One Thousand Days – Chapter 3: The Bonding
In the morning Valentine was alone and more frightened than she had ever been, even during one of her father's drunken rages. She had felt the coldness in the bed first and then the coldness in the room as the sun's weak rays reached inside. On the chaise were her clothes, neatly arrayed as if never discarded as wantonly as they had been last night. She could still smell the marquis in the room, the hint of lavender that accompanied him everywhere, but there was no sign that he had been there, nothing from last night remained. Had it all been a dream?
She moved in bed and felt an ache between her legs, a stickiness that was unfamiliar. Upon her breasts were tiny bruises from his bites. She pulled the covers in around herself to shield herself from the pain in the room, in her heart and body. He was gone, she had failed and this was the last morning she would spend surrounded by such luxury.
Tears fell and she found herself sobbing uncontrollably, her body shaking beneath the covers. It was all over, barely three months and her lessons all for nought: she was a failure. Yet, last night she had been sure he'd been convinced of her worth. She had done as she was bidden, followed his commands. She had not cried out and she had wanted to. It had hurt; she wasn't sure if that was how it was meant to be but she felt the residue of pain in her limbs and heart this frigid morning. But he held as she fell asleep, and she'd thought that she might have found a small place in his heart. Now it was morning and she was abandoned. It was worse than she'd imagined, this feeling of utter desolation, at having given him what he'd wanted and being found inadequate. She expected the knock any moment from Mathilde, there to return her to her rightful place as worthless, now less than worthless, peasant girl.
She must have cried herself back to sleep for when she awoke again she found Mathilde sitting by the fire, with her dressing gown and a cup of milk.
'Oh, Mathilde,' she cried, feeling the tears falling again.
'Hush, child, whatever's the matter?' Mathilde took Valentine in her arms.
'I have failed. He's gone and I have been alone so long. Have you come to send me home?'
Mathilde was too kind to laugh at her, her smile was warm and understanding. 'Oh, my dear, the marquis has gone hunting. He set out before dawn, it's his favourite time to go. He'll be gone for hours, so I've come to take you back to your room and settle you for the day. No lessons, just a day to rest and contemplate your future with us.'
Valentine was quiet as she sipped her milk. 'I haven't failed? He was pleased?'
'He certainly approached the hunt with great humour and vitality this morning. Many have commented on it. There was a note awaiting me at breakfast regarding your arrangements this morning. Come now, we must return to your quarters before many more are about. You do understand the importance of discretion in all matters to do with the marquis?'
Mathilde gathered up Valentine's discarded clothes and left the room, leaving her charge to robe herself in private. Following down the complex passages to her room, Valentine found herself enormously relieved, as well as proud of her achievement. Although she was not sure what her achievement was. Was it right to give yourself up to a man without marriage, to give away, what her mother considered, her most prized asset? For she was no longer pure, her innocence had been taken last night. Surely her parents had known what was to happen to her. Why had her mother not told her more, prepared her better? Valentine had sensed an odd pride in her parents but a cautionary tone in her mother's demeanour as she'd left that morning several months ago. She wondered what would happen to her after her one thousand days had expired, what man would want her then, used and discarded by the marquis? What value would she have to a man then? But to be the marquis' mistress was surely some achievement? Life as a flower girl had been harder but simpler. Life was changing out of all recognition. Three short months and she did not recognise herself.
'Mathilde,' Valentine asked as the breakfast dishes were cleared from her room, 'am I the marquis' mistress now?'
Mathilde sat down heavily opposite her charge. 'We do not use that word in this household.'
Valentine nodded. 'So what am I? I am not a servant, nor am I an aristocrat, so what am I?'
'You will have to discuss that with the marquis. Safe to say that your position, whatever the title is, is assured. You have pleased him and are doing well with your lessons. Monsieur Artois sings you praises every day. Continue to do as you are bid and I sure you will find many rewards.'
Valentine gratefully took Mathilde's hand in hers. 'Thank you, Mathilde, for all your kindnesses. I am so glad to have you as my friend. I wouldn't know what to do without you.'
Mathilde took the young girl in her arms and embraced her warmly. Friendship was hard to come by in anyone's world and she was touched by Valentine's simple sincerity. She hoped with all her heart that things would turn out for the best. The marquis was a generous master, a fair man but she was not sure about the nature of this enterprise. She remembered the others only too well.
The following morning Valentine was given a box and a letter. Inside the box was a scarlet silk and lace negligee with black ribbons for effect. 'For tonight, G,' said the note, written in his hand. There was very little to the garment but it felt divine and as she held it against herself Valentine felt the blush begin and the memory of her night with the marquis burned her body. She wondered where and when, was it for supper again or just...
A knock announced Rene. 'Good morning, Valentine, I trust you are well. I have been instructed to help you move.'
'Move?' Now she was confused. Here was a gift from the marquis, yet she was to move out? 'Rene, what is happening?'
He smiled sheepishly at her – how much did he know? He was a friendly boy whose company she enjoyed; her riding lessons were one of her favourite past-times. Mostly because she got away from the house, and a few hours free from Monsieur Artois' serious intensity was welcome. But because it was easy to be with Rene, he made her laugh and smiled readily at the world. 'I have been instructed by the marquis to help you move your things, such that you wish to take from this room, to a suite nearer to the marquis himself.'
She looked around. There was very little that was actually hers, most of it was furniture that had been here on her arrival. There were her new dresses, her embroidery, some books from the library but nothing she could really call hers.
If Valentine had doubts before about the marquis's intentions when she saw her new rooms she knew she had won him. There were three adjacent rooms: a large bedroom with two windows, a sitting room and a dressing room with her very own bath. Each room had an elaborate mantelpiece with intricate carvings, delicate chandeliers, and heavy velvet drapes with gold brocade in matching tones of the deepest blue. The upholstery of her chairs and sofas were paler tones of blue with gold and white fleur de lilse patterns. Her bed was larger than before and softer with more pillows. Each room had fresh flowers, elaborately ornate mirrors of differing sizes and the bedroom and sitting room faced the same garden she was used to gazing upon. Leading off from her sitting room was a door to the marquis' suites. It was locked from her side.
Perhaps this had been his wife's quarters? Or was this the traditional suite for the mistress of the Marquis de Chatillon? Valentine found it hard to think of herself as anything other than mistress. Whore was too violent a word and she was not being paid. But then, her family had been paid for her and she was being clothed, housed, taught and fed. So perhaps whore was the correct word.
Mid afternoon another box arrived. Inside Valentine found a silk dressing gown to match the negligee of the morning. It was very light and had patterns that she had seen in the art books from the east. The garment seemed odd, with large sleeves and a wrapping style rather than buttons but it felt beautiful next to her skin and she looked forward to wearing it for the marquis. There was a longer note. 'Wear this too. Be dressed by 9pm. I will come to your rooms. Be ready for me. G.'
That night he came to her quickly. Almost as soon as the clock struck nine the key was in her door. She had done as asked and wore the negligee and gown draped around her. He opened the gown to reveal the shapeliness of her body, less restricted by the loose structure of the garment. He bade her not to speak as he caressed her and kissed her. She was not frightened this evening although she did not want the pain of last night again. She wondered about love, if this was love, but knew she could not ask. She wished she had asked more of her mother about men, about love before she left home. But she was content that he liked her and would keep her for the one thousand days.
He was gentle with her this night, no biting or bruising, just tender caresses and lingering kisses until he could bear it no longer and his desire to be within her took control. She was a little resistant, her body automatically bracing for the onslaught but as he moved gently inside her, less urgent this night and less needy, she opened to him and welcomed him better. She found she wanted him too, her body separating from her mind almost, as it seemed to have done the first night. He held her to him again, kissing her neck, feeling the wondrous warmth of her flesh next to his. 'I will always be gone by dawn,' he said. 'I want them to wake me in my own bed. I'm sure you understand.'
He came to her every night for a week. A message in the day, an instruction: a gift of flowers or clothing, an ornament of her own. They did not dine together only fell on each other, hungering for the flesh of each other. By week's end she did not care what she was called and knew she was in love with him.
She was not allowed to speak as they made love and as that was all they did that week she did not speak at all and never asked a single question of him.
At the end of the week he sent a message requesting a light supper with her. She had to wear her silk robe but be naked beneath. He arranged champagne and caviar, strawberries and chocolates. He arrived with a small velvet box and sat it on the table between them. 'For later,' he instructed. 'Now we can eat and talk and enjoy each other in a more simple way.' He smiled warmly at her, pouring her champagne which he knew she adored. He spooned little morsels of caviar into her pink mouth and delighted when her robe fell open revealing her naked breasts. She was quite drunk by the time they had eaten and still there was another bottle of champagne at hand.
He took her to the fireplace where he had placed a thick white polar bear skin rug, a present from his Russian friend, Alexei. 'Sit here and I shall give you your present.' He placed the velvet box in her hands. Inside she found a gold ring and a fine gold chain with an engraved heart – V and G entwined. He placed the chain around her slender white neck noting how pleased she was with this simple unadorned gift. He kissed her neck and enjoyed the silken texture of her hair on his fingers, golden and red in the fire-light. She took the ring from the box. It was too small and fine for even her delicate fingers. She examined it and held it up to him. 'I don't understand.'
'This is the second part of our arrangement. This is the bonding. This is the ring I give you to wear but only I will know that you wear it. Are you prepared to accept my ring and wear it for my pleasure?'
It felt like getting married, accepting his ring, bonding with him. She knew she was not understanding him but thought that was the effects of the champagne. Perhaps he was going to add the ring to the chain and she would wear it there and only they would know what it meant?
He poured her another glass of champagne. 'Have another drink with me,' he said encouragingly. He took the small gold circle from her hand and gentle broke it open. It was an earring, a golden earring with tiny facets that caught the light. She pouted sweetly, she wanted earrings, but only one?
'I will ask you again, Valentine. Will you accept my ring and wear it for my pleasure?'
'Yes, Guy. I will.'
'You must do as I tell you. Will you do that, Valentine? Will you not cry out if I hurt you?'
The bubbles fizzed in her head, making her a little woozy. She was anxious now: why was he talking about hurting her again? But his face was kind and she loved him and he'd given her a heart with their initials entwined on it and so many other gifts this week. She had to be obedient, her mother had said. He kissed her lips softly.
'Lie back on the rug, open your gown, let your legs fall apart. Let me look at you. Let me touch you.'
She did as he commanded, letting his slender fingers stroke her willing thighs, push into her eager wetness. She felt herself relax, felt herself wanting him. But he wasn't pushing into her now. He was pulling out her labia, her soft outer sex flesh to stroke and focus on. Suddenly there was a sharp pricking, a burning sensation, like the fire was stabbing into her. 'Be completely still,' he crooned, his voice soft but masterful. 'That only hurt a little now didn't it? Not so much pain at all. And I promise once I have placed my ring I will make love to you until you fall asleep. I keep my promises, sweet Valentine.' He kissed her quickly. 'Hold still a little longer.' She closed her eyes tight, willing herself not to cry out, felt a tug and tearing of her flesh, a hot flash of pain, something being pushed into her skin, forced through her sexual lip. Suddenly it stopped and there was a terrible throbbing.
'It burns,' she whispered. 'Whatever you have done, it burns.'
He poured some champagne over her, stinging the heat into submission, covering her neck with soft kisses. 'Here,' he said handing her a hand mirror. 'See how you are mine. See how any other man who comes to know you will know I have been here first, will know that you are mine forever.' She saw how the gold ring had pierced her through her lip, her pink sex lip. She saw it was red and glowing. She felt it burn and sting but she had not cried out in pain, she had endured it all without a tear or whimper. But before she could speak he was on top of her.
His penis was engorged and dripping, wanting her. His desire brought on too quickly by marking her, by the ritual act of bonding. He had not realised how stimulating it would be, how much it would make him burn to be inside her. He pushed in quickly, rapidly moving his urgency in and out, as deep as he could, his lean body glowing in the heat of the fire.
Valentine looked at him and did not know him: his face was not smiling but contorted, his teeth bared in more of a snarl than a grin. His blue eyes were not warm or full of passion as she had observed this week. He seemed as another, something wild and unknown to her. He seemed like a victor not a lover. It seemed like she had been vanquished not exulted.
She was bleeding as he finished. Her wound was too raw for his brutal animal lust. She tried to smile, to be brave, to not show her fear. He looked at her face and knew he had gone too far: perhaps not with the ring but with his selfish excessive enjoyment of her. He bent his head and licked her wound, licked her blood into his mouth.
'This means so much to me, my sweet Valentine. I will think of you every day. Think of what you have done for me by accepting my ring, by allowing us to bond. You will never leave my heart.' He spoke softly to her in a voice she recognised and she fell into his embrace as she had done all week.
He laid her on the bed, stroking her hair gently, kissing her cheek softly, watching until she fell asleep, full of an aching longing for something he might have had once, which seemed might be possible again. He stood over her, tucking the covers in warmly around her, wondering what was really possible: wondering if this girl had been waiting for him, if she knew the pain in his life, the sadness in his heart. He looked at her sweet sleeping face and thought that perhaps God, in his infinite wisdom, had sent Valentine to save him. That it was time for him, Guy, Marquis of Chatillon, to begin his life again.