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!!!WARNING!!!
THIS FILE CONTAINS SEXUALLY EXPLICIT MATERIAL
If you will believe that you will be offended by such material,
or if you are under age, you are required to READ NO FURTHER!
Delete this file immediately and go on with your otherwise normal
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in the area in which you live. The author assumes no
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from unlawfully viewing or distributing this document.
The following document is a work of erotic fiction. Any and all
resemblance to actual events or actual persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental. The author neither encourages nor
condones any of the practices herein, but neither does the author
discourage or condemn any of same. The document is intended only
to entertain and perhaps to arouse. The author assumes absolutely
no responsibility for any action taken by the person(s) viewing
this document.
And thus we begin the story...
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01Knight - Full Version {Moon Dragon}
"Once a Knight" Copyright Moon Dragon - Mar/2010
(fM, oral, FM, anal, magic, viol, F-solo
exhib, MMf, f-solo, voy, reluc, best, f-dog
1st-ff, ffM, shav, mf, MF, rom, hist)
- X - X - X -
When a Contessa from present times returns
and cannot go back for the love she yearns
from a magical adventure in the past
though ever more her love will last
her squires must turn their weekend play
into courage and prowess to save the day
- X - X - X -
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Lady Angharad O'Shaughnessy of Kilkenny
Lord Lincoln Mac Galbraith of Blakeshire Wood
(Squires to Syr Gabriella)
Syr Gabriella Valentina, Contessa del Giardino Bella
(Head of House Valentina)
Sir Edmund de la Claire
Baroness Sokhatai Bolkhadar
(Lord and Lady of House de la Claire)
Duchess Lucinda Melisande Von Landstadt
(The Ivory Duchess)
Sir Tyrus, Lord Blakeshire
(Knight of the Kings Court)
Helga and Hannah the Serving Girls
(Handmaidens at Blakeshire Keep, Sisters)
Lord Nathaniel of Belascye
(Squire of Sir Tyrus)
- X - X - X -
Holding his hands, Lady Angharad preceded Lord Lincoln
deep into the camp site until they reached the striped
white and sapphire Tudor pavilion that he often called
home during the two week long medieval camping events
that he attended in the summertime. She moved in ahead
of him, casting one of her trademark mischievous grins
over her shoulder, beckoning him to follow.
Now here was something new! Lincoln had always enjoyed
flirting with this sexy redhead, but they hadn't ever
taken it further than harmless banter, so he was quite
anxious to know just how far this was going. He ducked
beneath the tents entryway as Angharad reached up and
tied the flaps closed, then turned away to apply flame
to a pair of hanging oil lanterns.
"There," she stated, "That's better. It's much quieter
in here than it is out there, is it not?"
Lincoln nodded, but before he could compose a coherent
reply, Angharad moved into his arms pressing her firm
young breasts against his chest. Her forest green gown
swayed in the lamplight as she brushed her lips across
his own, then fell to her knees on warm furs strewn on
the straw covered floor.
"Um, I believe we ought not do this," declared Lincoln
unwillingly. It was just his honor speaking, although
his body was telling his honor to shut the fuck up and
play along, "What would Syr Gabriella think?"
"Well," Angharad answered with a wicked smirk, "In all
likelihood, she'd tell you that you truly ought to get
laid more often... to calm you, of course. I heard her
say those actual words this very day. I do believe it
was whilst you, milord, were making ready to rush into
battle, and you had been rattling round the encampment
like a barnyard fowl with its head removed."
"Said she so indeed?" Lincoln laughed, "Have you taken
it upon yourself, then, to see to it that those orders
are obeyed?"
Saying nothing, Angharad slowly ran her hands up along
his naked calves until she'd reached the lower edge of
his great kilt. The traditional garb of the Scottish
Highlander, the belted plaid, or breacan feile, was no
more or less than an overlarge tartan blanket that was
pleated round the waist and secured with a belt. Extra
fabric was thrown over the shoulder, borne in place by
a stout metal brooch, then most usually ignored.
"So what DO you wear under this thing anyway?" grinned
Angharad as she slipped her hands beneath the kilt and
teasingly ran them up his thighs.
"Me mum once said that a proper lady wouldn't ask," he
replied, then added quietly, "She was right, God bless
her."
"Hey, I heard that, y'know," smirked the russet haired
lass as she playfully feigned indignation. She pushed
him backward towards the straw pallet covering his oak
timbered rope bed, "Why don't we see just what sort of
proper lady I really am, shall we?"
Lincoln didn't bother to reply as she flipped his kilt
up around his waist and planted a tiny kiss on the tip
of his hard cock. Her open fronted forest green twill
skirt gently swept her calves as she slowly started to
circle one of the pavilion center poles, undulating in
a rhythm with the middle eastern drums they could hear
beating throughout the encampment.
Raising one arm over her head, Angharad moved her back
against the pole, bending her knees to slide downwards
like an exotic dancer. The drumming was joined by the
skirling of pipes, along with some variety of stringed
instrument in the background, as she untied the silken
laces of her bodice, shrugging her shoulders so bodice
and skirt fell upon the floor as one. Turning her back
to him, Angharad grasped the fabric of her embroidered
chemise at her hips and, gathering it in her hands by
inches at a time, lifted the hemline until it was over
her hips.
Angharad looked back over her shoulder with her russet
locks cascading over her face, winking wickedly as she
reached beneath the lightweight garment and hooked her
thumbs into the waistband of a pair of linen bloomer
shorts. They were just a little too scantily styled to
be historically accurate, but Lincoln certainly wasn't
complaining.
Keeping her legs straight with feet together, she bent
from the waist, purposely framing a very spankable ass
within the folds of her chemise. She knew that she had
just given the braw Scotsman a glimpse of her eagerly
waiting slit, as planned, hiding it again as she stood
upright letting the hem of the undergown fall back to
the floor. Clad only in a soft linen chemise, Angharad
prowled across the floor and stretched out full length
on the pallet mattress of the rope bed, then waited to
see what Lincoln would do next.
Taking his cue, Lincoln stood over her as he unclasped
the brass penannular brooch that kept his plaid pinned
to his shoulder, then loosed the light chain that held
his sporran, casting it to one side. He unbuckled the
wide red leather belt that was the only thing allowing
the tartan blanket to resist the pull of gravity. The
plaid fell upon the floor in a shapeless heap, leaving
him clad in just a thigh length shirt and his boots.
Slipping the lower hem of her chemise smoothly up over
her silky calves, Lincoln laid a trail of kisses from
her ankles to her knees. His lips followed the garment
as he lightly raised the sensuous ivory colored fabric
still higher til it was gathered round her thighs. His
heart was pounding like a war drum, he was waiting for
Angharad to make him stop at any moment, but she did
nothing of the sort. The soft fabric slipped up around
her slender waist as she lifted her hips, allowing his
trail of slow, hot kisses to arrive at the juncture of
her thighs.
Lincoln paused for an instant, to gaze in appreciation
upon an unexpected treasure that he found. Apparently
her calves weren't the only part of her body that Lady
Angharad kept silky smooth.
"See something you like?" she whispered with a grin.
Letting action speak louder than words, Lincoln gently
parted her thighs, and began planting kisses all over
her soft little pussy. Angharad let out a hushed groan
of happiness, as Lincoln's tongue began to explore her
slit, making her dripping wet. She crossed her ankles
around his shoulders, spreading her legs just a little
wider to allow him greater access, beginning to writhe
with pleasure as his lips danced over her slit.
"Oh god, yeah," she moaned, "Just like that."
Angharad felt her breathing grow ragged and heavy as a
pulsing heat spread throughout her body. She slid her
hands beneath her chemise to gently squeeze and caress
her tits, gasping in ecstasy as Lincoln lightly parted
her pussy lips to flick his tongue over her clit. Her
stiff little button pulsated with delight, as her slim
hips writhed lustily.
"Not yet, baby," she begged, "Slow down... Ungh... God
damn, I think I'm gonna... Mmm... I'm gonna..."
Angharad felt her body let go, thrashing in ecstasy as
Lincoln gently suckled at her clit, sending wave after
wave of explosive color surging through her body. She
squeezed her tits a little harder, prolonging the heat
that was overwhelming her.
"Oh baby... Mmm... I'm cumming," she whimpered, "Fuck
yeah, just like that... Ungh, ungh, ungh!"
As her body began to relax, Angharad savored the scent
of her orgasm, bucking her hips lightly in reaction as
Lincoln's tongue teased her oversensitive clit. After
taking a moment to recover, she sat up and tangled her
fingers lightly in the long wavy brown locks that fell
over Lincoln's shoulders, and gently pulled him up til
he faced her.
"Okay," she whispered, "That was fucking incredible!"
"Wonderful," Lincoln grinned, "Glad you enjoyed it."
"Oh, I did," she replied, "But now its my turn."
She reached up to remove his shirt. The fine tunic was
a cobalt blue through the body, with a puffed roll of
white over each shoulder. It had white vambraces laced
up over the forearms, and there was a matching ruffled
jabot tied at the throat. Both the vambraces and jabot
were trimmed in a silver braid, with a row of sapphire
stones encircling each wrist, and a wrought silver and
sapphire pendant hung from the throat.
Deftly unpinning the sapphire pendant, she unlaced the
vambraces, and pulled the tunic over his head and cast
it to the floor. With a playful shove, she pressed him
back onto the bed, then pulled away his leather boots
and dropped them upon the straw as well. Kneeling upon
the stuffed mattress beside his hips, Angharad leaned
towards him, gently pressing her soft lips against his
own, teasing him with the tip of her tongue.
Lincoln reached up with one hand, tangling his fingers
through her own russet locks, as he drew her closer to
him with the other. Her soft tits flattened up against
his chest, as the shared warmth of their bodies spread
through her embroidered chemise in hot waves.
He heard her groan softly, as she hiked her chemise up
round her hips and moved the weight of her body toward
him, throwing an ivory thigh over his hips and taking
his shaft in her hand. He gritted his teeth, trying to
avoid moaning aloud as she placed the head of his cock
against her wet slit. An instant later she settled her
weight upon him, and her pink pussy lips spread around
his cock, as she slid down his length til he bottomed
out deep inside her velvet heat. His own struggles for
silence were rendered pointless when Angharad groaned
loudly, clearly audible to any passerby outside of the
pavilions canvas walls.
She idly hoped there was nobody around to overhear her
cries, but in truth, she honestly didn't care. She had
observed the braw Scotsman from afar since his pledge
to Syr Gabriella a month and a half before, barely one
week after her seventeenth birthday, and although Lord
Lincoln was nigh six years older than her, she'd spent
the last six weeks awaiting this moment. She had once
heard it remarked that a woman knew within ten minutes
of meeting a man for the first time whether or not she
was eventually going to sleep with him; she had made a
decision within thirty seconds.
Wanting more contact, Angharad impatiently tore at her
linen chemise, tugging it over her head and baring her
soft young tits to Lincoln's touch. Rocking herself up
and down on her knees, she whimpered with pleasure as
he caressed them teasingly with the softest touches of
the tips of his fingers, lightly circling her nipples
with his thumbs. Her lean hips rose and fell in primal
abandon as she slid her dripping slit up and down over
Lincoln's thick stiffness, wildly fucking herself with
his hard cock.
Groaning in ecstasy, she held her tits, squeezing them
as Lincoln slid his hands down to encircle her slender
waist. Her clit ground hotly against him, throbbing at
every contact, each time she thrust her silky smooth
pussy down upon him. She began to moan, another orgasm
looming closer with every instant. Lincoln pulled her
close, so that her tits were slipping up and down over
his chest with every motion.
"That's it, baby," he whispered in her ear, "Just like
that. You're almost there, aren't you?"
"Mmm-hmm," she whimpered, "Oh god, it feels so good!"
"Oh yeah, don't stop," he encouraged her, cupping her
naked ass as it rose and fell over his hips, "You want
it, don't you, baby?"
"Oh fuck, yeah," she groaned quietly, "You know I want
it, I wanna cum so bad, baby."
"Do it, baby," Lincoln told her, "Cum for me."
Angharad plunged downwards once more, ramming his hard
cock in deep as her pussy began to spasm.
"I'm cumming," she wailed, "Ungh... Oh shit, baby, I'm
cumming. Mmm... Mmm... Ooooh! Oh yeah!"
Angharad let herself come apart completely, convulsing
uncontrollably as she ground her slit down on his hard
shaft. Vivid undulations of color exploded throughout
her body and brightly hued lights burst forth in her
head. She squeezed her tits, loving it rough while she
was cumming, and felt the sensations slowly drift away
from her once more.
Feeling her pussy hotly pulsating around his hard cock
was more than Lincoln could withstand. He felt himself
drawing closer to his own release, but realized barely
in time that there was going to be trouble. Angharad
still languidly stroked her slick pussy up and down on
his hard cock, and he struggled against the inevitable
as he tried to explain.
"Uh, baby, stop a second," he begged, "Please you have
to... ungh fuck... I'm not wearing a condom."
Angharad grinned wickedly, tightening her pussy around
his stiff cock to tease him. She could see in his eyes
that such teasing couldn't last very long, however, so
she offered a wordless solution.
Lifting herself off of him, she slowly moved down over
his body until she was kneeling between his thighs. An
instant slipped by as she smiled mischievously, then
dipped her head down to take his hardness into her hot
wet mouth. Lincoln groaned as he felt her tongue slide
down over his shaft, and she began to bob her head up
and down upon his stiff cock with aching slowness. She
seemed to know when enough was enough, however, as she
stopped each time he was within moments of release. In
this way she held his pleasure at bay for just another
minute or two, until she was ready.
Glancing up to make sure he was watching, Angharad let
her head tilt back and slipped his raging cock all the
way down her throat. Lincoln gasped, feeling his shaft
sliding deeper and deeper into her mouth until her hot
moist lips were pressed tight against the very root of
his cock. There was no way he could endure it.
"Oh god baby, here it comes," he warned, expecting her
to move before it was too late but she didn't. Moments
later he grunted, tangling his fingers in her hair as
he fired spurts of hot cum into her mouth. Moving only
enough to allow herself room to swallow, Angharad gave
an impatient moan as she let Lincoln's salty sweet cum
trickle down her throat, without spilling a drop.
Releasing his dwindling shaft from her mouth, Angharad
crawled up alongside of him, and fell into his arms in
an exhausted, though sated heap.
"Now that," she exclaimed dreamily, "Is what I call an
exquisite celebration!"
Laughing softly, Lincoln agreed. Although he was still
befuddled to some degree, he tried to recall just what
they'd been celebrating in the first place...
- X - X - X -
... Battles raged around him, and his ears were filled
with the clashing of arms and the cries of men... many
of whom were oddly laughing while, and even after, the
stout blows that felled them were struck.
Lord Lincoln Mac Galbraith of Blakeshire Wood stood in
the last rank, with a sturdy recurved bow in hand, and
launched padded arrows against the broad enemy shield
wall that barred their way. He was jostled by the butt
end of a longspear, carried by one of his own comrades
in arms, which spoiled his aim. Fortunately, a warrior
wielding a pole axe zigged when he should have zagged
and stepped right into the shot, so that arrow had not
gone to waste although it had missed the target he had
intended. He had but one final shaft left, though, and
he had to make it count.
There, in the second rank, behind a protective wall of
shield bearing fighters, was the enemy commander. His
silvery helm gleamed in the noonday sun, as if begging
to be targeted, and many enemy warriors rallied around
a silk standard decorated with the very same white and
gold design as his surcotte. Lincoln warily nocked his
final arrow, and in one smooth movement, drew back the
bow and loosed, threading the needle as the blunt head
of the arrow flew in between the commander's upraised
shield and that of the man on his right. The commander
of the enemy force snapped his head back with surprise
as the padded arrow struck square on the face grill of
his steel helm.
He looked across the line to catch Lincoln's eye, then
raised his weapon in salute and fell to the ground. He
wasn't actually harmed, of course, just acknowledging
the hit honorably by playing the part of still another
casualty. Lincoln gave a snarl of glee, then slung his
bow over one shoulder, drew his molded rubber axe from
the worn leather sling over the other, and waded into
that chaotic fray... taking all of two steps before he
was felled by a hairy barbarian with a war hammer.
Later that night, while sitting around the fire within
the encampment of his knight, Lincoln entertained his
sword brothers with a song of a Norseman who found his
way at last to the halls of Valhalla. As he sang, amid
the evening quiet, broken only by the sound of revelry
from neighboring camps, he kept time by slapping the
end of his belt gently against his open palm. The belt
was red leather, and upon its tip was a small enameled
shield bearing the arms of his knight.
He had pledged his service to the lovely Syr Gabriella
Valentina, Contessa del Giardino Bella, only six weeks
earlier. For as long as she deemed him worthy of her
household, and in need of her training, he would serve
as her squire. He would carry and maintain her weapons
and armor, as well as his own, and he would wait upon
her and attend her needs at court. She, in return, had
pledged to train him in the ways of knighthood; in the
art of combat, deeds of arms, and court etiquette.
At such time as she deemed him fit, she would petition
her peers in the chivalric Order of the Golden Hart to
invite him into their ranks. That day, however, would
not be anytime soon, and Lincoln was quite content for
the duration to serve alongside his two other brothers
and sisters in arms as Syr Gabriella's squires.
Just as he finished his ballad, Lincoln noticed that a
shadow had moved between himself and the camp fire. He
looked up to see a knight, in his surcoat of white and
gold, gazing sternly down at him.
"You are he," asked that knight, "Who felled me during
the battle this day?"
Lincoln remained silent for a moment. Some knights had
a dislike for archers, whom they claimed fired their
weapons from afar, only to yield without taking a blow
if their opponent was within melee range. Some knights
contended that there was a lack of honor in this, and
berated archers for failing to lay themselves in harms
way like true warriors.
Glancing over at Syr Gabriella, Lincoln could see that
she was awaiting his response, with one eyebrow raised
expectantly. Honor, both hers and his own, demanded he
speak and answer true.
"You say rightly," he said rising to his feet, "It was
indeed I, sir knight."
The knight simply reached up to grasped his forearm in
a warriors handshake.
"A fine shot that was, young man," he said with a wide
grin, "And your knight must surely be pleased that her
squire has attained such skills, with sword or bow."
"He fares better in the list," Syr Gabriella said with
a smile, "His skill with sword or axe serves him much
better when there is only one opponent to keep account
of. In open battle, he is often struck by one opponent
while charging after another."
"As is so often the case," the knight agreed, "In time
you will learn to be broader of vision during the heat
of battle. Until that day, your bow shall serve your
kingdom just as well. Know me then as Sir Edmund de la
Claire, and know too that at the behest of your knight
I have been watching your performance, both on and off
the field, even before this day. Skill at arms can be
learned in the course of time, but only heart can make
a man who he is, and heart cannot be learned. If ever
you should need a strong arm to lend support when your
own knight is unavailable, you may freely summon House
de la Claire at any time."
Sir Edmund wheeled around on his heel, and strode away
without speaking another word. Lincoln heard a buzzing
in the air, or perhaps merely within his own head, and
he fell back to his seat with a thump. He was grinning
like an idiot, so much so that he scarcely heard the
congratulations of his squire brothers. Sir Edmund was
one of the knights that was oft heard spoken of around
campfires with tones of awe, and to receive such words
of encouragement from such as he was almost as good as
being knighted yourself.
"Come, milord," whispered a voice in his ear, "This is
cause for celebration."
Rather shocked, he looked up into the laughing eyes of
Lady Angharad O'Shaughnessy of Kilkenny. Syr Gabriella
had but one female vassal; she had been squired to her
much longer than Lincoln had, even before the Contessa
had taken her place in the order of chivalry to begin
with. Three years had gone by since then, and although
young Angharad had been only fourteen at the time, she
had blossomed nicely as time went by...
- X - X - X -
... Sir Edmund walked out of the Contessa's encampment
and made his way through the throngs of medieval revel
goers. Middle eastern drums beat a heavy rhythm amidst
the skirling of pipes as he entered the encampment of
House de la Claire. He had long since been knighted by
the time Syr Gabriella had accepted the accolade, with
seven squires who had sworn fealty to him, each squire
commanding as many as a dozen various men at arms.
Indeed he hadn't founded the household himself; rather
he had been invited to join it, and later inherited it
upon the retirement of the original founder, Bolkhadar
Khachigun. Bolkhadar also had a daughter, Sokhatai, in
the KMA who had been but two years old when her father
had begun to assemble his household, but that had been
nineteen years ago. Since then, although the name of
the household had been changed to respect their newest
head, their Baroness Sokhatai Bolkhadar had shouldered
her fathers legacy well, and Sir Edmund wore her favor
with pride.
As he neared the campfire, hearing his squires and men
at arms telling stories of the days battle, Edmund saw
the Baroness walking casually into the Mongolian yurt
beneath his banner of crimson and gold. She was gazing
coyly over her shoulder, and was untying the sash that
bound her caftan as she went. Deciding that the tales
of battle could wait for morning, Edmund abandoned the
fire, following her toward their portable hut.
Sokhatai was already practically naked by the time Sir
Edmund entered the yurt, with her calve length caftan
and an ankle length undertunic that she'd been wearing
beneath it already discarded carelessly upon their fur
strewn floor. There was naught but the dim flicker of
candles to hide the form of her body as she tugged the
thigh length linen chemise up over her head, spilling
her ebony black hair from under its hem as she exposed
her bare tits to his admiring eye.
Edmund began to doff his own clothing, his surcoat and
hauberk joining her garments upon the floor. His tunic
of white and gold fell upon them, and he moved toward
her, clad only in boots and leather breeches. Slipping
one arm around her slender waist, he pulled her closer
to him, flattening her naked tits upon his chest, then
pressed his firm lips against hers.
Eagerly undoing the ties of his breeches, the Baroness
wasted no time slipping one venturing hand inside the
snug leather garment to grasp his hardening cock. With
no delays, she dropped to her knees upon the luxurious
furs cast over the floor, dragging Edmunds breeches to
fall around his ankles as she went. In the real world
outside of the Kansas Medieval Association, the lovely
baroness was just a quiet accountant who worked in the
local tax offices, but there was just something about
the music and the firelight that stifled her restraint
and released her inner passion.
Licking her lips with eager anticipation, Sokhatai let
the knights throbbing hardness slide into her mouth as
she moaned contentedly. Mongolian music could be heard
outside their yurt over the mixture of bagpipes, lutes
and other dissimilar instruments from elsewhere about
the campground, but Edmunds groans soon began to drown
out all of the other sounds of revelry.
Settling back on the fur covered bed as he tangled his
fingers gently in her hair, the knight watched as the
baroness bobbed her head up and down in his lap, using
her movements to slip his cock in and out of her silky
wet mouth. There he remained until he noticed Sokhatai
writhing erotically, urgently craving attention.
Rising to his feet, Edmund moved her forward until she
was bent over the edge of the bed, then he knelt into
position behind her. Holding to her naked hips to make
steady his aim, he loosed an arrow of his own smoothly
into her moist target. Sokhatai groaned, savoring the
rapid plunge that had her body lurching forward on the
bed, knotting her hands in the furs as Edmund began to
thrust in and out of her aching slit.
She bit her lip to stifle any further moans, listening
to the carousing band of Mongolian warriors outside as
they celebrated both victory and defeat, unaware that
their baroness was getting her wet pussy hammered only
a few paces away. She liked knowing that their troops
might hear. It turned her on to think that she and her
knight could be discovered at any moment. Pushing back
against Edmund's driving lunges, Sokhatai whimpered as
he slammed his hips into her smooth round ass, forcing
her ever closer into delirium.
"Ungh, fuck yeah," she whispered, "Harder baby. You're
gonna make... ungh yeah, make me cum."
Sir Edmund redoubled his efforts, driving his hot hard
cock into her slick wet slit using every ounce of his
strength. He reached around, grasping her soft tits as
she moaned out his name, feeling her pussy starting to
spasm around his rigid shaft.
"Ooooh yes, I'm cumming," she moaned, trembling as all
the colors of the rainbow shot through her body, "Ungh
yes, right there. Ungh fuck me, Aaaaah!"
Sparkling jolts of polychromatic music surged all over
her throbbing slit, crackling like a lightning bolt up
through her spine and into her brain. In that endless
moment of breathless ecstasy, the baroness felt Edmund
still driving himself forcefully into her wetness, hot
shocks of delight prolonging every second of delirious
frenzy. A short time later, when she was able to form
some coherent thoughts once again, Sokhatai moved away
from the knight, turning them both so that he was once
again lying on the bed.
Kneeling on the bed between his feet, the ebony haired
noblewoman grasped hold of his rigid cock and began to
stroke it slowly, her own juices having left it slick
and wet. With her right hand pumping up and down in an
endless rhythm, Sokhatai gently squeezed her tits with
the other, alternating back and forth between them as
Edmund watched her jerk him off. She grew impatient to
see him cum, she loved the sight of his face grimacing
as he tried to fight back his pleasure. This eagerness
could easily be sated, however, as she knew the way to
make Edmund cum whenever she wanted, regardless of how
hard he fought.
Grinning wickedly, the baroness coaxed Edmund to raise
his knees as she dipped one finger into her hot pussy
to make it wet. Once she had done this, she slipped an
agile hand beneath him and brushed a finger around the
cleft of his bottom.
"Ungh fuck," he groaned, "Cheater."
Taking his moans for encouragement, Sokhatai then slid
her finger gently into the knights tight ass, stroking
his prostate with her left hand and his hard pulsating
cock with her right. Slipping her slick wet fingertip
back and forth in his ass, with her raven haired locks
matted with the sweltering heat of their congress, the
baroness wrapped the palm of her hand around the plum
dark head of his shaft, grasping it gently as she felt
his hips begin to buck upon the bed.
The double sensations of Sokhatai stroking the head of
his shaft and fondling his prostate simultaneously was
more than Edmund could stand. With a low growl, he let
himself go, pulsing hot jets of sticky white cum into
her hand until the baroness felt it trickling out from
between her fingers. The hot cum clinging to her hands
was enough to send her following Edmund.
"Ungh, fuck, yeah," she groaned. Without being touched
at all, she felt waves of dizziness as a mind bending
orgasm ripped from her head to her feet, her toes even
curling in the furs of the bed as hot raging eruptions
of electric color ripped through her.
A short time afterward, when they had both calmed down
somewhat, Sokhatai gave a devilish little giggle while
she looked for something to clean up the mess. Taking
time to gather up their clothing, they got dressed and
went outside. Sir Edmund walked into the firelight in
time to hear muffled snickers and catch a small number
of coins changing hands.
"What's this now?" he challenged.
"Nothing at all, milord," one of the men at arms about
the campfire replied, "Merely a friendly wager amongst
comrades."
"What kind of wager?"
"Well... keeping score, milord. You see we... by which
I mean they, questioned how long, uh..."
Sokhatai walked up behind the knight to whisper softly
in his ear. Flushing many shades of red, Edmund glared
around the encampment.
"You lot," he growled, sitting by the fire, "Are all a
bunch of incorrigible scoundrels."
The baroness came over and sat on his lap, handing him
a tankard of mead as she smirked saucily at the troops
of their household.
"Don't fret, milord," she remarked, "Regardless of any
wager made by such devils, remember that this night it
was you who scored..."
- X - X - X -
... Lincoln gazed down upon the sated Lady by his side
just as she opened her mouth in a jaw cracking yawn.
"Oh, that was attractive," she giggled, "How about you
just pretend you didn't see that, alright?"
"See what?"
"Good boy," she said, then she slithered up out of bed
and began to gather her clothing, "Now get up and come
with me. I've got a surprise for you."
"I don't know," Lincoln smirked, "After the unexpected
performance in here a little while ago, I believe I'm
pretty damned surprised as it is, assuming that counts
for anything. Not that I'm complaining, mind."
"You are such a man," Angharad grinned, "But seriously
though, you gotta come with me."
Rolling out off the pallet mattress, Lincoln collected
his own clothing and began to get dressed. There was a
bonus midnight battle scheduled to commence in just an
hour, so leaving all of his jeweled finery behind, he
donned instead a pair of quilted blue hose, trimmed in
white, that he laced onto the drawstring of his wholly
anachronistic tartan print shorts. Over this he pulled
a matching thigh length quilted coat with its upright
quilted collar and sleeves that extended out to enwrap
the backs of his hands. The long coat laced up in the
front, and it was called a gambeson. Collectively, the
items served as padding under the entire suit of chain
maille that covered him from the bottom of his feet to
the top of his head.
Over these padded undergarments, Lincoln donned a pair
of maille chausses. Resembling nothing as much as hip
length stockings, the chausses were built of thousands
of interlocked and welded titanium rings, each one of
them smaller than a dime. The chain link leggings were
pointed to leather tabs on the interior of his padded
gambeson, and they were joined by a thigh length shirt
of maille also known as a hauberk.
Greaves and vambraces of leather, reinforced with thin
splints of hardened steel, protected his forearms and
shins over the maille pieces, with jointed poleyns and
couters to guard his knees and elbows. He wore a vest
of leather, lined with overlapping metal bands, called
a coat of plates, with articulated steel spaulders to
protect his shoulders. The coat included a high collar
of leather reinforced with a steel band to protect his
throat. Over all this, Lincoln donned his belted plaid
and sporran around his waist over a blue surcoat that
had been emblazoned with the two headed falcon and the
three Scottish thistles that together made up his coat
of arms.
He tucked his helmet under his arm, a coal grey powder
coated helm, designed to resemble a fourteenth century
chapel de fer, with a shoulder length coiffe of welded
maille hanging from the brow to conceal those sections
which had been varied away from historical accuracy in
favor of safety. A pair of steel plated gloves, called
gauntlets, completed the ensemble; these he carried in
his upended helm. His shield and weapons he would send
one of Syr Gabriella's men at arms back to retrieve a
little later, after the safety marshals had officially
announced the call to arms.
When they'd deemed one another decent enough to appear
before the public, Angharad took his hand, leading him
from the pavilion and toward the market square. Out in
the 'plaza' had been raised a great array of tents and
shelters, each housing merchants of every variety and
sort. Armorers, leather workers and metal smiths; food
vendors, bowyers and fletchers, all shared space round
the square.
Making him close his eyes, Angharad led him across the
square to an old covered wagon before she allowed him
to look. A long table had been hastily set up in front
of the wagon, and a shimmering exhibition was laid out
on its rough wooden surface.
The display of jewelry was like nothing he'd ever seen
before. Although these trinkets, and their crafter as
well, if he were honest, seemed somewhat eccentric and
strange, he was drawn by their wonder. Looking down at
all of the different pieces, Angharad instantly picked
out the items she wanted. A matched couplet of Celtic
torcs in twisted gold, with large amethyst stones that
were set into the filigree at either end.
The eerie old Gypsy merchant looked at Angharad as she
picked up one of the torcs to examine the stones more
closely. Tracing a finger across the gem she could not
help but notice the macabre chill that suddenly filled
the air. There was something strange about this object
but she liked it.
"I would like to buy these beautiful pieces," Angharad
stated, placing her new treasures down on the table.
"Ah, young lass," said the old gypsy, "Just leave thee
thy coins, and I will take care of all. Thou should be
thyself prepared, though, for all that may appear upon
their donning."
Angharad and Lincoln walked away from the old lady, as
she swept up the coins with gnarled hands and vanished
into the wagon, casting a last look over her shoulder
at them, as if they both had faces that seemed vaguely
remembered from a forgotten past.
"What a crazy old lady," she said with a grin, "But we
got these for such a steal."
"Who is she?" Lincoln asked.
"I don't really know," replied the young russet haired
girl with a grin, "But Syr Gabriella bought a necklace
from her two years ago, and she says it led her to her
hearts desire."
A faux stone fountain, powered by a cleverly disguised
pump and battery, had been set up in the center of the
square. Angharad led him over to it, and they both sat
on the rough hewn benches that surrounded it.
Using the water as a mirror, Angharad slipped the torc
upon her neck, and bid Lincoln to don his as well. The
effect seemed ideal, complimenting both her beauty and
his rugged virility. She delighted in their reflection
as it shimmered in the water, but suddenly the water
began to ripple. The air around them turned smokey and
grey. Then without warning, came a dazzling flash that
seemed bright enough to have outshone even the midday
sun, illuminating the practice fields for the briefest
instant. A rumbling like thunder that belied the clear
night sky was overtaken by an horrific crash, and then
the world faded to black...
- X - X - X -
... A thunderous eruption came out of nowhere, hurling
them to the ground. Feeling a large knot upon the back
his head, Lincoln struggled to open one eye. Where was
he? This was not the tournament grounds, and they were
clearly NOT in Kansas anymore. The torcs they had both
been wearing no longer adorned their necks. Without a
moments warning, the ground shook violently, vibrating
to the rhythmic gallop of two magnificent horses. Upon
them rode two wrathful men dressed in chain maille and
sporting upon their surcoats arms that neither of them
had ever seen before.
"Witchcraft," one of the men proclaimed, "Capture them
at once."
"Yes, milord," said the other, hurling himself off the
horse toward them.
There could be but one response.
"Run," Angharad screamed.
"Good idea," Lincoln quickly agreed. Taking her by the
hand, he steered her firmly towards the nearest copse
of trees, then stood his ground, between her and their
unidentified attackers.
The man who had gotten off his horse rushed at Lincoln
while the other wheeled his mount around them to chase
the Lady Angharad. She reached the trees just as the
early morning sun blazed up over the horizon, blurring
her vision, then she realized that Lincoln wasn't with
her. Cursing him for an over-courageous fool, she kept
pressing her way through the dense undergrowth within
the thicket, which rather proved to be a hindrance to
flight. The horse of her nameless pursuer was hindered
still further, though, and she had soon left the rider
behind. As she hid amongst the trees, she could hear
the man heaping obscenities upon the brush, though his
thrashing quickly moved away as he searched for her in
the wrong direction.
Inching through the brush, trying both to flee pursuit
and find a way back to the dark haired Scot, to learn
what fate had befallen him, Angharad realized that she
had turned herself around sometime during her panicked
flight through the undergrowth. She no longer knew how
to find her way out of these trees. Lincoln once told
her how much time he had spent camping and hiking as a
boy, so he at least had a background in woodcraft, but
it was a background that she did not share. Aside from
the safe and structured camping of the Kansas Medieval
Association, she had never spent very much time inside
the out of doors.
She would much have preferred to wait for Lord Lincoln
to find her, but in truth, she had no means of knowing
if he was in any condition to come looking. She even
tried to follow her own back trail out the way she had
come, but she quickly lost track of it. She remembered
that the rising sun had shone in her face as she was
entering the tree line, she figured that she should be
able to discover a way out if she kept the sun shining
on her back -- that is, if she could find the sun.
These trees were even more thick above than the brush
was below, and they largely hid the sun, but she could
see its general direction from the fall of the shadows
and that was enough to give her some idea of the right
way to steer. She set off, grinning proudly that she
had recalled even a little of what Lincoln had thought
to teach her, then she promptly stumbled over a hidden
root and went quietly sprawling in a bed of dried pine
needles.
Nothing was harmed save her pride, but as she stood to
her feet she realized that the root had probably saved
her from a fall of a much more serious nature. She had
been so busy looking upwards in order to keep track of
the sun-cast shadows, that she had failed to note the
sudden drop in the path. After tumbling down an abrupt
but shallow embankment, she would likely have wound up
in the drink, probably ending in the small pool at the
bottom.
As she glanced down at the water, though, Angharad was
surprised to discover that the pleasant glade, and the
pool within, were already occupied. A water sprite of
about thirty five summers was frolicking in the waters
of the small pond, oblivious to her presence. She wore
her hair, so blonde that it was almost white, plaited
down past her thighs, and her clothing had been folded
neatly and placed upon the rocks a short way back from
the waters edge. She soon began to bathe herself, thus
sending currents of glistening water cascading down on
her naked body.
As the long braided hair swept back and forth over her
ass, the young Irish lass caught an occasional glimpse
of an intriguing tattoo displayed on the woman's lower
back. Nigh as large as her splayed hand, there was an
ashen greenish blue circle surmounted by a mottled red
star outlined in black. Overall, in truth, it appeared
rather like an unusually patterned pentagram. With the
lowermost edge of the circle just barely hovering over
the cleft of her ass, it was actually kind of sexy.
Angharad had never found herself sexually attracted to
another woman before now, but watching as this elegant
specimen was gracefully bathing was beginning to make
an unforeseen impression upon her. The lithesome woman
reached one hand upwards to leisurely unbind her long
hair, letting it fan out around her in silky plumes as
she laid back in the water. Without even a token look
around, to ensure that she was unseen, the woman began
to slowly caress her body, letting the cool waters and
the warm sunlight play conflicting sensations over her
excited skin.
Some part of her being knew that it was wrong to watch
this woman in so private a moment, but Angharad was no
more able to tear herself away than she was capable of
denying herself breath. The svelte blonde slid a hand
down over her tits, caressing her stiff nipples as the
cool water hardened them, then slipped her hand still
lower until she reached the juncture of her thighs. An
endless moment later her fingers brushed down through
the pale thatch of curls over her mound as she touched
her velvety soft pussy.
Oblivious to her environment, the woman failed to hear
the soft rustling in the shrubbery which signaled the
approach of another. From her place of concealment, an
originally unnoticed trail became visible to Angharad
when she checked out this new arrival. Stifling a gasp
of surprise, she was quite taken aback to find, riding
into the glade, the very man who had pursued her.
"It is almost time to leave, Duchess Lucinda," the man
called deferentially, "Now that the sun has risen, we
must be away from these lands ere Sir Tyrus dispatches
his morning patrols."
Sir Tyrus? Angharad was shocked anew. It couldn't be!
"It will be time for us to leave, Pasquale, when I say
it is time to leave," the woman said, with her fingers
still idly caressing her pussy, completely unconcerned
about the mans presence, "Now begone!"
"Yes, your Grace," Pasquale said, reining his stallion
back through the trees, and leaving Lucinda alone once
more.
Unfazed by the interruption, the duchess continued the
slow tracing of her pussy beneath the still waters of
the pool. She reached up with a free hand and returned
to caressing her alabaster white tits, squeezing them
roughly as she slipped a finger between her pussy lips
to search for her own wetness. She circled the tips of
two fingers slowly around the satiny slick opening of
her inner sex, plunging them abruptly into her waiting
slit. Lucinda was not known for her patience; anything
she wanted, she wanted now!
Angharad watched soundlessly as the svelte lady pumped
her two fingers quickly in and out of her pussy. There
was no gentleness, no intimacy, in the act. As far as
the Irish lass could tell, Lucinda was attempting only
to get herself off, just as quickly and efficiently as
possible. Forsaking her tits, the duchess slipped her
other hand down between her legs, stroking her pulsing
clit and driving herself ever closer to orgasm.
Opening her ivory thighs wider, the duchess pumped her
burning slit furiously with her fingers, stroking her
clit violently as she pushed herself closer and closer
to the edge. Angharad watched as Lucinda slipped one
hand away from her pussy, reaching beneath herself and
pushing a slender finger in her tight little ass. This
caused the duchess to moan out loud, biting her lip to
silence her cries. Still beating the tip of her finger
over her clit, she slid a delicate finger of her other
hand in and out of her asshole.
"Ungh, yes," she groaned quietly, "Mmm!"
Angharad looked on, with her own little pussy starting
to drip, impatiently waiting while the duchess wildly
tried to make herself cum. There was an awful sense of
enthrallment as she spied on this genuine highborn and
aristocratic lady, silently begging her to climax.
As if Lucinda were able to hear her soundless pleading
from the pool beneath, she arched her back, the waters
splashing around her as her body began to spasm. There
was an awful moment when Angharad was certain that she
had been discovered, as the ivory duchess locked her
gaze upon her, but it lasted only for an instant with
no reaction forthcoming, so Angharad convinced herself
that Lucinda had been staring unfocused into space, no
more conscious of this unseen observer than of her own
name at that moment.
Even throughout the depth of passion, Lucinda kept her
teeth tightly gritted together, making almost no sound
that would betray a moment of honest bliss. An instant
later, when she had regained control of herself, her
mask was back in its place, all control and efficiency
once more. She got to her feet and, stepping up out of
the pool of cool water, picked up her clothes to begin
getting dressed...
... Lord Lincoln, meanwhile, had dropped gauntlets and
helm as the thunder threw him from his feet, but faced
now a varlet in chain maille who was wielding a wicked
looking sword. These weapons were no mockups of rubber
and plastic such as he was used to facing, but honest
steel in their stead. He did have his doubts about the
skill of the man wielding the weapon, though. Swinging
wildly at the Scotsman as he came, this thuggish knave
charged toward Lincoln like a maddened linebacker.
Grasping his opponents wrist as he came into range, he
ducked under the flailing blade, and stuck a foot into
his adversary's path of travel. The large man sprawled
in the turf but quickly rolled to his feet, spitting
out mud with a caustic oath. As he squared off against
the man once more, Lincoln realized that he was now in
between the man and his horse. Lashed onto the animals
saddle was a weapon he was much more familiar with.
Backing away from the man as he spat out a final piece
of offending slime, Lincoln withdrew the utilitarian
axe from its position. The axe was a wood cutting tool
instead of a weapon of war, but he was well aware that
beggars could not be choosers. The now filthy warrior
charged him once again, with the sword grasped in both
hands over his head, clearly intending that Lincoln be
cleft from brain to ballocks, but he was in for a rude
awakening.
Leaning to his left, he felt the swords edge glance to
one side as it struck his metal spaulder, and again as
its point failed to penetrate his coat of plates. His
attacker made one more vicious swing, aiming this time
for Lincoln's unarmored head, but the Scotsman decided
that the contest had gone on long enough.
Deftly slapping the swords blade away with the haft of
the axe, Lincoln whirled round and roughly backhanded
the man across the lower jaw with the flat of the cold
iron axe head. Foul teeth flew to the ground, and the
heavily set man crashed into the turf once more like a
fallen redwood, and this time lay still.
Lincoln considered discarding the wood axe in favor of
the fallen sword, but closer examination showed it to
be pitted with rust, and almost as dull as the man who
had carried it. Threading the axes handle through his
belt, he retrieved his helm and gauntlets, and set off
toward the thicket of wood, to find the Lady Angharad
and learn what awful fate had befallen her. He'd meant
that both men should attack him, seeing an armored man
as the greater threat, leaving her free to escape, but
the mounted soldier had but left the footman to attend
to him, and chased her instead.
He crept silently into the underbrush, discovering the
disturbed growth where the rider had become snarled in
the brambles, but he saw also a clear trail as the man
had ridden away, abandoning his quarry rather than his
horse. This meant that the man was either lurking yet
about the neighborhood or, more likely, had ridden off
to marshal reinforcements. But where had Lady Angharad
gotten to...
... Angharad decided to wait a few more moments before
moving, so as to avoid being discovered anew. Even now
her heart was pounding in fear of further pursuit.
"Here you are," whispered the voice in her ear, nearly
making her jump out of her own skin, "Come on we gotta
get out of here."
"Lincoln!" she hissed, "Damn it, you scared me half to
death. Don't sneak up on me like that."
"I was not sneaking," the Scotsman answered, "You just
weren't paying attention, or you most assuredly would
have heard my approach. What held you so spellbound in
any case?"
"It was nothing," Angharad replied, blushing furiously
as Lincoln tried to look over her shoulder.
"Why Angharad," he grinned when he caught sight of the
still half naked duchess, "You are a peeping tom."
"Shut up," she said, slugging him in the arm as he led
her from the pool, "Besides, you're just jealous cause
you didn't see her first."
Once they had exited the forest, Angharad set her back
to the early morning sun, walking purposefully towards
the west as he bombarded her with questions.
"Where exactly are you going?" Lincoln inquired, "Slow
down just a second. Do you even know where we are? How
can you get where you're going if you don't know where
you are? Don't ignore me, Angharad, it's rude."
"I don't KNOW where we are," she replied, still moving
away from the sun, "but I think I've got a pretty good
idea. If I'm right, we ought to find a fortified manor
house somewhere over in this direction."
"How can you possibly know that?"
"Less talking, more walking," Angharad answered, "Just
trust me, and I'll explain everything later."
Lincoln opened his mouth to voice another protest, but
slammed it shut again as they turned a bend and looked
down into a vale below. The breadth of the valley had
been cleared of every tree and shrub, leaving no cover
for anybody who approached the structure on the island
within a small lake nestled in the valley. The russet
stones of the manor house gleamed like blood under the
early morning sunlight, and Angharad felt a moment of
childlike delight, as she beheld for the first time in
life what she had seen before only through the eyes of
another.
Blakeshire Keep was just as Lady Angharad had pictured
in her mind, save that Syr Gabriella's description had
not done it justice. The red stone wall rose to thrice
the height of a tall man, and men patrolled the walls
upon the rampart. Smoke from a few small fires rose on
the crisply clean air, and the sound of small children
at play could be heard from within the russet walls as
they walked over a stone causeway which approached the
gate of the outer barbican. The barbican was a sort of
mini keep, itself built on the shore of second smaller
island that rose from the water between the first and
the beach, and at the foot of a road that wound upward
to the summit of the lesser isle. From there, a stone
bridge spanned a gap of roughly thirty feet separating
the two, leading to a gatehouse that extended from the
keeps outer curtain wall.
Looking across at the larger island, Lincoln could see
the keep itself, standing four stories high, of carved
stone that matched the walls, with towers that loomed
over those three corners of the courtyard not occupied
by the fortified citadel. Upon reaching the drawbridge
and iron portcullis that guarded the entry, they both
waved to catch the attention of the soldiers stationed
on the rampart above them.
"Halt," one yelled, "Who goes there?"
"I bear tidings," Angharad called back, "Solely to the
ears of Sir Tyrus himself."
"You know these people?" Lincoln hissed, "How?"
"The Lord Blakeshire is not in residence," replied the
guardsman, "He is away on the Kings business."
"Nonsense," Angharad scoffed, pointing up at an ensign
that flapped over the barbican tower, bearing a white
gryphon on a field of red and black, "His banner flies
thus, and it would not be so were he away. Admit us at
once sirrah! Else summon Sir Tyrus at least so that we
may address him directly."
Another few moments passed them by whilst they awaited
the guardsman's answer. Lincoln took full advantage of
those moments to interrogate his friend.
"Did he say Lord Blakeshire?" he asked, "But that's MY
name, or at least the one I use in the KMA. That can't
be a coincidence, can it?"
"How came you by the name?" Angharad asked simply.
"I took it after I was squired," he replied, "I hadn't
decided on a name to use, other than just Lincoln, and
Syr Gabriella suggested that one."
"Indeed; so how then do you suppose SHE came by it?"
Lincoln did not get the chance to answer. Just at that
moment, Sir Tyrus himself appeared. Even from this low
point of view, Lincoln could see that the knight was a
stoutly built man, standing somewhat over six feet in
height with the arms and shoulders of a man accustomed
to labor. He wore a shirt of gilded maille as his only
armor in his own home, with his black and red surcoat
belted over it, and his shoulder length chestnut blond
hair blew in the wind. Lincoln hadn't seen him walking
over the bridge from the keep, so he must already have
been within the barbican, mayhap himself only recently
arrived or making ready to depart.
"Speak, outlander," he called.
"As I told your guards, milord," Angharad replied, "We
are come to bear you tidings of the Lady Syr Gabriella
Valentina, Contessa del Giardino Bella."
"You must be mistaken," the knight stated with a shake
of his head, "I know no such noble."
"With respect, your lordship," Angharad differed, "You
do, but you knew her as Lady Jacklyn of Kansas."
What happened next took Lincoln by surprise. Sir Tyrus
staggered back as if poleaxed, and his features turned
ghostly white as the blood drained from his face.
"Open the portcullis," he bellowed, shoving the guards
to the side to work the winch himself when they moved
too slowly for his liking. As that heavy iron gate was
raised fully upward, he charged down the parapet steps
to stand before Angharad.
"Where is she?" he pleaded, "Is she near?"
"Alas your lordship," the Irish lass answered, "I fear
that she is not. She has searched heroically these two
years gone, trying to find a way to return to you, but
until this very day, none have been able to find the
way. Even we have come here by accident, unknowing the
powers of the same gypsy woman that she knew."
Sir Tyrus fell upon his knees, choking back frustrated
cries of grief, unbecoming one of his station. Only a
few moments later, though, he had composed himself and
gotten back to his feet to guide them both through the
barbican. Therein, he mounted a fine bay stallion that
stood saddled, giving some credence to Lincoln's idea
that the nobleman had been making ready to leave. Upon
mounting his horse, however, he turned back toward the
bridge and led them both back to the keep, holding his
horse to their pace.
After bidding his servants to bring food and drink for
his guests, they were led up the staircase to separate
chambers where they could refresh themselves.
"Please make yourselves at home," the knight said, "As
soon as you are rested we will speak further. I regret
that I must leave you for the moment, there are other
matters to which I must attend, but I have charged the
servants to see to your every need. This lass is Helga
and she will..."
Tyrus turned around to gesture to his servant, but she
was nowhere to be seen. Angharad, though, perked up at
the sound of the servants name. Even though they had
never been introduced, she'd heard much concerning the
lovely blond Helga.
"Helga!" he bellowed, "Always hiding when there's work
to be done, that girl. Now where in the name of heaven
has she gotten off to this time..."
- X - X - X -
... At that moment, getting off was exactly what Helga
had in mind, but she was rather closer than the knight
realized though. Only a half score paces down the cool
stone hallway was a door. The chamber within had once
been used as a study, that Sir Tyrus had built for his
lady mother, but as she grew in years and her eyesight
failed her more every day, she no longer took pleasure
in books as once she had. As time went by, the unused
room became cluttered with broken furniture and trunks
of long forgotten clothing.
The golden haired young handmaiden thought it shameful
that a perfectly good - and undisturbed - room such as
this should go wasted and unused, when she could think
of wonderful uses for it. Right now, for example, she
was in the room with two of her current favored men of
the keep, favored by Sir Tyrus as well; for different
reasons entirely though. One of these two men was dark
of hair and lean in the body, whip thin but possessing
a wiry strength that Helga found appealing. He was the
son of the manors chamberlain.
It was this first man who was now laying a moist trail
of kisses down the side of her neck as his adventurous
fingers busied themselves by untying the laces of her
coal grey bodice. When these laces had been freed, the
chamberlains young son, whose name was Torquil, delved
strong hands into the front of her homespun chemise to
find her waiting tits. Helga moaned softly as the son
of the chamberlain promptly wrenched down the front of
her chemise, exposing her nipples to the attentions of
his lips and tongue.
The second man, unknown to the servant girl but a good
friend of the first, was actually the same guardsman
who had tried to deny the knight's honored guests from
entry to his home. This one had a strength of arm that
she expected from a fighting man, but he was convinced
that his fighting days had abruptly ended. Surely, the
terrified man reasoned, once his noble guests had been
attended to, Sir Tyrus would seek him out and have him
hanged... or worse.
Helga did not know who these visitors were, but as she
had been present in the courtyard during their earlier
arrival, she had been shocked to hear spoken the name
that had granted them entrance. She herself had rather
fond memories that involved Jacklyn of Kansas, who had
been entirely unaware that the servant girl had known
she was watching, and unaware as well that Helga later
crept out and watched in turn as she had her way with
the lord of the manor. She was also quite sure that if
the new visitors bore any news of Jacklyn's well being
at all, the knight would probably be found in spirits
most pleasant. Punishing the minor transgressions of a
single menial vassal, whom Torquil had identified only
as Ulrich, would be farthest from his mind.
The foolish guardsman was quite positive, though, that
the knight planned to divest him of his manhood at the
very least, and he was determined to get the use of it
one last time whilst it still belonged to him. Though
altogether aware that he would do no such thing, Helga
had kept her council to herself, cheerfully allowing
Ulrich to believe that the lord knight could be on his
way to kick down the door at any moment, and that this
could well be his last chance to get laid for the rest
of his life.
To be fair, though, the buxom serving wench was wholly
prepared to do everything she could think of to ease
the poor guardsman's anxieties... Short of telling him
the truth, of course.
As Torquil continued to lightly fondle her tits, Helga
reached back, taking Ulrich's belt in hand to unfasten
its buckle solely by feel. Slipping one hand inside of
his breeches to grasp his rigid shaft, she leaned her
head back onto his shoulder and moaned in his ear. His
sword was clearly in fine working order, as a warriors
weapon rightly should be, and she could hardly wait to
be impaled upon it.
Turning about, she moved backward until she fetched up
against and sat on one of the unused trunks, then had
Ulrich remove his leather breeches. The musky scent of
his arousal drifted towards her, and she eagerly drew
the brawny warrior closer as Torquil inched her skirts
up around her hips, tugging her bloomers down over her
ass to bunch round her thighs. Ulrich sat down upon an
empty wine barrel, so that his manhood was level with
Helga's face, and she reached up for him while Torquil
removed her bloomers and cast them aside.
Whimpering in anticipation, Helga spread her thighs to
allow Torquil access to her body as he dropped to his
knees before her. She felt the gentle touch of his hot
breath upon the silky thatch of gold which crowned her
womanhood, and she shuddered as his tongue torturously
began outlining a slow path of hot yearning all around
her wet slit without actually touching it, leaving her
writhing in beautiful agony. Torquil mercilessly drove
her crazy with desire, finally relenting only when she
was certain that she was teetering upon the very brink
of madness. Rising to his feet, Torquil positioned the
head of his rigid cock between the quivering pink lips
of her slit and pushed.
Ulrich felt his cock sliding into Helga's mouth at the
same moment that she felt Torquil's sliding up her wet
and willing pussy. All three of them groaned in unison
as they began to set up a rhythm, with Torquil driving
his hard shaft in and out of her dripping slit as the
serving girl bobbed her head up and down upon Ulrich's
lap in time to his thrusting.
Sir Tyrus would likely order his chamberlain to take a
switch to her ass should he find out that she was off
somewhere being fucked while he still had work for her
to do, but at that moment, Helga didn't care. Far more
critical, in the serving girls opinion, was the rigid
shaft in her hot and aching pussy. Torquil slammed his
muscular hips up against hers, fast and hard, just the
way she liked it, and Ulrich groaned out loud as Helga
whimpered around his cock. She stroked up and down its
length with one hand while her talented tongue swirled
about its head, so that Ulrich gasped in delight.
Reaching her free hand between her thighs, Helga began
playing with her throbbing clit, knowing that she was
but a moment away from a mind bending orgasm. With one
hard rod pounding roughly into her quivering pussy and
her moist lips sliding up and down over another, there
was no possible way that she could have fended off the
oncoming moment of bliss, even had she wanted to.
As she flicked her fingers back and forth over the tip
of her hard little clit, the willowy servant girl felt
herself plummeting into joyous delirium.
"Ungh yeah," she whimpered, as she continued to stroke
Ulrich's cock, "Ooooh... I'm cumming... Ooooh fuck."
A fragrant vortex of light eddied through her spasming
body, as her undulating hips repeatedly jerked against
the pounding delight behind her, leaving her quivering
in euphoric ecstasy. As her pulsating slit eventually
subsided, Helga rose up to remove what remained of her
rumpled clothing, her overskirt and bodice tumbling to
the stone floor to lie upon her bloomers and her plain
rustic chemise following thereafter. She traded places
with Ulrich so that he was lying upon the trunk, then
placed a teasing kiss upon the tip of his swollen cock
before she swung herself astride his hips.
Grasping his throbbing hardness, she moaned in delight
as the pouting lips of her wet pussy slowly enveloped
his hardness, sliding deeper until she had taken every
inch of him fully inside her. Leaning forward so that
the satin softness of her ample tits were pressed into
Ulrich's chest, Helga cast a sensuous glace back over
her shoulder, presenting the sweetly beckoning rosette
of her cute little ass.
"Come on," she whispered, "I want it."
Although surprised by this offer, the chamberlains son
was no fool. He placed his hard cock against her tight
bottom, and Helga gasped in carnal pleasure as he slid
it all the way up her ass in one smooth stroke.
"Yeah, just like that," she moaned, "Give it to me."
Ulrich began to thrust his hips upward, stabbing Helga
with his rigid length as he drove it in and out of her
hot little slit. The head of his big cock stroked the
depths of her pussy, hitting all of the right spots as
Torquil pumped his long hardness into her tight little
asshole. The servant girl moaned with each movement as
her hips were rocked forward by Torquil's efforts.
Helga's head was thrown back in delight as she enjoyed
the double sensations that her two favorite guardsmen
were giving her. She always loved taking it up her ass
and her pussy at the same time, though she didn't get
to experience it as often as she would have liked. She
began to whimper when she felt the approach of another
delicious orgasm.
"Oh God," she groaned, "Ooooh... I'm gonna cum... Give
it to me... Ungh, fuck me... Aaaaah!"
Feeling Helga thrashing between them, with her ass and
her pussy both spasming in glorious bliss, was rather
more than either Torquil or Ulrich could endure. Helga
quickly stood to her feet, both hard cocks pulling out
of her body, then just as quickly dropped to her knees
upon the floor, squeezing a rigid shaft in each of her
soft hands.
Ulrich exploded first, moaning as the lithesome blonde
servant girl stroked his aching cock, and Torquil shot
soon thereafter. Helga giggled in girlish triumph, as
she felt both men spewing jets of hot cum all over her
upturned face. As the milky white juices trickled down
into the valley between her ample tits, she eased each
cock in turn into her mouth, swirling her tongue round
the head to lap up every stray drop.
Helga noticed shortly that Ulrich had gone rather pale
of a sudden, and he was looking towards the door.
"I think I hear Sir Tyrus calling," he said...
- X - X - X -
... Arriving rather flushed of face, Helga quickly saw
to the needs of their guests. Sir Tyrus didn't remark
on her unusually breathless appearance, Angharad noted
with a smirk, but she could see that the girl had just
been well and truly fucked. The grinning redhead gave
the willowy peasant girl a saucy wink when the knights
back was turned, a secret between us girls, she seemed
to say, and they were directed downstairs to the great
hall. Once everyone had taken their seats, and all the
servants were dismissed, Sir Tyrus begged them both to
speak further of Gabriella's fate.
Angharad explained that Syr Gabriella, or Lady Jacklyn
as Tyrus knew her, was from a time far in the future
and that she had accidently traveled back to this time
two years ago, by virtue of a magical pendant that she
had purchased from an elderly gypsy woman. Lincoln was
saved from thinking that she had come unglued only by
virtue of his own current position. He couldn't debate
any part of her story, seeing that the very same thing
had happened to him only hours earlier.
The knight, on the other hand, took the story quite in
stride. Witchcraft, or at least fear of it, were quite
common things in this age. He was rather sorrowed upon
learning, though, that it had been his gift to Jacklyn
that had catapulted her back to her own time. Neither
of them could have known, Angharad said, and there was
nothing that they could have done to prevent it.
"When first I knew Lady Jacklyn," Tyrus said, "She had
run afoul of a putrid pair of miscreants. I was unable
to save her from the ravishes of the first, though the
second died upon my blade ere he could lay hands upon
her. Her heart could have been thoroughly shattered by
such an ordeal, but before that same night was out she
made her way to my... Well, her heart was fine."
Lincoln was again gobsmacked by this revelation. There
had never been mention of ANY of this anywhere in his
presence. Angharad merely nodded wisely, though, aware
of what had happened to Syr Gabriella upon her arrival
in this era, and how she had found comfort in the arms
of this gentle knight.
"I trust," Sir Tyrus added, "That your appearance upon
my lands was rather more uneventful?"
"Would that it were so, milord," Lincoln said, holding
his first part in the conversation, "Immediately as we
came to this time, we too were set upon by just such a
pair of ruffians as you describe. I was able to defeat
the first, while Lady Angharad evaded the second."
"Upon my lands?" Tyrus asked, "Indeed. Where so?"
"Just a few hours walk to the east of the manor," said
Angharad, "There lies a pool of clear water within the
surrounding stand of trees."
"Aye, I know just the place," Tyrus nodded, "And these
two ruffians, were they in my domain alone?"
"Nay, they were not, milord," Angharad replied, "There
was with them an older golden haired lady. They seemed
to follow her orders."
"Her name," Tyrus demanded, sitting quickly upright in
his oaken chair, "Did either of them speak her name?"
"Oh," the Irish lass replied, "One did... But I am not
certain that I recall it."
"Was it Lucinda, by chance?"
"Aye, that was she," Angharad agreed, "Duchess Lucinda
he called her."
"Gods ballocks," Tyrus swore, "The ivory duchess under
my very nose, and I oblivious to it."
"The ivory duchess? Who is she?"
"That is far too great a question to answer at so late
an hour," Tyrus said, "We will speak more of it in the
morning. Surely you must be exhausted. Helga will show
you to your rooms."
Helga, appearing from nowhere upon command as servants
often seem able to do, approached the high table with
another girl, younger but also blonde, in tow. The new
girl began to clear the table as Angharad and Lincoln
got to their feet, curtsying to them politely, and the
brawny Scot guessed her age at somewhere near fourteen
summers, or thereabouts.
"This is my little sister, Hannah," the blonde servant
girl said, "She heard someone say that there were two
outlanders in the manor who knew Lady Jacklyn, and she
wanted to meet you."
"You knew Lady Jacklyn as well?" Angharad asked.
"Nay, milady, not I," Hannah replied as she took up an
empty wine goblet, "Not personally, though each one of
us has heard Sir Tyrus speaking of her."
"Does he speak of her often?"
"Ceaselessly," the younger girl said, "It is said that
none here had ever beheld him so happy as when she was
with him, nor so broken as when she disappeared. They
had not been together long, milady, but he had come to
love her fiercely, even now still as much as ever, and
he misses her terribly."
Hannah had nothing further to add, though what she had
already told them spoke volumes about the knights true
feelings for the missing Contessa. Angharad nodded for
Helga to precede them, but as they went upstairs, she
couldn't help but notice Sir Tyrus standing before the
great hearth at the end of the hall, tenderly cradling
in his strong hands a small shining thing which looked
for all the world like a piece of golden filigree.
Once they had returned to the upper level of the manor
house, with Helga leading the way, they each went into
their own chamber. Lincoln muttered under his breath a
little at not sharing his room with Angharad, but they
didn't fuss too much. Young men and women who had not
been properly wed could not share sleeping quarters in
this age; it simply wasn't done...
- X - X - X -
... Later that same night, when the manor was dark and
silent, Angharad found herself unable to sleep. Taking
up a candle in an ornate silver holder, she opened her
chamber door and slipped across the hallway, clad only
in a light chemise. Judging by the snoring coming from
his chamber, Lincoln did not share her sense of unease
and had no difficulty sleeping. Having nobody to talk
to, she set out instead to locate the garderobe. After
she had gone down a stone staircase, and around a few
corners, she found the facilities and, upon completing
her business, headed back to find her chamber.
She traveled through a seemingly endless assortment of
hallways and corners, and back up a stairway, but then
realized that she must have taken a wrong turn at some
point, as this stairway didn't open on the hallway in
which her chamber was located. As she was on the verge
of calling for Lincoln or anybody else who might come
to help her, she caught a glimpse of moonlight falling
through an open door.
Thinking that she might find the right way back to her
chamber if she could just figure out what part of the
house she was in, Angharad opened the door and stepped
outside into the sultry summer night. The light of the
full moon showed a crenellated walkway all around the
sloped roof of the keep. Breathing in the warm moonlit
air, she gazed out over the battlements, taking in the
wonderful spectacle of the estate.
Just to the west was an expanse of forest, but between
manor and forest, and on all other sides as well stood
a crystal clear lake, resting mirror flat in the quiet
air. The keep had been built upon an island that rose
some forty feet out of its surface, such that the lake
guarded them from every side, with the stone causeway
that extended out over the waters to the lakes eastern
shore. The woods began on the western shore, extending
a canopy over the shining water, reaching the distant
hills of the valley surrounding Blakeshire manor as it
embraced the keep from north and south alike.
An easy night breeze had her chemise fluttering around
her body, with that soft linen fabric lightly stroking
her nipples, and Angharad looked around to see whether
there was anybody else about. Men patrolled the lower
battlement walls, but way up here, high atop the manor
keep, she was alone.
Blakeshire manor wasn't devoted entirely to war; there
were several benches of wood and stone, some even had
woven cushions, clustered round a low stone table near
the lakeside wall. Standing out of the stone table was
what she could only describe as a wooden framed patio
umbrella. It appeared anachronistic in this place, and
Angharad couldn't help but wonder if Syr Gabriella had
suggested it to Tyrus while she was here.
Lying herself back upon a cushioned bench, the redhead
began idly stroking her hands up and down her body. An
easy tug pulled the hemlines of her chemise up around
her waist; she wore nothing beneath it. The warm night
carried a pleasant fragrance from the handful of fruit
trees growing within the courtyard outside the wooden
outbuilding that housed the manor kitchen; this sticky
sweet perfume soon mingling with a new scent.
As the delicate fragrance of her arousal began to urge
her to new explorations, Angharad allowed her fingers
to wander down to the center of her desire. She softly
caressed her hairless slit, as always loving the silky
smooth feeling of her naked pussy lips. One fingertip
slipped into the crease between her thighs, finding an
expected damp warmth as the Irish lass began thrusting
one finger in and out of her wetness.
Moaning softly, hoping that nobody could hear her, she
spread her legs apart as her finger probed deeper into
her feminine depths. Spasms of delight caused her body
to twitch as she added another finger into her velvety
tightness. Gently opening up the petals of her pouting
slit, the sexy redhead used her free hand to seek out
her throbbing clit, whimpering at the contact with her
stiffened little button.
Exquisite pleasure radiated outward from her clit, and
her body began quivering with a delicious anticipation
as she kept playing with her slick pink pussy, but she
slowed down before it went to far. She wasn't ready to
cum quite yet.
Looking about once again to be sure that she was still
alone upon the rooftop, Angharad took off her chemise
entirely, discarding it in a pile beside her. Reaching
up to squeeze her naked tits, her nipples hardening in
her palms, she lifted first one then the other towards
her sensuous lips. Gently suckling on her own nipples
always drove her crazy, and she felt rippling jolts of
lust shooting through her writhing body, straight into
her dripping slit.
Her clit was begging for attention, and the sexy Irish
lass reached between her legs with both hands, gently
parting her pussy lips with one and going for her hard
little button with the other. Twinkles of technicolor
perfume began bursting through her body, and the fiery
scent of celestial fireworks filled her head. Although
she wanted to drag these sensations out for as long as
possible, fighting that last peak of ecstasy, Angharad
could tell that she was about to cum hard, whether she
was ready for it or not.
"Oh my God... Yes, here it comes," she moaned, feeling
the last meager shreds of her control quickly slipping
away, "Oh yeah... Ungh, fuck... fuck... fuck!"
Furiously working her clit, Angharad began to convulse
in delight, her wildly thrashing hips all but throwing
her off of the cushioned bench. Her heaving tits still
bore witness to her breathless delirium, and colorful
aftershocks fired randomly through her pussy until her
body had returned to normal.
The sexy Irish lass basked in the afterglow for just a
few moments longer before getting back to her feet and
donning her chemise. As she settled the linen garment
about her slender shoulders, she saw movement from the
corner of her eye. Helga, leaning against the stairway
door, was just smoothing her own chemise back into its
rightful order.
"You scared me half to death," Angharad told her, "How
long have you been standing there?"
"Long enough, milady" Helga grinned, licking something
shiny and wet from her fingers.
"Dear lord. Have you been watching me?" Angharad asked
her, blushing furiously.
"Yes, milady," the peasant girl admitted, "I heard you
leave your chambers, and when you didn't return I came
to find you, thinking that you may have lost your way
in the dark of night. I am pleased to know that I need
not have been worried overmuch."
"You," smiled Angharad, "Are a naughty, naughty girl."
"I'll not deny that," Helga grinned back, "But might I
ask one question of you, milady?"
Angharad nodded warily.
"Well, I could not help but notice..." Helga stammered
rather shyly, blushing herself now that she was openly
asking, "That you don't seem to have any... That is to
say, that the... Um... hair isn't..."
"I think I understand," Angharad said. She debated for
an instant, realized that the peasant girl had already
seen her naked anyway, and raised her chemise over her
thighs, displaying her hairless little pussy. "Is this
what you meant?" she asked.
"Aye, milady," the blonde girl answered, "I have never
seen such a thing. It looks so very... smooth."
"This is something of a fashion where Lord Lincoln and
myself are from," Angharad explained simply, "He likes
it this way. If you wish to learn how, mayhap we could
even teach you, he and I."
"Say you so?" Helga asked eagerly, "Might we try to do
it soon?"
"Helga," said the Irish redhead, "I believe this could
be the beginning of a beautiful friendship..."
- X - X - X -
... The next morning dawned fair and bright, and Helga
arrived with a chest full of fine clothing that Tyrus
had provided for them. After they had dressed and seen
to their morning ablutions, Helga escorted them to the
great hall, where the knight was waiting. Lord Lincoln
saw a look pass between Lady Angharad and the serving
girl, who then glanced at him with frank appraisal and
winked, and he wondered what tales his Irish lass had
been telling. In any case, a hearty breakfast was laid
out before them, and once it was finished, talk turned
to the adventures of the previous day.
"These men that attacked you," Tyrus asked, "Wore they
livery bearing a winged rams head within a triangle of
gold, upon a field of white and green?"
"They did," Lincoln confirmed, "What does that mean?"
"They are members of the kings guard," Tyrus said with
a snarl, "And a plague upon my land they've been, this
last half score of years gone."
"The kings men?" Angharad gasped, "Assaulting innocent
folk, and ravishing women? Are these lands not held in
the kings name? Surely he must punish his soldiers for
this sort of behavior in his own realm."
"Aye, milady," the knight said sadly, "But the king no
longer rules these lands as once he did. He still sits
the royal throne, but the real power in this kingdom
lies in the hands of the accursed she-bitch upon which
you looked last eve. The royal army would no longer be
capable of defending this realm from any foe stronger
than a marauding herd of cattle. She dismissed each of
the real fighting men, those loyal to the king, and in
their places recruited an army of thugs that she could
bend to her will."
"Did not those loyal to the king resist?" Lord Lincoln
asked incredulously.
"She banished them to the last man," Sir Tyrus replied
quietly, "The duchess fell upon them without warning
with her band of knaves. Sent them from their lands in
chains with naught save the clothes on their back, and
stripped them of property and titles. They were given
no chance to resist; each man who refused to leave was
declared an outlaw and executed."
"This is horrible," Angharad said, "Why in the name of
heaven have they not since revolted against her?"
"How can they?" Tyrus inquired, "They have nothing. No
weapons with which they may arm themselves, no venison
nor bread to fill hungry bellies, nor even enough coin
to acquire those things which are lacking. We who have
held loyal to the king in secret have done our utmost
to keep our evicted fellows warm and fed, and smuggled
arms to them when we can, but Lucinda has implemented
such strict controls upon all the goods in the kingdom
that it is difficult to spare anything. More difficult
still to send what little can be spared to where there
is most need without her knowledge."
"I am curious," pondered Lord Lincoln, "How is it that
the king has allowed these events to continue?"
"Not by his choice, I fear," the knight stated, "There
was an illness that swept through the royal house some
time ago. His eldest son was the first to succumb, and
his queen followed soon thereafter, may God rest them
both. His youngest child is but a babe, and though the
king himself fought the malady, he has not since been
his rightful self. He is sorely weakened, and he burns
in fever. He spends most of his waking hours abed, and
has done so these last three years gone."
"This has been going on for three entire years?" asked
the Lady Angharad, shocked.
"Indeed," Tyrus said, "It is unnatural. God forgive me
for these words, but there's the devil at work in this
I'm certain, and it's the foul duchess who has invited
him in. A man unwell of natural causes would have long
since either yielded to the illness, and gone to meet
his maker, or else improved his condition and regained
some measure of his bearing."
"Sir Tyrus," Angharad queried suspiciously, "Just what
are you suggesting?"
"Only this," the king's knight explained, "It has been
suggested by those loyal to the king that she has cast
some unnameable thing into his food ere the servants
bear it forth, although I admit, there is little proof
of it."
"Why then the suspicion?" Lincoln asked.
"Not long before the queens passing," Tyrus replied in
a moment, "The king did appoint a foreign woman as his
royal chatelaine. This was long ere he bestowed title
upon her, but given such position she had unrestricted
access to the palace entire. She spent too many hours
in the kitchens, to 'supervise' the preparation of the
royal food and drink. His sickening occurred at around
the same time. Whether the deaths of the queen and the
kings heir were of natural causes or nay, when malady
struck His Majesty as well, after he had remained full
in good health while the queen was ill, there was talk
at court of the unusual timing."
"These are horrible tidings," Angharad murmured.
"Aye they are at that," Tyrus conceded, "More horrible
still, however, are these tidings which you yourselves
have borne hence of the duchess, damn her eyes."
"Why do you say that, Sir Tyrus?" Lincoln asked, "Have
we said something concerning her that has bearing upon
these events?"
"Indeed," Tyrus replied, "It is one thing for that hag
to send her lackeys to spy upon the lands of those who
she suspects of loyalty to the king, but it is quite
another for her to venture so far from the royal court
herself. For you to have seen her, right in Blakeshire
Wood, there must be some foul thing afoot."
"So what are you suggesting?" Angharad asked again.
"I have no doubt that the duchess is plotting some new
treachery," the knight answered pensively, "If only we
could know what sort of villainy she is planning."
Lincoln and Angharad both glanced at one another, each
seeming to know what the other was thinking.
"Milord," Lincoln began, "You spoke of those men, such
as yourself, who have still remained loyal to the king
in secret. Could it be that the ivory duchess somehow
have learned that you are supporting the folk who were
banished, sending them food and arms, and that she now
aims to strike against you?"
"Aye," Tyrus admitted, "So ill a thing might have come
to pass in spite of our attempts at secrecy. Think you
then that the rogues who challenged you were advanced
scouts, out to determine the details of my patrols and
so forth and report them back to Lucinda?"
"If such a thing be true, milord," Angharad said, "You
should perhaps expect her to take action sooner rather
than later. Else what would be the point in having her
men learn such details, should they be changed by time
she sets her plans in motion?"
"This has the sound of wise council, coming as it does
from one with few years," Tyrus smiled, "Jacklyn must
be very proud of you. Indeed, of you both. Perhaps the
duchess has not reckoned upon your presence here, and
is unaware that she has been seen on my lands. I shall
rearrange my patrols at once, and mayhap we will catch
her by surprise yet."
"With some luck," Lincoln agreed, "She'll never see it
coming..."
- X - X - X -
... Later that afternoon, Hannah was sent to a village
nearby to purchase supplies for the manor. Blakeshire
was primarily self sufficient, growing much of its own
food, augmented by Men of the Field who took meat from
the forest and fish from the lake, but certain things
were simply easier to find in the small village just a
league south of the Keep. Hannah reached it quickly so
she yet had time to visit with Goliath before starting
her chores, if she didn't dawdle overlong, and she did
want to see how he was doing.
Goliath was the great hunting hound that Sir Tyrus had
entrusted to her father. He had served the knight well
enough, but he had been gored by a wild boar when last
he was in the field. Sir Tyrus, loath to be rid of so
beloved an animal, had instead placed the hound in the
capable care of her father. He had once been a steward
at the manor, and although he was retired now that he
had advanced in years, Sir Tyrus trusted no other with
the hounds care and well being.
Tyrus had first thought to put the animal down, but it
had proven unnecessary. The dogs injury had eventually
healed, though he was not yet fully recovered. Though
he still limped if he walked any distance, Goliath was
keen to rejoin the hunt. She saw it in the way he hung
his head and whined every time a party of hunters rode
into the forest.
As she opened the doors of the small barn owned by her
family, Goliath barked in greeting, sticking his nose
into the basket that she carted to see whether she had
brought a bone for him, or perhaps even a juicy cut of
meat. Hannah took a brush down from a shelf, and began
to work loose a few tangled knots, picking stray bits
of straw from the barn floor out of a coat as black as
a ravens wing. Goliath soon whuffed his approval as he
gnawed upon the great bone that he had found hiding in
the basket after all.
The scent of the dog on so warm a day, and the feel of
Goliath's muscled shoulder under her hand, quickly had
an affect upon the young girl. Hannah was often found
around the barn whenever she was not working up at the
manor, as everybody knew, but there was something else
that they certainly did not know. Hannah had also kept
a secret, a naughty little secret just between her and
Goliath that none else were aware of. As she continued
grooming the hunting dog, the blonde fourteen year old
felt the gathering wetness between her thighs.
Goliath could not join the hunt until he was recovered
fully, which she felt was unjustified, as he was still
the equal of a stag if not a boar, so Hannah would do
what she could to put things right until then. Finding
a new scent upon the air, Goliath dropped the bone he
gnawed upon and thrust his nose beneath Hannah's rough
homespun skirt.
Gasping with the contact, the young girl felt the dogs
cold nose snuffling against her puffy little slit, and
sighed contentedly as the hulking animal began to lap
at the steamy moisture he found there. Laying down the
dogs brush, Hannah sat back on a wooden crate that had
been left lying nearby, raising up her homespun skirt
until it was bunched around her slender waist. Parting
her willowy thighs to allow the massive canine easier
access, she let her head fall back with a soft moan as
the dog eagerly licked her pussy.
The last time she had come to visit, the burly hunting
dog had swiped a lick at her when she raised her skirt
to scratch at her leg. Despite the unexpected shock of
that incident, Hannah had decided immediately that she
liked it, but she was unable to explore the situation
any further as her father had been just outside of the
door. This time, though, she was all alone and she had
a little more time to play.
Resting one ankle upon the back of Goliath's neck, she
untied the drawstring at the neck of her simple blouse
and delved inside, caressing her tender breast with a
gentle hand as the rough dog tongue slipped deeper and
deeper in her hot and dripping slit. Lord Blakeshire's
squire, a strong lad her own age called Lord Nathaniel
of Belascye, had once persuaded her to go for a tumble
with him in the hayloft, and he had done his utmost to
please her in this way as best he was able, but there
was no comparison. Goliath was hitting places with his
tongue that a human simply couldn't.
The dogs grating tongue was slipping in and out of her
wet slit, hitting all of the right places, and Hannah
could feel the fast approach of something that she had
never experienced before. After her previous encounter
with Goliath, she had taken to touching herself there
whenever she had an opportunity. Each time she dressed
every morning, or used the garderobe, had become a new
experiment. What she had been doing had felt wonderful
indeed, but it was nothing like this.
Gasping for breath, the young serving girl felt a kind
of tension coiling in her body, and she was surprised
to find that her hips had begun to rock back and forth
upon the gently creaking wooden crate. She didn't know
what was happening to her, but she guessed that it was
something incredible.
Just at that moment, Goliath's tongue slipped a little
higher and ran along the little bump at the top of her
slit, suddenly leaving all of that tension in her body
with nowhere to go.
"Oh yes," she whimpered, "Good boy, Goliath, ooh, good
boy. Keep doing just, ungh, just like that. Oh Goliath
what's... Mmmm, happening to me?"
Just an instant later the slender young blonde started
to writhe on the wooden crate, her hips bucking wildly
as fragrant jolts of blazing color charged through her
body, simultaneously fading out her sight and lighting
up the inside of her head.
"Ungh, ungh, ungh," she moaned, "I can't stop it... Oh
Goliath, I can't... Mmmm, Goliath, Ooooh!"
Sliding bonelessly to the straw covered floor, the hot
young girl felt the dog follow her down, still licking
her dripping slit. Pushing him gently away, she got to
her knees.
"Enough, greedy doggy," she giggled, convincing him at
least to leave off lapping at her wet pussy to set his
attentions on her nipples now that her loosened blouse
had fallen away from her chest.
Glancing down, Hannah noticed the red tip of the black
dogs member poking out of its sheath, and felt another
moment of sympathy.
"Poor baby," she murmured, "Being here instead of back
at the manor has kept you away from the hunt, but also
away from... Ooh... the bitches in milords kennels as
well. Seems hardly fair that such a lovely fine animal
as you has to do without the... Mmmm... company of the
lady dogs all for the sake of the foolish boar. Mayhap
Hannah can do something to help."
Reaching down, the young serving girl took hold of the
sheath surrounding the dogs full hardness, and started
stroking back and forth. Goliath whuffed his approval
and continued licking Hannah's tits. Moments later the
thing in her hand had grown to its full size, and she
marveled at its length, wondering what to do with such
an unusual item. It was three handspans long, at least
by her hands, and it seemed to have a thicker swelling
down around its base.
Inspired by her sister, Hannah came up with a wickedly
delightful idea. Unknown to her older sibling, the hot
young serving girl had occasionally spied on her while
she dallied with the manors men at arms, and there was
a thing that she had watched her sister do that those
men seemed to like, so she reasoned that Goliath would
like it too.
Bowing her head beneath the dogs belly, she hesitantly
opened her mouth and let the animals stiff member slip
between her lips, cautiously testing to see whether it
had an unpleasant taste. Finding nothing disagreeable
at all, Hannah took Goliath's massive cock ever deeper
into her mouth, savoring the feel of him as he slipped
it in over her tongue.
Goliath gave a happy growl as she rolled him over onto
his back and began to bob her head above him, letting
the sensitive shaft of his cock slip in and out of her
mouth. As she fell into a rhythmic movement, she began
to anticipate the flooding of Goliaths seed that would
soon be her reward.
Remembering that sometimes the men with whom Helga had
dallied made rather a mess as they spilled their seed
on her face or clothes, Hannah took the dogs shaft out
of her mouth for a moment to doff her garments. As she
did this, though, the hem of her skirt managed to hook
the edge her market basket, overturning it and sending
things rolling through the straw on the floor.
Brushing through the straw to locate those items which
had been scattered hither and yon, Hannah bent over to
recover them, but failed to anticipate the predictable
results. As her fingers swept back and forth over the
packed earth floor, Goliath couldn't help but discover
her sweetly upturned young ass.
Having just grasped the last of the lost items, Hannah
was shocked to feel the weight of the dog dropping on
her back, and she likewise felt something hard nudging
between her thighs. She knew instantly what was likely
about to happen and began to struggle.
"No, bad dog," she said, "Get down."
It was no use. Goliath was not listening, and was much
too heavy for her to dislodge by strength alone. There
was a moment of fear as the tip of the big dogs rigid
shaft settled against her virgin little slit, and with
one sudden shove Goliath slid the full three handspans
of his length up into her fourteen year old pussy, and
Hannah was virgin no more.
"Aaaaah!" she wailed as the big dogs massive cock tore
into her tender body, sending shocks of burning agony
shooting from her head to her toes. She struggled, but
there was no relief.
Getting now into a rhythm of his own, Goliath began to
pound his hard member into Hannah's wet slit, seeming
to get even deeper with his every thrust. His forepaws
were tight around her waist, and his low hips battered
against her own faster than a blacksmiths hammer.
"Stop it," she wailed, but there had come to be rather
less resistance in her struggles. After the moment of
initial pain had receded, she had begun to realize the
lack of discomfort in the dogs actions, in fact, quite
the opposite.
Goliath hunched over her ass, quickly stroking his big
shaft in and out of her dripping pussy, growling with
animal triumph as he marked this young serving girl as
his bitch. Hannah moaned as his hard cock shoved into
her tight wetness, jolting her body against the chilly
earthen floor. His violently hard thrusts felt amazing
as the big hunting dog rammed himself ever faster into
her delicate wet slit.
Once more she recognized the approach of the wonderful
feeling that the dogs tongue had caused earlier, as it
crested she could hold on no longer.
"Oh, Goliath," she moaned, "Ungh... just like that."
Again the tension built inside, her body convulsing as
it overtook her, sending waves of honey scented lights
rushing from her sexy young pussy to her orgasm fogged
brain. Blazing tremors of fragrant delight burst with
rainbow hues before her eyes, and fiery spasms wracked
her slender body.
"Oh yes," she wailed, "Ungh, ungh, ungh... Aaaaah!"
The rippling contractions of her wet pussy soon proved
to be more than Goliath could endure, and Hannah cried
out anew as the big dog gave one final powerful shove
and buried his fist sized knot in her quivering little
slit. Gasping with delight, she felt the scalding jets
of his seed spurting inside her, not one drop escaping
the bulging knot that was stuck fast within her.
It took almost half a turn of the glass before the dog
could pull his dwindling shaft from her body, letting
her get up to gather her clothes. The markets would be
closed shortly, and she still hadn't gotten the manors
supplies. She had to be quick, or she would never hear
the end of it, from either Sir Tyrus or her sister.
"You wait right here," she said, when Goliath took one
last lick at her still tingling pussy. She put on her
clothes, and Goliath barked a farewell as she scurried
away, "I shall bring you back a few leftover pieces of
roast beef if I am able."
'It would only be fair,' she thought to herself with a
wicked smirk, 'He shared his meat with me...'
- x - x - x -
... Lincoln was beckoned by a commotion in the hallway
outside his chamber. He and Angharad had gone in there
to discuss privately what, if anything, they might do
to aid Sir Tyrus in this business concerning the Ivory
Duchess. They were both experienced fighters, at least
in the imitation combat of the KMA, but would such as
that translate into any actual skill during a life and
death struggle with naked steel?
"It might do so," Lincoln was saying, "I handled those
two ruffians in Blakeshire Wood ably enough."
"You handled but one, as I recall," Angharad said with
a smile, "Though you did handle him well."
She had said this with a smile, and thus had taken the
sting out of the words, but Lincoln knew she was right
in any case.
He smiled at her too. Though it bedeviled him to admit
it, Angharad was in all truth the more capable fighter
between them. She had been squired to Syr Gabriella in
fact for a few of years before Lincoln had donned his
own red belt and sworn fealty to the Contessa, and she
had learned her lessons well. She shared not his skill
with a bow, and he matched her in singles combat, but
she could outperform him in the press of a melee as he
did not keep a keen eye to the whole of the field, as
she did rather than only what was standing right there
in front of him.
"Well, in any event," Lincoln went on, "If the Duchess
should attempt to attack here in any force, Sir Tyrus
and his men will need every able hand they can get, be
they skilled or no. Mayhap we should see about getting
some proper weapons for ourselves, and some armor that
will fit you as well, be there such available."
Before Lady Angharad could reply, there came a rushing
of feet and murmurs from the hallway outside. Looking
at one another in concern, they both got to their feet
and went out to learn what had happened. Those outside
turned out to be a small group of the manors servants
scurrying into a nearby stairwell. Raised voices could
be heard echoing from the great hall below.
Upon their arrival, they saw a young girl, Hannah, but
meek as any church mouse with her eyes locked upon the
floor, being chastised by an older man in the red and
black quartered livery of Sir Tyrus's house. There was
a group of other servants, peering in through doorways
and around corners by twos and threes; trying like all
servants to be nearby whenever there was something of
interest going on, yet without being near enough to be
caught in it. Those that had preceded the two down the
staircase quietly shuffled their feet and tried not to
look guilty upon realizing that the Lords noble guests
had followed them.
"Who is that man?" asked Lincoln, wondering whether it
would prove necessary to go to the girls defense.
"That be Jeffrey Steward, if it please milord," one of
the braver servants replied, "The Chamberlain for Lord
Blakeshire's estate."
"And what has this girl done to earn his wrath?" asked
Angharad quietly.
"She was sent to market this afternoon for supplies of
the Manors requirement," the same fellow answered them
again, "But she has only just now returned, hours late
and without even the supplies."
Steward had removed his wide leather belt, and reached
for the for the girl, when a new voice stayed his hand
before the blow could fall.
"Mercy, milord, mercy."
Lincoln looked up in surprise to see Helga pushing her
way through the other servants.
"The fault is mine, milord," she pleaded, "I sent this
girl to the market on the orders of Sir Tyrus, but too
long I waited to tell her. The markets were closed by
the time she arrived, milord, by no fault of hers, and
surely she must have feared to return in knowing there
would be a lashing in it for her, although the mistake
was my own. If someone is to be punished, then by your
leave, let it be me in her stead."
The chamberlain didn't hesitate, he roughly grabbed at
Helga's arm, and forced her to bend over the table. An
effortless flick swept her long skirts over her waist
and wrenched her bloomers down to her thighs, exposing
her upturned ass. Angharad gasped as she saw the mans
leather belt rise and fall, once, twice, thrice with a
resounding THWACK that left angry red welts across the
young girls bottom, but Steward wasn't done.
A dozen times or more the belt fell, and a dozen times
Helga cringed in dread and yelped at the contact. When
he was full finished, Steward hitched his belt around
his waist once more and walked away, leaving the blond
serving girl trembling in pain on the table, making no
move to cover her naked bottom.
The minute the belt had begun to fall, the rest of the
servants had darted away, like the rats who abandoned
sinking ships, leaving only Lincoln, Angharad and poor
Hannah to witness the Chamberlains justice. No sooner
had he walked off than Angharad had rushed over to the
servant girls side, helping her stand, and wiping away
her tears.
"He gave me no time to explain," Hannah sobbed, "I did
have the supplies, milady, I swear I did, but he would
not listen."
For the first time, Lincoln noticed that their younger
friend had scrapes on her hands and her skirt was torn
and muddy, as though she had fallen.
"What happened, Hannah?" he asked, "You can tell us."
"I was on my way back here," the girl explained, "With
the supplies, when suddenly I heard noises off of the
path. There were men, look you, just over a rise where
they would not be seen from the battlements above. The
men were all unkempt looking ruffians, but each one of
them armed. I had to hide for a long time, lest those
rogues discover me, and that is why I am late returned
from market. Those supplies were heavy, milord; would
that I were stronger, but the weight slowed my feet so
much, and I knew I must bring word to Sir Tyrus ere it
was too late."
"Armed men? Upon Blakeshire lands?" Lincoln asked with
shock, "How many were there?"
"Tis the truth, I swear," Hannah said, "But the manors
supplies are not lost, though, I hid them by the river
and I can go back to get them now if it pleases milord
and his chamberlain."
"Oh Hannah, you mustn't," Helga exclaimed, speaking up
for the first time since Steward had departed, "You'll
be killed."
"How many men?" Lincoln repeated.
"Five score, at least, milord," Hannah finally replied
with wide eyes.
"Five score?" he whispered to Angharad, "A hundred men
at least, armed and roaming through Blakeshire estates
with ill intent. That can't be good."
"Mayhap even more," she went on, "I shall try to count
them properly when I go back to find the supplies that
I left behind."
"You shall do nothing of the sort," Angharad spat, "Go
with Lincoln to find Sir Tyrus, Hannah, tell him what
you have just told us. Damn the supplies, and damn the
bloody chamberlain as well if he has aught else to say
on the matter."
"But where are you going?" Lincoln asked.
"I will take Helga upstairs," Angharad replied, "Worry
not, lass, I'll take care of her."
Tears of gratitude gleaming in her eyes, Hannah darted
up the stairs with Lincoln in tow, leaving her sister
to the capable hands of Lady Angharad. Heading towards
a different staircase, she led Helga weeping up to the
floor above and into her chamber. The moment that she
had closed the door, though, the servant girls weeping
stopped abruptly, and she brazenly considered Angharad
with a mischievous glint in her eye.
"So what's the meaning of all this?" Angharad demanded
suspiciously.
"Whatever do you mean?" Helga asked with a grin.
"You were just belt whipped," replied Angharad, "I saw
the marks myself."
"What, these tiny things?" the servant girl pronounced
negligibly, raising her skirt to reveal the angry red
welts, "I have oft taken worse lashings than this, and
sometimes I even enjoy them."
"Enjoy them? What did you..." Angharad began, flushing
brightly red once she caught on, "Fine, I withdraw the
question, not my concern."
"Oh come now, milady," Helga murmured, brushing a hand
up and down Lady Angharad's bare arm, "After all that
was spoken together this night past, surely we needn't
be shy now. Here now, you tremble like a kitten in the
cold. Come and let me warm you."
Utterly terrified, while at the same time curious, the
Lady Angharad timidly allowed herself to be led toward
the bed...
... Treading wearily down the stairs a quarter turn of
a glass later, Lord Lincoln quietly pondered the night
that likely lay ahead. Sir Tyrus had doubled the guard
on the walls, and had them pile bundles of oil soaked
branches out near the edges of the cleared spaces that
surrounding Blakeshire Keep as soon as he got news of
the armed men within the wood, but he reasoned that no
attack would come until just ere dawn. Then would come
the time when most in the keep would be sleeping, and
even the guards would be weary, having spent the night
at watch upon the walls.
Tyrus had given an order, however, that come the hours
before dawn the men on watch be relieved, replaced by
other men who were freshly rested. The guards had been
told to exchange places by twos and threes, so that it
would not be noticed that the guard was being changed
as it might be if done all at once. Aside from the men
of the guard, Lincoln had noted that the manor itself
had been built to be easily defended. The north, south
and west walls fell sheer to the water of the lake, so
that an attacker could bring no siege tower or scaling
ladders to bear against them. Even the stone causeway
which joined the manor to the shore was guarded by the
barbican, upon the smaller island that sat between the
keep and the shore.
Before any force of invaders could even make it to the
causeway, though, archers stood ready to loft flaming
arrows towards the piles of oiled branches outside the
wall, turning them into blazing bonfires to light the
surrounding fields, denying the attackers the cover of
darkness. Caught out in the open, on the cleared slope
of the bordering valley, attackers would be exposed to
deadly arrows from the archers on the walls. Only then
would they even reach the causeway.
The causeway was built so that it approached the gates
parallel to the keeps front so that the invader could
march no more than two or three abreast, all the while
straight across the field of fire of the garrisons of
archers shooting at the attackers right flank from the
ramparts, with the invaders all holding their shields
on the wrong side. The outer point of the causeway was
the barbican, which would serve the men at arms as the
first line of defense against the attackers.
Even if an attacker survived the hail of arrows during
the charge of the causeway, somehow made it across the
first drawbridge and breached the defenses within the
barbican, they would still have to storm the bridge to
the gatehouse proper just to make it through the outer
wall and into the courtyard with the keep itself still
standing untouched before them.
Lincoln just shook his head. It hardly seemed worth it
to him. He knocked softly upon the door to Angharad's
bedchamber and opened it without bothering to wait for
an answer. He wanted to see how Helga was doing before
he told them about the knights plans...
... Angharad sighed as Helga lightly traced the tip of
her tongue around her earlobe and down the side of her
neck. Pulling her closer so that the feverish heat of
the others body could be felt through her clothing, an
overwhelming whirlwind of lust causing her to do these
things that she'd never done before, the sexy redhead
was molded under Helga's touch, their soft tits gently
heaving as they panted for breath.
Too uncertain to take the next step herself, the Irish
lass waited for Helga to untie the laces of her green
twill bodice, then shrugged her shoulders do the skirt
and bodice together puddled upon the floor around her
feet. Following the young servant girls lead, Angharad
reached for the tied laces of Helga's own bodice with
trembling fingers, slipping loose the light knots that
held it. Standing only in an embroidered chemise, with
the cool air in her chamber causing her aching nipples
to harden beneath the soft linen, Lady Angharad looked
at the servant girl, licking her lips with expectation
when Helga began tugging upon the hemline.
Lifting the chemise over the redhead's hips, the blond
haired servant paused for a moment to crouch down and
teasingly trace her tongue around Angharad's sensitive
navel, eliciting a shiver of delight. Planting a trail
of moist hot kisses up over her belly as she went, the
servant girl lingered as she tugged the linen chemise
still higher, eventually sliding it up over Angharad's
head and discarding it upon the floor.
The Irish lass gasped in delight as Helga molded moist
lips around her own, delving her tongue slowly in and
out of her mouth while she cupped a heated palm around
the sexy redhead's heaving tits, soft and yet firm all
at once. Angharad reached around to gently cup her own
hands under Helga's sexy little ass, moaning into her
mouth as she held her closer, grinding their lean hips
together... Just as Lincoln opened the door.
The braw Scotsman stood mute for just a moment, unsure
whether he should even believe what his eyes were now
telling him, then a wicked grin spread across his face
as he closed the door behind him.
"Angharad, you naughty, naughty girl," he smirked, "We
send you up here to tend only to this poor girls aches
and pains, and what do you do? Why just as soon as our
backs are turned, you immediately take full advantage
of the girls helpless condition. Whatever are we to do
with you?"
"Mmmm," Angharad moaned, as Helga turned the attention
of her lips to the redhead's aching nipples, "If she's
helpless, I'm a church mouse. Mayhap a better question
to ask would be, 'whatever are we to do with her?'"
"A fine question," Helga agreed, beckoning for Lincoln
to join them, "Might I humbly advise, milady, that the
two of you work together to find an answer to it?"
"Oh I'm sure we will find a way to untie things," said
Lincoln as he reached up for a knotted drawstring that
held Helga's chemise.
Loosening the drawstring, Lincoln gently tugged at the
chemise and slipped it down over her shoulders, baring
her soft supple tits to Angharad's touch. Helga moaned
quietly as she leaned back against his chest, her head
lolling sideways when the redhead fastened her lips to
the blond girls nipples. Nodding towards her bed, the
Lady Angharad stepped backward as Lord Lincoln reached
down and swept the serving girl off her feet, carrying
her to the bed that was easily large enough for three
people, as long as neither of them minded snuggling up
a little closer.
Setting her down alongside the bed, Lincoln stepped to
one side while Lady Angharad tugged the unlaced bodice
up over her head. Her cumbersome overskirts were next
to go, leaving the blond serving girl clad in her worn
homespun chemise. With the drawstring loosened at the
neck, the long garment was already bunched down around
her slender waist, and she lifted her hips as Angharad
now slipped it away as well. The only thing that still
stood between their sensual scrutiny and her nakedness
was the gossamer fabric of her linen bloomers.
Laying back upon the bed, Helga lifted her bottom that
she might better remove this herself, then parted her
slender legs slightly, thus displaying a golden thatch
crowning the juncture of her thighs. She cast a subtle
glance towards Angharad's waist, then looked up at the
redhead expectantly.
With sudden mischievous insight, the Irish lass caught
her meaning and went over to Lincoln, reaching a hand
into his sporran, rummaging around within it until she
found what she wanted. Of the many things that Lincoln
usually carried in the versatile leather pouch one was
an old fashioned, bone handled straight razor, carved
with Celtic knotwork. Straight razors weren't strictly
accurate pieces of kit, historically speaking, though
they were better than those cheap disposable ones that
most guys used during events.
The light of understanding dawned in Lincoln's eyes as
he saw what the redheaded Irish lass had gotten out of
the sporran, and he looked at Helga with his eyebrows
raised in question. As the servant girl nodded eagerly
he opened the door to shout for a servant. One arrived
a moment later, but he was startled to see that it was
Helga's little sister Hannah. Unsure of what to say at
that moment, he could only stammer, forgetting what he
had meant to ask for.
"Run to the serving room," he finally said, "Fill up a
basin with hot water. Find us a towel as well, and get
both things up here straight away."
"I will," Hannah replied, "But, milord, does my sister
still rest up here with you? I had not seen her return
to her duties and I worried for her."
"Um, yes Hannah," Lincoln replied, "We thought it best
that your sister stay here with us awhile. In fact, it
is she who has need of these things. So go on down and
fetch them like a good lass."
"At once, milord," Hannah said, then scurried down the
stairs towards the manors kitchen.
Upon her return, Angharad answered the soft scratching
at the door and opened it, taking in both the basin of
water and the towel as Hannah passed them in. Suddenly
remembering that she was entirely naked, she tried to
quickly close the door, as a scandalized flush stained
her face.
"Bed her well, milady," Hannah giggled as the door was
closed, "She has well earned it."
"Have you ever done this before?" Lincoln asked as the
redhead sheepishly set the water down upon the bedside
table next to the servant girl.
"Nay, milord," Helga replied, "Nor had I ever seen any
other who had until this night past. I would have mine
look just like milady's."
"Oh Angharad, you ARE a naughty girl," Lincoln said as
he raised an eyebrow, "What have you been up to?"
Making no further comment, the sexy young redhead took
the straight razor from his hand, splashing gently hot
water through the flaxen thatch lying between Helga's
slender thighs. The servant girl groaned softly as the
Irish lass ran her fingertips through it, beginning to
make delicate swipes with the razor. Occasional sighs
of pleasure were the only sounds to break the rhythmic
voice of the razors keen edge while Angharad moved it
back and forth between Helga's body to the water basin
next to the bed. The razor cut effortlessly, and in no
time at all she had the servant girls trembling little
pussy slick and baby smooth.
Using the towel, Lincoln swept away the remains of the
water with the shaven curls, and Angharad looked up at
him with a saucy smirk.
"You're right, milord," she said, running soft fingers
over the servant girls now naked slit, "It really does
look sexier this way, doesn't it?"
"Say you so?" Helga smiled, propping herself up on her
elbows the better to see herself, then nervously, "Has
it not made me seem a child, not yet grown?"
"No way," Lincoln assured her, noticing Angharad still
sliding her fingertips up and down between the servant
girls parted thighs, and biting her lip with a hungry
gleam in her eye, "None could look at you and say that
you are anything but all woman, just ask Lady Angharad
how she likes it."
Angharad looked up with a guiltily smirk, face flushed
at having been caught idly playing with Helga's sweet
little pussy. She mock glared at Lincoln and stuck her
tongue out at him.
"What a pretty tongue she has," she grinned at Lincoln
with a mischievous wink, "Think you that milady should
determine a better use for it?"
Taking her cue willingly, the Lady Angharad hesitantly
dipped her head between Helga's knees, starting to lay
a trail of heated kisses along the inside of her thigh
as she made her way closer to the blond girls waiting
wetness. The sensual handmaid beckoned Lord Lincoln to
approach the bed, then reached up to unfasten the belt
of red leather holding his great kilt. Practiced hands
grabbed the tartan fabric as the belted plaid slipped
to the floor, and grasping his hips, the young servant
girl took his rigid shaft into her mouth.
Finally reaching her expectant goal, Lady Angharad let
her tongue slip uncertainly into Helga's waiting pussy
to find her already dripping wet. The sexy blonde was
hovering upon the verge of orgasm from the Irish girls
feathery touches as she shaved her aching slit, and it
would not take a great deal more to push her over the
final edge altogether. Gently separating her wet pussy
lips to reveal her throbbing clit, Angharad circled it
teasingly before sucking it the way the willowy young
servant girl wanted. Helga now shifted her body, along
with the redheaded Irish girls, so that she was lying
underneath the other, and abruptly within reach of the
russet haired girls sexy wet pussy.
Angharad gasped at the unexpected contact, feeling the
blond haired servant sliding her tongue in and out of
her own wetness, each of them vainly trying to outlast
the other. Lincoln moved back a little, watching this
pair of smoking girls writhing together upon the silky
soft furs as each of them fought to make the other cum
first. Never before had he seen such a sight, save for
the magazines in his own time, and as he ran his hands
gently over both of the thrashing bodies he could feel
the servant girl reaching for his rigid cock.
Leading him around behind Angharad's hips, Lincoln was
surprised to see the servant girl positioning the head
of his cock not at the redheads wet pussy, but rather
against the tight opening of her firm little ass. Here
was uncharted territory, and the brown haired Scot had
no idea if the Irish lass would approve.
As if sensing his dilemma, Lady Angharad took her lips
away from the wetness of the handmaidens hot pussy for
just long enough to throw one smouldering glance over
her shoulder, sweeping her hair up out of the way, and
surprised him yet again.
"Give it to me," she whispered.
Not needing to be told again, he gave a slight push in
against the tightness of her sweet ass, and heard her
moaning into Helga's pussy as he slipped inside. There
was a moment of stillness while she had time to adjust
to the fullness of his cock, then she rocked her hips
back, urging him deeper. She turned her attention back
to Helga's pussy, and the servant to hers, groaning at
the double sensation of Lincoln's rigid shaft sliding
in and out of her ass and the servant girls hot tongue
dancing around her clit.
Wanting to share some of the feeling, the sexy redhead
crept a hand under Helga's bottom and gently slid one
finger up into the servants ass as her tongue attacked
the blond girls pussy with a renewed vigor. Neither of
them would be able to endure much more, but it was the
sexy servant girl who succumbed first to the blissful
onslaught. She groaned as a delicious spark of crimson
hot lightning sizzled through her, shattering the last
of her resolve.
"Mmmm," she groaned into the redheads wet slit. Spasms
of delirious ecstasy rocked her sexy physique while an
eruption of hot juices flooded Angharad's face, their
bodies joined as the redhead followed the servant girl
into her seething convulsions. The sensual thrashings
of the blond girl beneath her was all it took to throw
the Irish lass into deliciously sparkling tailspins of
boiling euphoria, the explosion of bright multicolored
fireworks slowly receding but building ever higher yet
again as Lincoln pumped her ass harder and harder with
his every pounding stroke.
"Oh yeah, fuck my ass," she moaned, "You're gonna make
me cum again, baby. Ungh, ungh, ungh... Aaaaah!"
Lady Angharad's cries resounding in his brain, Lincoln
gave one last powerful thrust, burying his rigid cock
to the hilt as he spilled jet after jet of his hot cum
into her upturned ass. The Lady Angharad felt his seed
wetly spurting inside her as her hot pussy dripped all
over the serving girls face, leaving sticky wet treats
for the sexy blond.
Letting Lincoln slip his throbbing hardness out of the
redheads hot little ass, Helga breathlessly collapsed
on the bed, her pretty face pleasantly flushed from an
amazing mind bending climax.
"Lincoln," Angharad stated, with a grin, "I do believe
that we've killed the poor girl."
"There is life in me yet, milady," Helga replied, "You
have left me most uncertain, though, that never before
have you done such a thing with a woman. If tis so you
are right truly to be commended."
"Silence, wench," Angharad grinned, playfully slapping
the serving girls ass, "But that was not to be my only
first this day."
"Say you so?"
"Indeed, tis truth," the sexy redhead answered, "Never
ere today have I allowed any man to... to do what Lord
Lincoln did."
"Milady, forgive me," the servant cried, "It had never
occurred to me that you had not."
"Peace, Helga, peace," Angharad replied. As her wicked
grin came over her face, the russet haired girl leaned
her head on Lincoln's shoulder, "I liked it."
"As do I," the blonde serving girl agreed, "Mayhap you
could do as well to me, milord?"
"Angharad," Lincoln grinned as Helga gazed at him with
a hopeful look, "I think we've created a monster, else
we have unleashed one at any rate..."
- X - X - X -
... Standing upon the upper battlements, Lady Angharad
watched a chestnut mare as it thundered wildly across
the causeway that spanned between manor and shore, her
hooves nigh striking sparks off the stone. She glanced
up at Lord Lincoln poised next to her but he shrugged
his shoulders. There was about an hour of sunlight ere
dusk fell, and he could see that the rider was wearing
the red and black livery of House Blakeshire, but the
arms they bore showed a red wolf upon a field of white
and black, this beneath the label of cadency declaring
a firstborn son.
As the rider passed through the outer barbican then up
the road that coiled round the first island, they both
left the battlements and went downstairs. They arrived
in the lower courtyard just as the rider was crossing
the upper bridge, and he reigned to a halt, dismounted
and fell on bended knee in front of Sir Tyrus.
"Milord, milady," the knight stated, "Allow me to make
known to you Lord Nathaniel of Belascye, eldest son of
my good friend, the Baron Phillip of Belascye. He was
squired to my house after I lost... after Lady Jacklyn
disappeared. He is just now returned from a mission of
great importance."
"Indeed, milord?" Angharad asked, "If by your grace it
is not impolite to ask, what mission is that?"
"Not at all," Tyrus replied, "As soon as you both came
with word that the Ivory Duchess was about, I sent him
to learn what he could of her whereabouts and also her
plans against us. So, Nathaniel, what news?"
"It is worse than we feared, milord," the young squire
said, "The Ivory Duchess has not the five score at her
command that we have been told, but mayhap much closer
to twenty five. As you predicted, milord, they plan to
launch their attack at dawn."
Lincoln was stunned. Twenty five score would have five
hundred enemies hiding in the dark, but Sir Tyrus just
smiled wickedly. He did not seem distressed, but they
had no more than twenty or twenty five men at arms all
told by Lincoln's count, and but a dozen archers. Even
if every man, woman and child in the keep took up arms
in its defense against the Ivory Duchess, there would
still be less than sixty people versus five hundred of
the enemy, men trained to war. Still, Tyrus would know
his keep and its people better than anyone else.
His report now given, and his knight having no further
orders for him, Nathaniel stood and went into the keep
in search of a servant with some food. The squire had
been overnight in the forests, and had eaten naught of
substance since dawn.
"Let them come," Tyrus was saying, "The bitch and they
who follow her will learn that we shall not be easily
thrown aside. We are no herd of sheep, to be scattered
by the mere approach of her band of rabble, we are the
House of Blakeshire!"
This last was delivered at a roar that was answered in
kind, as every guard and fighting man in the courtyard
thrust his weapon skyward in a howl of challenge that
seemed to rock the very stones beneath their feet. The
sound set Lincoln's heart hammering, and even the Lady
Angharad felt shivers of pride running up her spine as
the roar echoed around the curtain wall. Sir Tyrus was
right, let the duchess come...
- X - X - X -
... Striding into the great hall, Nathaniel called for
a servant. A moment later, Hannah entered the hall and
curtsied before him.
"Yes, milord," she said.
"Does aught of the evenings meal remain in the serving
rooms?" the squire asked.
The risk of fire in a castle being great, most of them
kept the actual kitchens in wooden outbuildings in the
courtyard. That the lords food should not become cold
as it was carried in from outside to be served, it was
taken into the serving room where it could be rewarmed
upon the hearths ere it was brought forth.
"I believe so," she said, "If it pleases milord, I can
bring cold meats with bread and cheese."
"That would be fine, Hannah," he said, "With a pitcher
of wine, as well."
Nathaniel sat at one of the low tables, and Hannah was
quick to return with his food, setting it down before
him and scurrying back out of the hall, but she didn't
scurry far. As the young squire ate what had just been
laid down for him, Hannah peered shyly from beyond the
doorway.
When he finished his food, Nathaniel stood up and went
to fetch the rest of Sir Tyrus's armor. When the Ivory
Duchess and her horde tried to overrun the keep, as it
seemed they must, Sir Tyrus would need it, and as his
squire it was Nathaniel's job to ensure that the armor
was ready when the knight asked for it.
He didn't notice Hannah quietly following him while he
left the hall. As he walked into the armory, the blond
servant girl slipped in after him, and quietly closed
the door behind her. He turned to see who had now come
to the room, as there were only a few in the keep with
the proper key to enter.
"Was there anything further that milord required," the
servant asked with a smile.
"No, Hannah," he said, plainly puzzled by her presence
in the room at all, "Nothing else, thank you."
"Are you certain, milord," she repeated coyly, untying
the drawstring at the neck of her blouse, "We finished
early in the serving room, and the chamberlain should
not notice my absence for at least a while. Will there
be NOTHING else that you need?"
Lord Nathaniel may not have been the sharpest sword in
the armory, but nor was he entirely stupid. Opening up
his arms, he pulled Hannah closer and she pressed her
lips urgently against his own. God save him should Sir
Tyrus come looking and find him dallying with the help
while there was a battle to prepare for, but the young
squire didn't care. Between cleaning armor and getting
laid, the armor came in second every time.
Gently pulling the servant girl to him, the squire let
his hand slide up her tender fourteen year old body as
she cooed softly in his ear.
"Oh Nathaniel," she breathed, "That feels nice."
"You can call me Nathan," he answered, as she slid out
of his grasp and promptly started to divest herself of
her clothing. Once she had finished the removal of her
garments, she looked at him coyly.
Retreating away from him, Hannah sensually let herself
sprawl backward over a covered chest, her hair fanning
across the tapestry as she did so, revealing the pale
aspect of her tits to his stalwart gaze. She had taken
to sunbathing naked in the forest the very moment that
she first began to touch herself, and now the tanlines
she had worn since childhood had nigh vanished.
Nathan moved closer and grasped her ankle, raising her
foot to his lips. He planted a gentle kiss just above
her toes, continuing the trail up her calf, his tongue
tracing light circles at the back of her knee. She let
out a giggle, flinching away from that ticklish point
of contact, but that giggle turned to a soft moan when
Nathan's soft trail of kisses slowly began to work its
way up her thigh.
Hannah gasped when Nathan's tongue flicked up over the
lips of her pussy, delving into her coral pink depths
to find her already wet and eager as lapped at her hot
little slit. He slid his tongue deep into her dripping
wetness and she let out a pleasured groan, encouraging
him to continue.
"Mmmm, yeah," she sighed, "Just like that."
Nathan had evidently been at practice since their last
time together. The young servant girl felt a twinge of
jealousy as she wondered which one of the other girls
in the village had let him lick her pussy, but if that
was what had taught him to pleasure her like this, she
really didn't care.
Plunging his tongue in and out of her wet slit, Nathan
soon had her writhing on the chest. He lightly parted
the moist folds of her hot pussy, exposing the flushed
and throbbing hardness of her aching clit. Teasing her
for a moment, he lightly licked and kissed his way all
around her hard little button without touching it.
Hannah moaned, caressing her tits with one hand as she
knotted the fingers of the other through Nathan's mane
of tangled curls. She lifted her soft breast up to her
own lips, suckling the rosy red nipple into her mouth
as Nathan continued torturing her until she could take
it no longer.
"Don't tease me," she begged, "Please, baby just do it
now. Lick my clit for me."
Giving her what she desperately wanted, Nathan wrapped
his lips around her aching button, making her crazy as
he gently sucked on it.
"Oh my God!" she groaned, lifting her sweet little ass
off of the chest, "Oh baby yes, right there."
Nathan skillfully followed her movements as she bucked
her hips wildly, both trying to escape and craving for
more all at the same time. Her body started trembling
as the creamy sweet scent of her arousal began to fill
the air. She couldn't take any more of this.
"Oh Nathan, baby," she whimpered, "Yes... You're gonna
make me cum soon if... Ooooh... if you keep it up."
Nathan had no intention of stopping. Cradling her soft
ass in his hands he slipped his tongue up and down the
full length of her wet pussy, lingering on her tender
little clit at the height of each stroke. Multicolored
lights began to dance brightly before her eyes and she
fell screaming off the edge of ecstasy.
"Ooooh fuck," she wailed, her hips thrashing violently
while she knotted her hands in the sheets, "Ungh, yeah
baby, I'm... Mmmm... I'm cumming."
Hannah could only ride out the fire as orgasmic spasms
washed over her. Trembling uncontrollably, she held on
as shivering hot jolts of delight shot from her pussy
through the rest of her pleasantly tender body. Just a
few moments later, after the frenzy of delirium passed
her by, she drew Nathan up beside her, then rolled him
onto his back.
"Your turn, squire," she breathed into his ear.
Untying laces as she moved along, Hannah kissed a path
down Nathan's body, spreading his tunic to reveal his
broad and heavily muscled chest. Following the pathway
still lower, she soon arrived at the waistband of his
leather breeches. Unlacing them as well, she reached a
hand inside and sighed in appreciation as she drew his
rigid shaft from the darkness.
"My, my," she said softly, "What have we here?"
Licking her lips in sheer anticipation, Hannah slipped
Nathan's hard cock into her mouth, swirling her tongue
all round the tip of his throbbing member. Cupping his
balls in her hand, the attractive little nymph let her
blond haired head fall forward, and Nathan gasped upon
feeling his hard cock slip all the way into the depth
of her throat. Her soft lips wrapped tightly about his
shaft, Hannah gave a low murmur of satisfaction as the
squire gently knotted his fingers through her sweeping
blonde hair.
Showing no mercy, she bobbed her head up and down over
his lap, letting his cock head slide in and out of her
throat with every stroke. With his moans resounding in
her ears, she could tell he was close. She considered
sucking him all the way off, and making him cum in her
mouth as she had seen Helga doing. Just the thought of
him blowing his hot sticky load right down her throat
had her quivering, and she hung at the edge of another
orgasm at the very idea of it.
Nonetheless, she decided to save that delight for some
other time and occasion, letting his cock slip out of
her mouth with a sexy wet slurp while she crept up the
length of his body. Nathan raised his lean hips off of
the strongbox as the serving girl tugged his breeches
down around his slender thighs, still planting playful
kisses up and down his rigid shaft as she did so. Soon
she had pulled them away entirely and tossed them down
on the floor.
Straddling Nathan's hips, she reached down between the
sweaty heat of their bodies to take hold of his rigid
hardness, her free hand propped upon his chest to keep
herself balanced. Positioning his hard throbbing shaft
at the entry of her hot wet pussy, Hannah lingered on
him only briefly before she lowered her body, impaling
herself on his length.
"Oh fuck," she breathed.
Grasping his wrists, Hannah pinned Nathan's hands over
his shoulders, slowly rocking her rounded hips up and
down over his as she fucked herself on his cock. Feral
moans and soft growls filled the room as Nathan began
to buck his hips, timing each of his movements so that
he was thrusting upward just as her dripping slit came
sliding down to meet him.
With an abrupt flip, the curly haired squire had their
positions suddenly reversed, supporting his own weight
upon his strong hands as he hung over her. Hannah soon
began panting, her breath coming in ragged gasps while
he hammered his rigid cock roughly into her hot eager
pussy. Giving little screams of ecstasy as each impact
jolted her on the chest, she lifted her legs, wrapping
them around Nathan's waist so that he could get deeper
into her with every thrust.
"Oh yeah, harder," she begged, " That's it, baby. Give
it to me, give it to me!"
The servant rocked and shuddered as they drove through
new delights, as Nathan and Hannah, both their bodies
slick with perspiration, sought to drive each other to
new heights of animalistic ecstasy. Struggling upon an
age old battleground, each of them vied for dominance
as they battled over who would be the victor. The girl
was determined, though, that this was a fight that the
hard bodied squire would never win. Gritting her teeth
with a sexually savage grin, she desperately held fast
to her own restraint as he drove himself closer to the
edge of control with every thrust.
She was doing good, and was quite pleased with herself
for her self restraint under his deliciously merciless
assault, right up until he started cheating.
Slipping one hand in between their bodies, Nathan slid
his thumb over her exposed clit, sending wild jolts of
electric delight up her spine and into her brain.
"Ungh... Cut it out," she moaned, "That, ungh... isn't
playing fair."
"Who said anything about fair?" Nathan murmured.
Feeling fiery shocks of delirium vibrating through her
body every time the squire touched her stiff throbbing
clit, and rocking her hips up and down on the bed, she
caressed the creamy golden softness of her breasts as
Nathan roughly pounded his hard cock relentlessly into
her pussy. The alternating sensation of his hot rigid
shaft slamming in and out of her dripping slit and the
fingers expertly strumming at her exposed clit was far
more than Hannah could withstand.
"God damn! Give it to me," she whimpered, "Make me cum
for you. It's almost there. Make me... Ungh, ungh! I'm
cumming, Aaaaah!"
Her hot body began to spasm out of control as waves of
orgasm washed over her. The contracting muscles within
were milking the squires shaft, pushing him closer and
closer to his own release. Riding out one climax after
another, she drove herself still harder onto Nathan's
cock with every spasm until he could no longer control
himself. He grasped her hips and rammed his hard shaft
to the hilt in her rippling slit with an animal growl
of ecstasy, making her shriek in pleasure as his thick
sticky cum filled her pussy to overflowing.
With her legs firmly locked around Nathan's waist, she
waited for a few more moments, holding him tightly to
her body until her trembling had fully subsided. There
wasn't any pressing reason for her to leave the armory
so she was quite contented to just lie there for a bit
while she recovered.
"That, milord," she giggled, "Was truly incredible."
"I always try my best," Nathan smiled...
- X - X - X -
... The attack barely underway and already things were
not going well.
To start with, three riders whom Tyrus had sent out to
summon aid from castles in neighboring estates had all
returned within mere moments of one another. As these
riders galloped across the causeway, Lincoln could see
that something wasn't right; the men sat their horses
in an oddly stiff way, and as the horses rode past the
barbican and up the winding road, he knew why. Each of
the three men gazed sightlessly forward, with his head
perched upon his saddle horn.
Tyrus had cursed venomously. The loss of these men had
left no hope that aid would come from the neighboring
estates, as no message had gotten to them. The keep of
House Blakeshire would be on its own.
Then the Ivory Duchess had come over the causeway just
ere dawn and breached the outer barbican. She had lost
several men to his archers as they had charged across
the causeway, but though Sir Tyrus ordered his own men
at arms to fall back, having his herald give a signal
to retreat on his brass horn, the rogues under her had
been upon their heels as they rounded the island road
and withdrew over the high bridge. The men at arms had
made it to the gatehouse barely in time to raise their
second drawbridge and lower the iron portcullis to bar
the way through the wall.
Now that they had taken the smaller isle, though, they
still had to storm the bridge, and somehow also breach
the gatehouse. Beginning with another drawbridge, the
passage through this structure could be blocked by two
stone barricades, three massive timber gates and three
wrought iron portcullises. Rising slightly higher than
the surrounding curtain wall, the three levels of the
gatehouse were open and crenelated to the inside so an
attacker within the corridor below would be exposed to
attack from above while he was trapped between all the
barriers. Men at arms would be standing ready to pelt
them with everything from stones and arrows to boiling
water. All of that trouble just to make it through the
outer curtain wall with the keep itself still standing
untouched before them.
Seeing all of this, the Duchess had drawn back her own
forces and had divided them into several heavily armed
camps that surrounded the lake. The camps had all been
fortified in their own right, with ditches around the
perimeter of each, and the men within them stood ready
to blockade the keep from the outside for just as long
as proved necessary. Great siege engines had now been
rolled in from the eastern wood; immense catapults and
trebuchets to hurl massive stones in attempts to knock
down the walls; arbalests, giant crossbows that fired
an arrow as big as a javelin that would pierce any man
through, armor and all; and finally a huge iron headed
ram to batter down the gates.
The last, at least, had proven useless, as the gate of
the barbican was set at a right angle to the causeway
which was not wide enough to turn a ram sideways. With
no room to maneuver the heavy ram, it could neither be
brought to bear against the barbican gate nor steered
up around the winding road leading up to the gatehouse
proper. The attackers had gotten it wedged in tight as
they endeavored to turn it in through the main gate of
the barbican, and had eventually toppled it off of the
causeway and into the waters below during their effort
to wrestle it loose.
The laughter of defenders on the outer wall had howled
down at the attackers, but it hadn't lasted long. For
while the ram was now out of action, the catapults and
trebuchets were not, and nor were the arbalests. There
had already been a few casualties as men an arms were
impaled by the barbed javelins, and a number of smokey
fires had needed extinguishing as siege engines hurled
pots of flaming oil into the courtyard.
The walls were holding, thus far, but it was simply an
exercise in attrition at this point. Which would give
out first, the curtain walls or the supply of boulders
to hurl upon them? It seemed likely that eventually an
errant stone would breech some piece of the wall, and
then the attackers would boil in through it, for while
the parapet wall was too high to be reached by scaling
ladders from the lake below, the summit of the island
was not. If the wall was breached, an assault upon the
courtyard would be inevitable, as the attackers needed
only scale the sides of the island before storming the
breech from ground level.
Lincoln stood on the ramparts next to Angharad and the
knight and they all stared out over the host assembled
against them.
"I had hoped that we might outlast them should it come
to a siege," Sir Tyrus stated, "But then I had thought
also to see aid come from the neighboring estates ere
my people had to endure any siege longer than they are
prepared for. With our riders intercepted by the Ivory
Duchess and her rogues, we cannot hope for rescue from
without after all."
"Mayhap I can be of help," spoke an old voice, cracked
with age, from the stairs behind them.
They all turned around, but it was Tyrus that answered
first.
"Ah, mother," Tyrus smiled warmly, "Lord Lincoln, Lady
Angharad, may I now make known to you the Lady Eleanor
of Blakeshire. But tell me, mother, what brings you to
the wall at this hour."
"Mother?" echoed both Angharad and Lincoln in a single
voice, with expressions of shock upon their faces. For
the woman before them, though old, looked younger than
they remembered, there could still be no doubt... they
had both seen her before.
"Know you what this is?" she asked, holding some shiny
thing out toward Lincoln and Angharad.
Both nodded with recognition.
"I have only the one prepared," she went on, "Will you
choose which of you is to wear it?"
"I should," Lincoln answered, "Angharad, you've always
been the better fighter between us. Should it come to
that, you will be more useful here than I would. I can
go for help."
"No chance," Angharad said, "I may be a better fighter
than you, but unless they breach the wall, my sword is
useless here. You are better with a bow than I am, and
you can be of use right from the moment they come into
range. I'll go."
"Go? Have you both taken leave of your senses?" yelled
the knight, "Can you not see that we are besieged. How
can you go anywhere?"
"Peace, my son, peace," the old woman smiled, "The two
before you know their duty. Trust them."
In the end it was decided that the Lady Angharad would
likely be a better choice, and so the confused knights
lady mother handed the object to her.
"Seek me upon your return," she said, "All things will
be held ready when you arrive. Godspeed, milady."
"What was that?" Tyrus said, as Angharad scurried down
from the walls and ran into the keep, "Mother, what do
you know about this?"
"Easy now, Tyrus," she said softly, "There is a design
at work in what is done here, but no ill shall come of
it. Be without fear, for you fight only for love."
Tyrus fished the delicate piece of golden filigree out
of his surcoat. He had known of love once, but it had
been taken from him before it ever had time to blossom
on its own. He had vowed that one day he would be free
to seek his love again, but his duties to his king had
taken precedence in the struggles to prevent the Ivory
Duchess from usurping the throne.
"I know, my precious one," the old woman said, nodding
sadly as she saw the sunlight glinting off the gold in
his hand, "I am truly sorry, but all that was done was
done with purpose. Trust in this I beg you."
"Trust in what?" Tyrus started, but he was interrupted
ere he could continue.
With a shanking of the stones beneath their feet, they
heard a tremendous crash, and calls of alarm echoed up
from the courtyard.
"To arms! To arms!" exclaimed the men below, "The wall
is breached!"
Looking down, Lincoln saw that the endless pounding of
the catapults and trebuchets had done its work. There
was a broad section of the outer wall in the northeast
corner, about ten yards across, that had tumbled down
into the courtyard. He could see an out flung arm over
here, a pair of legs there, where men had been crushed
beneath the massive stones as they fell, but more men
were rushing to defend the breach even before the dust
had settled.
The siege engines concentrated their fire now, seeking
to widen the gap in the weakened area of the wall even
as Lincoln saw men poling log rafts into position. The
rafts were made from trees felled from the forest and
dragged to the waters edge under cover of darkness, to
be tied together and covered in rocks and dirt to hide
them until the wall had been opened. Now, however, the
attackers were lashing them together to build floating
bridges from the shoreline out to the island.
As he strung his recurve bow and nocked an arrow, Lord
Lincoln prayed that help would come soon, but for now
they had attackers to repel. He drew the bow and began
firing shaft after shaft into the forces of the Ivory
Duchess as they attempted to cross the floating bridge
and assault the breach. Other archers tried to set the
rafts ablaze by shooting flaming arrows into them, but
the log rafts were green wood and were water soaked as
well, and most of them would not catch. Those that did
quickly began to burn.
Then, in the calm stillness of the early morning, they
saw an unnatural movement in the waters of the lake as
waves began to churn in the areas around the floating
bridge where there was no wind to drive them. In other
parts of the lake, the waters remained undisturbed and
still. Within a moment, the deviant waves had splashed
up against the rafts and extinguished those fledgling
sparks, so painstakingly set by the archers, putting a
swift end to idea of burning their floating bridge ere
the attackers could use it.
Lord Lincoln and the other archers loosed a barrage of
arrows at the men poling the rafts into position, but
these men seemed to be difficult for their archers and
crossbow men to target. The men were standing in plain
sight on the rafts, with no cover, but each time their
arrows approached them it was as if they veered aside
just at the last moment. The occasional arrow did slip
through, though, but for each man felled by the arrows
and bolts that found their mark, there were two others
to take his place.
Just beyond the lake shore, a flash of movement caught
his attention, and Lincoln looked up to see a woman in
long white robes standing on a boulder. Her hands were
outstretched, and her pale blonde hair whipped around
her shoulders as though a strong wind was blowing, but
none was. He had seen her before only briefly, but he
knew right away that before him rose Lucinda Melisande
Von Landstadt, the Ivory Duchess. He had but a single
arrow remaining and in the last moment ere the captain
of the archers gave them the command to loose the next
volley, Lincoln adjusted his aim, and loosed his final
arrow alone.
The arrow flew straight and true, but his target stood
just out of range. Rather than striking the Duchess as
he had intended, the clothyard shaft whistled down and
thudded into the earth before her very feet. Even the
near miss, however, still proved to be enough to break
her concentration for that moment. Her hair settled as
the phantom winds that stirred it ceased, and the lake
stilled as the odd waves calmed and vanished.
Turning her attentions toward him, the Duchess reached
down to pick up a stick from the dirt at her feet, and
tied it in a knot. Even though the space between them
was too far for him to hear the words, Lincoln saw her
mumbling over this stick until it begun to generate an
eerie glow, then she hurled it in his direction.
The stick vanished in midair with a flash of sparks as
if it had never been, but Lincoln soon knew its intent
was nothing good. The bow that he had wielded to such
great effect, the very same bow that he had used in an
attempt upon Lucinda's life, began to twist and writhe
in his hands. Before his horrified eyes, the recurved
bow had transformed into an ugly green and red serpent
that curled around and lunged for his throat.
Before it could strike, the brawny Scotsman hurled the
serpent away, but in his panic he overbalanced himself
and tumbled over the edge of the rampart wall, towards
the cobblestone courtyard below.
Directing the defense of the manor from a few paces up
along the rampart, Sir Tyrus saw the Scot flailing his
arms as he tumbled from the wall, but there was naught
that he could do to save him. Clutching his war sword
with one hand, and his shield with the other, he stood
fast upon the parapet and called orders to his men. As
he turned this was and that, trying to face every part
of the keep at once, the morning sun sparkled from the
piece of golden filigree dangling from a fragile chain
that he wore about his wrist.
Coming to his senses, Lincoln found himself lying flat
upon his back, cold and wet, staring up at the rampart
where he had stood but moments before. The neighing of
an upset horse told him where he had ended up. Sighing
in relief, he discerned that he had just crashed down
through the thatched roof of the manor stable, landing
in the horses watering trough, thereby understandably
upsetting the horse. He stood to his feet, thankful to
his armorer for building a suit which had absorbed the
brunt of the fall.
Walking toward the doorway, the Scotsman stumbled over
something on the floor beneath the straw. Brushing the
straw away, he found a discarded shield that bore the
quartered red and black livery colors of Tyrus's house
and scooped it up as he ran outside. Now all he needed
was a weapon. Coming out of the stables, he found that
he had now emerged within an arms length of the breach
in the wall. Amongst the debris underfoot, he noticed
the gleam of steel. Kicking some rubble aside, he laid
eyes upon the pummel of a sword jutting out from under
the crumbled bits of stone.
He was about to pick it up, when something else caught
his attention. With a twinkling of glee in his eye, he
saw the remains of a polearm, its haft snapped off in
the collapse of the wall. To anyone else it would only
have been a broken weapon of little use, but to him it
was something more. Taking up this discovery, he could
see that it had been a Jedburg axe, a type of polearm
similar to a halberd, but with its haft now severed to
a more manageable length of around two feet, it would
also make an excellent battleaxe as well. Now this was
a weapon he was more familiar with.
Swinging it experimentally to test its weight, Lincoln
charged into the breach, hewing left and right with a
vengeance, cutting down anyone in the Duchess's livery
of white and green. One rams head fell upon another as
he ducked beneath the swing of a mace blow, taking the
second upon his shield ere cleaving open the skull of
the man wielding it. With a savage roar, Lincoln waded
ever deeper into the melee... then gave a sudden shout
of joy.
"Milord," he bellowed, "Look you to the east."
Just at that moment, Tyrus heard a thunderous rumbling
and saw a dark cloud of dust that momentarily eclipsed
the rising sun. Out of this cloud came an army, easily
a thousand strong, with a front row of mounted riders
in full armor with lances. Ranks upon ranks of footmen
came behind, wielding everything from swords and maces
to halberds and other polearms. Riding at the front of
the force was a knight in blackened plate armor, in a
surcoat of purple and red. A banner flew proudly above
the knights head bearing a golden knot on a field that
matched the surcoat.
A golden knot? On a field of purple... Amethyst? Tyrus
stared at that banner wide-eyed and looked down at the
delicate piece of golden filigree that yet dangled off
of his wrist. It couldn't be!
The duchess found herself outflanked, and the horsemen
swept across the field, driving her rabble before them
as they came. Beside the knight in the blackened plate
rode a familiar figure. Lady Angharad, wearing only a
maille hauberk over her gown and a steel helm upon her
head, howled with triumph as they scoured the Duchess
from the field. Her sword flashed from the blazing sun
as she struck out left and right, felling attackers at
every swing. Lincoln grinned proudly as he watched her
best all who stood before her, she might make queen by
right of arms herself sometime if they ever managed to
got back home.
With them rode another knight beneath a banner of gold
and white, and Lord Lincoln swiftly recognized him as
well. Sir Edmund de la Claire, and behind him, a horde
of mounted archers, all yelling Mongolian battle cries
as they herded the besieging army further and further
back until, almost as one, the Kings Guard turned away
and fled the field in full rout.
The mounted horsemen pursued them, and the footmen and
archers circled to mop up the rest as the leader broke
away from their formation to ride across the causeway
and in through the barbican. Abandoning his place upon
the rampart, Tyrus charged down the stairway, a prayer
upon his lips as he hoped against hope.
The knight in the blackened plate reigned to a halt in
the courtyard and dismounted in front of him. His lips
in a tight line against possible disappointment, Tyrus
could barely speak.
"Jacklyn," he whispered, "Can it be you?"
The knight reached up to take hold of a full face helm
with brass trim, pulling it away, and wild cascades of
auburn hair tumbled free. Syr Gabriella Valentina, the
Contessa del Giardino Bella, also known as Jacklyn of
Kansas, looked at Sir Tyrus with tears in her eyes and
a tremble in her voice.
"Sorry I'm late," she whispered with a smile.
Without saying a single word, Tyrus rushed over to her
and swept her off her feet and into his arms. She had
already been lost to him for two endless years, and he
intended never to lose her again.
"Your hair is longer," he smiled, lightly tangling his
fingers in her auburn locks, "I like it."
Then he looked at her in wonder.
"Splendid though it may be to have you here in my arms
again," he wondered with a puzzled frown, "How is this
even possible? You were stolen away from me all of two
years gone, and now, thank the Almighty, you return to
my side once more, but how can it be?"
"We had a little help," Gabriella smiled, looking over
his shoulder to where his mother had walked out of the
great hall. The elderly woman looked a little younger
than she had when the Contessa had last met her in her
own time just a few moments before, but there could be
no doubt, the Lady Eleanor could be none other but the
gypsy woman who had sold the golden torcs to Angharad
and Lincoln, as well as her own filigree charm so very
long ago.
Just at that moment, Angharad rode in through the gate
and dismounted, casting an eye in all directions until
she spotted Lord Lincoln, covered with dirt and blood
but unharmed. She threw herself into his arms, and let
Gabriella tell her tale. She had gotten back to Kansas
amidst an awful crash of thunder, and though her head
pounded while she waited until the world had come into
focus, she yelled for Gabriella at once...
... Given that her squire had just arrived out of thin
air, the Contessa had known at once where she had been
and how she had gotten there. Angharad had reported in
an impatient rush, telling her all about Tyrus and how
he was under attack by the very men who had assaulted
her during her own stay on his lands. Even as the tale
had fallen from her lips, Syr Gabriella had pulled her
into her pavilion, and was stripping off her bejeweled
clothing and replacing it with armor and weapons.
"Find the gypsy," she had ordered, "I will go speak to
Sir Edmund and the others."
Within the hour, Edmund and all the squires and men at
arms of his household had assembled, but the word had
spread. Each warrior who heard the tale of this castle
under siege had wanted to help, and had told the story
to others as well. It was usually enough to play with
plastic swords and pretend to be a warrior or a knight
during the weekends, but here was a story of an actual
castle, with actual damsels in distress, and a wicked
witch who had presumed to usurp the very throne of the
rightful king. Every man in the group felt the beat of
his heart quicken, as his soul sang at the prospect of
triumph, glory and honor. Even those of the group that
did not usually participate for combat games had stood
ready to take up arms for this worthy cause.
By great fortune, many of them were armed; in addition
to the mock weapons of rubber, plastic or leather that
they wielded against their foemen in sport, most also
had real weapons, maces and blades of live steel, that
they wore during formal dress occasions. This would be
no time for formal dress, but the weapons should serve
if it came to battle.
By the time their fighters had gathered, Lady Angharad
had arrived with the gypsy woman, and she had embraced
Gabriella as she would a long lost daughter.
"Protect him," she had whispered, "And love him."
"This I shall," the Contessa had replied softly, "With
my very life if need be."
The old woman had nodded, and opened up a wooden chest
at her feet. Inside had been hundreds of small leather
bags, each tied carefully with silk ribbons.
"I have worked so many years to craft these," said the
gypsy, passing one bag to every man or woman who stood
before her, "For I knew that a day would come when my
son would have great need, and that only she who loved
him dear could fly on the winds of time, with strength
enough to bring others to his side."
Inside of each bag was a tiny gold pendant, set with a
single sliver of amethyst, each one a tiny copy of the
very amulet that the old woman had given to Gabriella
so long ago. Inside the final bag, pressed gently into
her waiting hands, was that very amulet.
"Each of these others was linked to this one," the old
woman had told her, "And through it, to you. The other
stones are too weak to hold the magic that bears a man
through time. I had not power enough to create so many
of those, but wear you this as you go to him, and the
others have the power to follow. With magic or no, the
only force with that much strength is love."
When the others had fastened their pendants, Gabriella
had taken up the golden chain with her trembling hands
and slipped it over her head, whispering a soft prayer
that the magic would work as it had before.
Then the air that surrounded them had turned foggy and
grey, and without warning, a brilliant flash outshone
the midday sun, lighting up the practice field for the
briefest of moments. A rumbling of thunder that belied
the clear blue skies was overtaken by a horrific crash
and the world faded to black...
... Tyrus seemed a little taken aback, especially with
the realization that his own sweet mother had been the
person who had brought all of this about.
"We found these horses waiting for us," Gabriella said
with a smile, "Saddled and ready, almost as if someone
knew we were coming."
The knight glared over his shoulder at his mother, who
just stood there smiling wisely. Suddenly a clamor was
heard as the horde of Mongolian archers rode into the
courtyard, Sir Edmund de la Claire at the lead. Thrown
over the whithers of his war horse, her hands and feet
bound with leather thongs, was none other than Lucinda
Melisande Von Landstadt, the Ivory Duchess herself.
"Greetings milord," he grinned, nudging the Duchess so
that she slid off of the horse to land in a heap upon
the cobblestones, "We caught this one as she attempted
to creep into the forest. We thought you might wish to
have a word with her before she took her leave."
"I so wish, indeed," Tyrus said with a growl, "And how
are you called, good sir, that I may know who to thank
for the delivery of this harlot to my door."
"Oh sorry," Gabriella smiled, "Tyrus, may I make known
to you Sir Edmund de la Claire and his House. It is he
who rallied the men to aid us this day."
"So good Sir, welcome to you and to your house," Tyrus
smiled in reply, "Servants come! Let food and drink be
made ready, for this night we celebrate a victory and
the end of the Ivory Duchess, no more may she vex this
kingdom."
Gabriella glanced down at where the duchess lay on the
flagstones. At first she had thought the evil woman to
be unconscious, but as she looked now, she saw a hint
of life about her after all. With an abrupt lurch, the
pale haired Duchess sprang to her feet. She had worked
her hands free of her bonds, and she held in each hand
a small stone. Shouting a single word in some heathen
tongue, the Ivory Duchess smashed both stones together
and hurled the resulting geyser of shadowy black flame
at Tyrus's unprotected back.
At least three of the Mongolian archers had all nocked
arrows at the first surge of motion, and now the three
feathered shafts sprouted out of the Duchess's body as
though they had all suddenly grown there. She fell to
the ground again, this time for good, but the Contessa
knew it would not be enough.
Yelling a warning, Gabriella lunged towards her living
love and pushed him out of harms way, just in time to
suffer the brunt of the scorching black flames full in
the chest. A heart searing agony ripped through her as
she crumbled to the ground, Tyrus roughly shouldering
through those who had gathered to help her with a roar
of fury and sorrow. The knight bent an ear down to her
burnt and bleeding lips as she fought to speak.
"With my very life," she whispered, as her eyes glazed
over and the world went away...
- X - X - X -
... Carefully opening one eye, Gabriella looked around
to see whether she was alive or dead. She had felt the
last breath leaving her body, but she didn't feel very
dead. At first she was a little confused, but after a
while she recognized the chamber that she was in. This
was Tyrus's own bedchamber, in the solar at the top of
the keep. She sighed and smiled, snuggling deeper into
the furs that still carried his scent. She turned her
head at the gasp of surprise beside her and glanced up
to see Tyrus himself.
"You live," he whispered roughly, as tears of gladness
ran unchecked down his face, "May the Almighty ever be
praised, but you live!"
"Of course I live," she replied, "Wouldn't anyone else
have done the very same. The wicked witch hit me right
in the face with her magic fireball, but that's just a
trivial thing."
"Just a trivial..." Tyrus stammered, but he stopped as
she broke into giggles.
"In truth, my love," she said seriously, "I feel quite
fine, as though I had slept a whole night through, and
I am now ready to face the morning."
"A whole night?" Tyrus smiled, "Nigh a whole week. Six
days you have been lying here as one dead, and I admit
that I knew not what to do for you. It appears that my
mother again has thanks for your being here."
"My son is too modest," Lady Eleanor said gently in an
almost inaudible whisper as she shuffled her way into
the chamber, "It is he as much as I who has saved your
life, though he is too humble to say so."
"Say you so?" Gabriella said, "How is this?"
"Further witchcraft," Tyrus replied, grinning when his
mother swatted him in passing.
"The Duchess used witchcraft," Lady Eleanor chided him
gently, "Compare me not to her if you please."
Shuffling to the side of the bed, the old woman pulled
away the covers, and Gabriella shivered, blushing when
she realized that she was completely naked beneath the
warm bedspread bearing the knights heraldic arms. Lady
Eleanor examined the slightly puckered pink scar that
had been a blistered burn only a few days earlier, and
pronounced that she was healing well.
"Do you recall when I said that your love was the only
force strong enough to carry so many across time?" she
asked, continuing when the Contessa nodded, "Love can
be a force to accomplish a great deal else as well. An
attack of magic such as Lucinda's Soul-Fyre could have
killed you, and I might say it would have, had not my
son agreed to share his life with you whilst your body
healed itself."
"She used her spell to mingle my soul with yours," the
knight said huskily, as Lady Eleanor walked slowly out
of the room "For awhile, we two were as one."
"Tyrus, my beloved," Gabriella said, reaching her hand
to his face, "We two shall always be as one."
Then the Contessa gave him a saucy wink, as she tugged
the fur covers back once again, until they just barely
hid her nipples.
"Now, come here," she whispered, "So that I might find
a way to thank you properly."
As he leaned over her, Sir Tyrus caressed her face and
kissed her passionately. She didn't know this, but the
magic had taken it's toll on him as well, but he would
have gone into hell for her if need be. She felt safe
with Tyrus, as before, he was her protector. They were
truly as one.
Lying beside her, Tyrus cupped Gabriella's soft breast
in his palm. He resolved that the cover was in his way
and he kicked it to the floor, revealing that she was
still as beautiful as a hot summer night, and she knew
that his desire for her had not faded. His tongue made
a trail from her neck down to her chest, and Gabriella
moaned with delight, as he flicked her nipple with his
tongue. She wanted him badly. Tangling her fingers in
his hair, the Contessa pressed his lips harder against
her throbbing nipple, but this knight in shining armor
still knew what he was doing.
Without warning, Tyrus slipped a hand slowly down over
her tantalizing body. Reaching the most sacred part of
her, he directed his finger into her slit. The knight
may not have shared his mother's mystical gifts but he
definitely had magic hands, and he even seemed to know
exactly where she wanted him to go. He was gentle with
her, understanding her hurts, but as he laid a finger
directly upon Gabriella's throbbing clit, all of those
hurts were forgotten. She wanted more.
"Lick my pussy, baby," groaned Gabriella as she pushed
his head between her legs.
"Your wish is my command," he whispered, as his tongue
parted the lips of her pussy. He plunged his face into
her dripping slit, sliding erotically over her aching
clit with his tongue, and he felt her body quiver. His
mouth opened as he surrounded her button with his lips
and suckled at her gently. It had been too long since
they had been together, and as he sucked and licked at
her wet slit, she knew she could endure no longer. Her
body writhed violently as wave after pulsating wave of
orgasm overtook her.
"Oh baby... Mmm... I'm cumming," she whimpered, "Fuck
yeah, just like that... Ungh, ungh, ungh!"
As her body began to relax, she savored aftershocks of
her orgasm, bucking her hips lightly in reaction as he
teased her oversensitive clit with his tongue.
"Ooooh, fuck yeah, that was amazing," she sighed, "But
now its my turn to play."
"Say you so?" Tyrus said wickedly, "Very well, you may
do with me as you will."
"Oh I intend to," the Contessa replied, gently pulling
the knight upward until she could reach him, "This has
to go."
Unfastening his belt buckle, she tugged his surcoat up
over his head and tossed it upon the floor. His tunic
followed, and even as she was lightly pushing him back
until he was stretched upon his bed, her fingers were
busily untying the black laces of his leather breeches
and tugging them downward until they had bunched about
his knees.
"Mmmm, yummy," she cooed as his hot rigid shaft sprang
out of its captivity, "Momma like."
Opening her mouth, Gabriella let his hard cock slip in
past her lips, licking her hot tongue up and down his
shaft. Tyrus gasped with shock; this was not something
that any respectable lady should be doing, but he was
not about to argue. As the auburn haired Contessa slid
his shaft skillfully in and out of her mouth, he chose
to overlook her elegant indecency, favoring instead to
simply enjoy the nimble tongue that danced up and down
his throbbing member.
Gabriella could tell that Tyrus was enjoying this long
slow blowjob as it was, but she wanted him to enjoy it
to the utmost. Going for broke, she tried a trick that
Angharad had taught her, demonstrating upon the lucky
banana that they had just bought off of the vendors in
the square. Tilting back her head, she let the knights
diamond hard shaft slip ever deeper until she felt it
slide all the way into her throat. Tyrus groaned as he
saw Gabriella's sexy wet lips pursed about the root of
his cock, and with no more warning than that, his hips
bucked off of the bed as he lost what little restraint
remained to him.
Whimpering happily, the sleek auburn haired beauty let
spurt after spurt of the knights salty hot cum trickle
down her throat, feeling her own yearning slit getting
wet at the thought of what she had done. As Tyrus let
his hips settle back to the bed, she slipped his rigid
shaft out of her mouth, stirring her fingertips in her
own dripping little pussy.
"I want you so much," she begged, falling backwards on
the soft bed, "Take me now."
Lifting her legs into the air, he aimed his still hard
cock into her pussy. Teasing her, he eased the tip of
his shaft into her slit and then pulled back, slipping
it all round the outside of her wetness. Glaring up at
the knight with displeasure, Gabriella swatted at him
playfully as he gave her a wicked grin, she wanted him
deep inside of her like nothing else. Laying his hands
upon her hips, he plunged his hard shaft into her, and
she sighed in response as his rigid length pushed into
her body. Feeling her excitement, he fucked her pussy
harder and faster, pounding her into the straw stuffed
mattress with every stroke.
Gabriella moaned; from the first moment that his stiff
cock had slipped into her slick wet pussy, she had let
herself tremble on the brink, hovering on the edge of
the most mind bending of orgasms. She needed to cum in
the worst way, and when Tyrus jerked his muscular hips
between her slender thighs, releasing his seed inside
of her wet slit, she felt herself falling into ecstasy
once again.
"Oh yes," she groaned, "Ooooh... I'm gonna cum for you
baby... Right there... Ungh, ungh... Aaaaah!"
A moment later they both collapsed on the bed in total
exhaustion. Gazing up at him, Gabriella gave a girlish
little giggle.
"See," she said, "I told you I was feeling fine."
Lying in one anothers arms, Tyrus felt alive again. He
realized that they had not had much time together when
first she had come to him, but never had he known such
love as he carried for her since that day. Whether she
was named Gabriella or Jacklyn, the Contessa owned his
heart, and always would, and he knew now that he owned
hers as well...
- X - X - X -
... Pipers skirling and drummers drumming in a gallery
over their heads, the revelry was in full swing there
in the keeps great hall. None had been willing to have
the celebration that the knight had ordered whilst the
Contessa lay stricken, but now that word had come that
she would be well, the House of Blakeshire was proving
that they could party with a vengeance.
Lincoln and Angharad both sat at high table with Tyrus
and Gabriella, along with Sir Edmund and the multitude
of other knights who had all rallied to the Contessa's
banner. The Lady Angharad had a chair of her own, but
as soon as the meal was ended and the festivities were
under way, she had grumbled that it was uncomfortable
and had been sitting since on Lincoln's lap, gleefully
ignoring the scandalized looks of Jeffrey Steward, the
Blakeshire chamberlain.
"So her star tattoo was something important?" the sexy
redhead said to Tyrus, "Would that had I mentioned the
mark earlier."
She was referring of course to the tattoo that she had
seen while the Ivory Duchess was bathing. The mottled
red star inside a blue green circle had seemed like an
unusually patterned pentagram, but when Sir Edmund had
bid his Mongolian archers to examine the woman so that
they might know if she was playing possum again, there
had been revealed something more.
The red star had actually been a daemon headed serpent
biting its own tail, interwoven and knotted to seem as
a star in shape.
"It would have altered nothing, milady," answered Lord
Blakeshire reassuringly, "Indeed, though, as it turns
out, the mark belongs to the Sisterhood of the Crimson
Serpent. Lucinda was a member of that order, which has
long been known as a coven of villainous witches, each
of them working with the others to form a plot against
the throne."
"There may have been others, then?" Lincoln asked.
"Mayhap so," the knight replied, "But we have struck a
mighty blow against them. We need have no more fear of
that lot for now, I dare say. But let us waste no more
breath on such as they, as this is a celebration!"
There had been far more warriors present at the battle
than the hall could be made to accommodate, so another
feast was laid out in the courtyard, where those that
wished could share equally in the merriment, for there
were none who were unwelcome in Tyrus's castle on this
of all other nights.
Lady Eleanor too sat at high table, her crackled voice
ringing out with laughter after Baroness Sokhatai told
a bawdy joke. The old woman sat at Tyrus's left, with
Gabriella at his right, and everybody else arranged by
order of rank up and down the table to each side. They
joyously ate and drank until they could eat and drink
no more, then they danced until the glow of dawn could
be seen through the unshuttered windows.
Finally, as the rising sun lit up the room, there came
a warm moment of tranquil silence, and a wooden chest
was borne into the great hall by the servants and laid
upon the table before the Lady Eleanor. She opened the
chest and began to hand out the tiny leather bags with
their silk ribbons to everyone within the hall, those
inside filing out to make way for those who had camped
in the courtyard, and on the lakeshore.
Lincoln and Angharad stood alongside Edmund, Tyrus and
Gabriella waiting until the last of their warriors all
wore their pendants of amethyst and gold. The Contessa
stood enfolded in Tyrus's arms, leaning her head back
against his shoulder, tears trickling softly down over
her face. Lincoln felt his heart about to break, there
was no justice here. Gabriella had fought so hard and
for so long to get back to the knights side, only then
to say good-bye to him all over again.
After all of the others were ready, Gabriella unfolded
herself from the knights arms, then came over to where
her squires stood.
"My heart may nigh break from sorrow," she said.
"He is a good man," Lincoln said, "He will miss you as
well, milady."
Gabriella only smiled, and Angharad rolled her eyes.
"Milord," Angharad sighed, "You can be really thick at
times, you know that?"
Lincoln's eyes widened when he realized what was going
on. He had gotten things all wrong. The Contessa would
be saying good-bye alright, but not to Tyrus.
"You're not coming back, are you?" he said.
"I lost him once," Gabriella replied, shaking her head
sadly, "I'll not lose him again."
Laying a hand on her shoulder, Sir Edmund spoke softly
into her ear.
"If this is your choice, your ladyship," he said, "All
of us shall honor it. You shall be truly missed at the
combats next year in Kansas, our side shall regret the
absence of another knights sword."
"Mayhap we two can remedy that," Gabriella said with a
conspiratorial wink, "What say you, Edmund?"
"It wasn't my place to suggest it, milady," Sir Edmund
replied with a smile, "But I hoped that you would. Let
the Lady Angharad and the Lord Lincoln stand forth and
present themselves on bended knee."
Lincoln and Angharad were both fully gobsmacked. There
was only a single ceremony that would start with those
words. The Scotsman knelt before Edmund, and his Irish
lady before Gabriella, neither of them daring to speak
a word until they were called to do so. Edmund reached
down to unbuckle the wide belt of white leather about
his waist, as Gabriella wordlessly did the same, there
could now be no doubt.
"A warrior must be strong," Gabriella recited, "And he
must be skilled in the use of arms. Do you attest that
the two before you are thus qualified?"
"I do," Edmund replied, "To be more than a warrior, he
must be forged upon the anvil of virtue, and thus must
always show valor and noble heart. Can you attest that
the two before you are thus qualified?"
"I can," Gabriella answered, then to both Lord Lincoln
and Lady Angharad, "Mindful of your skill on the field
of battle, and also to acknowledge your rightful place
among your peers, we are moved to make you knight. You
know that to wear the belt and chain of a knight is to
hold a sacred trust; that the obligation of knighthood
will demand your efforts every moment of your life."
"Knights of the Realm must be respectful of all," said
Edmund,"He must hold in regard they who be defenseless
or weak, whether because of age, infirmity, poverty or
vow, and be steadfast in defending them."
"Knights must love the Kingdom and its people," stated
Syr Gabriella, "And fulfill most faithfully his feudal
duties to the Realm and his Rightful King."
"His word shall be dependable," Edmund stated, "Beyond
all doubt or question. He shall never flee in the face
of his foes. He must be generous to all."
"And, always and everywhere," Gabriella said, "He must
be the champion of the right and the good."
"The laws and customs of the realm will require that a
knight show prowess, as you have demonstrated upon the
field; that the knight be courteous, as you have shown
yourself to be and as these noble gentleman and ladies
gathered here can attest; and that knights be loyal to
Kingdom and Rightful King. Do you desire to accept the
burden of knighthood and swear fealty to the Crown?"
"I do," Lincoln and Angharad said together.
"Then swear your fealty and pay homage as you will."
"I do hereby swear fealty and do homage to my rightful
king," Angharad pledged, "To be ever as a knight good
and true; reverent, generous, and a shield of the weak
and helpless. So swear I, Angharad O'Shaughnessy, once
met of Kilkenny."
"I do hereby swear fealty and do homage to my rightful
king," Lincoln vowed, "To be obedient to my liege lord
and to hold foremost in battle, to be courteous at all
times, champion of right and good. So swear I, Lincoln
Mac Galbraith, once met of Blakeshire Wood."
"The knights white belt symbolizes purity," Sir Edmund
said as he buckled his own around Lincoln's waist, "He
must reign his body steadfastly, avoiding the scandals
of gluttony, sloth and excess."
"It symbolizes a Purity of purpose and a new beginning
ones life," stated Gabriella, adorning Angharad with a
belt in turn, "To begin again the steps on the Path of
Chivalry for all his days."
"Both candidates have been invested with the trappings
of their position as knights," Edmond remarked, "Do we
have chains with which to bind them in their oaths?"
Gabriella was about to remove her own chain from about
her neck, when Tyrus suddenly stepped forward. He held
one chain in his hand, and was also removing his own.
"The chain is of gold, purest of the metals to signify
the purity of the fealty that binds the knight and his
sovereign to one another," he said, slipping one chain
over the head of Lincoln and Angharad alike, "It must
be heavy to symbolize and remind a knight of the heavy
responsibility he bears. The chain is strong, and thus
signifies unbreakable obedience to the commands of his
sovereign and his oaths. These particular chains come
to you with a lineage of their own, this one worn upon
the neck of Lord Lincoln, belonged to me. The other is
upon the neck of Lady Angharad, but the chain was last
worn by my father, the first Lord Blakeshire. May they
remind you well of your oaths."
Lincoln and Angharad were stirred beyond words, as was
Gabriella, but she went on with the ceremony even when
tears of pride blurred her vision.
"The chain symbolizes our Order," she decreed, "And as
such it is our badge just as the fleece, the garter or
the cross have been used to signify knightly orders by
our forefathers. Pray let your behavior and your deeds
charge these our symbols with as great a reverence and
respect as the badges of our forefathers."
Edmund and Gabriella both drew their swords, then laid
the flat of their blades upon first the right shoulder
of the Contessa's two former squires, then on the left
and finally upon the head. Then both knights spoke the
final words together.
"In remembrance of your prowess shown in battle, I dub
thee once."
"In remembrance of your lineage and obligations, I dub
thee twice."
"In remembrance of the oaths given and received, I dub
thee thrice."
Sheathing the swords, Gabriella and Edmund each raised
one hand, letting it hover over the bowed heads of the
two newest recipients of the Accolade.
"To defend both your honor and your oath," they stated
together, "Let these be the final blows that you shall
ever receive unanswered."
Then, with strength of purpose, each delivered an open
handed slap to the head, leaving Lincoln and Angharad
both reeling. The final blow, known as the Buffet, was
the end of the ceremony, but also the beginning of the
road to much honor and renown.
"As Knights of the Golden Hart," Gabriella said, voice
ringing with pride, "Stand and be recognized."
Moments later the old woman cast the final spells, and
amidst savage flashes of light and a deafening rumble
of thunder, the gathered warriors all found themselves
back at the Kansas faire ground. Syr Gabriella had not
returned to be with them, but her two squires had just
been elevated to the rank of knighthood.
The two new knights stood to the cheers of an assembly
of warriors, some of them now peers, every one of them
brothers in arms. Syr Angharad wrapped her arms tight
around Sir Lincoln's neck, lying her soft lips against
his own. As the shouts of the horde, and the wild back
slapping receded, Angharad thought back over the exact
words of the ceremony.
"The oath mentioned purity, right?" she asked, "And it
said to forswear the sins of the body, something about
how we ought to 'avoid the scandals of gluttony, sloth
and excess.'"
"That's right," Lincoln agreed, "I remember that."
"Fair enough," Angharad smiled innocently, "But did it
say anything in there about chastity?"
"I don't think so," Lincoln said with a grin, "Why?"
"Oh, you know what they say," the redhead replied with
a mischievous smirk, as she led him toward his striped
white and sapphire pavilion, "Once a warrior, always a
warrior, but once a knight is never enough..."
THE END?
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Story by: MOON DRAGON
by my hand
and beneath my seal
- X - X - X -