La Roche-Derrien

Title: La Roche-Derrien
Author: Nom DePlume
Summary: During the fall of La-Roche Derrien, one battle-weary soldier seeks refuge in a hayloft. There he finds an archer, and they get to know one another a little better.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: ChristopherxPhilip
Feedback: Welcome.
Betas: None. Any spelling mistakes or idiocy is purely my own.
Author\'s notes: Inspired by a particular scene in the book \'Harlequin\' by Bernard Cornwell - the fall of La Roche-Derrien. Although that book prompted me to write this, it was an actual historical event and the characters here are all original and contain no overt reference to the book at all, so it has been filed under Original Slash. Special thanks to Penguinsoda, Bard\'s Apprentice, Warrior Bard, and Harpling for my first reviews; your remarks prompted me to write another little ficlet.
Disclaimer: I own these characters, but perhaps not La Roche-Derrien itself.


******

The gates had been opened from the inside by a group of English archers within the army under the command of the Earl of Northampton, and it had taken only moments for the rest of the troops to flood within its walls and begin laying La Roche-Derrien to waste from the inside out.

Once the soldiers had successfully gotten into the town, their minds turned from the business of taking the walls of the city to the more pleasurable privilege of reaping its plunder.

Incoherent shouts yells soon drifted towards the cry of a single word.

\"Havoc! Havoc!\"

That word boiled the blood, encouraging men to plunder and pillage, and take what they willed. The voices of conquering men were overlaid with the wild clanging of bells, and soon shrieks of citizens being overcome by the ascending wave of English which surged up the sloped city.

Anything and everything within private homes and shops was free for the taking for whomever reached it first. Any Frenchman who put up a fight for his household would be easily killed by the armored English, and swept aside as a corpse at the threshold.

Possessions were fought over by the soldiers seizing a house, but women were not. All could have their turn with any mother, daughter, or widow unfortunate enough to be pretty, and caught by an outstretched hand.

Soon, casks of ale were broken open and the army began to gorge itself on alcohol. Then even the more homely maids had their skirts ripped at, and were tossed to the ground by enthusiastic men who had been at march alone for too long.

It was an orgy of stealing, raping, drinking. Most men were exuberant, loading their arms with anything they could sell, taking their pleasure from ladies and drink. Some members of the army did not take joy from plunder, but these quiet people were overshadowed by those succumbing to wilder excesses.

Philip Bexley wanted nothing of it tonight. Of course, he already had taken a small share of his own plunder from necessity; some jewelry he\'d managed to snatch up on the street, inevitably spilled from the occupied arms of some overzealous looter. It was probably some young woman\'s future dowry, he reflected. That young woman was likely being raped by a soldier this very moment, with five or more waiting in line for her, if she was pretty enough.

Philip sighed a little, passing a screaming woman wrestling against a laughing man. He winced as he heard his leather glove slap her hard against the face, and her screams diminished into sobs. Drunk men were staggering out of a tavern, and he ducked inside to drown himself with drink.

He found a mug and an ale barrel overturned on its side with a spigot in it. He turned the handle and filled his mug, drinking deeply as he tried to ignore the sounds of the city\'s downfall all around him. He was not alone in the tavern, for other men were drinking around him, comparing their prizes. Flies were settling on the exposed bowels of the barkeeper, who lay in the corner with his belly split.

Philip had been a swordsman for many years, and he\'d seen it all. But he was never the kind to gradually accept what war offered, and certainly he didn\'t revel in it like some men. He was never accused of being soft, for his ferocity in the thick of battle swayed any such notion. Philip had no moral qualm with war and the taking of its spoils, it simply discouraged him to see his fellow soldiers exulting in the absence of chivalry.

It didn\'t help that Philip never had a desire for half of it. Ale was fine, and so were jewels to keep supporting himself, and stowing away gold for a hopeful day when he wouldn\'t need to fight any more. But even the prettiest maidens never held any attraction for him. His friends amongst the ranks joked and thought it was because he was pious, and Philip kept up the facade. But truthfully, he would be watching the muscles of the men exercising shirtless at camp with a wolfish look in his eye.

When a man took his woman to his tent at night, Philip would find his heart quickened by the soldier\'s groans of ecstasy rather than the woman\'s muffled moans. Sometimes the bright smile of one of their fellow troops would give a surging of hope, but it would always amount to nothing, a false lead.

With these thoughts in his mind, Philip drained his ale mug and strode out of the tavern. The town was dark, he was tired, and the army was free until it was summoned to regroup, which likely wouldn\'t be until morning. Everyone was out of control, and they\'d be left to collapse into drunken slumber until the next day.

Philip was growing weary of holding his chestplate under his arm, with his heavy buff-coat still on him. They made decent armor and had saved his life in battles before, but once the fighting was over they were an annoying weight. Even in the cool air of December, he was chafing and feeling warm inside the thick leather buff-coat. He wanted to put down his burdens, and take off the heavy garment and let the mug of ale he\'d had on an empty stomach soothe him into a sleep.

He looked around, trying to find peaceful lodgings for the night. There was a stable, there, already stripped of horses and now left abandoned. There would be hay up in the loft, and Philip advanced towards it with the hope it would be his bed for the evening.

He had an awkward time getting up to the loft, heaving his chestplate and climbing awkwardly due to the stiff leather on him, and his stolen necklaces besides. Finally he shoved them onto the loft, and looked up. His moment of awkward climbing was very well rewarded.

A young man was standing there, inches of flesh revealed as he pulled his brigandine up over his head carefully, freeing himself from the tunic made armor by the metal plating riveted beneath concealing fabric.

It was sliding up his torso, revealing a taut abdomen inch by inch. Philip had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from inhaling a breath of startled air when the garment finally was tugged over the boy\'s head, revealing tousled straw hair and hazel eyes that went wide with surprise at seeing someone else in the loft.

\"Good lord!\" The young man exclaimed, clutching a hand to his chest. He recognized the man as one of their own English army, but he\'d been terrified for a moment.

Philip\'s eyes drank greedily of the pale skin washed like milk over strong muscles, unscarred, chest heaving up and down with quickened breaths due to his surprise. Cooling his mind, he spoke.

\"I hope you\'re more observant than that in a battle.\"

Regaining his equilibrium, the young man dropped his brigandine in a tuft of hay, and smirked lightly. \"I\'m still alive, aren\'t I?\"

Philip indulged himself and trailed his eyes over the young man\'s slim form, and thought he saw the younger man\'s shoulders straighten under his scrutiny. \"I see you are.\" A flick of brown eyes towards the left showed not only the brigandine laying there, but a longbow and a bag of arrows. So this boy was an archer.

He certainly had the arms for it. Evidently this one had been an archer for as long as he could hold a bow, well-muscled if a little slender. The ale was contributing to Philip\'s wicked ideas as he took in the youth\'s body, and he was hard pressed not to let his thoughts leap too far into hoping that he\'d be able to get a bit of enjoyment out of this evening after all.

\"Mind if I join you?\" He asked at last, wondering if he\'d perhaps stared too long.

The young man shrugged lightly, gesturing to the copious amounts of hay around them. \"It\'s a free loft, I suppose. I figured someone else would find it eventually. At least you aren\'t dragging any screaming women up here,\" he said, and smiled at Philip. That smile, and the profile that was revealed when the young man looked briefly over at some hay, made Philip realize with a jolt that he recognized the young man.

The English army was large, and naturally archers and swordsmen did not always have the chance to mingle, marching in ranks as they did. But nevertheless, his clear hazel eyes and the downy dirty-blonde color of his hair were familiar to him. His jaw was beardless, another easily recognizable trait.

The archer noticed the stare he was getting, and Philip\'s sinful heart froze a moment, but melted again when the younger man merely smiled at him disarmingly. His hazel eyes looked to where Philip\'s had glanced before, to his bow. Then they looked at the sword strapped to Philip\'s belt - another thing that had been weighing him down during his ascent into the loft.

\"You a swordsman?\"

\"Yes. And you\'re an archer, I see. My name\'s Philip Bexley.\"

\"Christopher.\"

The archer picked a piece of hay, and sat down on the edge of it. Even though it was winter, the hayloft was warm for them both; warm air had risen from the now-stolen animals and become trapped beneath the eaves, and running into battle provides the body with an adrenaline warmth that doesn\'t leave quickly, especially when bolstered with alcohol.

Philip took a moment to get his buff-coat off, shucking it to the side with his chestplate, and a satisfied sigh as he tugged his undertunic into a less disarrayed state. He stripped off his boots, too, and saw that Christopher had already done the same. His swordbelt soon joined the pile of clutter, and he stretched with relief to be free of all that weight. As he raised his arms over his head and stretched, he thought he saw Christopher looking at him out of the corner of his eye.

Philip sat down next to Christopher, not too close, and crossed his legs. After a moment of silence that was definitely awkward, he spoke.

\"I\'ve seen you before.\"

\"Oh?\"

Philip thought the tone sounded falsely casual, and tried not to fantasize that he had heard intrigue in Christopher\'s voice.

\"Yes, marching, sometimes in camp.\"

\"There\'s lots of men in camp,\" Christopher pointed out bluntly. \"What made you notice me?\"

Philip was taken aback by the archer\'s boldness, and thought he smelled ale on his breath when the boy leaned closer.

\"Not many men in camp don\'t have beards,\" he quipped, and instantly regretted it. Christopher frowned fiercely, and turned his back on him.

\"I\'m going to sleep now.\"

Philip stared at the young man\'s bare shoulders, chastising himself for being so brash. He sighed audibly, laid out on his own patch of hay, and pretended to be drifting into sleep.

But his mind was honed, focused unwillingly on Christopher. The cadence of his breathing told him the other was not sleeping. Why not?

Philip calculated. If he made an advance, and it was rejected, Christopher could report him to their superiors and he would be ridiculed as a sinful sodomizer. He might be able to convince those above him that Christopher was lying. After all, he was senior in the ranks. But the fact that no one had seen him take a woman to his bed might bode ill in his favor.

He could bribe Christopher to silence if need be. Perhaps threaten him to it, if it came to that. He did not wish to rape the comely lad, but ale and his own neglected desire was telling him he would be kicking himself for life if he did not attempt anything, while he had this chance.

If he went about it right, he could perhaps be misinterpreted. An accidental brush, a curious check to see if the other was yet asleep...

Philip reached out one sword-calloused hand, and dared to brush his fingers along the young man\'s shoulderblade. He saw a shiver, and his manhood was encouraged by it, stirring within its deerskin confines.

Christopher had not moved away, so he cautiously flattened his hand on his shoulder, and slowly drew it down the side of his arm. Seeing no adverse reaction, certain that the archer was awake, he moved his dry palm to his the pale back, drawing his fingertips up along the spine.

Christopher truly did shiver this time, gooseflesh rising on the backs of his arms. He kept his back to the swordsman, allowing these caresses. Philip hoped that they weren\'t just being permitted. When he slid his hand over the younger man\'s hips, and brushed his fingertips over his groin, he was rewarded by feeling a bit of hardness there.

Philip swallowed loudly, hay rustling as he slid closer. His breath fell upon a young neck, and the hairs there stood up. Daring, he slowly pushed his lips against the skin at the nape. It was soft, very soft. He could understand the allure women held for the other men, with their smooth skin and soft parts. But there was something resilient, and stronger about men that just attracted Philip. And of course, there was a certain hardness...

His hand rubbed over a slim chest, breath quickening as he felt nipples perk at his palm\'s passage. He stroked a teasing trail downwards, finally cupping his hand on the taut flesh radiating heat and desire. His own erection was straining similarly, pushing against the laces of his breeches, desiring freedom.

A soft moan slipping from Christopher\'s voice gave him confidence, and the groan of disappointment he heard when he slid his hand away made his cock twitch within its prison.

His fingertips went to one of those awakened nipples, rubbing over the pebble-hard nub. Christopher squirmed quietly, offering a hot gasp of need. His own hand was between his legs now, rubbing as his hips arched to and fro, picking at the laces desperately.

Philip did not help him, but continued rubbing that pink nub with maddening persistence, drawing a cry of frustration from the archer that set his groin on fire. Finally there was a hiss, and Christopher succeeded in unlacing his breeches and tugging them down. Philip looked between them, and saw the ivory curve of the boy\'s backside as he drew his leggings down to his upper thighs.

His hand slipped away from Christopher\'s chest, dealing with his own laces. To his surprise, a forceful shove on his shoulder pushed him back against the hay. For one fearful moment, he thought the archer was shoving him away in disgust. But his fears were assuaged when Christopher leant eagerly over him, pushing his hands away impatiently to deal with the laces himself.

Philip realized that Christopher had very little hesitancy. Some of that was obviously the ale\'s fault, but the young man moved with a surety that told Philip he likely knew what he was doing. He couldn\'t help but wonder who else in the ranks was a sinner like him...

His mind was taken away from his jealous contemplations when his rigid member was released from his breeches, his sac gingerly lifted from the confines a moment later. Philip could hardly believe his luck, that this man had not only accepted his advances, but was returning them wholeheartedly. If that meant he had pleasured other soldiers, the swordsman could accept that because he was in the mood for pleasure, not awkward pauses with a fumbling virgin. Christopher was indeed far from fumbling; the way he dispatched his pants and left them in a neglected pile suggested experience.

Christopher suddenly leaned down and parted his lips, flicking his tongue against the tip of the swordsman\'s erection. Philip closed his eyes and submitted himself to the sensations. The archer\'s tongue was playful in its introduction, barely grazing the tip of his head before sliding down to the hypersensitive point where shaft and head meet, flicking against that and drawing a surprised inhale from the soldier.

Christopher tilted his head, opening his mouth and suckling along the underside of the hard penis he held and worshipped. He genuinely enjoyed the soft scent of the aroused flesh near his face, and the silken feel of it on his lips. Philip had even washed himself not too long ago, which made it more pleasant than it could have been.

The taut flesh gave off exciting heat, and with a soft moan Christopher took his own erection in hand as he knelt over the soldier. Drawing his hand up to the tip of his own member, pressing his thumb against it, he delved Philip\'s cock into the recesses of his mouth, laving it with his tongue and closing his lips to suck on it briefly, moving his head up and down before releasing it in favor of more teasing licks and sucks.

Philip could bear it no longer. The boy\'s tongue against him was exquisite, especially since he\'d not felt something like it in such a long, long time. Without thinking, he reached up and grasped the archer\'s bare shoulders, using momentum to roll him onto his back, pinning him against the hay. His new position of dominance excited him, and a small bead of liquid wept from the tip of his erection.

Christopher\'s hazel eyes watched it trail down the swordsman\'s length, and licked his lips. Philip groaned, and thrust their hips together. Their shafts rubbed together roughly, drawing a sharp cry from the archer beneath him. Far from being pained, Christopher reached up with his surprisingly strong arms and gripped the tunic of the man above him. His knees lifted wantonly, hips arching upwards.

\"Take me,\" he gasped, earning another rock of Philip\'s hips.

\"I\'ve..nothing to ease the way,\" Philip panted.

Christopher released one hand and pointed to the piece of archer\'s equipment Philip had not noted besides the bow and arrow-bag. A belt, a glove, a bracer, but most importantly a small box rested there. Philip had seen archers dip the fingers of their glove into this greasebox in order to keep the leather supple, and knew it was what they needed.

He reached out, managed to grab it after a few frantic snatches, and drew it close. He opened the small box and pulled out a scoop of the beeswax mixed with suet, rubbing it between thumb and his first three fingers. It was hard within the box, but his body heat quickly warmed it to a pliable texture. It wasn\'t exactly what he might have liked to smear on himself, but one look down into the needy face of the archer, and he began spreading it on his length without further hesitation.

Christopher watched impatiently, lower lip bit between his teeth. When he saw that Philip had properly coated himself and removed his hand, he gasped in anticipation and lifted his knees higher, gripping them with his hands. His head was tossed back, as if he could not bear to watch their joining.

Philip had to, if he wanted to do things properly. Pushing his cumbersome breeches down a little more, for he had not removed them fully, he lifted the archer\'s pelvis slightly with one hand, the other at the base of his shaft to help himself glide in. He did so haltingly, for the grease wasn\'t the best lubricant, but it did aid his final slip into that tight, warm heat.

Having held his breath, Christopher let out a stuttered moan that made Philip\'s cock twitch inside him, a sudden lurching of his hips accompanying it. Another hoarse cry from the archer\'s throat drew yet another thrust from the soldier.

Christopher had gritted his teeth, but he was still holding his own knees and said no naysaying words. After Philip stopped moving entirely, he was surprised and incredibly aroused when he heard the archer pant, \"harder, please!\"

It carried a note of desperation that Philip understood. They could be interrupted at any time, and the fall of La Roche-Derrien would only last this one night. The next possible opportunity for either of them to enjoy pleasure like this might be months away. Philip didn\'t dare assume Christopher would take him as a regular bedmate in the future.

He sought to try and make it memorable for the archer, while he could. The young man responded to being dominated, bound and captive to his own sinful pleasures. Philip leaned down, the bristles of his trimmed goatee grazing the tender skin of the archer\'s neck, teeth following in small nips afterwards. But such finer points seemed almost lost on the boy, who simply thrust his hips up harder and made a lustful, impatient sound.

Philip leaned back and increased the pace of his thrusts, jerking his hips with powerful flexings of muscle, drawing a sharp cry from Christopher each and every time. The boy\'s hands had fallen from his lifted knees, and his calves wrapped around Philip\'s lower back. The soldier put his palms beside the archer\'s head, looking down onto Christopher\'s youthful face with half-lidded eyes as he thrust against him.

Soon nails were dragging at the skin of his back, beneath his undertunic. Christopher was arching up into every thrust, the tip of his erection glistening with moisture. Philip tilted his weight to his left forearm, leaning closer as he reached between their bodies and took a hold of Christopher\'s straining shaft.

Christopher whimpered, brows knitting as he swam in the dual pleasure of being impaled, and having a strong hand around his cock. Philip felt himself growing close when the archer\'s back began to bend, and Christopher\'s body tightened around the shaft he was thrusting into him.

Philip\'s last few thrusts were coupled with groans issued from the back of his throat, the pleasure exquisite and blinding. If this was a sin, oh God, it was a wonderful one.

Christopher came first, with a muffled cry just moments before the erection in Philip\'s hand throbbed, pearly white seed spurting from the tip to make ribbons of white against the archer\'s pale chest. The shudders of the boy\'s body drove him over the edge into his own orgasm, a throaty groan drawn out as he rocked his hips, pumping his seed into the archer.

Both men lay panting for a few moments, the scent of beeswax and hay drifting beneath sweat, and their release. Finally, Philip slipped out of the boy with a wet noise, and a quiet moan from the archer.

Philip rolled onto his back, messy and sweaty, but utterly satisfied. He looked to his right, and saw Christopher breathing heavily, eyes closed, and a faint trace of a smile on his face.

Moments passed like this, neither man speaking, and then Christopher got up and disappeared down the loft ladder. Philip was worried - what if someone came in and saw him in that state, with no woman around and only he in the loft? Or worse yet, was the boy going to run off and cry rape?

But Christopher reappeared in the loft, holding a wet rag. He\'d found the cloth fallen on the dusty floor, scattered there when tack was stolen from the stable. A horse\'s watering trough had served to moisten it, and it appeared that the archer had already cleaned himself off, but was bringing the rinsed cloth back for Philip. Philip expected it to be simply tossed at him, and was surprised when Christopher bent down and tended to his flaccid penis, wiping away the evidence of their pairing.

Seeing Philip\'s surprised expression drew a soft laugh from Christopher. \"You were good,\" he said in simple explanation, leaning forward to press a kiss on the soldier\'s cheek. The feeling of physical satisfaction Philip had gotten from his climax spread warmly into emotional contentment.

\"You were, too,\" he pointed out at last, getting over his surge of happiness. Christopher smiled coyly, the hint of a blush on his fair cheeks at last, even after all they\'d done.

Both men slipped back into their clothing wordlessly, and bedded down in the hay. They did not cuddle close to one another, but slept apart in anticipation of someone coming to find them and rouse them in the morning. Philip needed no more closeness, for already he was drifting into the best sleep he would have in a long time.

And he couldn\'t help but feel a little bit encouraged by the archer\'s compliment. He knew that the next time their army sacked a city, he would be following an archer with straw colored hair as he headed for a stable.

And the fall of La Roche-Derrien would always be one of his favored memories of their long campaign.