**Chapter One: Anno Domini 1048**
All men serve God in their own way. Some humbly, toiling in the fields of their lords or workshops of their monasteries. Others grandly, moving kingdoms and shaping history. Bishop Burton pondered the varied and disparate ways he served the Lord as he stabbed his templar longsword deep into the neck of the Scottish militiaman, down into his vitals, cleaving his heart and skewering his stomach.
What a grimace he made! Looking up at the bishop with hatred and agony as he spasmed and gurgled blood. Even in death, this humble peasant served the Lord’s design.
And the Lord’s design in Scotland was simple. The expansion of Burton’s diocese. The acquisition of land and serfs. Scotland’s king Macbeth had grown tired of his nobleman Duke MacDougal, whom he resented since MacDougal had sabotaged the wedding of Macbeth’s cousin, coercing the would-be-bride to marry MacDougal’s nephew instead, ensuring their family won the dowry of seven manors, their fields and several mines.
So Macbeth had made a deal with England’s King Edward that should MacDougal be destroyed and his lands seized (save the mines) MacBeth would look the other way. Would even blame MacDougal for offending England in some fashion.
The order had passed from Edward to Siward, Earl of Northumbria, from there to Bishop Burton, whose diocese of Dodgham bordered the south of MacDougal’s territory.
Many Bishops maintained standing armies. Burton was no different, and with seventy knights templar had lead eleven-hundred swordsman into Scotland. They’d surprised MacDougal and his paltry army of five-hundred, slaughtering them on the fields of Cumberland several days past. Now on the first Friday of March, Burton and his army fought the final hundred of MacDougal’s soldiers and several dozen militia he’d desperately ordered to fight. The battle raged just outside the village Haldis, on a field of heather under a greying, evening sky.
Burton and his templar made quick work of the inept militia, clothed in woolen tunics, armed with pitchforks and knives. They stood in stark contrast to the splendid templar, in silver mail under white tunics emblazoned with the red cross. Burton’s armour was particularly grand, of steel plate draped in a tunic and cloak of white, gold and red intricately embroidered, worthy of a bishop, if rather speckled in blood.
The battle wound down. Roughly half the men of Haldis lay slain on violet field. Burton and his templar commander Ainsley killed eight peasants and stood there panting, sheathing their blades.
“A waste of serfs, excellency,” Ainsley said.
“Indeed,” Burton said. “No doubt MacDougal sent them to slaughter out of spite, rather than give them up.”
Burton pointed a silver finger at the distant huts of Haldis.
His army advanced.
A perimeter was set so no peasants might escape. The bishop and knights walked an earthen road into the village of wattle and daub. From windows peeked terrified faces of women and leftover men, mostly the young, elderly and infirm.
In the center of town, Burton took off his helm and appraised the village.
“Start at that end,” he said, pointing. “Round them up.”
“Sir!” Ainsley bellowed, and headed towards a smattering of huts with a dozen knights.
Burton nodded, pleased. A fair haul of serfs. The last two villages would tally more than a thousand. And he couldn’t help but notice, from the nearest window, five heads peeking fearfully. All young maidens with fiery red hair.
Seeing him look, they ducked out of sight.
“You three,” Burton said to his nearest templar. “Come with me.”
They strode towards the door. Burton kicked so hard the timbers fairly burst as it flew off its hinges. Screams of women answered. He found inside a family of six women and one man huddled on the earthen floor beside a crude table, stove and two straw beds. The women wore yellow woollen dresses. Five varied in age from adolescents to blossoming young women while the eldest was old, likely their mother.
The two parties stood in silence. The peasants trembled, terrified. Many sacked villages were put to the sword. But the bishop smiled reassuringly and said, “Be at peace, my children. The fight is over. I am Bishop Abel Burton, the lord of Dodgham.”
“Excellency!” croaked the father, bowing. The women quickly joined him.
“Your name, my son?” Burton asked the man twenty years his senior.
“Conrad Finlay, excellency.”
Burton nodded. “And is yours a God-fearing family?”
“Ye-yes!” he stammered. “Of course, excellency.”
Burton’s eyes turned to the daughters. Some were genuine beauties. Their scottish freckles stood delightfully on their fair, frightened faces. They hardly dared look at him. Such was the fear peasants held for the nobles.
“Your daughters are married?” Burton asked.
“N-no, excellency. Two were engaged, but. . .”
“Their fiances died today,” Burton said.
The father nodded miserably.
Two of the maidens had tears in their eyes. “Despair not,” Burton said, lifting their tear-wet cheeks with gauntleted fingers, leaning forward and placing a kiss on either of their foreheads. “For soon you shall be wedded to God.”
They exchanged bemused glances at the cryptic promise.
“I will see your daughters live happily in the service of our Lord,” Burton said. Most conquered serfs the bishop sent to work in his fields, but a few choice maidens he always took for nuns. “Say goodbye to your parents, girls.”
The daughters sobbed as they bid them farewell, embracing with many an, “I love you!” which the parents tearfully returned.
“Set these apart,” Burton told his knights. “They’re for St. Cecilia’s.”
His men nodded and escorted the weeping daughters out.
Burton was alone with the parents. The mother’s sullen eyes were downcast and resigned. The father’s face was wracked with anxious fear. Burton felt a swell of pity for him.
“My son,” he said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Your worries are at an end.” The father forced a smile. “Your work is finished in this world.” The father’s smile waned. Burton sighed as he noted his wrinkles and glazed, milky eyes. “You’re too old to be my serf.”
With little ado, he unsheathed a templar knife with a golden hilt of an embellished cross and plunged it into the man’s heart.
The wife screamed and cowered back as Burton stabbed several more thrusts into the old man’s vitals. The peasant croaked in agony and clutched at Burton’s chest—not resisting. Merely protesting. It wasn’t in the peasant’s psyche to defy a noble. Even in death.
Conrad fell to the earthen floor where he bled and spasmed.
“Be at peace, my son,” Burton said, stabbing into his back until the father stopped twitching. The bishop rose and turned to the mother. She was in quite a state, huddled on the bed, trembling and keening.
“Fear not, child,” Burton said. “There is work yet in your hands.” She was at least twenty years her husband’s junior. “Go now. Join the rest of your village. You shall serve me in my fields.”
Hysterical, the woman fled from the hovel where knights directed her to the growing pool of several hundred captives. In short order, Bishop Burton, his army, his captured serfs and nuns were all marching back to England.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/5hun73/bishop_burton_chapters_1_2_mfhistorical
**Chapter Two**
St. Cecilia’s was Burton’s home, hidden deep in the oaken forests of Northumbria. Not his official home. Burton Cathedral in White’s Head was his official home, where his wife reared his infant son and daughter. Full nine months of the year, however, if he wasn’t at war, Burton roamed the cloisters of Cecilia’s.
The complex of stone was five-hundred years old, lofty and grand, with a gorgeous church and long two-storey ranges. The grounds were walled against raiders. Bishop Burton had his own quarters and office built into the side of the abbey and was its sole male inhabitant (his ten templar guards had exterior barracks).
Abbess Avery was a good friend and wholly subservient to his authority. He kept her in good faith by never sampling the abbey’s wealth—as some bishops did—ensuring she took all profits from the nuns and their work in the sheep pens, ale brewery and various other employments, some more charitable than profitable, like the abbey’s orphanage.
He kept her rich and she gladly bent to his every whim as lord of the abbey. The hundred-and-forty nuns had grown accustomed to his rule. Indeed, most fairly worshiped him, given his holy status, supreme authority over the abbey and all Dodgham, and the fact he was the sole man most encountered day to day—save the odd sighting of his guards outside.
A month had passed since the defeat of MacDougal and the five Finlay sisters who’d caught Burton’s eye—with little reluctance—had given their lives to the sisterhood. Every day they sheared sheep and dutifully attended the eight chapel prayers: Lauds, Matins, Prime, Sext, Nones, Terce, Vespers and Compline.
They’d just completed their postulancy and been confirmed as novices—an important point for Burton. Novices of St. Cecilia’s took their preliminary vow of obedience and were ceremoniously wedded to Jesus. Most abbeys wedded the nuns after the four year novitiate, but Burton had advanced the custom.
He met the Finlay sisters that morning in the chapter house to congratulate them on their novitiate. The walls were lined with cushioned benches and paintings of holy figures. The girls’ fingers bore their bronze marriage bands. How sublime they looked in their black habits, white veils, wimples and coifs! Their freckled faces were framed beautifully in the fabric, plump and rosy—considering the poorly diets of peasants—and several had ample bosoms. They seemed to be adjusting well, showing little trauma over the loss of their village and parents.
“But where are they, father?” asked the youngest.
“Embrace your new life and forget what is past, child,” he answered, kindly but firmly. “The abbey is your home. The sisters and I are your family now. And girls. . . Tell me your names and ages.”
“Alana,” said the youngest. “I’m fourteen, father.”
“Bridget. Eighteen, father.”
“Elspeth. Nineteen, father.”
“Flora. Twenty-two, father.”
“Una. Twenty-six, father.”
“Good, good,” he said. “Thank you, children. I understand you’ve been shearing sheep?”
“Yes, father,” Una said. “Mother Superior is very kind.”
He smiled. “I’m glad you’re adjusting well. I hope you’ll find happiness here. It is a great privilege to live a Godly life and ensure one’s salvation. Now return to your duties. And Novice Bridget—visit my office after vespers.”
Quizzically, Bridget nodded.
The Finlay daughters bowed and departed.
~~~
Bishop Burton’s office was grand, with a vaulted stone ceiling, regal oaken desk, small library and cushioned opulent furniture. Its tall windows let in squares of light through lattice windows. He was writing a letter to Commander Ainsley that evening in his white alb, golden cloak and jeweled mitre when he heard a knock at the door. His assistant Sister Agatha entered with Bridget Finlay.
“Ah, Novice Bridget!” Burton said, rising. “Welcome.”
“Happy to see you, Father,” Bridget said, bowing, her eyes bent coyly downward. Very meek and shy around the bishop, like most novices.
Burton admired her beauty. Her shining, flawless skin. Her striking eyes, bright grey and large. The very embodiment of Christian innocence. She stood hardly to his chin.
He embraced her heartily and kissed her forehead, to a surprised smile. Already, he saw the affect of his attention, the flattered, nervous excitement and flitting, girlish glances.
“We’ll sup together in my private kitchen,” he said.
Bridget nodded.
They had a splendid meal of roast duck, escargot, pastries and wine served by Agatha. It was a meal the likes of which Bridget had never dreamed. Such wealth fairly dazzled her. While they ate, they spoke of her life in Haldis, how she’d embroidered with her mother and sometimes helped in the fields. The bishop was familiar, cordial and warm, putting her spirits at ease.
If dinner wasn’t dazzling enough, Sister Agatha was a constant distraction. She had the largest breasts Bridget had ever seen or even heard of. They hung nearly to her navel and eclipsed the table as she served. The habit hugged them snugly. Bridget tried not to oggle. She gasped once as, refilling her wine, Agatha pressed them into the back of her neck, fairly surrounding her whole head! Burton had suppressed a chuckle at Bridget’s flustered state.
Afterwards, the bishop took her to his bed chamber, just as richly furnished as his office and warmed by a roaring hearth. His four-poster bed was enormous. It had white silk curtains, sheets, pillowcases and a genuine feather mattress. Bridget had never imagined such a marvelous bed.
Agatha busied herself lighting candles.
“Say your evening prayers, child,” Burton said, pointing at a red-cushioned prayer bench on the floor.
“Yes, father,” Bridget said, and knelt. She cupped her hands to her breasts and prayed as Burton hung up his cloak and mitre. Already, he felt himself stiffening under his alb.
Bridget had rather wondered about the meaning of this evening with the illustrious bishop showing her every kindness. Wondered why the older nuns had smirked when she’d left to meet him. She figured he was simply a warm benevolent lord welcoming her into the fold. But now. . . She was piqued by his undressing.
He strode towards her as Agatha took position nearby, head bowed, hands clasped to her groin, hidden in her sleeves. Burton stopped before the novice. Her veiled head was level with his groin.
She looked up at him with wide-eyed naivety. “Shall you pray, too, father?” she asked.
He shook his head, smiling. “No, child. Now close your eyes.”
Bemused, Bridget obeyed and continued to pray.
Bishop Burton reached into a hidden slash in the groin of his alb and freed his manhood from his braies, maneuvering it through the slash until it jutted outwards from the alb. The cool air nipped at his throbbing erection mere inches from Bridget’s face.
Her nose wrinkled at a strange, musky, intoxicating scent.
“Open your eyes, child,” Burton said.
Bridget obeyed.
She started violently backwards and gasped, throwing a hand over her mouth, yet remained kneeling.
“What. . .” she stammered. “Father, is. . .”
Burton suppressed a chuckle. It was one of his favourite pranks to play, surprising a new nun with his cock pointing at her face. Their reactions always amused him. For most, it was their first time seeing a penis.
There was always shock, and usually fear. Some trembled horribly. Others were so startled they clambered away and Agatha had to coax them back to the bench. Some were bashful yet morbidly curious, angling their faces away while stealing little glances. Almost none were angry, and if they were quickly snuffed the emotion, knowing anger was something they could never direct at their lord.
After the initial scare, awe and fascination usually followed. They might smile as they examined it. His was, after all, a mighty specimen, seven inches and thickly veined, head peeking through the foreskin. The virginal maidens marvelled at the organ they’d heard so much about yet never seen, the masculine spear meant for a wife.
Bridget transitioned quickly to the fascination phase, composing herself, pace of her respiration and heartbeat quickening with excitement as she stared wide-eyed.
“Your *penis*?” she finally squeaked.
“Yes, child,” Burton said. He stroked her head through her veil, feeling her tremble. “Do not fear. Remember, you have wedded with the Lord.”
“Yes. . .” she said uncertainly, unable to take her eyes off it.
“Well your bishop is the Lord’s vessel on this Earth, which means you are wedded to *me*. As is every nun at St. Cecilia’s.”
Bridget began to understand. What’s more, was not averse to the notion of being wedded to this man. A wealthy, powerful noble and vessel of God. She had seen how the eyes of every nun lingered on him. Desired him.
“And as my wife, you shall take up your wifely duties at once. One of these is to nurture my penis. You shall care for it tenderly and give it your every affection. Do you understand, child?”
She gulped, but nodded. “Yes, father.”
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