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safarigirlsp · 3 years

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A Fox in the Henhouse

A Fox in the Henhouse

Jacques Le Gris x Lawyer Reader

Word Count: 20k

AO3 Link

Warnings: NSFW. Smut. Cross-Dressing. False Rape Allegation. Defending an Alleged Rapist. All the Reasons People Hate Lawyers. Discussions of Domestic Abuse and Rape. Alleged-Victim Shaming. Questioning Alleged Victims. Gaslighting. Women Lying. Old Timey Sexism. Obnoxious Medieval Views of Women and Science. Added Theatrics and Gratuitous Violence because it’s Me. Humor. Reader is the Niece of Jacques’s Lawyer.

Author’s Note: Please enjoy this belated Christmas gift fic for my lovely friend @in-silks-and-flesh-and-leather This is an idea we’ve toyed with back and forth for some time as a fix-it for Jacques! I tagged my usuals, however, READ THE WARNINGS on this one. What you see is what you get! I over-warned by my standards to avoid potentially omitting something. This is a medieval rape trial with Jacques defending himself against a false allegation by Margeruite, written from a very defense oriented point of view.

Brittle pages crinkled beneath your fingers as you skimmed the pages of a book far older than yourself. The musty smell of aged parchment filled your nose, a familiar odor contained in the manuscripts that had become your closest confidants through years of surreptitious study. A luxury few women were afforded. Nor were you, not even as a noblewoman, not openly anyway. As the daughter of a Baron, your primary charge was to present yourself as the portrait of beauty and grace, sufficient to secure a husband worthy of your fine breeding to honor your house and your line.

It was a fortunate circumstance that your father turned a blind eye to your less ladylike and more willful pursuits, one of which was the study of Greek philosophy, modern astronomy and science, and of the law. Such interest was bred into you. Your maternal uncle, Jean Le Coq, was the finest Advocate in all of France. He willingly accepted your help tending to his office, cleaning and organizing, while openly discussing the law and his cases with you, slyly educating you. You would have been his finest protégé, if only you had not been born a woman.

“Did you find that passage in the Commentarium libri Decretalium?” your uncle asked without looking up from his desk, as he sat hunched and squinting through an eye glass at King Charles VI’s latest edicts.

“Yes, yes. I found it,” you stated, perusing the book’s pages yourself.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Read it to me,” he said impatiently. “Italian is fine, no need to translate.” This was routine for you, acting as your Uncle’s de facto scribe due to his failing eyesight. Beginning to read, you heard the small bell on Le Coq’s office door chime, heralding the arrival of a client.

Turning to look down an aisle of shelves toward the entrance, you watched as a towering man in dark garb stepped through the doorway, his cape swirling behind him as he closed the door. Le Coq waved the man over to his large desk, obviously expecting him. Your view was from the man’s back, observing the breath of his enormous body and the mane of ebony hair that draped across his shoulders.

Next to the large man, your uncle seemed practically impish. Looking around the man’s body when he took his seat at the desk, Le Coq summoned you forward with a wave of his hand. When you walked forward, book in hand, from the dim back of the office, the client glanced over his shoulder at you. At the sight of you, upon realizing you were a woman, he rose quickly from his seat to greet you with an elegant bow, sweeping his cape to the side with a well-honed motion. Your simple, plain dress gave no indication of your status, looking like little more than a servant.

“Mademoiselle,” his rich voice echoed inside the small office, introducing himself when his vibrant eyes locked onto yours. “Jacques Le Gris, Captain of Exmes.”

“Have you considered my advice?” your uncle asked, drawing Le Gris’s attention back to him. “I’m telling you, in my opinion, which is why you’ve hired me, a church trial is the route you should take.”

“I cannot agree to such a thing,” Le Gris responded heatedly, shaking his head with conviction. “I am no coward.”

“It is not a matter of cowardice,” Le Coq explained, tapping a quill against his desk with irritation. “It is a matter of prudence. You have not succeeded so well in life by being this unwise. A church trial is the safest way to ensure your victory.”

“I’m innocent!” Le Gris boomed, momentarily losing his temper under the weight of his conviction. Taking a deep breath, he composed himself before continuing. “My honor will not allow me to take such a cowardly option. It would be spoken from every mouth in France that I am guilty! I am innocent, and I have the utmost faith that I will be vindicated.”

“Innocent or not, you are blinded by emotion.” Sighing heavily, Le Coq rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger while Le Gris continued proclaiming his innocence. Innocent clients were always the most difficult. You had come to know this well from overhearing the discussions between your uncle and his many clients.

Guilty men were all too eager to accept an out, a ruse, an escape from the justice that sought to grind them under its wheel. Contrarily, innocent men had the conviction that justice would prevail on their behalf, which was all too often gravely mistaken. Guilty men walked free after following the advice of their advocate, while the heads of the stubborn innocent rolled away from their bodies at the base of the chopping block.

However, your uncle had taught you many things, foremost among them was that an advocate of law must never be fooled by a first impression. It must also be assumed at all times that people lie; that every last person involved in a case will lie. Some intentional, their motives ranging from pious to venomous, and some, because they do not want to believe certain dark things of themselves.

Le Gris’s case had pages of pleadings and sworn statements from witnesses on both sides. You had spent hours reading the dossier of hundreds of pages, familiarizing yourself with the case just as fully as your uncle. Although you knew the allegation and the recitation of events well, even Le Gris’s voice as it came through the words on the page, you had never met the man himself.

By his reputation, Le Gris was known to be handsome, desired by women and some rather elite men alike. He very notoriously capitalized on his reputed looks and charm in the most lascivious of ways. In your experience, however, few persons lived up to their rumors. Lies and exaggerations could run rampant while truths lie dormant. Both in life and in court.

Watching him now as he paced your uncle’s office, twirling his cape away from his feet with his every turn in a motion so practiced it was habitual, you found yourself captivated. Jacques Le Gris was indeed handsome. The legion of rumors that circulated about him throughout France scarcely did the man justice. He was not only dashingly handsome, clean and neatly dressed, but charming and articulate. You knew him to be educated, but his underlying intelligence impressed you, the way his shrewd gleaming eyes seemed to observe and catalogue every detail. But it was the sheer size of Le Gris that was truly striking. Tall and broad with a chest that strained the buttons of his doublet, the man was a behemoth, and he moved with a predatory agility that was uncommon in a man so large. Yet, filling the stone chamber even more than his physique was his presence, alluring and mysterious, while projecting his mellifluous voice off every carved stone.

You let the urges he evoked wash over your consciousness, allowing them to take hold of you, but the way you responded to him on instinct wasn’t merely an indulgence on your part. Often more importantly than any argument or presentation, was the simple way a client presented to those who would render judgement against him. Everyone made an impression upon another’s subconscious, and once that initial imprint was made, it was hard pressed to be undone or overcome.

Le Gris wielded a double-edged sword in this regard. You wondered if it was emblematic of something deeper in the man himself. Women would want to believe him, to find his presentation genuine in hopeful anticipation. However, his fate would be decided by men. A confident man would find himself impressed by Le Gris, drawn in by his affable charm and find him an appealing confidant or even brother in arms. He would play well to confident men. Weak and insecure men would find Le Gris intimidating. His size alone would do it, but coupled with his ferocious wit, he could unwittingly threaten lesser men into soiling their trousers. Such men would not only assume Le Gris to be beastly, capable of any and every heinous atrocity, they would also find him to be duplicitous, for surely no man could possess such charm without it being an affectation and a lie.

A turn of chance alone would decide the nature of the men who would judge him. All too often, pious and noble men concealed their weaknesses deep inside the layers of the finest robes they could purchase. Truly masculine and powerful men were disappointingly few and far between. Your own search for tolerable marriage prospects had taught you that lesson time and again.

“I cannot allow my name to be sullied by this charge of rape. My cowardice would be hailed in the streets!” Le Gris’s velvety voice pulled your attention back to him from your thoughts. “I have spent my life forging respect for my name from nothing. An alchemist could conjure gold from stone more easily than I have gilded my name into something that commands respect. And it is a name that my children shall carry one day. I cannot have a stain such as this upon it.”

“My son,” Le Coq spoke calmly, trying to reason with him. “You know enough of history to know that the wicked often prevail. We do not live in the fairytales we tell children. What is right and just rarely triumph.”

“You have already assessed me as having lost this trial?” Le Gris asked, huffing through his nose, placing his hands on his hips.

“My assessment is that it is foolish to risk everything when you can be assured of victory through the church.” Your uncle met Le Gris’s eyes as he spoke. “This is not a matter over which a duel to the death should be fought. Nor is any matter, when such an absurd resolution can be avoided.”

“What do you say of this, mademoiselle?” Le Gris asked you unexpectedly, turning his head to you. No client had ever asked your opinion before, nor paid you any mind whatsoever aside from the occasional romantic approach. “I’m aware of the way you have watched and listened. Am I doomed in your estimation as well?”

“I think that enough blood is spilled every day in this perpetual war that the loss of even one man in a duel is a shame and a waste,” you replied in a measured tone, unflinchingly meeting his eyes. “And I think that it has little to do with justice and more to do with pomp and spectacle.”

Le Gris held your gaze, regarding you as he considered your words. He didn’t look on you with contempt or anger, as many men would were you to challenge them in such a manner, but only chewing his lip in thought.

“Furthermore,” you continued while Le Gris seemed to weigh your opinion. “You believe that should you opt for a church trial that your cowardice shall be hailed through the streets.” You couldn’t help but let out a small laugh at the idea. “Are you concealing a scribe in your robes? One who follows you around acclaiming both your great deeds and noteworthy failures? Kings are lucky if they’re hailed at all, nonetheless Counts, Lords, and – what are you? – a Squire with a Captaincy.”

Le Gris’s eyes had narrowed and features darkened as you spoke, but he didn’t argue the logic behind your words, nor did he chastise you as many men would.

“Avail yourself to the church,” you said firmly, watching his jaw clench in response.

“Answer me this, milady,” Jacques spoke more seriously, his gaze hard and penetrating. “One day I shall seek to marry, hopefully to a woman of more noble birth than my own. How grievously would this blemish wound me in that endeavor? It would be a mark of dishonor that would tarnish my future wife and her family as well as myself.”

“It would be a lie to tell you otherwise,” you agreed, before smirking. “But if you die in a senseless duel, that will damage your prospects much more.”

“Here,” your uncle interrupted any further discussion. “Let us go over your alibi again so it is fresh in my mind. Where were you during the event and who else can attest to this?”

For the next several hours Le Coq examined Le Gris about his alibi. Le Gris claimed he was somewhere else entirely, that he was even seen attending a church service leagues away, and that nothing of any kind happened. Several influential friends had come forward on behalf of Le Gris, affirming under oath the veracity of his alibi for the date in question, January 13th 1386.

Neither man was focused on you, allowing you to fade into the background and observe Le Gris. Your uncle would inquire of your opinion in more detail when the two of you were alone; he valued your thoughts and insight, although he knew they had no place being expressed in the company of other men, let alone a client.

How the eloquent man told his story was every bit as important as the words he used, just as the things he didn’t say carried as much weight as those he did. The way his body spoke to you, those non-verbal mannerisms that convey unintentional messages to all, yet few are savvy enough to consciously recognize, were genuine and unflinching when he disputed the claim of rape. His boots were planted firmly, devoid of shifting or shuffling. His posture was comfortable, his hands relaxed and palms open, his back straight but not so much as to puff his chest to affect his conviction. He conveyed an ease and truthfulness in his denial; avowing the truth as he knew it as opposed to trying to sell his innocence -- as many men in this office did.

Discussing his alibi, he was again consistent and compelling. Even so, some of his subconscious cues changed. His eyes would dart to the side and his lips would purse ever so slightly. This was certainly a more comfortable topic to examine than the allegation itself, yet he tried to sell his story on these points. Sitting taller in his chair, puffing his chest slightly, leaning forward with a smile he knew to be charming, he nudged his listener to accept his veracity with his more assertive posture. The evidence was certainly not conclusive, but you suspected that he was constructing elements of this part of his story as opposed to recalling it.

Although he had an answer for every question your uncle asked, your uncle’s eyes caught yours, signaling that he thought the same; Jacques was lying, telling half-truths. This was the most common type of lie, for witnesses and clients alike. Half-truths are evil little demons, your uncle liked to say, they’ll stick a pitchfork in your ass every time.

“The documents say,” your uncle continued, shuffling through papers to find an exact passage. “That her arms were bruised -- “

“I have never laid my hands on a woman, any woman, in such a manner!” Le Gris interrupted, his offense clear and unaffected.

“I meant to ask,” your uncle continued calmly. “Do you have any reason to believe that Carroughes beats her?”

“Not specifically. But Carroughes is a callous and uncaring man. A boor in every sense. It would not surprise me to learn that he mishandles women,” Jacques proffered, and then added with a smile, his tone suggesting no sympathy for the woman who was now his enemy. “Perhaps Carroughes has forced her to lie and beat her into submission to retaliate against me for the wrongs he perceives me to have committed against him. Or he simply beat her upon learning that she coveted me.”

It was not your place to speak. But you already knew Marguerite De Carroughes had ample reasons to lie, including most notably, Pierre’s gift of property to Le Gris that was to be part of her dowery. And irrespective of Carroughes’s attributes as a husband, she was now forever linked to him. She was his property the same as any horse in his stable.

“Wrongs other than the reasons he has sued you for in the past?” your uncle asked, watching for any slips in Le Gris’s demeanor.

“I do not pursue married women,” Jacques said with a smirk, embracing this particular falsity, adding with a chuckle and a sense of pride, “They chase after me. And even if I run, they usually catch me.” Pausing to enjoy his own humor, Le Gris then adopted a serious tone when he continued, “Such pastimes are a young man’s game and one that I have outgrown. Moreover, I have no interest in potential obstacles to rising further in society. Ripe and poison-free fruit is plentiful, even among the ladies at court.”

Le Coq subtly brought him back to the larger point that he should be painfully honest with his counsel, “Remember, everything you tell me – and my niece, too, who, trust me, hears everything you say, and what you don’t say -- is confidential.”

Assuring your uncle that he was telling the full truth and understood his risk, Le Gris stood firm in his decision against a church trial. He then turned to you, his keen eyes targeting yours, and unfurled a mischievous smile framed by parenthetical dimples, brandishing his handsome allure as well as any sword.

“And what is it that I am not saying?” Le Gris teased playfully, his voice dripping with honey now that he again addressed an attractive woman. “What have those pretty little ears of yours heard?”

“You wish to hear more of my opinions?” you asked, protesting weakly. “It is not my place to say, Monsieur Le Gris.”

“Jacques,” Le Gris corrected you, before looking between your uncle and back to you. “I may not be an advocate, mademoiselle, but I am hardly a foolish man. I have hired the finest advocate in France, and now in his office, I find a woman who reads Italian, is aware of the details of my case, and speaks with the voice of a scholar. I can only assume that after my departure, Le Coq shall be discussing my presentation with this lovely fox in assistant’s clothing. I prefer you discuss it in my presence.”

“No, you’re not foolish,” you began, walking closer to where Jacques sat at your uncle’s desk. “Which means that you are too accustomed to outwitting lesser men. You’re too reliant on your charm, your wit, and even your good looks carrying you through every encounter. You risk crashing against the rocks of your own hubris and drowning in the depths of your charm when you wade into the rough sea of Court. Your charisma will not endear every man who seeks to judge you, and you shall not be the smartest man in the room when surrounded by the entire council.”

Despite the harshness of your words, Jacques broke into a smile, beaming up at you from his seat. “I am fortunate that few women see through my wiles as you do. Yet your candor is welcome, even though you beat me over the head with it. Unvarnished honesty is what I need, not flattery. And I’ll admit your beauty softens the blow you levy.”

“You concede my observation while simultaneously pouring more honeyed platitudes over me?” you laughed, despite the impropriety of doing so. “Are you even trainable?”

“Her tongue is as sharp and unforgiving as any sword.” Jacques smiled again, speaking to your uncle while his eyes slowly trailed away from you, caressing over your curves as they took their leave. “Should I have to endure a duel, may I name her as my second?”

“Your opponent, Carroughes, does not possess a vocabulary adequate enough to be wounded by my words,” you replied with a smirk of your own. “You should be pleased that you do.”

“Well said, mademoiselle,” Jacques purred, rising from his seat. Before you could step away, he snatched your hand. Raising it to his lips, his breath heated your skin when he spoke. “You may wound me at your leisure.”

“There is much left to prepare, Monsieur,” Le Coq stated as he too rose and shook Jacques’s hand before looking at the notes on his schedule to find a vacancy for Jacques to return.

“I am confident that I am in good hands with you, Le Coq,” Jacques said to your uncle with a smile. “Which is not merely due to my general overconfidence, as your lovely assistant might say.”

“Very good,” Le Coq laughed at Jacques’s remark as Jacques swirled his cape away from his feet to take his leave.

“Sapientia melior auro,” Jacques said quietly, almost speaking to himself, but looking at you directly, meeting your eyes.

“Yes,” you replied with a knowing smile, holding Jacques’s piercing gaze. “Wisdom is better than gold.”

Jacques flinched at your words as though you had slapped him, clearly taken aback by your fluency in Latin, before his smile widened. Somehow standing impossibly taller, Jacques turned and walked out of Le Coq’s office.

A primal sense you rarely used triggered in your subconscious. You knew a game was now afoot, more so than just in Jacques’s trial. Your uncle was a highly observant man himself, and very aware of the tenor of the exchange between Jacques and yourself.

“I wouldn’t get too attached just yet,” your uncle quietly mentioned as soon as the door closed behind Jacques. He spoke without even looking up at you while rummaging through his desk. “Aside from his reputation making him entirely unacceptable for a woman of your status, not to mention his lack of breeding, there is a fifty percent chance Jacques Le Gris will soon be dead.”

*******************************************************************************************

There was much to be done before Jacques was scheduled to return for the final preparations on his case. Much of the work did not require the client, and his presence would have been an intrusion at best. In the days following Jacques’s visit, your uncle made use of your younger eyes and vastly tidier script, tasking you with condensing the volumes of documents into a few pages of concise and organized notes that he could keep close at hand during the trial. This also familiarized you with every nuance and detail of Jacques’s case, and every word of testimony given thus far.

The hour grew late as you scratched words onto parchment with a black-plumed quill. Your uncle had long left you in the company of glowing candles to finish your task for his perusal in the morning.

Finishing a line of script with a polished elegance, you were startled when the front door to the office burst open. Your entire body jolted with surprise when a dark looming figure swooped inside, closing the door swiftly behind the flurry of a billowing cape.

“Squire Le Gris,” you greeted the man with some annoyance, looking down to your parchment to glare at the errant line you had scrawled across the page from your scare. “Have you mistaken this office for a brothel? We do not keep hours such as these, and your appointment is not for days to come.”

“I must speak to Le Coq at once,” Jacques said hurriedly, ignoring your words and your indignation entirely. “Where is he?”

“Likely in bed,” you scoffed with irritation. “Or at least at dinner.”

“Where does he reside?” Jacques demanded, crossing the room to the desk at which you sat, slamming his huge palms down onto its surface. Leaning over the desk, he towered above you, fixing you with an unwavering intensity in his stare. “This matter cannot wait until morning. It cannot wait another minute.”

Meeting his eyes, you raised your chin defiantly, cocking an eyebrow in a silent question. Despite the impropriety of your own nocturnal scribing, this man was not your equal in standing nor wealth, and you had no patience for such a man making demands of you.

“They are dragging Adam Louvel now, as I stand here, to the Palais de Cité to be tortured!” Le Gris roared with his anger, his voice echoing off the walls. “Torturing Louvel to test the truth of his affidavit is both unreliable and an affront to me. Your uncle must stop this! Where is he?” he again asked, pushing back from the desk, rolling his shoulders in frustration as he straightened. He ran his right hand through his long hair both to smooth it back into place from where it had fallen forward and to calm himself; he did not intend to command you, but was merely distraught at the thought of his friend’s fate.

“This happens in cases such as these,” you said firmly and calmly. “It is not a matter that would pull my uncle from the warmth of his bed on a winter evening.”

“Forgive me, little fox,” Jacques’s tone changed immediately to one that was sugared and thick, no doubt the voice he employed to sweeten women to all manner of propositions. “I did not intend to address you rudely without the respect you rightly deserve.”

Rewarding him with a half-smile, you wondered how his demeanor would change and shift if he realized that you were the daughter of a Baron, not merely the relation of his advocate.

Jacques returned your smile with the most dashing one he could don, his eyes shimmering with the golden light reflected from the candles lighting the office. Taking a step back away from you, he whipped his black cape around, holding it to his massive chest, as he bowed in supplication, holding it a second longer than necessary. When he straightened again, he swallowed thickly, and spoke with renewed purpose, “Louvel is more than a servant. He is a friend and confidant. That I am falsely accused is terrible enough, but to torture those close to me, those who have vouched for me…” his deep voice trailed away, replaced by a mournful shake of his head, freeing his waves to again fall around his features.

“If my uncle could help you, I would lead you to him,” you said more softly, your indignation giving way to sympathy. “But I know enough to know there is little you, or anyone, can do.”

“Why is that?” Jacques’s brow knotted as he looked down at you in despondent anger.

“Louvel is of low birth, no doubt?” you asked, knowing the answer.

“He is. As was I when first introduced into this world,” Jacques answered, speaking with the conviction of a man who had faced obstacles and prejudices untold, and had overcome them all. “A man is what he makes of himself. No more, no less.”

“And is the same true of a woman?” you couldn’t help but wonder at his personal philosophy, knowing that with the help of your uncle you were more learned than most legal scholars, and that you better understood the tactical nuances inherent in any case.

“But of course,” he replied without hesitation, and then quickly smiled again as if seeing your thoughts. “So, give me your counsel on this matter. I have yet to find your wit lacking nor your advice imprudent. It is obvious that Le Coq values your input. So shall I.”

“It is common practice to torture those of low birth to validate any statement they have signed.” You knew from experience from listening to similar scenarios within these office walls that it was best to be direct and straightforward. Bad news should not be coddled in this business. “However, if it gives you any comfort, the less extreme methods are used in these types of cases. Property crimes, such as theft and rape. The rack is the most popular.”

Jacques sighed, visibly deflating. Placing his hands on his hips, he paced before the desk, chewing his lip while thinking to himself before speaking with less strength in his voice. “Give me an occupation tonight, mademoiselle,” he all but pleaded you, returning his eyes to yours. “Give me a task, a ray of hope, or I shall run mad.”

“There may be something you can do. But it is a small thing, hardly tantamount to storming the gates of the garrison.” You thought through your words carefully, not wanting to give Jacques false hope, but offering meager advice you had learned from hearing from other men in his position. Jacques hung on your every word when you continued, “Should you make a big ado about Louvel being questioned, you will make things much worse. For both yourself and for him. You will raise suspicion that you are trying to hide something, if you go to any great lengths to prevent what is an accepted practice.”

Jacques nodded his reluctant acceptance, his jaw clenching tight in frustration.

“However, just as you tried to sweeten me a few minutes ago, you may be able to use your charm to Louvel’s advantage,” you continued, smiling at your own idea. Jacques cocked his head at you, intrigued and impressed. “You could do no harm and only help matters if you were to bring the guards food this evening. And wine too, of course. Thank the men for performing their duty, and once they have uncorked their wine, you can regale them with whatever tales you wish. Speak of wars and women or whatever conquests you like. Make them want to give their attention to food, wine, and conversation instead of their task at hand. Those men will no doubt be eager to end their evening early, just give them a reason.”

“I was right to ask your advice.” Jacques beamed with renewed vigor, smiling at you fondly, looking at you as if you were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Your pulse quickened under his admiring scrutiny, making you poignantly aware of being alone with a man such as Le Gris under the veil of darkness.

For a long moment he didn’t speak. When he finally did, it was accompanied by a shake of his head as if he was waking from a dream, “I must hurry. You have my deepest thanks. I am in your debt, little fox.”

Taking a step back toward the door, Jacques bowed again and with another grand sweep of his cape, took his leave. “Bonne nuit. May the sweetest dreams find you tonight.”

*******************************************************************************************

Another visit from Jacques was only to be expected after the events concerning Louvel. You were surprised when he did not return to seek your uncle’s council the following day. You should not have been surprised, however, when a demanding knock on the office door again startled you after the sun had set and you were alone finalizing your notes that evening.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” Jacques greeted you upon opening the door with a bright smile and a bow only slightly less elegant than his standard, so as not to spill the contents of a large basket he carried in one hand.

“I wanted to show you my gratitude for your advice yesterday with something more substantial than words, which you all too often find affected,” he explained, walking to the desk and placing the basket on its surface.

While you returned to your seat, he set a cloth bundle in the middle of the desk, opening it to reveal a pile of fine smelling sweet pastries and tartlets. He then pulled two glasses from the basket and a large bottle of wine. Taking his seat opposite you, he grinned like a simpleton, entirely too pleased with himself.

“Your advice worked perfectly. Upon smelling fresh food and wine, the guards were only too eager to forget Louvel and trust that he had told the truth in his statement on my behalf.” Jacques poured a glass for you and then himself as he spoke. Raising his own glass, he clinked the rim to yours where it still sat on the desk and took a celebratory sip. “You are a clever little vixen, indeed.”

“I appreciate your gratitude, but it is unnecessary,” you told him as you took the wine he poured for you, swirling it in your glass to appreciate its bouquet. “You have paid handsomely for my uncle’s representation and mine, such that it is, by proxy. Although, I suspect you know that, and this is a guise for you to expose me to more of your charm, is it not?”

“Guilty as charged,” he replied with a devilish smirk. “Shall I confess all my sins or merely this one?”

“All your sins?” you laughed despite yourself before teasing him lightly, “Oh, I won’t be staying here with a scoundrel such as yourself late enough into the night to hear a fraction of your legion of sins.”

Smiling broadly, Jacques reached across the table to snatch a tartlet from the pile. He languidly leaned back in his chair, turning the sweet pastry over in his long thick fingers, ensuring he had your attention focused on his pointed motions. Jacques met your gaze, his mischievous eyes burning into yours. Brazenly slow, he raised the pastry to his mouth, smearing a bit of the sticky jellied residue along his plush lower lip before chasing its sweetness with his eager tongue.

Once he had the taste on his lips, he dropped his eyes from yours only long enough to admire the hole of the pastry that oozed with jelly. Grinning at the sight, he returned his attention to you, or rather, he assured himself that he had yours. As he looked into your eyes, he teased the opening of the pastry with the tip of his tongue before he licked into the center of the pastry, savoring the taste of its inner sweetness as he probed it deeply.

The sight was such that you could not tear your eyes away, powerless against the shameless display before you. Paused in mid-air, your glass hovered near your lips, waiting for your capacity to swallow to return. You could not imagine a man tending to his food in such a manner while in your presence; a sentiment that must have been plainly written across your features.

“What are you thinking, belle fille?” Jacques asked you as he withdrew his tongue from the abused pastry’s hole, only to lewdly lick a dollop of jelly off his thumb before grinning smugly. “Do not be shy. Your urges should never bring you shame. Certainly not in my presence.” Punctuating his statement, Jacques sunk his teeth into the tartlet, teasing it between them before nipping off a small piece and groaning in pleasure at the taste. “On the contrary, I would love to hear you speak of your every desire. I have been open with you on a number of untoward subjects, I hope you feel comfortable enough to do the same.”

Does this smug bastard actually think he can seduce me with food? you mused internally, as you artfully planned your rebuff.

“I do not suffer from shyness, Jacques, as you know well,” you began, shaking your head as you dropped your eyes from the spectacle before you, setting your glass down. “I do not wish to offend you.” Lifting your eyes, you returned them to his with a wicked gleam of your own, drawing the bow of your wit before firing a well-aimed barb. “You’re so well-spoken and well-read, you make it easy to forget the unfortunate circumstances of your birth and parentage,” you explained, watching as his face dropped subtly at your carefully chosen words. “I forget that you have not been gifted with the luxury of being trained in proper etiquette such as myself.”

Jacques’s brow furrowed as he looked at you, the pastry sinking further and further away from his lips in its slow descent back to his plate. Hip lips turned from his smirk into the semblance of a pout as you continued.

“Please, let me show you some of the niceties that I take for granted from my upbringing,” you offered pleasantly, twisting your knife in the sweetest of ways. “Here, we use a napkin to dispose of the remnants of our food rather than try to lick it off our lips and fingers. Such behavior is best left to the dogs we feed our scraps.” You slowly demonstrated the proper technique of dabbing your lips as you would to an impaired child.

Snorting through his nose in frustration, Jacques dropped his pastry back onto his plate, pursing his lips together. He immediately reached for a napkin, hastily cleaning the jelly off his lips and beard in something like embarrassment. A scowl darkened his handsome features for the span of a heartbeat when you clapped in encouragement at his feat of wiping his lips, the way you would praise a toddler for the same action.

The momentary lapse in Jacques’s good humor passed as quickly as a wisp of cloud in front of the sun. With a striking grin and eternal hope, he changed his tactic.

“It is said there is truth in wine,” he spoke, as if pondering the sentiment, lifting his glass and swirling its contents. “I propose a game of sorts, all in good fun, of course. You know many truths about me, and yet I know so little of you. My disadvantage seems hardly sporting.”

“No Jacques, the disadvantage is all mine,” you stated plainly. “You have not revealed all your truths. And I hope very much that it shall not lead to your downfall.”

“How is that?” he asked, truly shocked, momentarily forgetting his flirtation. “You believe me, don’t you, that I am innocent of this charge? I am no rapist, mademoiselle.”

“I believe – rather, I know – that you are lying on other points.” You fixed him with an unwavering scrutiny with your allegation. The way he flinched almost imperceptibly confirmed your suspicion. “But the more important question is will the King and Court believe you?”

“Do you think they will not?” Jacques leaned forward, alert with his question, righting his slacked posture.

“The King and the noblemen of Court will look for reasons to believe you. You are a man, after all,” you spoke plainly without bias, relaying the territory as you saw it. “However, Marguerite will be convincing. The poisonous ones are often the prettiest.”

“I am very versed in the language of snakes, myself,” Jacques told you all too confidently.

“That I believe wholeheartedly,” you laughed at the way his eyes shimmered from your teasing in a way few men would indulge your transgressions. “And the men at Court may believe you too, but if they believe her more, you will still lose.”

Taking in your words, Jacques looked to the side, to a shadowy corner of the room as if he could pull the solution out from the darkness.

“Uncertainty will lead to the duel that Carroughes so badly wants.” This was a prospect that worried you. You knew Carroughes’s reputation as a soldier and, despite yourself, you had become fond of the handsome squire. “Surely, you are not so foolish as to relish a duel yourself?”

“In battle, I never underestimate my opponent, mademoiselle,” he assured you, taking a sip of his wine. He thought for a moment, assessing the potential duel like a man of war, “Carroughes is a brave soldier and formidable opponent. I have size and strength, but he has many more hours on the battlefield. We both have our hate.”

“I would prefer not to see your fate decided in a spectacle at the point of a sword or the end of a lance,” you said with more sincerity than you intended to let slip out with your words.

“You have not yet answered my question.” Jacques leaned further across the desk, resting on his elbows in front of you, unable to mask his desire to have your faith in him. “Do you believe me when I tell you that I am innocent?”

“I believe you on that count. I believe that you did not rape Marguerite,” you assured him with a nod of your head. You watched Jacques sigh in relief, his broad shoulders relaxing along with the worry reflected at the corners of his eyes. “I also believe you’re lying about never having known her at all.”

Without letting him fully recover or formulate another deception, you pressed on, seeing the mild panic return to his eyes like a wolf in a snare. “Quite frankly, you’re a fool, Jacques. Attractive and charming, but a fool nonetheless, and far too used to relying on those attributes to carry you through conflict. You should not be such a fool as to tell half-truths to your advocate.”

Uncharacteristically silent, Jacques’s eyes dropped to the floor, looking every bit the same as a whipped puppy.

“I am not one of your women who is eager to believe every well-crafted lie you tell her,” you continued while Jacques subtly shook his head in contrition. “I am used to watching for the tells of deception. As are most of the men who will be scrutinizing you during your trial.”

“I was following the advice of my closest friend. Deny everything. At all times. To all people,” Jacques confessed, finally meeting your eyes again. “What gave me away?”

“It is not only your statements everyone will hear, and that I have read, but Marguerite’s too,” you explained, sipping your wine. “I am a very good judge of character, as you have no doubt realized. But she knows things about you that she could only learn intimately. Things it would not serve her interests to lie about. However, you are your own biggest betrayer. Your body speaks of deception even if your words do not to someone keen enough to see.”

“Yes, little vixen, you’re right. I am a fool, and I have been a fool,” Jacques capitulated with a heavy sigh. “Marguerite pursued me and, as I told you before, I have a habit of letting myself be caught.”

You didn’t reply, letting his silence linger until he felt compelled to fill it once more.

“Marguerite and I were introduced at a celebration. My nature is to flirt, harmlessly, of course. But I failed to calculate the effect that even meager attention would have on a woman who had been so wholly ignored by her husband as Marguerite,” Jacques explained, making his full disclosure. “While dancing with her husband, she all but ignored him in favor of smiling at me. It was the beginning of something tantamount to obsession from her. She would ensure our paths crossed whenever Carroughes was away on campaign, making every attempt to entice me.”

“Ah, so you were powerless against her wiles,” you scoffed sarcastically at the idea of a man so practiced in the art of seduction being entrapped himself.

“No. Nor do I lack the company of women when I desire it,” he told you openly, no longer trying to hide the ugliness of the truth from you. “But after Carroughes publicly insulted me, not once but twice, I decided to give his wife what she wanted. The full measure of my affection. I knew I could make his wife forever desire another man and know always of her husband’s inadequacy. Not to mention the act itself soiling his own bedsheets. What finer revenge could I exact?”

“I’m sure that is Carroughes’s thinking now,” you said simply in favor of waxing over the stupidity of men and their hubris.

“That was all I intended,” Jacques spoke on, his brow furrowing at the memory as he recalled events truthfully.

“Did you please her? Give her a little death or two?” you asked, watching him shift uncomfortably in his chair. “There is a purpose behind my question, but I must know the truth.”

“I cannot be certain. I did not give her my finest effort on that score,” Jacques admitted, his eyes studying the stone tiles on the floor intently. “But she pursued me further. She would travel to Anou le Faucon when Carroughes was away and seek my attention in all the ways she could engineer. The day I am accused of rape was the day I rode to her to end it. To tell her this madness must cease. If nothing more, than for her own safety. I never wanted the poor girl to be killed as a result of our adultery, which is a genuine concern given her brutish husband.”

“But Carroughes obviously discovered it,” you stated sharply. “I think we can safely assume what she told him occurred.”

“Yes,” he agreed, chewing his cheek in thought. “But you cannot advise that I admit the truth of it all now?”

“Certainly not. You followed bad advice and now you are trapped in your lies. To contradict any statement you have previously made would undermine your credibility on all counts.” You shook your head regretfully at the thought of how badly Jacques had weakened his own defense. “You lied about the one fact that could have all but assured your victory. Should the men who will sit in judgement of you learn that Marguerite is an adulteress who pursued you, they would not only disbelieve her charge of rape but they will want to punish her transgression. Alas, you now cannot avail yourself of that.”

“We are both guilty of the sin of adultery,” Jacques said flatly, finally returning to his discarded pastry, lifting it to his lips for a bite.

“Yes, and you know how women are judged more harshly than men in that regard,” you huffed at the unfair truth. “That bias would have discredited Marguerite, shamed Carroughes even further into the ground, and won your case outright.”

“And you think others will suspect me as you did?” Jacques asked after dutifully wiping his lips with more polished etiquette.

“As much as I am loathe to admit it, the truth has a way of ferreting its way out in Court and collectively, a congregation of men sitting in judgement is often shrewder than the sum of their individual faculties.” Leaning back in your own chair, you considered the most important question. “I think it is very likely that some of them will be attune to being misled, even if they cannot pinpoint the exact lies from truths. And it does not help you that Marguerite is noble, Carroughes is a knight, and you, well, you are neither.”

“So, I should learn how to lie better?” he inquired with a laugh.

“Perhaps,” you joined him in laughter. “But that cannot be learned in an evening while you molest pastries.” Retrieving a tartlet from the desk, you took a bite yourself, savoring the taste of raspberries on your tongue before continuing. “If you must lie, and you now must indeed, keep them short and simple. Elaborate lies can easily form a maze in which you can find yourself trapped. It is also perfectly fine, and in fact the mark of truthfulness, if you cannot remember every detail. When in doubt, say that you do not recall.”

“A simple task, given how slippery my mind can be,” Jacques replied with a wink, poking fun at himself.

“Secondly, as much as it will pain you to do so, you must be respectful to anyone who questions you, including Carroughes. Call him ‘Sir,’” you told him firmly, brokering no argument. “Some of the noblemen will doubtlessly sympathize with Carroughes and see you as little more than an uppity peasant. Irrespective of whether it was rape or not, either Margarette betrayed him or you did; Carroughes will be seen by some men as an innocent man who was wronged by one of you. Add to that how many of those same noblemen suspect, or even know that you have dallied with their very own wives as well. You do not sit in the best of circumstances.”

“That is a herculean task, to show Carroughes respect at this point in our acquaintance.” Jacques scowled at the mere thought. “But you are correct on all counts. I had not calculated sympathy for Carroughes himself, but your reasoning is sound.”

“I’m confident those shoulders of yours can carry such a burden,” you teased over the rim of your wine glass as you took another sip.

“I have never seen a woman possessing of your exquisite beauty before,” Jacques told you softly in an unexpected non sequitur, making your breath catch in your chest as he appraised you with open unveiled admiration. “I would never have believed that your wit could impress me even more than your beauty. Nor have I ever met a woman in whom both attributes were paired so elegantly.”

“I see you’ve already improved your technique at spinning falsities,” you could only deflect from his intensity that was entirely genuine.

“No, I speak only the truth to you, cherie,” Jacques’s rich voice purred his assurance to you as he reached his hand across the desk. He stroked a single large finger across the back of your hand, goosebumps blooming in the wake of his simple touch.

“I thought you intended to secure a noblewoman?” you asked to challenge him further. “Yet, you intend to pursue the simple assistant of your advocate?”

“It is your cleverness and spirit that call to me, enticing me in ways no other woman ever has. I have no concern for your name nor wealth. You know the circumstances of my parentage, after all.” Jacques spoke with all possible sincerity, the truth of his sentiment boring into you. “You now know many truths about me. Tell me a truth about yourself, little fox.”

“Do you think you can handle a truth about me, Jacques?” you teased, thankful he gave you an opening to compose yourself and return to your preferred battleground of keeping him off-balanced as opposed to being unnerved yourself.

“I assure you, my hands are quite capable, milady,” he returned with a rakish grin. The hapless man no doubt expected you to divulge some salacious tryst or secret fantasy, but nothing like the blow you intended to levy him. Jacques raised his glass, taking a large swig of wine, awaiting your answer.

“My father is a Baron,” you said flatly, shrugging as if it were nothing, before giving him your distinguished family name.

Jacques all but choked on his mouthful of wine, sputtering and snorting to keep from spewing it back onto the desk, when he heard your family name, one of the most respected in all of France.

“A Baron?” he finally coughed, wiping the back of his hand across his lips. “Christ, I did not think I was so privileged as to be browbeaten by a noblewoman.”

“Does that hinder your enjoyment of hunting me?” you asked with a coy smile and a calculated jab.

“With but the smallest encouragement from you, cherie, nothing shall deter me in my pursuit of you.” Jacques recovered quickly, the wolfish glint returning to his eyes as he grinned at you. “I would sooner win your heart than the Grail itself.”

“First, we must win your trial before you go charging after Grails or Baron’s daughters,” you replied, giving him just the specter of encouragement he had asked of you, before returning to the business at hand. “Now that we are both being honest and forthright, give me something that can be used against Marguerite at trial.”

*******************************************************************************************

Jacques’s trial was a grand spectacle, seemingly on the lips and minds of most of France. The streets of Paris bustled with larger crowds than usual with spectators journeying from leagues away across the country. People from every social strata were enwrapped in the salacious allegation and the macabre prospect of a public duel to the death.

Voices echoed from every corner of the cavernous Palais de Justice before the trial commenced. Every seat was occupied in addition to every stone tile on which a spectator could stand at the entrance with a crowd greater than any proceeding had garnered in a decade. The pews nearest the front were reserved for the supporters, witnesses, family, and friends of each party.

Adorned in vibrant purple robes and glittering jewels, drawing more attention than any other onlooker, was one of the highest ranking nobles in the country. Pierre D’Alencon, Jacques’s dearest friend, sat immediately behind Jacques in the nearest pew. He had positioned himself strategically not just behind Jacques, but where he could easily lean forward and whisper advice or observations to Jacques or his advocate as they sat side by side at their table.

Just before the final ranks of nobility and the Court arrived, you made your entrance. Although, you hoped with every frantic beat of your heart that none other than your uncle would recognize you. You wore the plain robes of an advocate, similar to Le Coq’s, and tailored for a man. With your hair secured under a nondescript hat, your breasts bound tightly against your chest, and an extra layer to add bulk to your shoulders, you hoped that you could pass for an effeminate young man. You had even cut a few segments from your hair to paste along your upper lip and chin for a makeshift goatee. Walking stiffly in shoes stuffed with cloth to enhance your height and with no sway at all to your hips, you approached the advocate’s table.

No one knew of your plan beforehand, save for yourself, of course. To masquerade as a man, merely to wear men’s clothing, was blasphemy and punishable by burning alive. You and Marguerite now each faced the same fate. She would burn if she was found to be lying, just as you would burn if your gender was discovered.

Whatever the risk, you could not allow the man who had so quickly endeared himself to you to proceed in Court with his life in the balance without your help. You knew that you would catch details the men would miss and that your insights could very well steal a victory from the jaws of defeat.

Your presence drew attention from no one except for Le Coq and Le Gris, who sat alone at their table. Jacques’s eyes passed over you with little interest, no doubt assuming you were another scribe or assistant of Le Coq’s. Your uncle, however, recognized you at once and just as swiftly, he assumed your plan and intent. Glaring ferociously at you as you walked to the table, your uncle knew he could do nothing and say nothing, for to out you in any way would be to condemn you. Instead, he rose from his seat next to Jacques, moving one chair over and gesturing for you to sit in the newly vacant chair.

Taking your seat between the two men, bolstered by them, you would be less likely to be noticed or observed by other people in attendance. Le Coq angrily shoved some parchment and a quill in front of you when you sat, not deigning to look over at you and risk telegraphing that he was not expecting the presence of an assistant.

Fortunately, no one paid you much mind. No man in all of France would assume that a woman would disguise herself as a man to defend a scoundrel accused of rape. Even if a woman possessed the mental faculties to do so in the first place, which most men knew they did not. Those men did not know you. However, you were counting on such prejudices to aid in your going undiscovered.

Jacques did not care to look at you directly either. A young man was of little interest to him in comparison to the silent albeit murderous exchange in which he was engaged with Carroughes, the two men glaring venomously at each other from their respective opposite tables.

It was Pierre who was the first to address you, the cad. Leaning forward from his seat in the pew, he clasped a hand on your padded shoulder, asking your uncle to make an introduction. It was not surprising given that Pierre had recommended Le Coq to Jacques initially. Pierre would want to ensure that his friend was in good hands and not being pawned off to an underling.

“This is, ah, Andre,” your uncle fumbled for only a moment, used to reacting to the unexpected and improvising on his feet. “He is a fond acquaintance of mine whom I have asked to help us. I believe him to be even more learned in the ways of women than Monsieur Le Gris. His insights into Marguerite’s testimony shall hopefully make his presence worthwhile.”

Le Coq punctuated his statement by fixing you with another pointed glare. His explanation was sufficient to appease Pierre, who gave Jacques a reassuring clap on the back before sitting back in the pew.

Moments later, the King and Queen made their entrance and procession down the aisle. Every person in the room stood for the monarchs, only returning to their seats once their King and Queen had taken their place at the head of the room in their plush throne-like chairs. With a slight giggle and wave of his hand the King signaled for the trial to begin. King Charles VI was only eighteen years old, and like any boy of that age, he was overly excited by the idea of a duel between two impressive men and would be rue to deny ordering such a resolution.

To begin, Carroughes, who was allowed to prosecute the case himself on behalf of his wife, and your uncle gave their opening statements. Le Coq’s opening was as polite as the distasteful allegation allowed, whereas Carroughes’s was flagrantly insulting to Jacques and identified very little of what he thought the actual evidence would show.

Good, you thought to yourself. Let Carroughes show himself to be an aggressive ass to the Court from his first word.

Many of the members of Court made notes as each advocate and each witness spoke. A parade of minor witnesses testified prior to Margarette, who were in turn examined by Carroughes, Le Coq and several of the noblemen of the Court. The King, after listening to a whisper from his Queen, asked one clarifying question of a maid regarding the cleaning of the master bedroom sheets.

As had been explained to Jacques ad nauseum, in addition to being demonstrated by you when you uncovered his lies in your uncle’s office, body language was of paramount importance. Despite substantial coaching on this point and the instruction for Jacques to look forward, calmly and confidently, and to make eye contact with the King and the men in the Court, Jacques kept glancing sideways at you. His eyebrows would alternately raise and pinch together, considering you, and his eyes would observantly scan every letter you wrote for your own notes.

“There is a familiarity about you,” Jacques whispered in your ear, leaning close to you while a chambermaid testified. “Have we met?”

Keeping your attention focused ahead, knowing he would recognize you at once if he met your eyes, you silently shook your head, ‘No.’

Carroughes’s mother begrudgingly testified next. Her countenance was as unwelcoming as Medusa’s, her tone clipped and poisonous. Carroughes shifted on his feet, pacing more than usual as he questioned her. After Carroughes elicited that his mother had left Marguerite alone in their castle on the day in question, he notably failed to ask her knowledge or even her opinion as to what had occurred between Jacques and Marguerite.

You frantically scratched your thoughts down on your parchment, passing it quickly to Le Coq before he stood for his cross examination. Jacques watched you closely, his lips twitching with the effort of concealing his smirk.

By the end of Le Coq’s cross, he had cornered the old woman into admitting that she did not believe that Jacques had raped Marguerite, and that she seemed to hold her daughter-in-law in rather low esteem. You actually found yourself feeling sympathy for Marguerite. You hoped you would never be so unfortunate as to find yourself entrapped in such a horrible marriage as hers.

Everyone on Jacques’s team was enthused by such an important victory. Pierre, the single man in the room who would be allowed such a transgression, clapped his approval from behind you, earning another stifled giggle from the King himself.

When the next witness of lesser importance took their seat in the center of the floor, Jacques again turned his attention to you. Leaning even closer to you than before, he inhaled deeply through his nose. You stiffened in your seat, wondering if he could hear the way your heart thundered in your chest. His breath was hot on your skin and a few tendrils of his long hair brushed against you when he whispered next to your ear.

“The way your eyes gleam when you’re thinking, Sir,” his voice rumbled low and savory for your ears only. “I’ve only seen such diabolical cleverness once before. Those eyes could charm the devil himself. And he would count himself lucky for capturing your attention.”

“I hope the devil himself shall indeed have good luck today,” you returned quietly with the ghost of a smile. “In court, at any rate.”

“Whatever the outcome, Sir, I am already quite lucky.” Jacques’s whisper reverberated again, vibrating into your very core. “I believe I have finally found my North Star. A woman I could devote my whole life to. I can only hope to be lucky enough that she will consider a man such as myself.”

“I’ve found that luck is often made, whether good or bad,” you said with a sly glance at Jacques. “Perhaps you’ll make your own luck with the object of your desire.”

With a satisfied grin, one that he should not have flashed in front of the men who would judge him, Jacques sat back in his seat, his posture notably prouder than before.

*******************************************************************************************

It was afternoon when Marguerite took the stand. Neither Carroughes nor the Nobles asked many questions of her, allowing her to tell her story. And a story was exactly what it was. Her story was well practiced and presented, punctuated with sobs and tears at the appropriate moments and a firm resolve. Her testimony followed that of her closest friend, who did not believe Marguerite, and yet, Marguerite had all but overcome that hurdle through her own recounting.

As Carroughes finished questioning his wife, Jacques quickly scrawled a note. Folding the piece of paper in half, he reached across you to shove it to your uncle. Le Coq read the note, exchanging a look with Jacques. Le Coq slid the parchment back to Jacques, who tucked the folded note away inside his robes.

With no notice to you whatsoever until the moment was upon you, Le Coq turned to you with a smirk.

“I have a feeling this is precisely what you wanted,” Le Coq told you gruffly. “Cross examine Marguerite.”

Taking a deep breath, you stood up from the table. It was not lost on you, the way Jacques subtly nodded his approval nor the way his eyes followed you, boring into your back when you approached the alleged victim. No one questioned you or studied your appearance too closely, believing your disguise as a young man, unsuspecting you of being just as blasphemous and much more cunning than the woman who currently perjured herself before the Court.

Bowing in reverence to the King and Queen, you took the moment that action bought you to observe Marguerite. She sat confidently in the witness chair, and deservingly so. She had presented well, even leaving some teary-eyed women scattered throughout the room. You saw that her story had even made an impact on the Queen herself. You had much to overcome.

A smile graced your lips when you addressed her, presenting yourself like an innocent flower while preparing to strike like a serpent. She smiled back, her eyes bright, her hands folded in her lap below her pregnant belly, seemingly eager for you to proceed.

At first, your questions were merely pleasantries and formalities. It was important to establish a rapport. You had watched your uncle do it many times. Humans were creatures of habit. Eliciting simple ‘yes’ answers at the outset tended to put them at ease and get them into the habit of biting at your baited hooks that were yet to come. Calmly, steadily, methodically, you asked leading questions, rephrasing what she had testified to earlier, as you went through her version of events, here and there altering details purposefully in your questions.

“This is what you’ve said before, yes?” you asked with a cordial smile.

“Yes,” Marguerite sighed for emphasis. “I have told my story many many times.”

“Your story?” you asked pointedly, letting the word hang in the air. “You have told it enough now to have it memorized the way you would tell a fable to a child. Do you think other women would describe their rape as a story?”

“I – I mean that I have been asked these things many times over.” She recovered quickly enough.

“So, it would be fair to say that now you are conditioned, practiced, at recounting your story? That you do not speak from memory, but from habit from the many previous rehearsals you’ve given?” You smiled pleasantly again, this time letting it prod at her indignation.

“There are only so many ways to tell of the thing.” She huffed through her nose, already growing irritated with you.

“What way did you tell it first?” you asked, raising your eyebrows inquisitively. “How did you tell your story to the people who believe you are lying today?”

“My husband believes me!” Marguerite said on reflex. “He only questioned me for a moment at first, but he does believe me.”

“He didn’t believe you at first, either?” you asked, feigning shock and letting the rest of the Court think on your words. “He was not the subject of my question, but thank you for clarifying that he did not believe you at your first disclosure. Before you could convince him. I was speaking of your mother-in-law and your closest friend, who also did not believe you.”

Marguerite glared at you silently, a blush staining her cheeks.

“That is correct, is it not? Those women do not believe your allegation of rape?” You waited for her to nod petulantly before your next question. “Who knows you better than your closest friend? In whom do you confide more?”

“My husband,” she stated flatly, looking to Carroughes in the hopes he would believe this new lie.

“Ah, I see,” you mused cruelly, waiting for the reaction you knew you would soon receive. “So, you confide in your husband that your marriage is troubled? That you do not receive pleasure from him? That you found Jacques Le Gris handsome? Those things your closest friend testified to? You discuss these things with your husband as your closest confidant?”

“How dare you!” Carroughes interrupted, yelling across the room as he shoved himself up from his seat only to be shushed and reprimanded by the King for his outburst.

Although Marguerite avoided answering that question, your point was clear enough.

“So, again Lady, how well would you say your husband really knows you?” You looked pointedly between her and Carroughes’s enraged red face. You then looked around at the men in Court with your next question. “Are you worried that if you upset him that he will beat you again? If he knows the truth?”

Carroughes’s flushing, sputtering anger and the vein that threatened to burst on his forehead were evidence enough of his temper, on open display for everyone in Court.

“How often do you lie to your husband?” you pressed, waiting for her to lie in her answer.

“Never.” She shook her head resolutely.

“I could ask again if you have told your husband of the ways he disappoints you or of the other men you find attractive, but I think you have been clear that you conceal such things from him.” You smiled, folding your hands in front of you. “So, let me ask this question. What have you told your husband about your feelings for your mother-in-law?”

“I have only spoken mostly of the positive.” Marguerite swallowed thickly, seeing the trap you had set but unable to avoid it. “I have said that she is harsh but that she means well.”

“Very well. Now, tell us the truth, here, in front of God. What are your feelings for her?” you looked at the members of Court, who all watched Marguerite.

“I can scarcely tolerate her,” she admitted quietly.

“So, you do lie to your husband?” you asked, taking a step closer to her. “You lie to your husband when the truth is uncomfortable.”

“That is a small lie and harmless,” she tried to weasel away from a full admission.

“There are no small lies in Court.” You let your words settle in the ears of the men around you, watching as some of them nodded in agreement, which was the best sign you could receive. “But you would agree that lies can serve a purpose? Sometimes they are necessary to spare another’s feelings?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” she had to agree.

“And sometimes, they are necessary to avoid consequences?” you pressed, asking again before she could form an argument. “If a lie can spare you a beating or worse from your husband, it is necessary, is it not?”

“Well, perhaps hypothetically,” Marguerite stammered, flustered now.

“It’s no matter if a man’s head ends up on the chopping block to spare the consequences of your husband learning the truth?” you asked quickly, moving on before she could squeak out her denial. “There, we have but one of your motives to lie.”

Your opponent glared at you, but there was little she could say to counter your statement. Feeling emboldened, you began a new line of questioning. “Describe the little death that you experience with your husband.”

“What?” Marguerite sputtered, shifting in her seat.

“This is out of place in this setting!” Carroughes barked, slamming his fist down on his table. “That question and the man who asked it should be drawn and quartered! This is distasteful!”

“We are here on a charge of rape, which is also distasteful,” you said to the Court, ignoring Carroughes entirely, not even sparing him a glance over your shoulder. “Tastefulness has no bearing on a matter that could result in a duel to the death.”

Hazarding a quick look back to your own table, you saw your uncle smiling proudly and Jacques leaning forward on the table, enwrapped by you.

“You have openly stated today that you experience pleasure from your husband,” you asked again, not letting her slither away. “Describe what a little death feels like.”

“It is a pleasurable conclusion like my husband’s,” she answered, squirming in her seat. Her eyes looked first at her feet and then up toward the ceiling as she tried to recall the descriptions she had been told and fabricate her own.

“How does it feel?” you asked again, raising your eyebrows.

“Pleasurable,” she gave the only answer she could fathom. Shifting uncomfortably and fidgeting with the fabric of her dress, her body language spoke louder than her words, all but shouting her ignorance. Her eyes darted, searching for more and finding nothing before adding defensively, “That is all a Lady should say on the matter. Anything else would be improper. It is a private experience, shared only between husband and wife.”

“Lady Marguerite, although the women present in this Court today may not be able to pass judgment upon you, I wager they all know you are lying and that you have never experienced true pleasure,” you said with a note of sympathy before looking at the King. You saw that your message had been well-taken when the King looked over at his Queen who whispered something in his ear.

Carroughes sputtered and fumed at his table, spewing some unintelligible curses at you. Jacques grinned openly, admiration shining in his eyes that was truly misplaced while everyone in the room thought he looked at his male advocate. Meeting his eyes, you smiled yourself before turning back to Marguerite.

“Do not mistake me, I don’t care that you do not experience pleasure from your husband. That is his concern, not mine nor anyone else’s.” Your smile turned wicked as you fixed your gaze upon her. “But you lied about receiving pleasure from your husband here in Court. Under oath. In front of God and your King. You lied about it to avoid the consequences of the truth. That is your pattern, is it not?”

“Certainly not,” she lied. There was nothing else she could say.

“Let me ask some other questions about what you enjoy in bed.” You paused, watching her grow even more disconcerted. It was an important skill, to know when to ask questions rapidly and when to let an uncomfortable silence swell and linger until your adversary felt compelled to break it. “Do not worry, these questions are not of an intimate nature.”

Marguerite let out a small sigh, happy to move onto another topic.

“Do you enjoy having breakfast in bed when your husband is away?” you asked, beginning innocuously.

“Yes, I do,” she agreed easily.

“Do you enjoy sleeping past the dawn when he is away?” You now kept your tone friendly, all harshness gone.

“Yes, of course,” she affirmed again.

“Do you enjoy reading in bed?” You baited your hook.

“Yes, very much.” She nodded.

“Do you enjoy having poetry read to you in bed?” you asked innocently.

“Yes, deeply,” Marguerite agreed truthfully, taking your bait before her mind caught up with your question.

“And who reads you poetry in bed?” you asked pointedly, using the best kernel Jacques had given you the night he brought you tartlets. You let the question resonate with the Court while Marguerite blanched at her fumble. Her eyes darted subconsciously to Jacques and just as quickly returned to you. Quickly. But not so quick as to avoid detection by several men who saw her tell. “Your husband is illiterate. He cannot read at all. So, who reads you poetry in bed?”

“No – no one!” Marguerite stammered, clearly flustered and lying for all to see. “I misunderstood your question. I meant that I read poetry to myself in bed.”

“You and Le Gris discussed poetry when you first met, did you not?” you hammered the point home even further, much to Jacques’s and your uncle’s approval.

“We did,” she admitted reluctantly, digging herself ever deeper into the grave of her case. “But that does not mean that… I did not mean that he reads poetry to me in bed. I misunderstood your question.”

“Allow me to advance to another dilemma,” you spoke as if pondering a question to yourself. “Le Gris owns a beautiful estate, Anou Le Foucon. What is that estate to you?”

“It belonged to my family for ages,” she said with a hint of bitterness.

“It was to be part of your dowery?” you clarified for the small few in attendance who may not already know. “It was meant to be your own estate through your husband?”

“Yes, it was.” She cast a quick glare at Jacques at the thought.

“Count Pierre gifted this property to Le Gris. Stole it right out from under you.” You made statements that resonated with the Court, not questions for her to deny. “Your husband sued both the Count and Le Gris over this?”

“He did, but I did not advise him to take such an action,” she told the truth. It would indeed be such a terrible fate to be manacled to a man like Carroughes, you thought to yourself.

“And when you realized your husband would never succeed in his petty lawsuits, it occurred to you that Le Gris, who now owned the property, was the only man who would be able to return the property back to you?” you challenged with vigor, showing some emotion for the Court. “Perhaps if Le Gris fell in love with you…?”

“I would never think such a thing!” Marguerite sounded genuine, but the truth on this point hardly mattered. It served to cloud her allegations with even more doubt in the minds of the men in the Court.

“You could attempt to restore the property you coveted, all the while escaping your hellish marriage while your husband was away, and all while being read poetry in bed by a handsome man, no less!” you raised your own voice, making a grand show for your observers. “When Le Gris would give you neither his heart nor his property, this allegation of rape came to light. There is no fury such as a woman scorned, would you not agree, Lady?”

Even Carroughes himself could see the anger reflected in Marguerite’s face. To the nobles and King, it was now clear that something illicit had occurred between Le Gris and herself by her own consent. She twisted and turned in her chair, her eyes hard and bloodshot, wringing her hands.

“I count that as your second motive to lie,” you stated firmly. “And two very good motives they are, indeed.”

Walking past Marguerite, daringly close to the King and Queen, you posed another question to her, although in truth, you were speaking to the Court itself, “What possible motive did Le Gris have to rape you?”

“My husband embarrassed him publicly,” Marguerite said sourly, not believing her own words.

“Ah, you mean when Carroughes made a public spectacle, showing his own dull wit and ignorance? No, I think not, milady,” you spoke as you walked back to again face Marguerite. “Le Gris has bested Carroughes in every possible way. Should there ever have been a contest between them.”

“My husband has a finer wife,” she quipped, raising her chin at you.

“Le Gris will no doubt best Carroughes on that score as well,” you replied icily in the first selfish remark you made that had no purpose for the larger Court.

At your statement, Carroughes shot up from his seat in a fury, his hand on the hilt of his dagger as he stomped toward you. Jacques moved even faster, a wolf clad in flowing robes, rushing in front of Carroughes and blocking you with his massive body. Jacques shoved his chest into Carroughes, using his looming size to back the smaller man toward his table, glaring ferociously at his enemy.

The Palace guards stood on edge, ready to intercede if directed by the King. Such an outburst was not uncommon in Court. Unfortunately, Jacques knocked a modicum of sense back into Carroughes, who returned his dagger to its sheath before the guards were ordered to cut him down or arrest him.

“He is an advocate, not a man of arms, like you and I,” Jacques growled. “His sword is his wit and perspicuity, and he has cut your belly wide open with it.”

Marguerite was horrified, gesturing for Carroughes to remain calm.

The King only snickered at the display before him, openly enjoying all aspects of the day’s exhibition. He ordered the two men to return to their tables, before directing his attention to you. You could not imagine a better note on which to end your questioning of Marguerite, so you too returned to the table to take your seat between Jacques and your uncle.

A few questions were asked of Marguerite by the Court. It was clear by their nature and tone that you had swayed the Court and engraved your points deeply into their minds.

Jacques took the opportunity to lean close to you and again whisper in your ear, “She all but admitted to her adultery.” His volume was a touch too loud in his excitement, carrying to Carroughes and others opposite you on the other side of the room. “And Carroughes knows that now, which, I assure you, pleases me to no end. I owe you a great debt, Sir.”

The King released Marguerite from questioning, adjourning the trial for the day. Tomorrow, Jacques would testify. Today, you had carried the day, ensuring that the men of the Court would be thinking exactly how you wanted them to, that Jacques was an innocent man.

*******************************************************************************************

Upon your exit from the Palace of Justice, Jacques walked beside you, beaming with pride as he looked down at you. Your uncle had made his quick departure, seeking the men of the Court and other onlookers to discuss the day’s events and get a better read of the current landscape of the case. Such was a common practice, for the men involved to discuss the case after a day of trial.

Strolling at your side through the outer courtyard of the Palace, Jacques leaned down to speak in your ear again, but you cut him off. “There is no need to whisper anymore,” you spoke in such a way as to still maintain your disguise.

“And what if I simply wish to be closer to you?” Jacques asked, ghosting his fingers along the back of your hand as you walked, careful not to telegraph his touch to any potential onlookers.

You jerked your head to him, looking at him sharply in surprise.

“You are a fox, cherie, not a chameleon,” Jacques purred in your ear. “Did you truly think with that figure of yours, that neck, even your smile, that I would not recognize you? You cannot hide such innate femininity. Certainly not from me.”

“Did you know the entire day?” you asked, turning to face him, smirking slyly when you met his eyes.

“I suspected from the first breath I inhaled of your scent. Your lovely bouquet has been fogging my thoughts since you first walked past me in Le Coq’s office,” Jacques rumbled, still leaning close to you. “But when I saw your eyes, there could be no mistake. I have never seen eyes such as yours; beautiful, clever and vibrant. I could drown in those jeweled pools of light.”

“And my mustache?” you teased with a laugh.

“So long as you remove it before I kiss you,” he replied with a laugh of his own.

“If you knew it was me, what was the note you passed to my uncle before he instructed me to question Marguerite?” You stopped walking, turning to face Jacques fully.

Grinning proudly at you, Jacques reached into a pocket, withdrawing the same folded note he had written to Le Coq, handing it to you. Your smile widened and a rush of heat flooded your cheeks when you read Jacques’s quickly scrawled yet elegant script.

Set the fox upon the hen.

“You made the decision for me to cross examine Marguerite?” You were shocked, both flattered and awed. “She’s the most important witness in your case. If I would have failed, it would mean you would be found guilty or forced to duel.”

“I would entrust my fate to no one else, ma belle avocate,” Jacques said quietly and sincerely.

The way Jacques looked at you, his features wrought by his desire to hold you close and kiss you, any observer would have congratulated Pierre on his success of finally turning Jacques’s interests to the masculine variety. Even if he chose a rather fetching and effeminate young man on whom to focus his attention.

It was fortunate, perhaps, that the moment between you did not last long. Aggressive stomped bootsteps approaching on the stone from your side commanded Jacques’s attention. At the sight of Carroughes’s petulant face and bellicose posture, Jacques straightened to his full imposing height, squaring his shoulders and puffing his chest as he stepped in front of you to meet Carroughes.

“You spineless cur!” Carroughes shouted at you, spittle flying in all directions with his words like a snorting hog. He looked around Jacques’s body to glare at you, his beady bloodshot eyes boring into yours. “You think you can treat my wife in such a manner without repercussion? You think you can insinuate that she betrayed me with this - this preening sycophant?! I’ll cut the smile off your face!”

“Your quarrel is with me, Carroughes,” Jacques growled dangerously, keeping himself between you. He was protecting you from an attack foremost, but he also knew the true danger for you lay in someone uncovering your disguise, and he could not risk Carroughes seeing you close enough to discern the feminine clues in your features. “Even you cannot be so belligerent as to transfer your anger onto my advocate.”

“Give your advocate your weapon, Le Gris,” Carroughes ordered, jutting his chin out stubbornly as he drew his blade. “I see he is unarmed.”

Ignoring Caroughes’s drawn sword, Jacques took a step toward the smaller man. Carroughes’s shouting had drawn significant attention to their confrontation and Palace guards were already rushing to intercede.

“Go ahead, Jean,” Jacques prodded Carroughes with a smirk, spreading his arms wide. “Strike me down. Right in front of the guards.”

Reactionary and dim-witted though he may have been, even Carroughes knew better than to openly attack an unarmed man in full view of witnesses at the Palace of Justice. Scowling furiously at Jacques and gritting his teeth, he slowly returned his sword to its sheath. He met your eyes again when you peered around Jacques’s body, frothing with enmity.

“Exercise a little patience, Carroughes. Even a drop of that with your wife might have prevented her from betraying you, you ignorant fool,” Jacques hissed low enough for only you and Carroughes to hear, trying to provoke him into a public attack that would seal Carroughes’s fate. “How does that stick in your belly? To know that you have only yourself to blame for sending Marguerite running into my arms? And my bed.”

Were the guards a few seconds slower, Jacques would have been successful in his provocation. Just as Carroughes bellowed a curse at Jacques, reaching again for his sword, the guards were upon him. Two armored men grabbed Carroughes’s arms from behind and yanked him back away from Jacques and yourself.

After subduing him sufficiently, the guards escorted him back to his pregnant wife and out of the Palace grounds, leaving you and Jacques alone once again in the courtyard. Jacques turned to you, gripping you by the shoulders and looking into your eyes to assure you were not frightened by the men’s exchange. You opened your mouth to thank him for protecting you, but you were cut off by the intrusion of another acquaintance.

“It seems I have just missed the show!” Pierre greeted you and Jacques, ebullient at how well the day had unfolded. Arms outstretched wide, he approached you both, clapping a hand down on Jacques’s shoulder as he smiled at you.

“I confess, when Le Coq sent you to question Marguerite, I thought it was a grave mistake,” Pierre told you excitedly, looking between you and Jacques. “But by God, for such a young man, you understand women in a way that old Jacques here and I must envy! Well done, Sir!”

“I have learned well from Le Coq,” you replied simply, not wanting to speak yourself into a trap in which you could be discovered.

“Come to my estate in Paris tonight. I owe you much more than wine and women for helping my friend here, but it’s a damn good place to start!” Pierre offered you with a gracious smile. “Jacques can vouch for the quality of both the wine and the women, although I credit him with being a finer connoisseur of the latter.”

“I have no doubt,” you laughed, seeing the way a pink tint bloomed on Jacques’s cheeks from Pierre’s lewd compliment. “But the trial is not yet over. Jacques testifies tomorrow, which means tomorrow is an even more important day for him than today. He will need to be focused, clear-eyed and sharp-witted. So, while I appreciate your hospitality, I must decline in favor of preparation this evening.”

“Well, if not a woman or two to clear your mind, can I offer you dinner at least? You reigned in that bitch like she was a runaway calf,” Pierre commented jovially, smiling wide. “Victory is assured now.”

“My advocate is right, as he makes a habit of being,” Jacques told Pierre while grinning at you. “I shall prepare with him tonight and we shall all celebrate my victory tomorrow.”

*******************************************************************************************

Hours of preparation later, you again sat with Jacques in your uncle’s office. You still wore your simple men’s robes, although you had removed your facial hair and the binding over your chest. Le Coq had joined you both there, working with Jacques late into the evening before taking his leave. Le Coq was an observant man, and you suspected that he also engineered for you and Jacques to have additional time to yourselves outside the scrutiny of your family who would judge Jacques harshly, and away from Jacques’s closest and most unscrupulous friend. Before taking his leave, your uncle had pointedly reminded you both that being well rested for tomorrow was of paramount importance.

“Do you think that Marguerite and Carroughes are conspiring against you? In retaliation for Anou Le Foucon and your Captaincy?” you asked Jacques once you were alone, swirling the wine in your glass. You sat beside him on the same side of Le Coq’s desk where you had both been discussing his testimony with Le Coq for hours. “They each have motives to do so.”

“Carroughes is a blunt implement. I do not credit him with having the capacity for plotting and strategy,” Jacques replied, pursing his lips in thought. “Nor do I think him prudent enough to take his wife’s council, who I would estimate does possess the required cunning for such a scheme.”

“So, you believe Carroughes discovered your transgression and Marguerite lied to save face with him?” You sipped at your wine, appraising Jacques over the rim of your glass.

“That is my best guess,” Jacques agreed, shifting in his chair to look at you more squarely, crossing his long legs in front of him. “You have seen Carroughes. He knows no resolution to a problem other than to fight it with his fists and sword. I pity Marguerite on that score.”

“Will you pity her if you win tomorrow and the King orders that she be burned?” you asked the only question that had not yet been examined from all angles.

“I hope that she does not suffer that fate.” Jacques shook his head with genuine remorse. “But I will not forfeit my life nor honor to spare her from it. And you, milady? Would that outcome weigh heavily upon you?”

“No,” you said resolutely. “She has put your life at risk by her false allegation. Should she be fated to burn, I shall warm my hands on her simmering corpse.”

“I must tread carefully never to anger you,” Jacques laughed, grinning at you.

“As your advocate, I would advise you against that as well.” You tipped your glass toward him in a cheers before taking another drink.

Jacques watched you with open admiration, his eyes shimmering with affection, reflecting the dancing candlelight of the room. A soft smile curled his lips and his heart hammered impatiently in his chest, captivated as he was by you.

“There’s something that has been on my mind all day.” Jacques’s voice dropped an octave, growing husky. Reaching to your wine glass, he set it on the desk before taking your hand. He rose from his chair, pulling you up with him.

Jacques placed both your hands on the broad plane of his chest, letting you feel the way his heart beat for you alone. Trailing his fingers back down your hands and arms, he let them fall away to find your waist. His thick fingers dug into you as he gripped you, pulling your body close to his.

Lowering his head, he ghosted kisses along your cheek, waiting for you to turn in to meet his lips yourself. Slowly, drawn in by the soft heat of his touch on your skin, you captured his lips. Jacques’s lips parted for you easily, letting you deepen your kiss, tasting the wine on his tongue. Groaning his pleasure into your mouth, you could feel his chest thrum under your hands.

Time ceased to exist while his plush lips caressed yours. Seconds, minutes, or hours could have passed; you only knew that when you were forced to pull back, breathless and panting, that you wanted him to kiss you forever.

“I don’t want you at my trial again tomorrow, cherie,” Jacques rumbled against your mouth before sucking your bottom lip between his. “You risk your own life by masquerading as a man. And you would receive no mercy if you were caught outsmarting them all at trial. I can accept my fate, and I am forever in your debt for your help. Do not risk your life for me again tomorrow.”

“And here I thought that kissing me was what had been on your mind all day,” you teased, pressing your body closer against his. “Or was it trying to deter me from attending your trial tomorrow?”

“Both,” he admitted, wrapping his arms around your body to hold you tighter.

“Do you know how terrible that would look? If one of your advocates is absent tomorrow?” You stroked your hands up his chest to loop around his neck, bringing him as close as possible. “It would prejudice you, and I won’t allow that.”

“I could tire you to such an extent tonight that you will sleep happily in your bed until the trial has concluded.” His tone was teasing, but you knew he would eagerly make good on his offer if you gave him the slightest encouragement.

“Perhaps a celebration shall be in order,” you said with a sly smile. “After we win.”

*******************************************************************************************

The second day of the trial was nearly as important as the first. There was much less pressure on you and your uncle. You had all but won the case with your examination of Marguerite. All that remained was to finish the show of presenting Jacques’s side of the case and his witnesses, and for them all to perform well and not stumble at the finish line.

Everything now rode on Jacques’s broad shoulders and all the pressure was his to bear. If he faltered or fumbled, he could seal his fate. He, of course, was impossibly confident and composed, and his good humor imbued further by your kiss that still lingered on his lips.

Beginning first thing in the morning, your uncle called several minor witnesses to testify, including Adam Louvel, all of whom served Jacques well. Louvel’s statement had the added credulity of having held true under torture. You were convinced that the men of the Court and the King believed there had indeed been an affair between Jacques and Marguerite. The only query that truly remained was whether or not the event of the day in question was consensual.

When Jacques was finally called to testify, he strode confidently with his usual swagger, his cape billowing behind him making his presence even larger. Taking his seat in the witness chair, he crossed his legs and clasped his hands together in his lap, looking as affable as possible. Le Coq questioned him with you listening closely to his answers and watching his every movement.

As instructed, he admitted his flaws and shortcomings, truthfully relating how he fell into an affair with Marguerite and addressing the feud with Carroughes that Jacques did not initiate. He was contrite when appropriate, and smiling and charming when he could get away with it.

After Le Coq rested, Carroughes stomped forward, doing little but flailing and spitting accusations at Jacques. Only the slight narrowing of Jacques’s eyes belied his animosity for Carroughes, a detail that fortunately went unnoticed by all other than yourself and perhaps a few of the shrewdest eyes.

Jacques remained restrained and composed at all times with no chinks in his impeccable amor. The way he toyed with the questions asked of him with poise and panache was reminiscent of a great cat batting its prey; playful, while also entirely capable of rending it to shreds. His finely tailored brocade navy doublet was just as elegant and impeccable as the coat of any leopard and his eyes shone similarly amber when they met yours with every glance he could steal.

Carroughes did not rest himself, content to posture and rant on end. The King finally silenced him, ordering him to retreat to his table and sulk more quietly. The noblemen of the Court took a moment to murmur amongst each other, giving Jacques a small reprieve from questioning.

During this brief interlude, Jacques locked eyes with you, his lips twitching with a smirk he fought to conceal. A light blush tinted his cheeks at some lewd internal thought and he quickly looked down, chewing his lip and shifting in his seat, knowing full well that he should refrain from such a display.

You were not the only woman in the room who noticed his transgression. The Queen Herself saw his momentary lapse, her eyes fixed upon Jacques’s handsome features. Thankfully, she misread his expression and pitied him for what she mistook for flushed embarrassment at having to recount such details before the Court. Her influence was palpable on the King, who likewise adopted her empathy.

Jacques certainly has dumb luck on his side, you thought with a slight shake of your head, looking down at your notes to keep from smiling yourself.

The King promptly released Jacques from his seat in the witness chair. Jacques stood from his seat only to bow to the King and Queen with his usual flourish, sweeping his cape majestically aside, holding it aloft with his head bowed as he backed toward the table at which you sat.

When he turned to face you, he flashed you a beaming smile that showed he knew just how well he had presented. It was entirely inappropriate for the atmosphere, potentially damning if observed by the wrong person, and precisely the sort of behavior you had instructed him not to display.

*******************************************************************************************

“You fool!” you playfully declared hours later that evening, laughing at Jacques as he recounted his misstep to Pierre.

Sounds of laughter and conversation surrounded you amid a sea of guests who milled about the halls of Pierre’s Parisian estate. The grand celebration he hosted as promised in honor of Jacques’s victory in court and the dismissal of the egregious charges against him was the event of the year, and Jacques was the toast of Paris that night.

You were dressed as yourself, wearing a gown and jewels befitting of a woman of your stature. Why you were in attendance on the arm of the notoriously debauched Squire Jacques Le Gris was a question left to jealous gossip among the ladies Jacques now ignored and to the bitter envy of the noblemen who had long sought your attention. Both factions of prospects were equally baffled by your seemingly mis-matched pairing. However, no onlooker could deny the unmistakable rapport and palpable chemistry between you, nor the way Jacques beamed with admiration whenever he raked his lingering gaze over your figure.

“As was demonstrated beyond contestation these past few days,” Jacques told you with his handsome smile. “Women are far cleverer in the art of deception than men.”

“That ridiculous smile of yours, brimming with mischief, could have been your downfall, had anyone of importance seen it,” you chastised Jacques again, smacking his chest playfully.

“Ah, but the way I see it is this,” said Pierre, who, after a time, had spotted you as Le Coq’s assistant and could be trusted not only to keep your secret but to think better of you for it. “Jacques has a consummate instinct with women. So, seeing as how the way to your heart was to endear himself to you through your assistance, he had to ensure he made enough small mistakes to require your help.”

“You do not help me, my friend,” Jacques laughed at Pierre while looking at you. “By labeling me the damsel in distress.”

“But you are!” Pierre replied, tilting his nearly empty glass to gesture between you and Jacques. “You are in distress, and this lovely, effete advocate is your champion.”

By way of changing the topic, Jacques pulled you into a kiss, an act in which he had indulged with as much frequency as you allowed throughout the evening. You had every reason to celebrate. The King had acquitted Jacques of the charge of rape and every other foul allegation Carroughes had leveled against him, and you had been instrumental in that outcome, having both outwitted every man in the Court while also deepening the affection of the man you desired.

Jacques had been able to garner another small victory before the Court adjourned. He had implored the King to spare Marguerite the fate of burning for her false charge, citing that she was the unfortunate victim of her husband’s brutality and that she shall suffer enough in her ongoing punishment of being Carroughes’s wife. The young King had sniggered at Jacques’s remark and assented to pardon Marguerite. Carroughes seemed even more furious that it was Jacques who had secured mercy for his wife, indifferent to the benefit to her when weighed against the triumph of his enemy.

As if pondering the impish brute summoned him forth from the bowels of his lowly property, the doors to Pierre’s great hall suddenly burst open to admit the fuming, blustering man.

“Why in the hell did my guards allow that pestilence through my gates?” Pierre groaned at the sight of Carroughes stomping across the hall with the grace of a cow in heat, his attention focused on Jacques.

“By Heaven and Earth, justice was not served today!” Carroughes spat at Jacques, waving his finger in Jacques’s face, storming up to where the three of you stood. “But I shall see it done at the point of my sword!”

“Justice for the false charge against me?” Jacques asked with a sinful grin. “Or justice for your wife desiring me in a way you will never know, good Sir?”

“I’ll run you through, you swine!” Carroughes snarled, huffing indignantly and reaching for the sword belted around his hips.

“Good God, Carroughes,” Pierre frustratedly scorned the angry knight. “Are you going to force me to call my guards?”

Carroughes sobered briefly, his watery eyes darting between Pierre and Jacques before they fell upon you. Carroughes had only seen you close enough to lock eyes with you once, outside in the Palace courtyard while you were in disguise. Apparently, he was not quite as dense as you had assumed, because his eyes widened with surprise as he recognized you as Jacques’s advocate.

Jacques saw the realization dawn on Carroughes’s boorish features, his fists and jaw clenching as his mind raced through the ways he could now protect you.

“Your eyes! You!” Carroughes raised his hand again. “I’ll have you burned for this - this blasphemy!” Pointing his shaking finger at you, taking a breath, he prepared to bellow his allegation for the entire party to hear.

Before Carroughes could utter his damning accusation, Jacques lunged at him. Shoving Carroughes backwards with all of his considerable power, Jacques growled loud enough to drown out any of Carroughes’s potentially condemning words, “If you want to fight me this badly, you shall have your wish!”

The force of Jacques’s blow knocked Carroughes’s hand away from the hilt of his sword, sending him stumbling backward into a pair of other frightened guests, knocking the couple down to the ground in a tangled heap. Jacques pursued his prey, grabbing Carroughes by his tunic and yanking him roughly into the vicious right punch Jacques leveled at Carroughes’s nose. Carroughes was ready for Jacques’s attack, blocking his punch and exchanging it with a left hook of his own that landed solidly on Jacques’s jaw.

Every eye in Pierre’s hall turned toward the two brawling men. Most of the guests had witnessed Carroughes burst into the celebration and aggressively renew his challenge to Jacques, before reaching for his sword. They could attest to Jacques acting in self-defense.

Taking advantage of the space Carroughes put between himself and Jacques with his punch, Carroughes wrenched his sword free from its scabbard, swinging it in a backhand at Jacques’s body. Jacques parried backward, deceptively quick given his intimidating size, but he was a heartbeat too slow. Carroughes’s sword slashed across Jacques’s chest, slicing through his doublet and the flesh of his chest beneath.

Reversing his sword, Carroughes swung it back toward Jacques’s throat. Jacques blocked it on the backswing with his left hand against Carroughes’s forearm, stepping closer to Carroughes to grab the man’s shoulder with his right hand, yanking him forward and slamming his left elbow into Carroughes’s teeth with as much force as Jacques could muster.

The violent force of Jacques’s elbow snapped Carroughes’s head back, as his teeth shattered like ceramic, sending him stumbling off balance, stunned. Jacques was on him, unrelenting. Jacques grabbed the hilt of Carroughes’s sword with his left hand, knocking it out of Carroughes’s loosened grip with his right. Gripping the hilt himself, Jacques jerked the sword into his own hold.

Jacques paused for a brief second, sword in hand, every possible outcome racing through his calculating mind. As Carroughes blinked some awareness back into his addled head, he looked again at you, opening his bloody mouth yet again to accuse you in front of the mass of listening ears and gossiping mouths, making Jacques’s decision simple. Charging at Carroughes while he still stumbled in his daze, Jacques grabbed his collar, running Carroguhes’s own sword upward into his treacherous throat before his words could condemn you.

Eyes blown wide in macabre shock, Carroughes sputtered around the sword impaled just below his chin, blood spurting outward from the wound in crimson plumes. Carroughes sank to his knees, unable to speak as his life drained from him as quickly as his blood stained Pierre’s floor. Glaring at Jacques, he tried to choke out his last words, only succeeding in issuing a wet gurgle, before his eyes returned to you as they dimmed and glazed, and his body slumped to the floor.

“What an inconsiderate cunt!” Pierre exclaimed, coming to stand over Carroughes’s lifeless body in its final convulses. “This was shaping up to be a rather promising evening, and now…” Pierre gestured at the guests fleeing from his party, looking around his hall despondently at the horrified men and the distraught women.

You rushed to Jacques, running your hands over his chest, ensuring by your touch that he was still whole. The high from battle still coursed through Jacques’s veins, making him impervious to the wound on his chest and the less critical bruise blooming purple on his jaw. Your hands immediately moved to the cut in his doublet, the thick fabric soaked through with Jacques’s blood.

“It is nothing, amour,” Jacques assured you, taking both your hands in his and raising them up from his chest to kiss them gently. “Now that I have you, I won’t be taken away from you so easily.”

“No, no,” Pierre interjected with a lewd grin, intruding upon your moment as he was wont to do. “Jacques is numbed from his fight and does not speak clearly. Take him to one of my spare bedchambers at once! You must get him out of those clothes and ensure he is in no danger from his egregious wounds.”

“This may be the singular point on which I ever agree with Count Pierre.” You smiled between the two men. “But unless you intend to fight me as well, you shall let me tend to this. And to you.” Without waiting for his response, you took Jacques’s enormous hand and led him out of the hall, away from the stunned guests whose eyes followed you both.

Drunk on his affection for you, Jacques smiled like a lovesick boy as you led him through the uneasy crowd, down the halls of Pierre’s estate until you found a vacant bedchamber. Inside, the room was welcoming, lit by the dancing light of a dozen candles. Tall arched windows looked out over the city of Paris, their drapes tied open on either side to admit the silvery moonlight. The large bed was freshly made with plush bedding, prepared, as were all things in Pierre’s homes, to accommodate a pleasurable evening.

A pitcher of water and a basin sat on a side table. You poured some water into the basin at once, wetting a cloth to tend to Jacques’s wounds.

“Take this off,” you instructed, touching the fabric of his doublet when Jacques moved close to you until only inches separated your bodies. He had all but forgotten his injuries, but happily complied with your order.

“I should be thankful for Carroughes’s intrusion this evening.” He smirked at you in that dashing way of his as he pulled his doublet and undershirt off over his head, shaking the long mane of his hair back into place once free of his top. His physique was magnificent, powerful, and as finely muscled as a warhorse.

“He has only hastened the inevitable,” you said with a smirk of your own, resting your left hand on the plump swell of his chest while you dabbed at his wound with the damp cloth held in your right.

A ragged gash sliced across the wide breadth of Jacques’s chest, long and angry, but fortunately it wasn’t deep. The superficial cut wasn’t deep enough to lacerate his muscle, and had already stopped bleeding. Jacques bowed his head, nuzzling along your jaw and placing soft kisses, resting his hands on your hips, while you dabbed the blood away from his chest and cleaned his wound.

“I think you should rest and not exert yourself in the slightest until this heals completely,” you said with a serious tone.

Jacques jerked his head back up from you, despondent shock clearly wrought on his face for a moment until he saw your facetious grin and realized your humor.

“You wound me deeper than Carroughes’s blade,” he teased you in turn, his voice smoky with desire. “But of course, I will wait for you as long as you wish it. So long as you tell me I can have you for my own.”

“Here I stand,” you challenged playfully, holding your hands out to the side.

“I mean that I intend to marry you, little fox,” Jacques growled hungrily with his words, pulling your body flush to his and kissing you deeply before pleading against your lips, “Tell me you’ll have me. Tell me you’ll be my wife.”

“I would have no other man but you, Jacques,” you sighed happily, returning his kiss.

“I should like to see you, belle amour,” he said breathlessly, his fingers working to free your body from your clothing. “All of you.”

His hands were deft and experienced; calloused, but gentle and warm on your skin, as he made quick work of your clothing.

“Quite familiar with removing a Lady’s clothing, are you not?” you teased, earning soft purring laughter from Jacques that raised goosebumps along your spine.

“Rest assured, those rumors you have heard of me are not exaggerated.” Jacques’s voice rumbled gravely as he stripped your dress and undergarments away, baring your figure to him. “I am well-versed in all manner of ways to give you pleasure. It is a language I speak as fluently as any other.”

Jacques pulled back to admire the sight of you, his hands caressing the curves of your figure, following the dips and swells, gazing upon you like a penitent at a Madonna. He had seen many a naked woman, but none he had ever wanted to worship as he did you; none to whom he wished to pledge his body and soul, nor devote his life, as he did you. His heart danced with an anticipation he had not felt since the first fumbling time he learned of the delights of a woman, making him eternally grateful that he had finely honed his carnal skills in the decades since.

“I had best make sure you’re up to the task of pleasing me and that you live up to your reputation,” you teased coyly. Running your hands over his chest, down his stomach, you followed the ridges of muscle descending from his hips, leading your touch down to the waistline of his trousers. Jacques’s chest inflated with pride under your touch, the cocky bastard knowing just how profoundly the sight of his impressive body affected you.

“Take my evil inside you, and I can make you feel unlike any other. Give you pleasure like you’ve never known.” Jacques brought his lips to your neck, lavishing you with hot open-mouthed kisses, before grinning against your skin. “And I know I must ensure that I pleasure you well and keep your desires sated, lest you be questioned about my performance one day in Court.”

“You have no shame whatsoever!” you laughed, looping your arms around his neck and pulling him into another blistering kiss.

“None at all,” he readily agreed. In a motion that excited you unduly, he swept you off the floor, lifting you up into his arms and carrying you as though you were already his bride. “It is a quality I promise you will heartily enjoy, ma belle amour.”

Lowering you gently down on your back onto the sheets, Jacques straightened, standing over you to marvel at the sight of you with his ravenous eyes. Meeting your gaze with a pointed intensity, he shoved his pants down, finally freeing his cock from the confines of his clothing. The thick tip arched upward, pointing toward you eagerly. Smiling at the impressive sight of him, you beckoned him down into your open arms, a nervous excitement alighting inside you like tinder.

Jacques crawled over your body, planting his huge hands on either side of your head. Your hands reached to his rigid arms, traveling up and across his broad shoulders to hold him close around his neck, feeling the delicious weight of him rest on top of you. He kissed you with a passion that rivaled anything you could have imagined, his ardor burning hotter than the flames of the candles flickering around you. His tongue was practiced and hot, eliciting moans and sighs from you that he swallowed with every kiss, working you into a writhing frenzy with his lips alone.

A heady groan resounded in Jacques’s chest when he nudged into you, mingling with the gasp you released at the feeling of being spread around his cock as he sank every long thick inch inside you. Watching you now, the way you bit your lower lip, stifling more moans, as you adjusted to being so delightfully filled, was enough to make him forget the face of every other woman he had ever before seen positioned below him.

“You look even more beautiful with my cock buried deep inside your tight little pussy,” he whispered above you as he began thrusting gently at first, rocking his hips into you, careful to ensure you received only pleasure and no pain that he could avoid.

Feeling you melt beneath him and around him, dripping hotter than candle wax, he returned his lips to yours, dizzying you with his kisses. With his body draped over your own, he consumed you in every possible way, not breaking his kiss as his hips bucked into you. Your legs wrapped around his waist and your arms wrapped around his neck, trying to pull him impossibly closer and deeper with every part of your body, rolling your hips in time with his rhythm.

Chaucer himself could not have written of pleasure more exquisite than the sensations Jacques arose inside you, sending sparks of ecstasy coursing through your dripping center. He knew just how to angle his cock in a way that could drive you mad if you did not get your fill; the angle that made your vision blur with stars and lights, and he dutifully ensured his cock rubbed you perfectly with every thrust.

Your nails dug into his dense shoulders, grasping for purchase as you felt yourself being pulled into a roiling abyss of pleasure, your body beginning to tremble and shudder beneath him from his powerful motions. Jacques hoped you scratched lines into him, etched your euphoria into his very skin. There could be no finer proof of how wild with pleasure he could make you, of how he had ruined you for any man other than himself.

Drinking in the sounds that tumbled from your lips, the sight of your eyes fluttering closed, the intoxicating bouquet of your arousal, Jacques felt drunk on your body and he never again wanted to sober. He could write poetry about the exquisiteness of you, and resolved himself to do precisely that. Perhaps tomorrow, or the day after. He now had all the time in the world. But tonight, he would spill his prose inside you, claiming you as his own for the rest of his days.

Beneath your hands, you could feel the thick ridges of his muscle tense and ripple with his every movement. Being caged beneath this powerful man, knowing that he was now yours and yours alone, that all of his great strength was put to use solely for your pleasure, was enough itself to make you clench and quiver around him.

Your mouth fell open in a silent scream when he slammed an orgasm out of you. Your pussy spasmed tight around his cock, pulsing and fluttering in time with your pleasure. Above you, Jacques bared his teeth, throwing his head back and growling as he fucked you through every lingering wave and high he could give you.

He chased your little death with his own, groaning and whimpering when he pumped his wet heat into you, filling you with his cum. Residual spasms of pleasure raked his body, making him twitch above you and inside of you. Dropping his head, his forest of hair fell in a dark curtain around his face as he brought his lips to your neck, kissing you sweetly and settling his heavy weight down upon you, as the tension left his muscles.

Nuzzling your neck and jaw with his prominent nose, you felt the light tickling scratch of his goatee on your skin, while he kissed you slowly and sleepily, making you smile even broader in your afterglow.

When his lips left your skin, he laid his head down upon your chest, over your heart. Your hands soothed him as he lay on you. One hand tangled into his sweat-damp hair, the other caressed his jaw softly, earning another rich chocolatey purr from the huge man on top of you.

“You have my whole heart, ma amour,” Jacques promised, sinking further into the warmth of your embrace, sleep fast overtaking him after the rigorous events of the day. “You always shall.”

“Then the true victory from these events is mine,” you told him softly.

“We shall share in our victory for the rest of our days, little fox.” Jacques smiled against your breast, letting sleep carry him away to the promise of a bright new dawn that would bloom brightly for you both in the morning.

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Tagging some foxy friends @babbushka @in-silks-and-flesh-and-leather @mrs-gucci @mrs-zimmerman @iamburdened @gabesprincess @rynwritesstuff @candycanes19 @caillea @queeniebee @mythrielofsolitude @ghoulian13 @icarusinthesea @darkhairedmenrule @reyloaddict55 @fizzywoohoo @heartlight-starlight @clydesfavoritegirl @emi11ie @bensolodyad @danidanisara @thepalaceofmelanie @celiholland

#my stuff!#my writing #jacques le gris x you #jacques le gris x reader #the last duel #knight #best #fic #le gris #lawyer

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