Sir Richard would never draw a bow. Though he was
fourteen now he was as slight and slender as a boy of no more than twelve, as
delicate of feature as he was of form, and with the long, golden hair that
flowed to below his slight shoulders, had he been clothed as such, none would
have thought he was other than a girl.
Once
he had been page to a minor nobleman of France, but Sir Robert had won him in a
wager, a friendly combat with that French nobleman, five hundred gold marks
placed against the boy and the Frenchman yielded before he was battered beyond
repair.
The
boy had been ten then, seeming more angel than boy, but looks can be deceptive,
and even at that tender age the boy had a skill with a slender Toledo blade
that any Italian assassin would have envied.
He
had not used that skill on Sir Robert, but shown other skills in plenty that
pleased Sir Robert much, performing his page boy duties with evident enjoyment
and great enthusiasm.
The
boy, whose name was Raoul, showed neither resentment nor concern that he had
been lost and won in a bet, and opened his mouth and legs for his new lord as
willingly as he had done for the lord who lost him.
Sir
Robert, no less nor more than any other man of his time, knew the uses a page
boy could be put to when there was no cunny to be had, soon lost all interest
in cunny, for there was no maid or whore in the world who could take cock as
well as Raoul, nor show such delight in giving service to his lord.
"You
need never fear a murderer come in secret in the night," the boy had said,
placing his Toledo blade beside his pillow before he removed his clothing, "Any
such will think me but a sleeping boy you have fucked, and never will he think
again."
"And
will you be a boy who I have fucked?" Sir Robert asked as the boy revealed his
nakedness.
"Lord,
you wagered five hundred gold marks for me, and I do not think that was so I
may clean your mail, but more that I may polish your sword and be a sheath for
it."
"And
your dagger? Is that also to be sheathed in me?"
"The
one of steel is for your enemies alone, the one of flesh is yours to use as you
wish."
The
Black Friars would doubtless say that Sir Robert had been bewitched by the boy;
that the boy was no boy but a devil in boy's disguise, and perhaps he was, for
he neither spoke nor behaved as a boy of ten would be expected to speak and
behave.
He
did not reveal his nakedness with shyness nor with reluctance as a pageboy
would normally do, obliged by his service to give his arse to his lord but
wishing it were not so; Raoul presented his flesh to Sir Robert in the certain
knowledge that the mere sight of his boy's slender nakedness would rouse desire
greater than the knight had ever known before, and in giving satisfaction to
that desire he would light a flame that would burn still in the morning, and
for many mornings more to come.
And
so it was, and Raoul more mistress now than page, though Sir Robert also played
the part of mistress, for the tiny dagger Raoul had at ten had grown to a
stiletto that was sometimes sheathed in Sir Robert in the secret dark of the
bedchamber.
That
there is more pleasure to be had from a boy than that afforded by his arse was
a creed Sir Robert had learned well from Raoul, and never since he had won the
boy in a wager had Sir Robert felt desire for cunny more.
"There
is space in the wagon yet," Raoul remarked as the captive boys and girls were
loaded, "Perhaps another village before we turn for home?"
"One
with a monastery," Sir Robert said, "Monasteries harbour more gold and silver
than village churches, and greater stores of victuals also, and winter will
soon be upon us."
"And
where there are monks there are nuns," Raoul grinned, "Our men may turn for
home with full bellies and empty balls."
"Slaughter
the cattle and pigs," Sir Robert ordered," And get them roasting. Throw the
dead in the church, we'll give them a sacred burning in the morning. Tonight we
will feast here and rest, and tomorrow another village before we turn for
home."
Sir
Robert's band of murderous routiers were not the only men in arms in that part
of war ravaged France. Barons and Counts raised private armies and sought to
bring an end to the destruction the routiers caused. Such Counts and Barons
cared little for the slaughter of peasants but they cared much for the loss of
rents and provisions from the villages that were burnt and the fields that were
destroyed.
One
such small army had followed the path of devastation left by Sir Robert, and
camped now in the forest, half a mile to the north of where Sir Robert's men
feasted.
Routiers
in the field take little care of such matters as sentries and scouts when they
feast and camp, but Sir Robert's band were no ordinary routiers and took as
much care with their night time defence as any Roman troop would have done,
save that they did not build a fort to hide behind, but selected ground where
should a battle come, they had a killing field before them.
"Armoured
men in the forest," Will Thurgood reported to Sir Robert, who, with Raoul
beside him, was tearing freshly roasted meat from bone with his teeth. The boy
was more delicate, slicing slivers of roasted beef with his Toledo knife and
eating as though he were a genteel maid.
"Attracted
by our cooking, no doubt," Sir Robert tore himself another mouthful, "Did Will
Fletcher send word how many?"
"Some
three hundred men at arms or knights and a few hundred more on foot. Crossbows
in plenty, but no sign of a proper bow."
"French,
then," Sir Robert decided, "We'll kill them in the morning. Have the men take
their positions now as quietly as they can. They may take their feast with
them. French will not attack till dawn."
"They
may be hungry, and have some wish for early breakfast," Will Thurgood grinned
in the darkness.
"Cloth
yard arrows is all they'll get," Sir Robert shrugged and waited till Will
Thurgood had departed before speaking more.
"Your
Chevalier Henri had lands in these parts I recall," he said to Raoul, "It may
be that he rides with those in the forest. If he does, he dies on the morrow.
If you have no wish to see him slain, keep yourself with the wagons and
horses."
"He
wagered me for five hundred marks," Raoul sliced another sliver of beef, "Would
you set so little value on me?"
"Perhaps
ten more," Sir Robert grinned.
"Then
I belong to the highest bidder," Raoul held the sliver of meat between his
teeth before taking it in his mouth, "I will not wait with the wagons and the
horses."
Raoul
was not made for war, his slender, delicate frame no more suited to wielding
the heavy, bludgeoning weapons used by men than is a girl's, and though perhaps
he could have added strength and muscle some, to do so would have denied his
true purpose. Raoul was meant for the bed, not for the field.
Yet
he could kill, his slender Toledo blade could take a life as easily as a sword
or mace; Raoul was beautiful and he was deadly.
The
French came with the sun their battle plan as predictable as the rising of the
sun they waited for.
They
came from the forest they believed had concealed them and formed their line of
battle, the mounted knights and men at arms in full plate armour and splendid
in their colours of war. Their code of honour demanded that the enemy they
faced must know who they were and so they flew their banners and pennants, wore
their devices on their surcoats, and believed their splendour would strike fear
into the hearts of those they came to kill.
They
waited, as Sir Robert knew they would wait, till the sun rose fully and their
glory glittered in the morning light.
Behind
them the ranks of foot, armed with pikes and on their flanks the crossbows,
deadly weapons, but useless at any range.
They
expected to find a disorganised band before them, men slow to wake from a night
of feasting and debauchery, but they found instead, two hundred men with
warbows with arrows ready, stuck in the earth before them, and a treble line of
pikes behind.
Though
all Sir Robert's men had mounts, all but fifty fought on foot, and those who
were horsed would not join the battle till it became a rout.
Above
them flew but a single banner, black and with the depiction of a hanging
skeleton, the motto, `Death Awaits You', too distant for the French to read.
Had
they been close enough, that banner would have meant little or nothing to the
French, though in Italy it was well known. Sir Robert and his force had spent
three years serving the city state of Florence as mercenaries, and there Sir Robert
had made his reputation and his fortune, and learned also the true wonders of a
boy's body.
"Let
the horse come to the four hundred mark and then start killing those behind,"
Sir Richard said to Henry Fletcher, the thick set man who commanded his force
of archers.
Fletcher
no more than grunted in reply; he'd been killing men with his warbow since he
was little older than the slender, delicate Raoul, though Fletcher had never
been slender or delicate. He knew with absolute certainty the range at which
his bow could send a killing arrow into an unarmoured man and the distance at
which a steel bodkin point could drive through mail.
"Yon's
some fancy French lord's private army. Foot'll have mail or boiled leather,"
Fletcher gave his opinion.
"Not
on their faces," Sir Robert said, staring at the still distant host, "And men
look upwards when they hear the flight of arrows."
That
was a fact; a thousand goose flights in the air makes a sibilant whisper, like
a summer breeze ruffling leaves on trees, and men always searched the sky when
they heard it, though doing so could mean their deaths.
"Upset
them, Henry, make the bastards charge too soon."
Fletcher
grinned, a fox about to take a rabbit. Four hundred paces was too distant for
heavily armoured men to charge with any effect, their horses would tire, the
impact of a charge be lost and the archers could hold their ground for longer,
send more killing shafts into the air, before they retired behind the pikes.
The
French began their canter forwards, foot running behind them, clumsy, as
running with a pike is no simple matter. They should have advanced at a steady
walk, but, as always, the French nobility were over-eager to ride into the dirt
any who stood against them.
"Nock,
draw, loose," Fletcher called as mounted men reached the four hundred yard
marker, carefully laid down in the night by Fletcher himself, and the third
flight of two hundred shafts was in the air before the first fell on skyward
looking men.
Some
died, some were wounded, but their cries of shock and pain were too much for
the mounted knights and men at arms and they charged far too soon.
At
three hundred yards a bodkin tipped shaft would drive clean through mail, and
though it will not likely pierce plate at such a distance, it can strike with
force enough to knock a man from his horse or kill the horse he rides.
At
a hundred and fifty yards only the finest Milanese plate can deflect an arrow
sent from an English warbow with its two hundred pound draw weight, and fewer
than half of the three hundred who had charged were still horsed, with the
bowmen who killed them still a hundred paces distant.
"Half
and half," Fletcher called at that range, and one hundred of his archers loosed
shafts at horse and knight, the other hundred sending goose flighted arrows
above them to fall amongst the staggering pikemen behind.
"Crossbows,"
Fletcher called next, and those unfortunate enough to be armed with such clumsy
weapons were scythed down before they were close enough to loose a bolt.
It
was a massacre and not a battle, Sir Robert's pike and horse playing no part
except to finish off the few men at arms who reached them and chasing down the
remaining foot who fled, leaving their unwieldy pikes behind them.
Raoul's
slender form flitted amongst the fallen, his Toledo blade seeking out gaps in
the armour of those still living, for though he was not made for battle, he had
the same lust for blood as any man who was.
"The
Chevalier was not amongst them," Raoul remarked as Sir Robert's routiers
plundered the dead, "I am glad of that."
"I
also," Sir Robert said, "He was a fool to wager you, but by doing so he gave
you to me, and for that I wish him no ill will."
It was not a village with a monastery that Sir Robert's routiers raided next;
rather it was a large and wealthy religious foundation, both monastery and
convent, with a small village of peasants attached, peasants who could work the
fields and provide the holy monks and nuns with the luxury they so richly
deserved, for they were monks and nuns who devoted their lives to caring for
the unwanted bastard sons and daughters of the wealthy and noble.
Sir
Robert could not have wished for more; the peasants were few in number and
being under the protection of Holy Church, did not so much as raise a pitchfork
in protest when sons and daughters of the proper age were taken from them, as
such must be the Will of God and punishment for whatever sins they may have
managed to commit.
Husbands
and grown unmarried youths stood silently and sullenly by while wives and older
daughters and sons young enough to rape but too old for the wagon, were raped,
the daughters more so than their brothers and mothers.
The
Brothers and Sisters of the religious house protested only with prayer, and the
nuns parted their legs with as much devotion as they showed when they recited
their Holy Offices. The younger novice monks bent over with a will and a
prayer, and when all was done not a virgin remained amongst them, though it was
doubtful if there had been any so before.
Five
hundred men, fresh from killing, have five hundred hungry cocks, and many,
religious and peasant, were martyred several times before all were done, but
none were slain and no peasant huts or church burnt.
"More
a holiday than a raid," James Acre commented as he fastened his breeches for
the third time, two nuns sandwiched between a young novice monk being his
tally.
The
religious foundation was, of course, stripped of its wealth along with the
unwanted bastard sons and daughters it had given protection to, who, regardless
of their noble origins, joined peasant boys and girls in the now full wagon.
Though
the order to take and not kill boys and girls was given by Sir Robert, the idea
had come from Raoul.
"Men
need to fuck as much in the winter as in the summer," he had observed as his
nakedness was explored by Sir Robert, as it was every night there was a bed to
explore him in, "Perhaps more so, as there is no killing to be done in winter."
That
was a truth Sir Robert could not deny, though the urgency of that need did not
concern him, he having Raoul to fuck whenever he pleased.
"Men
will serve you better if they can use their cocks," Raoul spoke as one may not
imagine a boy of his years would speak.
"There
are whores," Sir Robert said, stroking the smooth flanks of his page.
"And
would you be content with a fat and well-used whore in your bed instead of a
boy as young and smooth as me?"
It
was not a question requiring an answer, and Sir Robert did not give one, but
continued instead to stroke smooth skin in places that skin would not be
expected to be smooth on a boy of near fourteen.
"You
won me in a wager, did you not, because you lusted for me," the pride that
Raoul felt that men should lust for him when he was but ten evident in his
voice, "You lusted for me because I was young and my arse would be tight around
your cock. You lusted then as you lust now for the smoothness of my flesh,
flesh I take pains to keep smooth for you."
Sir
Robert had discovered the true wonders of a boy's body whilst in Florence and
in that same city Raoul had learned some mysteries of the East, of the Moors
who had great affection for boys and knew of creams and lotions that would keep
a boy smooth and young for longer than nature intended.
Sir
Robert had no care that Raoul spoke as he did, spoke as no page boy should
speak to his lord and master, for Raoul was page, mistress and lover all in
one, and boy and man were content that this was so.
"Men
like the flesh they bed to be smooth and young, do they not?" Raoul queried,
"Boys with tight arses yet not old enough for seed to flow and hair to grow,
and girls with cunnys not yet come to monthly bleeding."
"Of
course they do," Sir Robert grunted, "It is a fact of life. Though," he added,
reaching for Raoul's ever available stiletto of flesh, "I confess myself
satisfied with a boy who can now seed."
"Who
keeps himself smooth for your pleasure," Raoul smiled, content that his
hairless young organ was fondled with affection. "But, Sir, how would it be if,
when we raid in the coming summer, we take hairless boys and girls not yet
bleeding, and bring them here that they may do service as stable and kitchen
boys and maids to wash and clean, and serve also the needy cocks of your men?
Would they not like that more than fat whores?"
That
they would was beyond question and so the order was given, and with the two
wagons that now slowly trundled back to Chateau Rouliers, Sir Robert now had
some hundred such to keep his men content in the coming winter.
The
new stable boys and cleaning maids now housed at Chateau Rouliers had need to
be made aware of their status and purpose, and this had been done, at Raoul's
suggestion, by housing them in a barn large enough to accommodate them all,
boys and girls together. They had fresh straw to sleep on, plentiful food
provided, and, it being summer, they were kept all naked.
"No
doubt there will be some games played," Raoul commented, "But the boys cannot
seed and the girls cannot breed, so it will prepare them some for what is to
come."
That
games were played seemed evident to Sir Robert on his return from the summer's
raiding. His stock of boys and girls had grown accustomed to their always
nudity and raised ribald laughter at the latest addition to their numbers, who
seemed most reluctant to shed their coverings, especially so the bastards taken
from convent and monastery, for once naked, how may a byblow of a Duke be told
from a common peasant?
Men
had grumbled much about the order that had brought these young captives to
Chateau Rouliers, boys and girls who should, by rights, have been raped and
left in the burned villages they were taken from, but when Sir Robert revealed
that they would work in stables and kitchens, wash, scrub and clean, but their
main purpose was as young flesh to fuck, those grumbles turned to words of approval.
Mat
Longstaff, an archer who was little more than a boy himself and still
beardless, called that nakedness became them and they should be kept ever thus,
even when the snows came, as there were men enough to keep them warm.
"There
do not be enough for each man to have one every night," another archer shouted
amidst ribald guffaws, "So don't you be thinking your arse be safe now, young
Mat," and, indeed, Mat Longstaff, being not yet seventeen, had an arse that had
seen much cock.
"They
have holes and cunnys more suited to a cock like yours than is mine," young Mat
called back, "Did I not have need to ask if you had it in, for I could feel
nothing?"
Such
exchanges of insult were done with great good humour and no malice intended nor
perceived, for such is the nature of men who kill and burn for a living.
"All
may use one when they are free from duty or from training," Sir Robert
announced, "But for the nights there are too few for each man. Jack Acre will
divide all into companies of a hundred, and each company will be made of men
you stand beside in battle. I will have no dispute on this, and every man
amongst you will have young arse or cunny for his cock two nights in six."
Other
bands of murderous men may well have come to blows and killing, but Sir Robert's
routiers had discipline and saw the sense of his dictate, and indeed much sense
there was in it, for men who fight together and fuck together develop a sense
of common purpose and bond that holds them close when battle comes.
Mercenary
men have more to do in the winter than just fuck and wait for warmer, killing,
weather to arrive again. Killing is a trade that must be worked at; at other
trades a man may lose custom if he grows lazy and careless, but if killing is
his trade and he is not a master of it, then he gets slain instead of slaying.
For
many, war is more strength than cunning, cunning is for commanders not for men
in the line of battle. It takes strength to smash a man to death with mace, axe
or sword, it takes strength to handle a nine foot pike, it takes strength to
pull a warbow, and so Sir Robert's men spent many winter hours working on
muscle and sinew, and after such work, they fucked.
That
they could fuck and had young flesh to fuck kept them content, for what better
place is there for a man to sink his cock in than the arse of a hairless boy or
the cunny of a girl not old enough to bleed?
That
the owners of those arses and cunnys suffered some may not be doubted, but
arses and cunnys stretch with use, and throats learn how to open and swallow
cock as easily as they swallow food, and though they were put to much use, all
always had food to swallow, which in their peasant villages was not always so
in winter.
More
use was found for them also, for their small hands and nimble fingers were good
for the careful smoothing of ash shafts, the plucking and trimming of white
goose feathers, the fletching of those feathers to smooth ash shafts and the
spinning of the hempen cords that would send those shafts on their deadly
flights.
The
English warbow was the most deadly weapon of its age, but a warbow is of no use
if it does not have arrows to loose and arrows are needed by the thousand.
Chateau
Rouliers became a place where arrows were made by their thousands.
What to do when killing summer came again concerned Sir Robert more than some
little. The villages for many miles around had been burned to the ground, the
peasants slain and the children taken for fucking. Churches had been looted of
their gold and silver, and what was needed was a war, but Edward and Jean
maintained their uneasy peace while both sought ways to raise the money they
needed to go to war again.
"Thank
God you remain so young and smooth," Sir Robert muttered aloud his thought as
he caressed Raoul's delightful, slender form.
He
had not intended to speak his thought so it should be heard, but heard it was
by Raoul, who smiled at the pleasure of hearing it.
"No
thanks to God," the smooth boy licked his rosy lips, "But thanks instead to a
wise Moor of Florence who has the secret of how to hold nature at bay for a
year or two."
"It
was in Florence that I won you," Sir Robert recalled, "Have you never had
regret that I did so? That I took you from your Chevalier?"
Sir
Robert had never made enquiry of Raoul of his past; the past is past and only
the present and the future matter.
"Why
should I so?" the boy asked in his turn, "It was my destiny to be lost and won.
Why should I not embrace it?"
"Your
destiny?" Sir Robert repeated, "Now you may so think, but then? Did you not
have hopes that your Chevalier would win the wager? You were but ten, could
have no knowing of destiny." Sir Robert said that more to convince himself than
as a thing of certainty, for he could not but recall the willingness with which
the boy he had won had come to his bed, made offer of his body.
"The
Chevalier took me as his page when I was seven," Raoul recounted his history,
"My father slain by the English in battle and I for a monastery had he not
taken me. He took me from his kindness, but also from his desire, though he
ever fucked me with gentleness and care. I have some affection for him for
that, and glad I am that he did not ride with the French that day in the autumn
and we be obliged to slay him."
"And
I," Sir Robert agreed with some feeling, "If only for that he taught you how to
fuck."
"Lo,
Sir," Raoul grinned and pushed his hard slenderness against Sir Robert's thigh,
"I think he had but little to teach me. Fucking is in my nature. Even from the
first I took much pleasure in the Chevalier's cock, and I but seven then. But
to my story, Sir, for in truth, I did not come to you by chance. When first I
set eyes on you I knew of your desire for me, even at that first sight of me
your eyes burned with lust, and what boy of ten is there who does not have
liking to be so desired, and have a man of such a reputation as yours to lust
for him? What, I wondered much, would it be to be fucked by one such as you, a
man, ruthless in battle with many dead by his sword?
It was in such contemplation, seated by a fountain, my brow furrowed in
thought, that a kindly Moor made approach to me. He questioned not the furrows
in my brow, but took my hand and gazed upon it, and said that soon my question
would be answered, for within a week would I be lost and won. This, Sir, before
you made your wager with the Chevalier, and when I enquired his meaning, he
said only that I must follow my destiny and be true to the boy I was. Thus,
when I learned of the wager made, I knew I would be lost to the Chevalier and
won by you, and I would find what it is to be fucked by a man like you."
"I
should make thanks to this Moor of yours," Sir Robert smiled, pulling close the
smooth, slender boy, "For though he be nothing more than a wandering teller of
fortunes, his words brought you willing to my bed."
"More
than a teller of fortunes," Raoul continued, "He told me also what I must do to
please you."
"Not,
I think a thing of any mystery. Who is there that does not know how a boy may
please a man?"
"And
how should a boy of ten, though he have some great liking to be fucked, know
how he may please a man who has little knowledge of boys? Save that, as a page
himself, he was fucked from time to time, and as a man, uses boys only when no
cunny is there to be found? You lusted for me because I was young and smooth
and slender and more than common pretty. I made present of my body to you and
you fucked me, and then you slept."
The
boy's words were true, and Sir Robert felt the shame of them. He had lusted for
the beautiful boy, though he had never felt lust for a boy before. He had
lusted for the small, slender delicacy of the boy's form, lusted for the
tightness of his young arse, and lusted much because, by the boy's age, he
would be smooth and hairless.
It
was lust for the boy's slender hairless body, though he had seen it only
clothed, lust for the clenching tightness of his young arse, though as a page,
that arse would know already of cock, lust to cover the boy's small and slender
frame with his own, scarred by battle full grown man's body, lust to mount him
and spend seed in him. Sir Robert would have killed for that lust, yet when the
boy, without shame, revealed his glorious nakedness and made present of it to
him, Sir Robert had fucked him once and slept.
"I
feel still the shame of it," Sir Robert confessed to the naked boy he held
close, "I knew nothing of the wonder of a boy, knew only that they had arses
that may be used when no cunny could be had."
"Yet
still you wagered gold in hope to win me," Raoul whispered softly, "Why should
you do that? Why risk such as sum as you did to win my arse when you had no
great liking for boys? Was that not destiny?"
"I
like not this talk of destiny," Sir Robert grunted, "True I felt great lust for
you, and true also that I intended to have you. Had your Chevalier not yielded
I would have battered him to death for your arse and had no care of it that I
did so. No destiny but lust alone brought you to my bed."
"That
lust is your destiny as it is mine," Raoul said, "And it burns as fierce now as
it did when I was ten. Does that not seem strange to you? That you should lust
for a boy who is fourteen now and not ten?"
"Fourteen
he may be," Sir Robert smiled, "But only one thing is there about him that
shows he is that age." Sir Robert reached for and took into his hand the
stiletto slenderness of Raoul's cock, the hot, throbbing hardness of it raising
desire in him as it always did.
"And
does that not bring some wonder to your mind?" Raoul whispered, though his
voice was one of matters more than desire alone, "That all of me, save that
part you hold now in your hand, is of a boy who is not fourteen?"
"It
is some wonder," Sir Robert agreed, feeling some need to caress the smooth body
of the boy who was his page, his mistress and his lover, "But it is a wonder I
do not question but give thanks for."
"It
is no wonder, Sir," the boy confessed, "But the art of a Moor of Florence."
"How
so?" Sir Robert started, though he held still the slender hard cock of the boy,
"A Moor of Florence? And his art? Do you speak of sorcery?"
"The
black Hounds of God would call it such," Raoul confirmed, "But the magic is one
of physic and no forbidden art, save by the Church."
Sir
Robert had a fear of witchcraft as great as any man and a fear also of what the
Hounds of God did to those suspected of it.
"If
sorcery then never must it be spoken of," he hissed, "I would not have you cast
into the flames. Not so, even if you be a devil in disguise of a boy and have
bewitched me these four years."
"Have
no fears of that, my lord," Raoul spoke softly, "If I do be a devil I have no
knowledge of it, and if you are bewitched, it is by my boy's beauty alone that
it is so. Though, Sir, I must confess that it is by the art of the Moor of
Florence, that I have that beauty still."
Then
Raoul made confession of all that had been and Sir Robert ignorant of, how he
had seen the Moor again after his first fucking by Sir Robert and wept that it
had been as though his new master had but fucked a casual peasant boy, and wept
for his distress that lust now gone, he would be cast aside.
The
Moor had comforted him read his hand and made a chart of his stars, and bid him
bring a lock of his master's hair that the Moor may read his stars also. This
Raoul had contrived to do, hiding a trimming of Sir Robert's beard until he
could take it to the Moor, who asked if Sir Robert fucked him still, and the
manner of the way he fucked him.
Then
he had made a divination of Sir Robert's humours and said that Sir Robert knew
nothing of the wonders of boys, but that he could be brought to learn them.
Raoul,
he said, must learn to use his hands and mouth and also the power hidden inside
his arse to give his master pleasure, and doing this was common knowledge
amongst the boys of his country of Al Andalus where boys were held in greater
esteem by far than were girls.
The
Chevalier had never requested that his cock should be nursed and nourished as
the Moor instructed Raoul should do now with Sir Robert's cock, and the message
was strange to him, but if it was his destiny to be Sir Robert's page, then it
must be also his destiny to give pleasure as much as he could to Sir Robert's
cock.
"The
more pleasure a man finds in a boy," the Moor had told him, "The more he will
learn that his pleasure is greater if he pleasures also the boy."
Raoul
must, the Moor had told him, find ways to give cause to Sir Robert to beat him,
for second only to the pleasure of fucking a boy is the pleasure of beating
him, and always, when beaten or fucked, Raoul must contrive for his own little
cock to harden so it was plain how much he found enjoyment in what was done to
him.
Raoul
had then found a way to discover the date of Sir Robert's birth, and from that
the Moor had cast a chart of the knight's stars, and made comparison of the
chart with that of Raoul.
"He
desires you for you are young, slender and hairless," the Moor declared, "And
for as long as you are so will he desire you still. This is no secret it needs
the stars to make discovery of, for you are young and pretty, and many men
would have desire to fuck you for that alone, but there is a secret here in his
chart that Sir Robert has no knowing of, and one in yours that you have some
slender understanding of, and the two must come together."
That
secret, the Moor told Raoul, was his cock. Raoul knew, said the Moor, by
instinct that his cock was as important as his arse, though at ten, he had no
cock to speak of. Sir Robert, he said, would wish for Raoul to stay young,
slender and hairless, though he would come to wish for Raoul's cock to grow so
he may find pleasure and delight in that as much and more as he found in
Raoul's arse.
Raoul
knew then that the words the Moor spoke were true; had Raoul not said, though
he knew not why he said it, when first he revealed his nakedness to Sir Robert,
that his tiny cock was Sir Robert's to do with as he wished?
The
Moor then sucked in his breath, as traders do when asked to name a price, for
more had he discovered in Sir Robert's chart.
"Sir
Robert," he'd said, "Will want your cock to grow, but he will not desire it to
grow as the cocks of boys normally grow. Length he will want, but no thickness.
Your cock no thicker then that now it is when hard, but longer by times more
than two or even three. He will want you as a young boy still when you are no
longer such a one, but your cock he will want not as a young boy's cock, though
as near to one as may be."
Binding
tight his cock so when it grew hard it could lengthen but not expand in girth
would suffice, but to do so would require the knowledge and consent of Sir
Robert as he had great liking for Raoul to be unclothed, and this should be a
thing Sir Robert had no knowing of.
The
Moor then examined with great care Raoul's fingers and his feet and said that
all the signs were that Raoul's cock would not grow thick.
"More
girth than now it has, but never the thickness most boys would long for," he
had smiled, perhaps in some relief. "A lotion I can contrive for you that,
applied regularly to the skin, will much slow the growth of any hair, and a
potion also that, if taken at the proper time and in the proper dose, will slow
the growing of the body some, so that at fifteen you will seem no more than
twelve. It will take much time and care to make that potion so it affects not
the growing of your cock, and never must you take more than the prescribed
dose, or your balls may never drop and you never make seed."
Sir
Robert needed to hear no more to be certain that sorcery and witchcraft were
involved; how else could Raoul appear as a boy no older than twelve save for
his cock, a cock no boy of twelve could own? How else could it be that the
boy's cock alone showed the passing of four years, the rest of him little
different from the boy of ten Sir Robert had won and fucked? And even that cock
had not grown as boys' cocks grow by nature; lengthen it had, but thickened
almost not at all, so it was indeed a stiletto of flesh.
"That
Moor is a sorcerer," Sir Robert said, "He bewitched you, and by his forbidden
arts you have bewitched me. This," he held firmly Raoul's slender cock, "Is a
magician's wand and it holds me in its power."
"No
magic, Lord, save only that natural magic that is in the flesh of boys all,"
Raoul said softly, "The magic that drives men to lust for them as you lust
still for me. True that I am small and hairless by his art, and true that he
gave me knowledge of the skills I may employ with my hands, mouth and arse to
give you pleasure, and true also that he contrived a potion that would let my
cock grow when the rest of me did not, he reading in your stars that you would
come to have great liking for my cock and take much pleasure from it and give
me much pleasure also that you did so."
"Magic
or nature or art, I care not," Sir Robert sighed, "I care only that your body
is young and hairless and that your cock is long, slender and hard."
Sir Robert had made determination to go south again to Italy when the thaw
came, and place his men in service of the Duke of Florence there for one more
year.
The
pay was good, and though there was but little fighting to be done, a little
fighting is better than no fighting at all for men who live for war. A hundred
of his older men he would leave to keep Chateau Rouliers safe, men whose best
killing days were behind them and who would be content to temper the boredom of
being guardians by making much use of their cocks, as there would be young
cunny and arse sufficient for each man to sup his fill there, both by day and
by night.
Another
reason Sir Robert had for his decision, and that to make acquaintance of the
Moor who had bewitched him and Raoul both, and discover if there was yet more
magic to be used.
This
noble aim came to naught, and that by no fault of Sir Robert, for with the thaw
came a messenger to Chateau Rouliers, with a letter for Raoul and news for any
who would hear it.
The
news was that, having grown tired of peace, the Black Prince, son of King
Edward of England, had determined to make try for Paris, and would bring a
small army to France, and wished to grow his numbers by enlisting for aid as
many bands of routiers as would join him in his venture.
Such
news was a delight to Sir Robert as it brought the prospect of war, and nothing
thrills a man of war as does the excitement of battle. Slaughtering ignorant
peasants cannot compare with the joy of slaying a man in battle; the noise as steel
clashes steel and men and horses scream in agony from their wounds; the stench
as bowels empty and blood and intestines make footing slippery and dangerous
– it is for this that men of war train and long for, not the burning of
peasants in their hovels.
But
more news there was, and news that gave even Sir Robert pause for thought, for
it seemed that the stinking peasants of France were rising in revolt, and in
their thousands they would gather to waylay and slay those routiers that
answered the call of the Black Prince.
This
was news that reached the ears of Sir Robert's men and caused talk more than
some amongst them; a thousand or two peasants ranged against them was no cause
for concern, but the rumours brought by the messenger were of gatherings ten
times that number, and a host as vast as that was, indeed a matter of concern.
The
letter that messenger brought for Raoul was not of war or of a peasant rising,
but contained instruction as to what he must do when the effects of the potion
he took began to fade.
"That
is done when the last has been consumed," the Moor wrote, "And in time your
body will begin again to grow and you will turn from boy to youth. Your body
will stay slender still and your cock not thicken, for that has grown as nature
intended it to grow. Fear not that you will grow too fast, for at twenty it is
like you will seem as a slender youth of seventeen, and your lord still find
desire some to fuck you.
Hairless you may stay, for the lotion you use on your skin has no effect but to
slow the growth of hair, though you will need to use it more often as you age.
The receipt for it is simple and I give it freely to you that you may have it
made for your use.
But, and this I told you most plain before you left my city, that your lord
will come to have more desire for your cock than for your arse, and some
trickery and cunning you should make resort to that he has ever wish for your
cock, even as your body grows.
That he has liking for your cock in his arse is written in his stars, and
written also is that he finds he should not have wish for this, thinking it is
not becoming for a man to be fucked by his page. Happier he will be if he does
penance for his desire, so when he shows wish for your cock to fuck him,
present him with a birch wand and beg him beat you with it, for you are the
cause of his transgression. And instruct him that he must beat you on the parts
that are most tender, the backs and insides of your thighs are most painful
places, and even upon your balls, as doubtless he will have wish to do, should
you present them to him as I advise.
Always at such times must they be tied tight, and drawn up into a pouch and so
raise lust in him, and this lust you may more than satisfy when you fuck him
after, for that cord around your balls will greatly slow the flowing of your
seed and build also your desire to seed, that you will fuck him fiercely and
for much time.
Follow always your nature. May your God protect you."
There
was enclosed both the receipt for the smoothing lotion, and also a drawing of
how the balls should be tied as the Moor had described.
Sir Robert delayed his decision as to where to go for the summer's killing;
Florence called to him but so too did the war promised by the English Prince.
The joy of seeing French knights in their thousands cut down by English arrows
was a joy he longed to see again, but to reach Paris he must needs cross France
from bottom to top, and how to do this without being trampled by many thousands
of stinking peasants?
Intelligence
reached him that the peasants in revolt were not content with merely waylaying
and slaughtering routier bands, they turned also their attention to the
Chateaux of nobles who had failed to protect them, allowed their villages to be
burned, and they burned those chateaux in revenge and slaughtered all within
them, and it was like that Chateau Rouliers may come to their attention.
James
Acre it was who was pushed forward by the men to speak on their behalf, he
being most senior amongst them.
"We'd
all like a nice pretty war, Sir Robert, that we would, but with the land in
uproar as it is, it be most like we would never get to Paris, and should we hop
over the hills into Italy we would leave this place undefended, and we have
come to have some affection for it and for the comforts you have provided for
us in it.
The thinking is, Sir Robert, that with all them peasants being revolting, they
don't be in their hovels, villages and their churches with nothing but old men
to defend them. Should we send out a band of say a hundred, we could range
further to the north and come to places not yet raided, plunder the churches
and collect the boys to bring back here.
No killing and burning, Sir, just a little rape and plunder. Be like a summer
holiday, Sir."
Raoul
hid a smile at James Acre's words – it had not gone unnoticed by him that
during the long winter, men had developed a greater liking for arse than for
cunny, girls now walked with a greater ease than did the boys.
The
threat of assault by a peasant army was real enough for Sir Robert to abandon
plans for Florence and hopes for a war near Paris both, and he gave order for
James Acre to divide his force in four; one quarter to ride out each month and
return before the end of it with whatever plunder they could scavenge, be that
in gold or silver or in boys.
Four
hundred men were sufficient to hold the chateau against any peasant assault if
such assault should come.
An
assault did come, and in the very first month of the killing season. Sir
Robert's scouts – Chateau Rouliers had good walls but Sir Robert did not
defend his chateau by just sitting behind those walls, if there was an enemy
coming for him he wanted to know how many, how organised and how best to kill
them – brought news that a band of peasants, perhaps five thousand strong,
were some two days shambling march away, and heading for the chateau.
The
mountains were behind it, the chateau built originally to guard the road to
Italy and to tax any merchants using that road, and the land before it had been
cleared of forest and scrub, giving some six hundred paces of open ground for
attackers to cross, room to ride any down by a sortie should numbers permit.
The attack, when it came, would burst from the forest six hundred paces
distant, and for four hundred of those paces, those who came would be slain by
arrows.
"No
need for markers," Will the Bastard, a burly archer, so named as he was bastard
by birth as well as by nature, observed, "Not a man amongst us cannot judge the
distance he may kill at."
"And
no need for markers you will not see," Sir Robert replied, "These are not
French noblemen who come against us in their pretty colours, these are
peasants, scum like us, who, like us, will come at night, concealed in
darkness. James!" Sir Robert called for James Acre, and when that man came, he
gave his order. "By daylight, ten archers on the walls, eyes fixed on that
forest, and changed each hour, for their eyes will tire. In darkness, fifty,
and hope they see shadows moving in the dark. Change those each half hour, they
must not strain their eyes."
"We
have but one hundred and fifty archers, Sir Robert," James Acre said carefully,
"With so little rest between watches, all will have tired eyes come daylight."
"Yet
it must be archers that watch. No other men have such sight as they."
"No
men, Lord," Raoul spoke. He stood as ever, beside Sir Robert; day or night the
page was always beside his lord, save in the day he was clothed and not so at
night, "But none have keener sight than boys. Let the boys keep watch while the
bowmen sleep. They will need but a pikeman or two to warn should they see
moving shadows come against us."
"They
are of the same stock as those who come in hope to kill us," Sir Robert
reminded his page, "Are they not as like to open gate for them as warn us of
their coming?"
"Have
you learned so little of boys in four years?" Raoul said softly, his rosy lips
curving in a smile that showed most plain the nature of the boy he was and of
what he spoke, "Do not they now have food in their bellies every day? Do they
not sleep warm at night, even in the coldest of the winter? Do they not have
men to pleasure them, and do they not know that men seek for them more than
they seek now for girls? Think you they would change all this to return to a
peasant hut and toil in some stony field? And even should they do so, do they
not know that if we die they also die?"
Even
if there were boys amongst them who liked it not that they were fucked, there
could be no doubt that there were not boys who had some wish to die, and no
doubt either that, should the peasant army prevail, none would be left living
in Chateau Rouliers.
"The
moon will be behind us," Raoul spoke his thoughts, "And watchers on the walls
clear to see, but boys with blackened faces may peer through arrow slits and
battlements, and none have any knowledge they are there and watch. The peasants
are not soldiers, Lord, they will think us careless and unguarded."
Raoul
would never have the form of a man who could do battle, but he had the mind of
one who could command and see how battles may be won.
The
boys did not display willingness when Raoul gathered them and told them what he
wished; boys are ever boys, and peasant boys, though they be peasant boys who
were fucked twice or more each day and night, they were no less boys than others.
That they should play their part in battle excited them beyond bounds and they
wished only that they had the strength to draw a bow and join the killing to
come.
"The
forest is moving!" a sibilant voice whispered in the dark of the dead of night.
"I
can see it, too," another treble whisper and more and more as boy after boy
spotted moving shadows and hissed their excited warnings.
"Right
about their eyes, " an archer whispered as he struggled to string his bow
without standing, "Good with them as with their arses."
"Running
or walking?" an instantly awake and alert Sir Robert asked the nearest boy.
"Coming
slow, like they don't want to make a noise," the boy cheeped.
"A
minute then to be within range," Sir Robert calculated, "A minute and a half,
then stand, nock, draw and loose for three hundred paces," he sent word to the
archers who were still staying low, concealing themselves as much as was
possible.
"Now!"
he called, and the early summer night was filled with the fluttering flight of
goose feathers, followed soon after by the soft thuds as arrows struck flesh,
and the gurgles and cries of the peasants whose unprotected flesh had been torn
by bodkin tipped cloth yard arrows.
"What
do they do, boy?" Sir Robert asked his boy watcher, as more soft thuds and
cries accompanied a second flight of arrows.
"Back
to the forest," the boy gloated, "And faster than they came from it."
"Good!
As I hoped," Sir Robert breathed with some relief that the peasants had been
unnerved by death coming for them from the dark. "No more," he sent word to his
bowmen, "No waste of arrows loosing at what you cannot see. They won't come
again until they can see what it is that kills them."
"I
can't see how many, sir," the boy said sadly, "It's difficult to see them on
the ground, but we did kill several. I saw some shadows fall."
"We'll
see in the morning, lad," Sir Robert patted the boy on his head, "The men will
be grateful to you for your eyes."
"I
hope so, sir," the boy's voice was full of innocence, "I like it when the men are
nice to me."
Morning
light showed no more than twenty or so dead and that number again still living,
but unable to crawl to the safety of the forest. The boys begged to be allowed
out with knives to slit throats, pleading that they could run back to safety if
any rushed from the forest while they were dispatching wounded peasants.
"If
we have archers standing ready," James Acre suggested, "And the boys are slow
cutting throats and pulling arrows from the ground to bring back, I believe
some could be enticed from cover in hope of getting at the boys, and we could
send a few more to whatever room in Hell it is that revolting peasants go to."
The
boys were much excited by that, not only would they be able to cut a few
throats and watch blood spurt, but they would have the thrill of hearing ash
shafts fly over their heads and even be able to turn and watch men struck down
by them. It was the stuff of dreams for peasant boys.
"They'll
be beyond satisfying after," Mat Longstaff grinned widely, he still being young
enough to know the need his cock and his arse felt both after his first battle,
"There won't be a man amongst us with a straight shaft in the morning."
James
Acre was right, and a hundred or so rushed from the forest, thinking to kill
boys, but fell instead to goose feathered ash shafts before they reached near
them.
"Leave
them!" Acre bellowed as the boys turned intent on finding more throats to cut,
"We need the arrows you carry!"
The
archers did not, enough arrows had been made in the winter to kill ten times
five thousand, but the boys, believing they carried yet more death in their
hands, took notice and ran back to the safety of the chateau's walls.
Then
the killing began in some earnest as enraged peasants flooded from the forest
and the archers slew them at will, sending shaft after killing shaft amongst
them while the watching boys cheered at the glory of it.
Perhaps
a thousand died that morning, but the peasants had five times that number and
so they came again and yet more arrows flew and more peasants died, and none
had reached within two hundred paces of the walls.
Only
a hundred and fifty archers, but each man loosing ten shafts a minute; a
thousand and a half bodkin tipped arrows of ash falling into massed, unarmoured
men, charging so close together there was no need to aim, they fell like reaped
barley.
"They
will come once more, I think," Sir Robert said, "And the next time we will
sortie forth and kill as many as we can reach. We want no peasant army to
interrupt our summer holiday."
And
so it was; the peasants came once more and once more arrows slew them and when
their charge faltered, the chateau gates opened and two hundred and fifty
mounted killers, armed with mace, sword and axe, tore into them and sent almost
all to Hell.
Mat
Longstaff was right also, for that night eager boys serviced with a will any
cock that came near them with arse and mouth, and often both at once, so high
had their spirits been aroused.
Sir Richard's spirits and desired had been raised also by the killing, for such
is the nature of men that they have need to fuck when they have killed, but Sir
Richard's desire was not for the arse of Raoul, but for his slender cock.
To
be mounted by a boy of seeming twelve, but with a cock older by some years than
that, was a lust and desire known only to the knight, his page and a Moor in
Florence, and was a lust and desire Sir Richard believed he should not have.
Raoul
saw this lust and desire in his master's eyes and knew it was both his destiny
and his duty to give satisfaction to this lust. He tied up his balls as the
Moor had instructed so they hung not but pouched below his cock, and presented
thus his nakedness to Sir Richard, birch wand in hand.
"Lord,"
he said, `I know the great desire you have for my cock and that I should mount
and ride you, and I know also that you fear much that this desire you should
not have. I have ridden you before and much time upon your knees making penance
for it after and this should not be so.
There is no sin in a man riding a boy; though the scriptures say a man must not
lie in that fashion with a man, but no mention is there of boys. The sin then,
should I mount and ride you, is not yours but mine, for when we do such, do not
you play the boy and I the man? Yet though you play the boy, still are you a
man, and the sin is mine for it is I that rides a man and lies with him in a
way that is forbidden.
It is I then, that must do penance. So you must beat me, Lord, and in places
where I will feel most pain, and you must beat me, Lord, till you have driven
sin from me, and then will I be fit to mount and ride you."
"My
lust is great," Sir Richard confessed, "And I do long much for you to sheath
your flesh stiletto in my arse, but should I beat you first, my lust unsated, I
will not beat you gently, for you must know a man's desire is raised most great
by the beating of a boy."
"My
pain and screams will be my penance," Raoul handed his lord the birch, "And any
sin you feel you must expiate, you will do by causing me to scream. But after,
Lord, I will ride you at full gallop, this cord around my balls will much delay
the flowing of my seed, yet by doing so it will also increase my desire for my
seed to flow, and I will thrust into you deep and hard and fast until it does."
So
it was, and never again did sin need to made penance for; be it boy riding man
or man astride boy, who was rider and who mount mattered not, for both found
pleasure and delight in the gallop.
The turmoil that was France as peasants revolted and Counts and Barons raised
men to subdue those peasants, having little care for the time for routiers who
scoured the land, gave Sir Robert's band full leave to raid villages that were
lived in but by the old and young, and when the men of Sir Robert left such a
village, the old and the young still lived, though less of the young remained
than before, the boys taken to Chateau Rouliers.
With
great care Raoul studied the boys that were brought, seeking for one Sir Robert
would find pleasing to fuck. A boy, fair of face and slender of form, with fingers
long and thin, though when he found one, still would he have that boy's cock
bound tight in case the Moor's words were not always true and a boy's fingers
did not always show how his cock would grow.
Raoul
would stay a boy for another year, perhaps for two, but the time would come
when he could no longer pass for page but be grown to squire's size, and what
man is there who would have wish to fuck a squire?
"The
lotion to keep all smooth and hairless I have knowledge of," Raoul said to his
lord, "But of the potion to keep one young I am ignorant. But as each boy grows
too old for you, another will I find. That is my duty as well as my destiny."
"Your
cock, I think, will please me for a while yet," Sir Robert said thoughtfully,
"Though as I am a man it is indeed natural that I should wish for arse that is
young and tight, for such is the way of things. And natural also that, as you
grow from page to squire, your cock will find desire for such arse, and that
desire you must not deny yourself, for to do so would be most unnatural."
"Then,
Sir," Raoul smiled, "I will begin my search amongst the boys brought to us, for
one to give you pleasure."
"I
would have us share that pleasure," Sir Robert declared, and as his page was
naked, for it was an hour of darkness, he reached for that part of Raoul that
he had come to wish for most. "You were fucked first when you were seven, but
not by me till you were ten. It would please me much if so were with the boy
you find for me. Find one of the age you were and teach him how to be fucked as
you were taught, and when he is ten I will take him from you and you may search
for and train another."
This
instruction greatly pleased Raoul, for he did indeed find a wish for young,
tight arse to be growing in him and should he do as his master wished, then
still would their destinies be joined together.
He
thought to pass instruction to the next group of one hundred who would ride to
near deserted villages that they should take boys as young as six or seven, but
the need to do this was overtaken by the return of others, who brought in their
wagons boys younger even than that.
"You
said ones that were old enough for monks and priests to fuck," the German
Gotfreid who had led that group explained, "And it seemed to us that old enough
to walk was old enough for the priests we came across."
That
the men of Sir Robert's band of killers had sympathy with those priests was
made much evident by their calls of approval, and Sir Robert was obliged to
make a ruling that no boy must be fucked until he were seven, less his arse be
ruined by cock too large for him to take, though that was not so with his
mouth.
So
greatly did the men of Sir Robert come to understand the wonder of boys'
bodies, that talk amongst them began of how they may enjoy boys not just in the
winter, and that fucking boys was greater pleasure even than killing.
"How
would it be, Sir Robert," James Acre once more the spokesman, made suggestion,
"If we took under our protection all the villages for two day's ride? Your flag
we would fly from their churches' towers that all would know they belong to us,
and some little harmless killing would no doubt be needed should any baron or
routier band disagree. Those villages would supply us with the victuals we need
and they could pay their rents with boys."
Raoul,
who had heard of this thought of the men, added one of his own.
"Chateau
Rouliers was built to guard the road to Italy," he said, "And should we not
return it to that purpose? We will be as the Knights of the Hospital and make
safe passage for all who travel that road. Merchants we may tax, and may it not
be that pilgrims may wish to leave their boys with us while they make their
dangerous way to Rome, and as it is a most dangerous road, many may never
return for the boys they left."
Such
cunning thinking appealed much to all, for there were bandits aplenty on that
road who must be encountered and slain and wealth would come by taxes paid by
merchants and also boys some from deluded pilgrims.
Sir
Robert's band rode no more through France, killing and burning, but protected
villages and guarded travellers, and while they did so, they fucked also boys.
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