Miles Cameron - The Fell Sword

‘We cannot give you as fair a hostel as we could in times past, Ser John,’ her mother said, emerging into the door yard.

‘Helewise Cuthbert, as I live and breathe!’ said the old man. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘It’s my house, I believe,’ her mother said with some of her characteristic asperity.

‘Christ on the cross,’ said Ser John. ‘Be careful. I killed three brace of boggles five miles back on the road.’ He grinned. ‘But I’m that glad to see you, lass. How’s Pippa?’

Phillippa hadn’t allowed her mother to call her Pippa in years, and while she had an idea who this man must be she couldn’t remember seeing him before.

‘Well enough, for her age. You’ll want a cup of wine,’ her mother said. ‘You’d be welcome here.’

He dismounted like a younger man, kicking his feet clear of his stirrups and leaping to the ground – an effect he spoiled slightly by putting a hand in the small of his back. ‘Is this to be a religious house?’ he asked the nun.

The young nun smiled. ‘No, ser knight. But I’m a-visiting; I’m to ride abroad to every new resettlement north of Southford.’

Ser John nodded and then caught both of her mother’s hands. ‘I thought you would be gone to Lorica,’ he said.

She reached her face up to his and kissed him. ‘I couldn’t stay there and be a poor relation when I have a home here,’ she replied.

Ser John stepped away from her mother, smiling. He looked away from her and then back, smiled again, and then bowed to the nun. ‘I’m Ser John Crayford, the Captain of Albinkirk. Yester e’en, I’d have said “ride and be of good cheer”, but I’m none too pleased with my little boggle encounter this evening. Which puts me in mind that I’d be in your debt for a rag and some olive oil.’

Phillippa was fascinated by the whole scene. Her mother was . . . odd. She’d tossed her hair like a young girl – it was down because she’d been working. And the old man was old but he had something about him, something difficult to define. Something that the boys in Lorica did not have.

‘I’ll fetch you a rag, John, but please stay. We’re all women here.’ Her mother’s voice sounded odd, too.

‘Helewise, don’t tell me I’ve stumbled on the castle of maidens. I’m not nearly young enough to enjoy it.’ The knight laughed.

Old Gwyn cackled. ‘Hardly a maiden here, old man,’ she said.

Phillippa was appalled to see the nun giggle. Nuns, in her experience, were strict, dour women who didn’t laugh. Especially not at jokes that involved sex , even in the most harmless way.

The nun finished her laugh and she and the knight met each other’s eyes. ‘I can handle myself on the road,’ she said.

‘By Saint George, you are the Bonne Soeur Sauvage!’ he said. ‘Sister Amicia?’

She curtsied. ‘The very same.’

He laughed. ‘Sweet wounds of the risen Christ, Helewise, you don’t need me here. This good sister has probably slain more boggles than all the knights west of the Albin.’ He smiled at the nun. ‘I have a package for you, back in the Donjon. I’ll send it on to you.’

‘A package?’ she asked.

He shrugged. ‘Arrived a month ago, by messenger from the east. Sent from the Inn of Dorling.’

She flushed.

The knight went on, ‘At any rate, if you plan to ride my roads, I’d appreciate knowing what you find. The Wild is still out there – closer, I would say, than they were a year ago. These ladies are lucky to have you, ma soeur . They won’t need me!’

Phillippa wanted her dinner, so she and Jenny Rose swarmed down the ladder to the ground and they missed Mistress Helewise saying, very softly, ‘Some of us need you, ser knight.’

Ticondaga Castle on the Wall – The Earl of the Westwall and Ghause Muriens

She looked into her silver mirror for far too long.

And sighed.

Her blond hair remained as nearly white-gold as artifice and phantasm could make it, and it fell down her back to the rise of the swell in her buttocks. Her breasts were full and firm, the envy of women half her age.

What do I care? she thought. I am so much more than the sum of my breasts and the length of my legs. I am me!

But she cared deeply. She wanted to be all that she was and continue to beguile any man she wanted.

She picked up a fur-lined robe. The morning chill was rising, the fires weren’t lit, and a rash of goose-bumps was not going to enhance her beauty. Nor was a bad cough.

She pulled the robe around her and, on impulse, cupped her breasts with her hands, and heard the movement-

‘Not now, you fool!’ she hissed at her husband, the Earl, but he had the neck of her gown in his hand, lifted her effortlessly and threw her on the bed, pinned her to it with a strong hand and shrugged out of his own heavy robe.

‘I’m – Stop!’ she said, as his weight came atop her.

He put his mouth over hers.

She writhed under him. ‘You oaf! I’m rising! Can’t you knock?’

‘If you will preen that marvellous body of yours in front of an open door, you get what you deserve,’ he breathed into her ear.

His feet were cold – he never would wear slippers. But his insistence had its own charm – his strong hands had many skills – and when his knee went to part hers, she locked his arm and rolled him over like a wrestler, and sat on his chest – leaned back and caught his prick with her hand, and he groaned.

She flicked him with a practised nail and impaled herself, and his eyes widened to have their roles so quickly reversed. He took her breasts in his hands. ‘Happy birthday, you faithless bitch,’ he growled into her throat.

‘What did you get me, you great fool?’ she asked as he sought to throw her over and get atop her again. She caught an arm and kept him pinned, and threw her hair over his face so he couldn’t see. She was laughing – he was laughing, but he got one of his iron-hard arms across her back, ran it down and down, and she moaned-

– and then he was atop her, grinning like the beast he was. But he kept his hand under her, and raised her – with one hand – cradling her on his hand as they rutted so that all the muscles in her back were stretched. She locked her legs over the back of his knees and bit his shoulder as hard as she could, her teeth drawing blood. His nails bit into her back. She wriggled, clenched her knees on his sides, and moved her head – he leaned forward to fasten his mouth on her left breast-

They fell off the bed slowly, the bed-hangings holding their weight for three long heartbeats and then tearing – she caught the floor under her right foot and then she was atop him and his back was to the cold stone floor, his head was lifted to hers. He tasted the blood on her lips, and she tasted her own salt-

There was a moment when they merged with the Wild. She flooded him with potentia. His back arched so hard that she almost came off him.

And then they were done.

‘Christ and his saints, bitch, you nigh broke my head,’ he said.

She licked his lips. ‘I own you,’ she said. ‘I rode you like a horse. A big warhorse.’

He smacked her naked arse hard enough to draw a cry. ‘I came to tell you there’s a letter,’ he said. ‘But there you were cupping your boobies with your hands and you looked good enough to eat.’ He passed a hand over his left shoulder and it came away bloody, and he laughed. ‘Jesus wept, it’s me who got ate. How to you do it, you witch? Yer as old as a crone, and I want no other.’

‘Fifty today,’ she said. She ran her hand over his shoulder and put a tiny working into it and it closed.

He stood and ran a hand up her leg from the bottom and she purred.