A Time to Gather Stones Together
by Uther Pendragon
anon584c@nyx.net
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All persons here depicted, except public figures depicted as public figures in the background, are figments of my imagination and any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
A Time to Gather Stones Together
by Uther Pendragon
anon584c@nyx.net
Tempus spargendi lapides et tempus colligendi tempus amplexandi et tempus longe fieri a conplexibus.A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
Ecclesiastes 3:5
"Deborah, come over here with me please," Maria called.
Deborah was quite surprised. Maria was in charge of the weavers
and spinners, but she was responsible for them keeping working,
not for taking a weaver away from her loom. When Deborah went
out in the open, though, Lady Ingrid was there. Of course, the
chatelaine could not be expected to bend down to get under the
edge of the thatch which protected the looms from rain.
"My lady?" she inquired.
"Didst thou note the priest that said grace at breakfast?"
She had paid him very little attention. Castle Clavius was on the Roman Road and the Rhine river. Every day brought travelers, and ecclesiastical travelers were likely to say the grace at meals. "Yes, my lady."
"That is Father David, the new chaplain."
"My lady? Father Michael?" He had said mass that morning.
"Is quite all right. Actually Father David is not yet the new chaplain, but he will be soon enough. Sir Karl is castelan, now, and Father David is his choice."
"Yes, my lady. I am quite sorry." And she was, too. She had wept at news of Sir Robert's death.
"We all are," said Sir Robert's widow. "But changes bring changes. When the bishop can get here, he will install Father David. Father Michael will return with him and be installed in his new parish. Anyway, Father David will soon be our chaplain, and I would like the castle to give him a new alb to mark the occasion. Maria tells me that thou art the best linen weaver we have." Deborah blushed at the praise, though she believed it to be true. "Thou wilt weave the cloth for the alb all by itself, as wide and long as it needs to be for the garment, not as part of a bolt of cloth."
"Yes, my lady." That process, while not unique, would mark this garment as special. And, of course, it would mean that a mistake on the part of the seamstress would be disastrous.
Sir Karl came back with his new bride and Father David was installed before the weaving, to say nothing of the sewing, was finished. One Monday, she and Leah, the seamstress, went to Father David's chamber with Lady Ingrid and Lady Elizabeth, the new chatelaine. Father David seemed interested in the process of weaving, though Deborah would think the sewing more interesting. When he asked one complicated question, Lady Elizabeth excused herself, Lady Ingrid, and Leah. Deborah was embarrassed to stay, but she could not walk out leaving a priest with an unanswered question.
Father David sat and waved her to a chair. His questions moved from that particular piece of cloth to the life of a weaver. Deborah, at first shy, warmed to his attention. "Thou and the others make a life," said Father David, "of what is a tiny part of most women's lives. I am told that this practice makes the weavers of Castle Clavius the equal of those in Flanders."
"We believe so." Indeed, although she was much too modest to say so to someone outside her circle, they believed themselves superior.
"And what bringest thee to such a life?" he asked. "It is a duty thou owest the viscount is it not?"
"Yes, Father." Memory flooded her.
Every year the village moved to another location. That was a lot of work, but it made it easier to remember when things happened. Heinrich had come when they were the furthest down the mountain, and later that year Gramma had come to live with them. The year after that, they had lived near the castle, in sight of the huge stone tower and a short run from the high wooden fence. They had been invited into the inner bailey to celebrate the Christchild, and all been fed so much meat that she had been sick.All this period, she had learned to work. First, of course, to spin. But Heinrich required a lot of care as well. And, later John had been too sick one spring to drive the oxen. She had poked or hit them with a stick while Father guided the huge plow and told her when to stop. Every year, the men in the village cut down a certain part of the forest; every year, they cleared the stumps where they had cut three years before. That required oxen, too, three yokes of them at a time pulling up long roots. She never got to drive those oxen, but she often took dinner out to Father and John when they were doing that boonwork.
It was nice to have Gramma to fuss over her. "Enkelin," she would say, "come out to the field with me and help glean." Or into the garden for onions, or let us spin together. On the other hand, Gramma complained about everything: the weather, having to live in another house every fall, how the shepherds kept the gardens when they were living in the houses, Heinrich's crying, the quality of the wool that the shepherds left them. When Mother taught Deborah how to cook, Gramma would say: "Why bother? Learning to spin is enough."
When Mother had another baby, Deborah cried that they named her Alice. Baby Alice was so sweet, and so helpless, though, that Deborah could not hold her name against her.
Suddenly, all the arguments as to whether she needed to learn to cook had connected in Deborah's mind. Some girls in her village owed service to the viscount as spinners and weavers in his workshop. "First-born daughters," said Mother; "Eldest daughters," said Gramma.
She had learned that Gramma was right, although Deborah knew her place better than to take sides in those arguments. She had spoken with women who had returned from that service, and sometimes with two girls of twelve who had come home for a month.
Then, right after Michaelmas, a sergeant came to their home from the castle, accompanied by the bailiff. "Your daughter, Deborah," he told her parents, "has passed eight years. Each Burgund family owes service of their oldest daughter from age eight to sixteen years for the service of cloth. Please have her ready to leave right after dinner one week hence. She needs a cloak -- two if possible, tunic, shift, shoes, two pairs of stockings and all small clothes. She will not receive any other clothing until Cristmastide. She must have a distaff and two spindles. You need to feed her dinner and provide her with a supper to take with her. After that she will be fed for her service. She may take any small possessions which you choose to send with her."
There was a huge crying over her; even John shed tears. Mother threatened many things. Even Gramma was more saddened by her leaving than joyed by having been right. However, she was ready with the clothes after dinner. Father stayed back from the fieldwork to say good bye. Another sergeant showed up with two horse-carts of firewood. One had several horsehides over the wood and one of the older girls sitting on top.
She kissed everybody, Alice twice. She handed her bundle up to the girl, and the carter helped her up until she could sit on top of the load. They stopped once more to be joined by another older girl. Her family cried more loudly than Deborah's had. The girls themselves were crying until the cart turned onto the main road.
This, however, was deeply rutted. They pitched about on top of the load. Everybody had to hang on and pay attention. When the ride smoothed out again, their tears had dried up. They talked among themselves. The girls, Maria and Gudrun were twelve and had been allowed home for a visit. They had been spinners at Castle Clavius, and knew each other well. While they expressed real dismay at being forced away from their dear families once again, they mostly talked about their life at the castle.
As they went, they had been joined by girls from two other villages and by more carts. They had ridden on two carts loaded with washed wool as soon as these had joined them, a much softer ride and warm burrowing when the wind was cold. The carts, being horse-drawn, had moved much faster than oxcarts -- even faster than she could have walked comfortably. The trip had taken less than three days, stopping for dinner or to spend the night in villages where they had food waiting for them.
They had spent the second night in a castle's great hall. Deborah and the other young girls had been impressed by the magnificence. The walls, even the outermost walls all around the courtyard, had been stone. The fire, which had burned logs rather than scraps of branches, had warmed the huge room although it had been inside the wall instead of the center of the room. And the smoke had gone into the wall. The older girls had giggled but had not told them why.
"Many girls from my village owe that work, Father. And
from other villages there on the mountain."
"Well, I am happy enough to be the chaplain at Castle Clavius. Never thinking I could be a bishop, this is more comfort than I ever expected. Is this duty onerous to you girls, to thee in particular?"
"It is not the same thing, Father, but it does have its pleasures. The low tables eat better than the folk in the village ever dreamed. We get the news as rapidly as the Duke's court. We have a fireplace in the weaving room rather than a fire pit. And we know what we shall be doing next week and next month."
"Well, the castle goes through more changes than the villages in which I was priest before this seemed to."
"The weavers go through changes, too, Father. But most of those changes are ones we have gone thorough before." Not that she had ever had so long an interview with a priest before, not even before she was confirmed. But her life in the village had been one of changes.
Deborah could not remember Richard at all, but Alice's death had shaken her. Later, of course, it would change her life forever.All the changes had begun in the spring, the blessed spring when green pokes up through the snow, and one can feel the warmth of the fire in the firepit from one's bed against the wall.
And bed had been the first change. She had been chilly on one side, and pressed up against Father's warmth on the other. Then he had left her. It had been still dark in the hut, and she had half woken only for a moment; but she had been conscious of some motion behind her. She had turned over to see Father on top of Mother. The motions had been interesting for a minute, but then her bladder had screamed. It had been still much too cold to go outside, but she had found the slop bucket and used it.
Proud of herself for keeping a dry bed, she had crawled back under the covers and against Mother's warmth. Father usually pushed her away if she was too cold, but Mother often let her snuggle. Indeed, neither had paid her any attention just then, being too busy with each other; then Father had dropped suddenly, catching her arm under his elbow. She had cried out her hurt.
Father would usually say he was sorry if he bumped into her or hurt her when he had not meant to. This time, however, he had been angry at her although it really had been his fault. He had spanked her much harder than he had ever spanked her before.
That night, Mother had told her that she was too old to share that bed, and moved her in with the other children. Alice, as the oldest, had slept in the center with her head towards the firepit. She and John had slept on either side of her with their heads towards the wall, sometimes whispering to each other across Alice's feet. That change had not been too bad, although it had sometimes seemed as though the three of them could not generate as much heat as Father had all by himself.
By summer, though, Alice had been generating as much heat as anyone could wish. She had been able to keep nothing down and had wasted away. Several other people in the village had seemed to have the same disease. The wisewoman had come to see her, as had the priest and the barber from the castle. None of them had been able to do anything for her body, although the priest had done what he could for her soul. Deborah had cried for her when she was gone, but she had seen Alice laid in the ground.
Father David asked her many more questions, seeming to be
genuinely interested in her answers. He finally asked, "And does
some swain wait for thee in thy village?"
"Wait? Swain? Father, I left when I was eight years old." And, with two living brothers and her family holding only a half manse, she was not a particularly desirable match.
"Then thou hast looked for thy romance here?"
"Nor here, Father." Some Sergeants wed weavers when they retired. But, barring a crippling wound, that was at 45. And those mostly wed weavers who were about to return. Men of thrice her age did not attract her. Of course, serving boys were interested; but they had nothing to offer.
"Such an attractive lass," said Father David, "and no one attracts her." She rose when he did. He kissed her then, not a priest's kiss. A man's kiss, she realized, though she had received none previously. His hands went over her back and her buttocks during the kiss.
"Come back after supper, if thou carest to," he said.
"Father...." She did not know what to say.
"David."
"Father David, I do not know what to say."
"Then thou needest not say anything, especially now. Think things over. Decide whether thou wantest to come back after supper." This was clearly a dismissal, and she went.
She hurried to the weaver's place, conscious of her tardiness. Maria, however, said not a word. Deborah sat at her loom, and resumed work on the current bolt, but she only joined halfheartedly in the song. A trained weaver need not think about her tasks most of the time, and Deborah had other things to think about.
Father David's invitation was clear, if polite. Did Deborah want to be a priest's concubine? It was status, more status than a weaver, especially as some of the castle folk still spoke of her as a Burgund. Her great grandfather had been part of the invasion from Burgundy, unlucky enough to be captured, lucky enough to be pardoned on condition that he wed one of the local girls and take a slave-manse. She did not think of herself as a Burgund; she thought of herself as a weaver.
She was, as Lady Ingrid had said, the best linen weaver at Castle Clavius. Did she want to stay on? Her family was back in the village; comfort and diversion were here. And the family that was back in the village was different from the family she had known.
Her return to her home at age 12 had brought a realization that her family had changed. Gramma had died. Alice was a chatterbox rather than an infant. Heinrich, who did not remember her at all, was busy with boy things. John looked like a man; that was a surprise. None of them had been impressed at all that she had become a warpspinner. "Thou didst that before thou wert taken away," Mother had said. And not only they had changed. The castle, which had so impressed her once, looked like a guardhouse.
Most of the girls went back to their villages when they
reached 16. Maria superintended the weavers. A few weavers
stayed on as workers, and Susanna instructed the spinners and
oversaw them under Maria. Deborah did not want to take either
place, even if she could. Two wool weavers had stayed on,
receiving cash payments as well as the food and clothes that the
others got. And, of course, there were the stories of girls who
had moved to the towns to work for master weavers. Deborah had no
knowledge of any place but Castle Clavius where linen was woven
by different people than wove wool. She did not know what
possibilities there were of going elsewhere, but she did know
that the outside world was full of uncertainty.
On the other hand, the chaplain's concubine would find it easy to keep a place among the weavers. And Deborah, for that matter, was a good weaver. Even cast off, and Father David did not look the sort of man to cast off a woman without good cause, she would still have a claim on the castle. The precedents were favorable.
Just before Sir Karl had gone off to wed, he had sent Zilpah off with a bag of money. That was doubly sensitive. He did not embarrass his bride with the sight of his bedwarmer. And he had taken care of the problem with a purse rather than a threat.
At this point in her thoughts, the current skein of yarn ran out. She tied the end around the rightmost strand of the web, and went to fetch another strand of weft. She brought three back with her, selected the one closest to the old yarn in color, and replaced the other two. She tied the new yarn to the old and cut off the ends with her knife. She paid attention to her weaving until she saw that the cloth did not show the change. Then she joined in the next song; she had pondered enough.
At dinner, she paid more attention to the opening prayer than was her wont. Father David had a fine voice, and he gave proper credit to the Creator without wearying his audience. She joined in the talk at table, but -- back at her loom -- she had more to think about.
She had not only been invited to be the concubine of a priest, she had been invited to be the concubine of Father David in particular. Aside from being a fine figure of a man and not too old -- he looked a generation younger than Father Michael -- he had been considerate of her. He had really listened. He had wanted something, of course, but he had listened to her.
Sometimes the castle servants and the weavers bickered over who had the greater status. But a castle serving-girl was expected to serve the knights sexually. The ones who no longer appealed to the knights served the sergeants. After that, the usual path led to the serving-men, but the woman had a choice about that. She, on the other hand, had been offered a choice by the chaplain; and his status was higher than the ordinary knights, to say nothing of the sergeants. Of course, it could be the custom for priests to ask; for that matter, it could be Father David's choice. He was a courteous man, courteous even with her.
Deborah joined wholeheartedly in the next song. Her choice had been made. She was just as happy, however, when Maria decreed that they would keep weaving by rushlight and attend the second seating at supper. It was one thing to make the decision and quite another to act on it.
What entertainment was available at dinner at Castle Clavius, seldom more than the songs of a jongleur, was provided for the first seating. Often it was for the first seating alone. Serious entertainments were scheduled for after supper, and the first seating -- those on guard or watch duty always excepted -- returned. This night when the meal was over, servitors removed the tables. Castle folk crowded around the edges of the room while a troop of tumblers began to prepare for their show. Father David had not returned with the other gentry.
She should not keep him waiting. She left her group and went out into the inner courtyard. Crossing the bridge into the inner bailey, she was acutely aware of the guard's eyes. He probably knew where she was going. There were no secrets in Castle Clavius.
The chapel was not far beyond the bridge. She opened the side door which she had used that morning. The chaplain was waiting, seated on a bench. "Father David," she said.
"Simply 'David,'" he replied. He pulled the door shut and dropped the bar across it. At his gesture, she climbed the stairs ahead of him. His room was lit by a candle. This luxury reminded her how important he was. "Thou hast decided?" he asked. "Thou knowest what thou hast decided?"
"Yes, David." He kissed her then, holding her to him. This was even less of a priest's kiss than the last. His hands went all over her back before coming to rest on her breasts. They were gentle there, and she liked the feel. She was quite breathless when he stepped back. On his raising her dress by the shoulders, she removed it. She went on to remove her drawers.
He kissed her again, holding her shoulders. Then his kisses trailed down her neck and to her breasts. He sucked on one nipple and then the other. The feeling was strange, but enjoyable. "Thou art very comely," he said. He started to remove his own robe and she helped him. Still in his drawers, he gestured her towards the bed.
This was soft, feathers instead of straw. Deborah sank into it. He removed his own drawers before coming to the bed. She could not help looking at his cock. It was hard and pointing up and out. She had seen hard cocks on boys and seen some men naked, but this was the first hard cock she had seen on a grown man. It looked larger than she had expected.
Father David came to bed carrying a vial and a piece of linen. After lying down, he poured from the vial onto his fingers. She could smell the oil. He stroked her between her legs, spreading the oil between her lips there. The sensations were pleasant, but a little frightening. "This is thy first time?" he asked suddenly.
"Yes, F... yes, David."
"Then we shall need this." He took the cloth and put it under her legs. She could feel the folds pressed under her hips. He poured more oil out onto his palm before setting the vial on the floor beside the bed. He wiped his hand over his cock before climbing between her legs. "Raise thy knees more." When she did so, he kissed her again on her lips, and then on each breast.
When he came upward in the bed over her, he shifted so that his arms were resting on the bed on both sides of her. He rested his cock between her lower lips. She could feel its warmth and the slickness from all the oil. "Art thou ready?" he asked.
Really, she was not, but she answered, "Yes, David." She felt a pressure down there, then a brief pain. Then he was sliding in where nothing had been before.
"That pain will not come again," he said.
"It was not that great a pain." Then she feared he would believe that she had not been a virgin. But he said nothing more.
Soon, he began moving within her. That went on for a while, causing a little discomfort but nothing she would call pain. Then he stiffened above her and pressed against her. She felt him throb within her. After he withdrew, he wiped himself and her with the cloth. She still leaked afterwards, but she was too shy to ask him for the cloth. He covered them both with a linen blanket and held her. The bed was wider than she shared with three other girls, and much softer. It was easy to drift to sleep.
Deborah woke to a pounding somewhere. There was a
shifting in the bed and then she heard two voices. "Thy door was
bolted, Father."
"And so it was," said Father David. "Well, I am awake now. And I thank thee."
She got up and donned her clothes before Father David had climbed the stairs. "Art thou leaving now?" he asked. "It is a while yet before Mass."
"I think I should, Father."
"'David,' here. 'Father' down in the chapel. Wilt thou return tonight?"
"Yes, David."
There were no secrets in Castle Clavius. The three girls who shared her bed in the weaving room had no questions about where she had been. At breakfast, all the weavers expected her to take the third seat on their bench, below only Susanna and Maria. This brought a sergeant whom she had barely seen before as her eating companion. Heinrich was his name, like her baby brother's.
She worked industriously all day. Again, Maria kept them at work until the second seating at supper. After supper, she entered the door to the chaplain's chamber and climbed the stairs. Father David had left the door to his chamber open. When she made a sound, he turned around. "Deborah," he said, "thou art welcome." He closed the door after her. "Thou mayest use that peg," he said, pointing to a peg set between two stones a little above her eye level. He proceeded to remove his clothes. She removed her own and hung them on the indicated peg. Father David picked up the linen and held it out to her. She could see a few brown spots on it. "I thank thee," he said. "Didst thou have any more pain today, or any more bleeding?"
"No, David. I did not."
"That is very good news." He gestured towards the bed, and she got into it. If he had not touched her while she was standing, he showed no such restraint after he had joined her in bed. He kissed her, her mouth, over her face, her mouth again, and then her breasts. He covered her and himself with the blanket. Then he kissed her mouth again while stroking her. She had not seen the vial nor felt any oil on his fingers when he touched her breasts and belly; but when his fingers passed between her lower lips, she felt a slickness in the rubbing. This rubbing was very thorough, and he sucked her nipples again before climbing between her legs.
When his hands went to each side of her, another part of him was still parting her lower lips. This time, when he moved slowly within her, there was no pain at all. His motions were gentler and slower this time, and they went on for a longer time. She felt something -- pleasure, not pain. Then he thrust hard into her and stiffened above her. When he moved out of her and off her there was another drip from her lowest region. He held her as he went to sleep. The warmth was welcome in the nighttime coolness.
The next night, he kissed her when they were in bed. He then turned on his side facing her and held her with one arm. Only when his breathing evened in sleep did she realize that this was going to be their only contact that night.
The next night, though, Father David was as passionate as ever. Again, there was no pain. Even aside from the importance that this important man found in her, there was some pleasure.
Sometime in the night, thunder woke her. It took her a moment to realize where she was. A moment later, there was a lightning flash, which lit up the room. Could it have struck the chapel? How was the light inside the room when the rain was not? But no rain disturbed her, not even wind. After a third lightning strike lit up the room, she realized that there was glass in the window of the room -- clear glass from the brightness of the light. After all, this was the chapel building. She had seen glass in the chapel. In high summer, the sun was high enough at the end of services to shine in the window; and a beautiful sight it was.
Glass in the window, letting in more light -- and less wind -- than the scraped hide she was used to. A feather bed to sleep on. She was living the life of luxury. The luxury continued that morning. "I shall lend thee a cloak," Father David said. "Bring it back tomorrow night."
Tomorrow? Oh, of course, this was Friday. A good Christian man, let alone a priest, did not indulge in sex on Fridays or Sundays.
When supper let out that night, though, she regretted the walk back to the weavers' place. It was raining hard, and she was wearing the cloak she had brought with her from home. Not only was it thin and worn, it was much shorter than the one she had received on the Christmas of her middle year weaving. It was well above her knees now, while the cloak Father David had lent her reached her ankles. That cloak, and the one she had received, were both sopping wet. The weavers' building had a fireplace, but only the great hall had a fire this early in the year. Well, this was Friday, the day of the Savior's suffering. It was appropriate to suffer on that day.
And, appropriately, she slept on a straw mattress that night with two girls on her left and one on her right. In the morning, which was blessedly clear, she was going from chapel to breakfast when her mind cleared. She had not the slightest suffering. The girls she worked with slept on straw every night -- four in a bed, most of them. What if the third cloak she wore through the rain had been scant; which of the other girls had a third cloak? The younger ones had only one, and those were often shorter than would match their present height. Although none of the young girls were quite so badly fitted as Deborah was with her seven-year-old cloak, they wore them both short and wet. She was not gentry to expect luxury.
That night, when she went in, Father David had a candle lit and was standing at a high table. He was looking at one sheet of parchment and writing on another. "I am sorry, Deborah," he said, "but Sir Karl desires several copies of this."
"I have no objection," she said. Indeed, what she felt was awe. She was not superstitious; she knew that this was not magic. Still, it looked somewhat magical. That was speech, she knew, words put down on leather. Another priest, who had not heard the words, could recite them from just looking at the leather. The candle was impressive enough; when most people needed light after dark, they used rushlights or simply took their work close to the fire.
Father David capped the inkpot, scattered a bowl of sand over the parchment, and turned to her. "I thank thee for thy patience."
"Really, F..., Really David, it was no feat of patience. I was impressed by the writing."
"It is nothing. Just copying one sheet over to another." He came over to her and lifted her chin to give her a kiss. His tongue explored her mouth while his hands explored her body.
When he moved back, it was to remove his clothes. She removed her own and hung them on the peg he had showed her the second night. When they were in bed together and covered, he resumed the kiss. Even when he stopped kissing her, his hand kept roving. When it went between her legs, she spread them; she knew this was the prelude to his climbing between them. This night, however, he did not.
As he continued to stroke her intimately, she became more and more excited. His hand was gentle, well-oiled, and never still. When he leaned over to suck on her nipple while still stroking her, her excitement peaked. Something burned within her. "Oh," she said.
"That is fine," Father David said. "That is what thou art expected to feel." That was good to hear, but she could pay little attention to his voice, just then. Even when he did climb between her legs, she had not enough strength to arrange her body to support him. He arranged it for her, lifting each knee before positioning himself at her center. His entry was slow and gentle. "So warm," Father David said when he was all the way into her, "so smooth. Deborah, thou art a delight."
He held his chest a little above hers, pressing down only where they were joined at their middles. His motions inside her began slowly but soon speeded up. Then he grunted and stiffened above her. He lay on her for a moment aferwards, then moved off and held her as he went to sleep. It was easy to join him.
As that morning was Sunday, mass was longer. Most of the weavers returned to their building after breakfast. They were free from work, but the inner courtyard was not attractive in the cooler weather. Instead, they stood around inside their building to gossip and sing. With the looms still outside, they had no seats. After the first seating for dinner they went to bathe in the old great hall in the keep. There was a huge tub there, filled. There was also a fire roaring in the fireplace with many cauldrons of water heating over it.
Deborah found that the women deferred to her; she was among the first women in the bath, and she soaked in luxury. Nobody chided her for the delay, either. With men and gentlewomen all elsewhere, the priest's concubine was one of the highest ranking people present. Some dry towels were still available when she got out, too. She carefully wiped herself off with one and hung it hear the fire where it would warm and dry for the next user. She was already dressed when the second seating from dinner came up the outside stairs to open the door and let the chill autumn breeze in.
The next morning, a wool weaver finished her bolt. "Spin," Maria told her, "until the looms can be moved into the building." The summer was over, the summer of weaving under nothing but thatch. They would be working inside now, working by the flickering light of the fire and a few rushlights. Deborah was happy that she was experienced enough to not need her eyes on the weaving. Still, she had begun her bolt last. She had to work determinedly if she were not to delay the move or, worse, have her loom moved with cloth in it.
She had to remind herself of that. It was too easy to daydream of Father David's chamber with tight stone walls and glass in the window and a candle for light. And Father David, no David, himself. With the excitement he brought her with his hands and his mouth. When she thought of those matters, her shuttle moved slowly; but, when she concentrated on her work, the time moved slowly.
The day passed, however. And, after supper, she returned to David's chamber. It was warm! He fire was crackling in the fireplace -- branches, not logs, but substantial branches. "Deborah," he said. "It is pleasant to see thee."
He held her face in his hands as he kissed her. His hands traced over her body during the kiss. It wasn't only the fire which was making her warm. Finally, he let her go. She removed her clothes as he removed his. In the bed, he kissed her again. His hands were everywhere on her, soon moving between her legs. His mouth was on her breasts more than it was on her mouth. The excitement that she had felt Saturday rose again.
At that point, David seemed to retreat. His mouth returned to hers; his hand left her center to stroke the insides of her thighs. She wanted the more intimate caresses, wanted them enough that she was tempted to ask for them. That was unthinkable, of course. This was Father David, and she could only confess lust to him under the seal of the confessional. Still, when he began to stroke between her lower lips again, she allowed herself a sigh of satisfaction. She knew that the burning that she had felt once before was near. It was coming, and David had said it was what she was expected to feel.
When it had almost arrived, however, David stopped stroking her again. She writhed silently in frustration. But, instead of stroking her some more or kissing her somewhere else, he climbed between her legs. After a brief adjustment by his hands, the only thing touching her center was his cock. Its entrance was slow and smooth. The stretching was minor, and it soothed her excitement for one moment.
Soon, though, her excitement grew in time with his slow motions within her. She even found herself pushing up in the bed as David pushed down.
The excitement grew greater and greater. Suddenly, it peaked. Lightning flashed again, but it was within her. "Oh!" she said.
"Deborah," David said. He continued to stroke within her as she relaxed. As if it were from afar, she felt his cock pulse deep within her. Then he was lying on her and gasping as rapidly as she was.
"Sweet girl," he said minutes later. He kissed her gently before getting off. Then he gathered her in his arms before they both fell asleep.
She was woke to see a servant kneeling at the fireplace. She covered her face with the blanket before he rose. "I thank thee," David said to him.
"It has caught now, Father," the man answered. "It will be a while, though, before it warms the room."
After the servant had gone out, David got up to use the slop bucket and to dress. Still modest, she dressed before visiting a latrine in the wall instead of using the slop bucket in front of David.
The week went by as she became accustomed to her new status. She experienced the lightning again on Wednesday, and she slept in warmth every night.
Saturday morning, Susanna -- one of the girls who slept in her bed -- had her period. This warned Deborah, and she carried a scrap of cloth with her to David's chamber. All the weavers and spinners had almost the same periods; all the girls in her bed had them within a day of one another. But she felt no twinges. Indeed, she felt the lightning again when David was in her.
Sunday night, the other three girls in her bed all slept with cloths tied between their legs to catch the blood. By Monday morning, she was convinced she was going to have a baby. She told David of her conviction that night.
"I can do nothing for thee, myself," he answered. "I will speak with My Lord Karl about thee." In bed, he spent some time stroking her abdomen while kissing her face. When his caresses became more intimate, her excitement rose. It soared even higher when he entered her. It had not peaked, however, when he stiffened above her and thrust into her. She relaxed slowly while held in his arms.
That night he said, "I spoke to Sir Karl regarding thee. If thou wouldst prefer to return to the mountain, he will see that a half manse of new land is thy dowry. It will be a held in free tenure, not slave tenure. I understand that this is unusual for that part of his domains. He suggested that this is too early to make arrangements; but, when thy pregnancy begins to show, he will contact the bailiffs of villages close to thine. They will know what men are looking for wives, and which of them would be pleased with that dowry. He is a very generous overlord."
"He is," she responded. Such a dowry would persuade many a man to accept a new wife with a full belly. The younger son of a poor holder would jump at that chance. So would the heir of a half manse whose father looked like he would live for years yet. He would farm half a manse immediately, with the possibility of a full manse in his future. "And thou art very generous, as well."
"I am merely the messenger of another's generosity," he said before kissing her. But he had approached the castelan in a way she could not. She responded to the kiss and to her feeling. Once in bed, his kisses continued. She found her response to be one of increased fervor. Again, he caressed her until she was at a fever heat. That heat abated only slightly in the pause for his entrance. Then it rose while he stroked slowly within her. She gasped when it peaked.
He barely paused, but continued his motions. Through her lassitude, he felt him stretch rigid above her and pulse within her. Then he fell to her side and lay with an arm across her.
The next night, he kissed her on her forehead instead of on the lips. He went no further, but slept with his hand on her belly. That morning, she felt that her period had started. She was shame-faced when she confessed to him that his plea to the castelan had been in vain.
"Do not fret thyself. I shall tell him that there is no need as yet. After all, it is likely that there will be need sometime. And he has said that the offer will be available when thou needest it.
"Shall I return here tonight?"
"If thou wilt."
And she did. David held her as she slept in the warm, soft, bed.
Following her new pattern, she slept in the weavers' building only Friday and Sunday. As the week progressed, she became more and more conscious of his cock pressed against her as he slept. On Monday, her flow had essentially stopped. That night, David kissed her deeply and caressed her until she was eager for his penetration. That penetration, however, was quite brief. On his third stroke he stiffened above her and pulsed within her.
On Tuesday, she wished that he would give her less attention, but -- of course -- it wasn't her place to ask him to come in her. She felt as if she were burning up when he finally did. His strokes within her were soothing, then they were exciting. Then the fire burned within her again. David stopped while she thrashed underneath him. Then, when she relaxed abruptly, he resumed his strokes.
She felt him pulse within her. Lying in his arms later, she felt his gift to her leak out.
Maria had half the looms moved into the building while the other half, including Deborah's, still had cloth on them. But the day finally came when Deborah removed a finished bolt of cloth from her loom. She took up a distaff and spun flax into warp yarn without being told. When her loom was in the building, though, Maria asked her to weave wool. It looked like a cold winter was coming, and everybody was producing thick, heavy, cloth.
Her periods came even later, but she didn't bother David with the news. They came. So did the lightning strikes within her. She stopped being shocked by them, and started looking forward to them. As far as she could tell, the intensity increased. They were one of the advantages of her position, along with sleeping in a warm bed in a warm chamber five nights out of seven. Even the shortness of the walks after supper and before Mass were a pleasantness in the worst of the winter.
Christmas brought a feast for dinner. Even at supper the servers brought as much meat as one could want. Knowing that she would spend that night with David, she stopped eating before all that meat could possibly make her sick.
That night, David kissed her shoulders, arms and torso as well as her face and breasts. "Truly a feast," he said. When he had caressed her to the height of her excitement, he went back to the kisses. She had to bite her lips to keep from asking him to come in her. Then, having caressed her to the point of desperation once more, he finally did.
He slid in more slickly than ever before. "Truly a feast," he repeated. "Thou art truly a feast to all my senses." He stroked smoothly within her as her excitement rose. "Deborah!" he said as it peaked. Then he drove quickly in and out of her until he froze above her and pulsed within her. "Deborah," he said once more.
As the winter dragged on, her nights with David warmed her spirit as much as they warmed her body. She found herself thinking of him even at her loom. She would press the right pedal, hand the shuttle from her right hand to her left, release the right pedal as she depressed the left one, hand the shuttle from her left hand to her right. Somehow, in the midst of that repetitive task which she had performed for years, heat spread though her body which only David had generated previously. She remembered the previous nights in his arms and blushed.
Then spring came. The grass hadn't come up yet, but the weather abated. When Deborah finished the bolt of wool she was working on, she went back to weaving linen.
There was still a fire in the fireplace of the weaving building. They needed it during the night, but some took to weaving with their cloaks off. Deborah compromised by wearing the short, now quite threadbare, cloak she'd brought with her seven and a half years before.
On the last Monday in Epiphany, David seemed particularly attentive. Again, he kissed her neck, shoulders and arms as well as her lips and breasts. Again, he caressed her beyond the time when she desired his entrance. That entrance was smooth and slow, but soon he sped his strokes.
She responded to that speeding with thrusts of her own. When the fire burned through her, David stiffened above her and groaned. Moments after she relaxed, he moved off her and to her side.
She was nearly asleep by the time his breathing had eased. His words startled her; almost never did he speak after they were finished. "Lent begins soon."
His voice seemed to expect a response, if his words did not. "Yes."
"We cannot be together during Lent, nor -- of course -- on Sundays. Omnia tempus habent et suis spatiis transeunt universa sub caelo. Tempus spargendi lapides et tempus colligendi tempus amplexandi et tempus longe fieri a conplexibus."
"I don't know Latin, Father." Somehow, responding to that last comment with a statement to 'David' was inappropriate.
"There is a time for everything; a time to cast away stones and a time to gather stones together. Lent is our time to gather stones together, our time to refrain from embracing."
"Dost thou wish me to stay away tomorrow night?" After all, he almost never took the comforts she offered on Tuesdays, and the morning would be Ash Wednesday.
"Ah, but tomorrow is a feast, the fast begins after that. One thing I would wish...."
"Yes?" She couldn't tell whether this was a time to call him 'Father' or a time to call him 'David.'
"When thou goest to confession in preparation for the Easter Mass, don't come to me. Go to Father Henri at Saint Anne's. Father Cassian at the church in Montant would also do."
"I will confess to Father Henri."
"Thou art such an agreeable girl." And, with that, David curled up against her and went to sleep.
The next day was a feast; only the cooks (and, of course, the sentries) did work. Replete from supper, Deborah climbed the stairs to David's chamber.
"So, Deborah," he greeted her, "didst thou enjoy the feast?"
"That I did, David."
"Well, the feast is not over." It was not? She was certain that he could get more from the kitchens, but she doubted that she could hold much more.
Instead of bringing out some delicacies, however, he began kissing her. His hands caressed her body through the dress as his tongue explored her mouth. She was eager for their pleasures when he stepped back and began to remove his robe. She removed her own few pieces of clothing and was in the bed before he was.
When he joined her, he resumed the kisses and caresses. He kissed her face, her neck, even her ears, while he was caressing her breasts and thighs. When his hand rubbed her center, his mouth dealt with her left breast. "A feast day," he broke the kiss to say, "and thou art a feast indeed." Then he sucked on that nipple and stroked within her lower lips.
Her excitement soared. She expected him to climb between her legs to enter her at any moment, but he did not. Then, with only his mouth and fingers arousing her, the lightning struck. "Oh!" she said.
"Good," he said. "Thou art a delightful girl, a lovely woman." Seeming to know that his fingers were now as unwelcome as they had been welcome before, he withdrew them. But they did not go far. His whole hand rested on her mound and between her legs.
While they lay like that and her breathing slowed, though, she became more and more conscious of that hand. When David turned to her again and began kissing her right breast, his hand caressed her once again. The touch was delicate, almost hesitant, but her feelings were especially sensitive. Slowly, her excitement rose again.
This time she couldn't control herself. She grasped his wrist to pull his hand against her more firmly. She was embarrassed, but David said "Delightful woman." He did rub her firmly and suck her nipple quite hard.
Then, however, he climbed between her legs once again. "Oh, Deborah," he said as he slid inside her. Then his strokes took up a firm rhythm and maintained it. Her excitement built. When it peaked, the lightning struck again and again. He stroked within her while she writhed on the bed underneath him. Then he said "Deborah!" once more and stiffened above her.
After he had fallen beside her, one more lightning stroke wracked her. Then she lay there as though dead. Breathing took all the strength she had left; more strength than she had, indeed, but she could not get enough air. As that need was slowly satisfied, David put one arm over her. "A feast indeed" were his last words for the night.
That morning he said nothing while they were in his chambers, either. His only words to her, the last words for seven long weeks, were "Dust thou art, and to dust thou shalt return."
The End A time to Gather Stones Together Uther Pendragon anon584c@nyx.net 2004/02/26 Thanks to Neneh for editing this. The depiction of the Danclaven coat of arms which appears above the title of this story was produced by Gary Jordan and the copyright belongs to him. For another story set in the same period, see: "Rampant" This story is indexed in; Mf, Older men, younger women The index to almost all my stories is: Index to Uther Pendragon's website