The Cross and the Black-Episode III

By Luwa Wande

Claude is adjusting to the life of a student, but Sabrine comes by way of trouble. Suddenly Claude must choose between his conscience and his comfortable life amongst demons. How now is he to choose between the Cross and the Black?

This is the third installment of the exciting The Cross and the Black Series. Please see my author profile for the first book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Luwa Wande
• Release date: Sep 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301282821

Luwa Wande

Also known as Wando Wande, Wandu Wande, Wanda Wande. Luwo Wande, Luwe Wande... you get the idea. I fought barehanded against lions once in Serengeti Plains...

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The Cross and the Black-Episode III

Luwa Wande

Copyright Luwa Wande 2012

Smashwords Edition

http://omnifish.wordpress.com

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This is Book III. See Book I.

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IMPORTANT

This story contains Christian blasphemy and non-explicit depictions of homosexual desire. Additionally, this installment of the serial novel has 16,000 words, which makes about 60 pages of paperback reading.

Chapter 1

A year had passed by and Claude was not dead yet. Not yet taken by demons. Had not ravished the lads or virgins. Had not stolen the purse. He was stuffed with French, roasted in Latin, and pickled in tears whenever Paire Dennis declared,  Ploremus  (let us wail) instead of  Oremus  (let us pray). Yet he was unblemished, unbled, and unbroken.

With severe dispassion, Calm reigned in the hut, but outside in the backyard during fencing lessons, it was no king. Claude fought to skewer it upon the naked nacreous target of Guy’s heart. One such damp afternoon when Claude lunged into the Guy’s attack without taking care to parry first, Guy grabbed the end of the blade with one bare hand and whacked Claude over the head with his blunt blade.

Ow! Claude struggled to free his blade from Guy’s grip.

Thou oat-brained pumpion, Guy barked then wrested the sword easily from Claude and threw it aside. You're ever a milkhead.

Claude scowled, rubbing his sore head. Faith and hope still ravaged with weeds in his heart. One of these days, one of these rainy blustery days, he would stab Guy’s heart and gain freedom from his debt.

Still rubbing his stinging head, he went to pick up the sword lying on the grass. The ground squelched under his boots leaving behind soft and soggy footprints. Not two days before, Whitsuntide had assaulted the joy of spring with a hailstorm. His vegetables flailed ruined leaves and misshapen flowers upon the black soil pelted with tiny puddles. As he picked up the hilt of braided steel, he glimpsed a sliver of blue and muddy shoes at the backdoor, then his belly cramped.

Sabrine, teach the little whore his defenses. The coxcomb would have me take his heart sooner rather than later.

You wait too long to bleed sheep, Sabrine said, taking the sword from Guy. She proceeded to hike up her skirts with a solid look about her face hatted with a black capotain.

Claude stabbed his sword into the ground. I will not be taught by a woman.

Now you remember your manhood, not when Serge rode you? Guy asked.

For the last time, Serge and I knew no shame—

"Engarde!"

Claude refused to harden into the defensive position, instead twisted his chemise collar, thinking precisely of how odious it was to dash upon a woman with rouged cheeks and plucked eyebrows. How now must he aim his blade at the plump mounds of her breasts?

Sabrine stomped over to him and slapped his buttocks with the blade, barking in his ear, "Engarde."

Merciful considerations for her bosom fizzled away as stinging spanned his buttocks. Your woman aims for my blood, Claude yelled.

At the backdoor, Guy cocked his head, nonchalant. "The day she draws your blood is the day she dies. Now show her your parry  quatre."

Guy’s bastardy feelings was ever dependable to give Claude cause mock Sabrine. Claude wagged the rapier over his ridges of carrots, smiling at her, Sabrine, ’tis a wondrous love. He thinks nothing of killing you.

The words were indeed like flies, efficient in finding the rot in the crags of her spirit. The veins in Sabrine’s forearms inflamed plump and menacing, and her eyes ballooned into red globs. She twisted to Guy, flinging the sword at him. Metal clanged dully on the soggy ground.

I won’t teach a milk-livered boar-pig. Force-feed him some manners, she said.

Guy’s height over her seemed to diminish underneath her flapping canopy of ire. Claude, he drawled in a grand show of defeat. Make amends or I shall slice off your fingers one by one.

My fair lady, do forgive my muddy tongue, Claude mocked.

Cut out his tongue!

My puss, Guy was more paternal than loving, Why be angry so? Ysabeau will have no trouble teaching him.

Ysabeau? The common-kissing rat? Sabrine thrust her hands akimbo. I’ll call upon Francois to give lessons instead.

The little whore would give more heed to Francois’ cock than a proper parry.

"I won’t have your wenches