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Message-ID: <46856asstr$1077621003@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: anon584c@nyx.net (Uther Pendragon)
Reply-To: anon584c@nyx.net
Subject: {ASSM} {Mardi Gras} "A Time to Gather Stones Together 01" {Uther} (Mf 1st hist) [1/2]
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Date: Tue, 24 Feb 2004 06:10:03 -0500
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IF YOU ARE UNDER THE AGE OF 18, or otherwise forbidden by law to 
read electronically transmitted erotic material, please go do 
something else.

This material is Copyright, 2004, Uther Pendragon.  All rights 
reserved.  I specifically grant the right for all reproduction 
necessary for normal Usenet propagation.  I specifically grant 
the right of downloading and keeping ONE electronic copy for your 
personal reading so long as this notice is included.  Reposting 
requires previous permission.

Most of my other stories can be found at:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www

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


Chapter 1


    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 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.

"Comest 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 dost not say anything, especially now.  Thinkest things over.  
Decidest 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 half-
heartedly 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.  "You did that before you 
    left," 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 Zipah 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 you 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.


Concluded in Chapter 2
A Time to Gather Stones Together
Uther Pendragon
anon584c@nyx.net
2004/02/26

Thanks to Neneh for editing this.

Other stories set in the same time and place:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/med/rampant.htm "Rampant"
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/med/apprenti.htm "The Apprentice"


All my stories currently accessible:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/index.htm

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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