The Heir's the Thing

Rosemund turned her head from brushing her raven-black hair its required strokes and gazed into the mirror of her dressing bureau. She looked at the reflection of the palmed hands where her bodice would normally be and stifled a moan. He held each nipple between a thumb and index finger and was applying rhythmic pressure. She enjoyed the feel of it immensely, but she did not want to give him the satisfaction of showing just how much he moved her.

"Are you quite sure, My Lady, that it remains intact? You sail on the morrow's tide, and it would go ill for you—for all of us—if the duke discovered he was receiving used goods."

"If you have not taken it, Sir Arthur, I have it yet. I certainly haven't misplaced it. But perhaps—perhaps, yes—I may be bereft of it after all. Shall I have my maidens come in now, to find us like this—maidens to search the chamber in pursuit of a maidenhead?"

"Do not jest with me, Rosemund. You know you drive me to distraction. And if you have lain with another man, I at least would wish the privilege myself as well before you sail. I understand that women have a way of hiding their loss of virginity whenever it pleases them."

"Ah, so it is not me you are concerned about, is it Sir Arthur? But mayhap it is that sword I feel at my back. Perhaps I should call my father in, and he and his chamberlain can duel their swords over my one sheath. At times I think my father can barely keep his hands off me—and that he does so only upon the commodity value of my intact maidenhead."

"Sometimes you are far too quick-tongued and bawdy for the good of all, Rosemund. You should not talk of your father that way—especially to me, as it would be greatly impolitic of me to countenance such talk. You know what hangs on the balance here. You know what an alliance with the duchy of Osten Westfalen means to your family and its ability to maintain its position here and expand its fortunes abroad. You are such a tease and live so dangerously that methinks tossing you in the swarm of snakes in the duke's household may be the undoing of us all."

"And if I lived less dangerously, would we be here, like this, your hands making love to my breasts?" Rosemund asked softly, her eyes searching his in the reflection of the mirror. "I think you shortchange me, Arthur. I know how it is in Osten Westfalen. An aging Hapsburg duke trying to balance three strong, land-based families but without an heir. I know that if he dies without a male heir, the duchy either will be torn apart in internecine warfare or the Hapsburg emperor will march in and add yet another choice morsel of real estate to his holdings."

"There is a third way, Rosemund," Arthur whispered.

"A third way?" Rosemund asked. She arched her eyebrows, brushed his hands away from her exposed breasts, and turned, facing him, on her boudoir stool. She placed a hand on the bulge behind his codpiece and was rewarded with a groan.

"You will be the death of me, Rosemund. Just say the word—that you have it not still—and, so help me, I will give you a ride that you won't forget for the rest of the dried-up, aging duke's life."

"The third way, Arthur. You spoke of a third way. If I must go marry the duke, I must be fully armed."

"You are fully armed. None are better in the length and breadth of this country. The duke is destined to be disarmed. And if any maid on earth can tease an heir out of that old man's cock, it is you. But it may not be necessary. I have heard that the Osten Westfalen counts have a plan of their own, and we can fall into that plan to our own benefit."

"A plan. What plan? And to whose benefit, Arthur? I know how seeking you are."

He gave her a sour look, but proceeded nonetheless to unfold the plan he'd come to pose to her.

"I have heard that the three counts of Osten Westfalen have made a pact—somewhat of a lottery. The three houses each have given up one of their goodliest, prime sons to serve on your guard when you have become the duchess. These young men will vie for your attentions. And whichever of them produces a male heir for the duke will win all."

"And the duke will just stand by and play the happy cuckold, will he?" Rosemund asked. Her snort suggested her disbelief in this plan.

"The duke is a realist, my love. He is old and has not many choices. He may only live four years, they say—and those may not be productive years. There already are rumors that he is withered and unable to perform."

"Ah, in four years I could produce him three sons," Rosemund said with a laugh. "That is why he has come here for a wife, is it not? The legend of the Costain women?"

"Yes, the legend is strong and true, My Lady. The women of your family are famous for their unwaveringly fecund properties."

"Property," she shot back with a snort. "It is always about property, is it not?"

There was no answer. He was breathing hard, looking down at her hand on his codpiece.

"On your knees," she whispered in a sultry voice.

Arthur sank to his knees, and Rosemund rucked up her skirting to reveal that she was now as exposed below as she was above. She took one of Arthur's hands, trembling now despite the strength and customary steadiness of a man accustomed to jousting and battle, and laid it on her triangle. Arthur gasped, the look of want possessing his face.

"And you are going to tell me that you already have a horse in this race, aren't you?" she whispered.

"Yes, yes, it is true, my love. The Keulen knight, Petrus van Keulen. He is strong and healthy and, they assure me, has many male bastards about the countryside."

"And he is in your pocket, is he not?"

"Yes, I cannot lie."

"No, as long as I allow your hand to lay were it is, I am sure you cannot lie to me, Arthur—knowing that the moment I sense you are, I will push you away and will go no farther."

"Go no farther? Then you are telling me that you have given it already, that we can . . .?"

"Shush. Must you always think of your cock's need? Tell me this one last truth first—no, there are two truths you can tell me. This connection to the Keulen faction. This is not a plan of my father's, is it? This is your connection and yours alone. And if so, what promise have they made to you? Why is it in my interests to favor this Petrus van Keulen—who is said to already have male bastards left and right throughout the duchy?"

Rosemund was just toying with the chamberlain now. She already knew of the third possibility in her mission to Osten Westfalen. Her father had already apprised her of the pact of the counts. And his horse in the race was Heinricus von Veltheim.

"Yes, it is my connection alone. I will own up to that. But the prize is sweet, my love. The duke will not live long; when he is dead and whether or not you have produced an heir, the way will be made clear for you to marry me."

"Marry you? That's my prize?" Rosemund's laugh was lilting. Arthur no doubt took it as a sign of her pleasure. "And then you would become not only the step-father of a duke but lord of the Costain domains as well when my father dies. Is that not right?"

Arthur nodded, seeing nothing untoward in that eventuality, but confused and perplexed at how easily she had discerned his path. But he stood up, mute, searching for the words that would master her, as was only right. The vixen was above herself not matter what her parentage or prospects.

"Ah, well, a good plan then," Rosemund murmured, freeing Arthur of his concern. "And although I must disappoint you in the possibility of a flown maidenhead, there is more than one way to sheath a sword. And I do believe that your cleverness and concern for my well-being deserve a reward."

Rosemund reached out with both hands and unlaced Arthur's codpiece, freeing his half-hard member to flop out into her hands. He arched his back and moaned a deep moan as her sweet mouth closed over his cock and her tongue started weaving its magic of the ejaculation.

Later, when Rosemund was alone and had lain on her bed, pouting and thinking, while her handmaidens scurried about the chamber preparing the baggage to be placed on board the ship before tomorrow's sailing, she sighed and waved her attendants from the chamber.

"I am bored with this journey already," she said as they scurried for the doorway. "Send in my musician. I will have a lusty song ere I embark on this onerous journey."

The young man came into the room and closed and bolted the door behind him. He was a fine-figured young man, blond and muscular, more in tune with working the fields and manning the castle walls than in singing. And indeed his singing was indifferent and his lute strumming even less appealing. But Rosemund had found his songs and strumming quite sufficient in touching her deeply.

He came and stood beside where she lay on the bed, and she watched him as he slowly disrobed, revealing an instrument capable of reaching Rosemund's high note. He reached for her legs and turned her to the side of the bed, pulling her toward the edge, and moving away the folds of her skirting as he spread her snow-white, perfectly formed legs, entered her treasure room with a searching finger.

"Un petit linge," she murmured. "Do not forget." She gestured toward the low bureau at the side of the bed, and the lad opened the cabinet door and extracted a sheath made of sheep's intestines and drew it over his engorged member.

Then he turned back toward Rosemund, drawing his slim pelvis in between her spread legs. She laughed a throaty laugh and grabbed for his thin waist with both hands, as he leaned over her and began to sing to her in hushed, rich tones. The thrust inside her was fast and deep, a familiar comfort to her that she would miss as she would never miss the attentions of the chamberlain, Arthur D'Arcey. It was a pity that the Germans had demanded that she keep her attendants at the court of the duke—the Herzog of Osten Westfalen—to a bare minimum, and with no men attendants permitted—as they would provide their own. She rather liked having her own musician.

Yes, my dear, silly, grasping, Arthur, she thought to herself as the much younger, more comely, virile and better-endowed youth continued singing his sweet song both from his lips and at the tip of his cock inside her. Yes, women do know ways of being virgins time and time again, as necessary, and as it pleases them.

* * * *

The greatest impression that Osten Westfalen made on Rosemund was that it was cold and barren—just the opposite of what she was sent to accomplish here.

Her own people loved her and reveled in her familiarity and her voluptuous gaiety as she moved freely about her father's domains, dispensing smiles and playful suggestive banter to all, regardless of talents or station. Hers was a happy, warm, jolly kingdom.

And she had traded it for this pile of dark rock set high on a barren ridge, with nary a smile or cheery hello from any of those standing along the pitted and puddled coach track leading from the border of the northern German princedom, through the dreary town of Manz, and up to the duke's castle. What Rosemund saw instead on the faces of those standing back to watch her passage was worry and a hint of hope swallowed in a sea of hopelessness. This, better than anything else, had brought home to Rosemund the responsibility that had been laid on her shoulders—a mere woman in a world of grasping men. In each face, Rosemund saw the recognition of looming war and destruction, and just the glimmer of hope that some miracle would stay the sword hands of the scheming counts—the grafs—of the duchy.

If Rosemund had expected better when she'd reached the castle and her carriage had rumbled over the drawbridge and under the portcullis and into the echoing inner courtyard, she was sadly mistaken. The faces on the menial servants in the courtyard were the same as those out on the muddy road, and only that of Ritter Horst, the duke's chief adviser, who was standing on the outer steps of the inner hall, awaiting her arrival, offered a visage of hope.

The Ritter was a graybeard, but this aging of his hair may have resulted from the burdens of counseling and substitute governing, Rosemund thought, as he offered her his arm when she descended from the carriage. Belying the gray, he seemed a solid man, strong, big of bone, and ruddy in appearance. The picture of health. And Rosemund sensed a healthiness in him in another regard too, one of great importance to her. The look he gave her was one of self-assuredness, comfort in his own virility, and an instant interest in her that Rosemund found all too familiar. She was sure she could have him, if she wanted him—and in this lay her greatest weapon. He was of strategic importance in the duchy, and it was with less doubt and fear and trembling that Rosemund entered the great hall on his arm.

They followed the rich, red carpeting toward the dais at the far end of the hall. Many of the obviously minor nobles gathered on each side of the carpeting were looking at her with the same forlorn, doubting hope that Rosemund had seen on the faces of the peasants on the road. Those in finer array looked at her with more speculative visages. The latter seemed parted, dressed in three separate liveries, holding apart from each other, the men's hands on their sheathed sword handles, and Rosemund could feel the palpable tension and danger in the room. No one would have had to tell her that the duchy was a tinder box awaiting the flare of an unbalancing event. She also saw that the men of the three counties looked at her with another aspect of speculation—a lustful one. Most of them wanted her. And, confident in who she was and the effect she had on men, Rosemund reasoned that the men who didn't look on her with lust must be saving that look for other men. She marked the build and bulges of the men, as she passed, and was pleased that most were of good stock and interesting possibilities.

Her study of the men in passing, though, was neither purposeless nor a halting effort to delay her appearance between the bent-over old man she could see struggling off a throne on the dais at the apex of the hall. She was looking for something in particular. And when she saw it, she was surprised. But she smiled a little inner smile, intrigued by the challenge it posed, ready for the game.

She steeled herself as she stood before him now, the Herzog of Osten Westfalen, the Hapsburg Duke Stephan. She smiled her prepared smile, determined to prove out as the actress she knew she was. She had been warned, and the reality wasn't as bad as the warnings—at least not quite. With the exception of the deforming, long, pointed chin of the Hapsburgs, Stephan looked like he had been half-presentable in youth—almost. He no longer was a youth, however, or even anywhere close to middle age.

At this moment Rosemund whispered a prayer of thankfulness for the wanton life she had led until now. She could not count the times she had lost her maidenhead, again and again, but she was glad now that the duke would not be the genuine first to breach it—that she was well experienced in the needs and arousal of men. She could see that her work was cut out for her, that it was almost too late. But, she reasoned, seeing the gleam in the old man's eyes, perhaps not too late after all. She had been told that the duke had been quite a horseman in his day, known for his size and staying power, and had begat sons—all of who tragically had died. But the ground was there for her to work with.

Opening pleasantries over, the Ritter, Horst, turned to Rosemund and said, "I will show you your quarters now and introduce you to your attendants, and then you will be prepared for the wedding."

"Now? Today? The wedding ceremony so soon?" Rosemund asked.

"Yes, My Lady. I'm sure that you will understand . . . that time is of the essence in this regard."

"Ah, yes, I do understand," Rosemund said. She turned her head toward the duke, who was standing on his own accord—a minor miracle in itself—and hunched over in front of his throne. He was drooling as he cast glistening eyes on her, and Rosemund hoped that this wasn't all because of physical disability.

As they continued their procession through the castle, Ritter Horst gave a sign when they came to an arched double doorway to the right to those processing with them, principally the handmaidens Rosemund had been permitted to bring with her and the female attendants provided by the duchy—to aid and support—and spy on—this new addition to their dukedom.

"Please, your highness, if you will step into the chapel a moment with me, we have a little private matter to discuss."

"Of course, your grace," Rosemund responded with a coy, winning smile that caused Horst to pause and gulp. Rosemund momentarily wondered if he would seize her and take her on the spot. But he didn't. And she realized that she was slightly disappointed that he did not. He was a fine figure of a man.

"The matter is delicate, but I understand it has been discussed with you already—before you set sail to us."

"Yes, yes, it has been," Rosemund answered. She wondered which of the families Horst might be speaking for, whether he thought she had discussed the matter with her father or with Arthur D'Arcey, her father's chamberlain. But she did not ask, and Horst did not say. In truth, he did not name a horse of his own, which somewhat surprised her. Rosemund was prepared for the worst in the complexity and convoluted nature of scheming at a Hapsburg court. And, in truth, she welcomed it.

"As you know, the duchy is in crisis. There is no male heir, and there may be either internecine warfare or seizure by the emperor if there is no heir when the duke has died, although of course that will not happen for many years to come, thank God." Horst looked around as if they were being watched and his words were being marked, and Rosemund had no doubt that both were the case.

"Yes, I understand. I know where my duty lies, what is expected of me," she answered.

"And you have seen the duke now. You know how it is with him." Horst felt constrained to say more, but he was looking intently at Rosemund, willing her to follow his meaning.

"Yes, yes. I am pleased to have been found pleasing to his highness," Rosemund said, a demure look on her face. She cast her eyes down—but only briefly, bringing them up to meet Horst's gaze and conveying that she was following him with her mind even if it did not appear so with her spoken responses.

"We are solicitous of your safety, My Lady. Thus, you will be pleased to know that we have provided three fine, young, strapping sons of the three counties in the kingdom to guard your safety, your body, from all harm. Do you follow me, My Lady?"

Rosemund's smile told him that she did.

"We know that you will need one bodyguard above all of the rest. It is your choice, of course, but I pray you to learn of our kingdom quickly and to choose wisely. Neither the duke nor I will make the choice for you. We have heard of your quick wit, and we trust that you will know what you must do."

"Yes, yes, thank you, Ritter Horst," Rosemund responded, giving the counselor a serious look that conveyed that she understood all. "I am only sorry that your own position is so exalted that I may not include you in the choices of . . . bodyguard, though." She said this with a sweet smile that had the Ritter blushing and stammering.

"I . . . I . . . could not presume, My Lady."

"Ah, but I sense that you are man enough to be able to presume whatever you wished, sir—and surely man enough to hope of achieving what you seek."

Rosemund had said this in a low voice, one meant to reach the counselor's ears only. And the expression of perplexity and pleasure his face took on told her that her words had struck home—that he was hers. Her first ally at a new, strange, teeming-with-scheming court.