Oh God. Maybe Beth had heard a whisper or two about what a tongue could do, but the thing Cordelia was currently demonstrating had decidedly not been in the repertoire of the blacksmith's apprentice. The act seemed frightfully intimate—Beth had certainly never seen herself from that angle—and as good as it felt, it made Beth feel tender, both physically and right in the center of her chest. Her back arched. She was going to come, but something welled up in her throat at the same time, and instead she gasped wait.
Cordelia stopped immediately, and Beth's body clenched sharply at the shock of the change. "What is it?" she asked. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No." Beth shook her head. Tears had come to her eyes, and she was angry at them. Something was going wrong here, something wasn't the way she expected it would be, and she needed to figure it out before she could stand any more pleasure.
Cordelia's face crumpled with concern. "What have I done to you? I'm so sorry."
"No, no. Don't be sorry. It's not… I just need something."
"What, darling?"
The endearment made Beth smile and feel foolish. She had never been anyone's darling. She had always been too rough and unladylike for that. She pulled Cordelia up beside her, held her close, and stroked her hair.
It wasn't anything she would have pictured growing up, but it felt right. "Cordelia," Beth said, "you've more than proven what you can do to me. I…" Emotion cracked through the word, and she waited until she could trust her voice again. "You win, Princess. I'm loyal to you in every way. You can tell me to kill the dragon or not kill the dragon. You can ask me to let you escape. You can send me to fight any knight you wish. You can put me on the dragon's back or tell me to stay. You can make me gasp when you want me to gasp." Her face heated, and a tear slipped down her cheek. "I'll fight for you, live for you, die for you, come for you."
"You say it like it's bad," Cordelia whispered.
Beth kissed the top of her head. "I don't think it has to be. But I do wonder if I'm being a fool. I was supposed to kill the dragon, get you out of the tower, go to the king to claim your hand, and learn to be a ruler. This is supposed to be politics first, and I'm doing it all wrong. It's sweet that I want it to be personal, isn't it? Sweet and naive. I guess I'm afraid…" She couldn't get any closer to voicing her fears to Cordelia, couldn't bring herself to explain how it felt to live in a world she knew she didn't entirely understand, where people spoke in code and women were trained to be diplomats, and maybe Cordelia had been doing that with her tongue because she felt something for Beth, but maybe it was just to ensure Beth felt something for her.
Cordelia's hand ventured onto Beth's stomach, and Beth covered it with her own, inviting it to stay.
"I'm afraid, too," the princess said quietly.
Beth couldn't help giving a small fidget of surprise. "Truly?"
"My father taught me that I'd always be alone. A spouse is a partner, but not so much closer than the queen of another realm. Every person has their own interests. You can't really confide in anyone or tell them everything about who you are. A ruler always has to lead. But here I've told you I don't know which way to go. You've given me your loyalty, and I'm admitting I don't know how to use it well."
Beth shook her head. "I don't want you to be afraid of that. I do know this much about the world: that being sworn to serve is its own honor. You do that, if your heart is pure, for reasons that don't have to do with the outcome."
"Reasons like what?"
"Your Highness, I can't make this last oath just yet."
"What oath?"
Beth turned to face the princess. She struggled up onto an elbow, took Cordelia's hand, and kissed her knuckles. "You have my sword. I swore that to your father, and it belongs to you, too—more, since I agreed to what you asked back at the tower. You have my offer of marriage, and my solemn promise to rule faithfully beside you, if you want it. This last, though… My body and my heart… I can't give that without knowing I'm getting the same from you in return."
"My body and my heart?"
"Yes."
"You know how I feel about that."
Beth sighed. "No, Your Highness. Truly, I don't. You're touching me like you know me better than I ever knew myself, and I don't know why. I don't know what it means to you."
"Oh." Cordelia's eyes were wide and soft. "Beth." She kissed Beth again, and as she did, she drew her hand between her legs. The wetness there shocked Beth. Cordelia's sex had gushed down the insides of her thighs, and it was so hot, and when she encouraged Beth to slip a finger inside, her muscles squeezed Beth's finger as if they never meant to let her go.
"You have all of me, if you want it," Cordelia said. "I would promise you everything you promised to me, if you wanted me to. I would fight for you, live for you, die for you. Come for you. I would take you anywhere you wanted to go on the back of my dragon, or I'd go back to the palace with you at my side and figure out everything I never felt I could manage on my own. I'm scared I'm being foolish, too. This is more love than I'm supposed to be able to have. I'm afraid to want it. I'm afraid to trust it."
Her body clenched around Beth's finger as she said the word, and Beth's responded in sympathy. She pressed her forehead against Cordelia's. She took Cordelia's hand and guided it into a position that mirrored her own. It felt like they were flowing into each other, strength and softness, people who didn't fit properly into their places in the world, but had found a way to fit together.
"Let's come for each other, then. And after that, we'll figure out how to fight and live and die for each other, too." She kissed Cordelia. "I want to hear you gasp for me, and I'll do it for you. After that, we'll need to let the world know we're coming for it, too."
Damsel in Distress
ASTA IDONEA
Chapter One
She caressed the kirtle. The velvet was soft and sensual beneath her fingertips, the crimson fabric warm to the touch. How she longed to feel it against her naked flesh. The brush of her hand was insufficient; she wanted it to cling to her form, the skirts and long sleeves swaying against her hips and legs as she walked. She raised a sleeve and drew it slowly over her cheek. The sensation was so delightful that she closed her eyes, the better to enjoy the cloth's kiss. How she wished this dress were hers. What joy to possess but a single sumptuous gown.
"Marry, what are you doing?"
The voice was inquisitive rather than angry, but it startled Ser Hemming out of her reveries and sent him hurtling back into his assumed persona. He turned, lowering the kirtle. Heat rose in his cheeks, but he attempted to hide his embarrassment behind a swift, stern answer.
"I came in to check all was well and noticed this gown in a crumpled heap upon the floor. I was folding it away." He frowned. "Thou off'rest thy lady poor service, Jocosa, to leave her raiment in such disarray."
The lie left a bitter taste in his mouth, but it was preferable to the truth, and he knew Jocosa was thick-skinned enough to take the false chastisement in her stride. At times, seeing her boisterous nature, he had wondered if she did not share his predicament, only in reverse; although, nothing would induce him to make trial of his suspicion.
"There was no dress on the ground when last I left the room." Jocosa, not the least bit coyed by the reprimand, pursed her lips and regarded the garment Ser Hemming still held. "Since when does a knight know aught about gowns? Come, give it to me. You'll only fold in creases and ruin the cloth."
Grateful for the opportunity to end the conversation, Ser Hemming thrust the dress into Jocosa's waiting hands and strode toward the door.
"Oh, I almost forgot," Jocosa called after him. "The others were looking for you—Ser Nicol most of all. The foreign knights have come."
"Already?"
"Aye. I caught a glimpse of 'em as I passed through the courtyard." She gave an uncharacteristically shy smile. "They're all as handsome as one might wish, but then, they are all royal knights. Every one of 'em the son of a king, or so the cook told me, and she always se
ems to ken these things."
Ser Hemming considered informing Jocosa that attractiveness did not go hand in hand with kingship—or with knighthood, for that matter—but he bit his tongue. She had already stumbled upon him in an undignified position; his best course was to retreat before she got it into her head to ask any further questions. For a maid, she could be wily and shrewd. Besides, the others needed him for the official welcoming ceremony.
He nodded. "Thanks and God keep thee. I will leave thee to thy labours." Without waiting for an answer, he spun on his heel and marched out, shutting the door behind him.
After nearly sixteen years in King Wybert's service, Ser Hemming knew the castle's corridors and stairways well. He had even discovered a few secrets passages during the wilder days of his youth, and he took one of them now, arriving at the Great Hall sooner than he would have using the main stairs.
The grand chamber was in merry chaos. It appeared the whole court had turned out to greet the newcomers, and there was little room to move amid the press of bodies. Catching sight of his fellow knights, Ser Hemming made his way toward them. It was slow going, and the exercise required a great deal of patience and a number of apologies, but at last he reached his designated place close to the throne, at the king's right hand. Ser Nicol, his sometime-companion on guard duty, clapped him on the back, and Ser Hemming nodded a greeting in return. He had timed his arrival perfectly, for no sooner had he settled in place than a trumpet heralded King Wybert's approach.
Ser Hemming joined the others in a deep bow as the king processed toward the throne. The queen walked alongside him, her hand upon his arm, and behind, escorted by the Chamberlin, came their only child, Princess Isabel.
Kingdoms far and wide acknowledged the princess a great beauty, and her mild temperament, harmonious voice, and exquisite needlework only added to her charms. This tournament was in her honour, for she had recently come of age. The knights gathered in the hall competed for a prize, if not greater than repute, then at least its equal: Princess Isabel's hand. Many had thought only those of royal blood would qualify; however, King Wybert had surprised them all by opening the tournament to any armiger.
Ser Hemming would make trial of his skill, alongside the others; although, for him, it was duty rather than desire that led him to participate. In truth, he did not wish to wed the princess: he longed to be her. Not for her standing as a member of the royal family, but for her status as a woman. He wanted her full breasts and curvaceous hips; he sighed for her long, lush locks and ruby red lips; and, once acquired, he ached to dress that perfect body in velvets, silks, and lace. Above all else, he wanted a man to regard him with the same passion he saw in the eyes of his fellows when they romanced their sweethearts. But they would not do so all the while they perceived him as a man and not as the woman he knew himself to be. Once he found a way to marry his body and soul, to make others see who he truly was, things would be different. Yet when would that be? He feared he knew the answer: never. How could he accomplish such a change, either in himself or in those around him? It seemed more likely that he would have to spend his whole life conforming to the expectations his outer shell forced upon him, acting the man others saw when they looked at him.
The royal family reached their thrones and turned. King Wybert sat first, followed by the queen, the princess, and the Chamberlin, and only when the king gestured his approval did the congregation rise from its obeisance.
"My noble lords." King Wybert's voice was low, but it carried such authority he had no need to raise it. "We thank you for journeying here today. We extend a special welcome to our foreign guests, whose presence honours Our assembly. At noon, We will open the tournament, and We are certain you will all show true valour and nobility of spirit. The prize, as well you know, is Our fair daughter's hand, and with it, this kingdom upon Our death."
King Wybert paused as a murmur of appreciation spread through the room. To her credit, Princess Isabel stared demurely at her hands, which she kept neatly folded in her lap. A soft pink tinge brightened her cheeks, giving her a healthy glow, and a shy, chaste smile tugged at her lips.
"We ask you now to retire to your pavilions within the outer courtyard, where victuals and wine await. Our Chamberlin, Lord Scrump, will send messengers to your squires to inform you of the order in which you will enter the lists, and We will watch your feats from Our royal box. May you all bring glory to your names and to your houses."
With this pronouncement, King Wybert rose, and all dropped into deep bows and low curtseys as he and the rest of the royal family departed the hall.
"Princess Isabel is a rose I long to pluck," one knight declared as he straightened. "Just think of peeling back those petals and dipping into the nectar within."
A few standing nearby tittered, but Ser Hemming looked askance at the man. He was not a foreigner, but neither was he a member of the royal household. Nor, indeed, was he a true knight if he indulged in such ungallant and lascivious thoughts.
"Perhaps," he said, raising his voice to be heard above the increasing clamour, "you would do well, Ser Knight, to concentrate on your wooden lance before you give thought to the one beneath your surcoat."
Ser Nicol gave a hearty guffaw. "I' faith. I thought, my lords, this was to be a contest of skill in battle, not of poesie."
The unknown knight flushed and stormed away, several of his companions hurrying after, and Ser Nicol led Ser Hemming toward the inner courtyard.
"What of you, Ser Hemming? Think you that you have a chance in today's tourney?"
"Nay. You are polite as always, Ser Nicol, but we both know well that I have never beaten you in the lists. Your chance stands fairer than mine."
Ser Nicol shook his head. "Not against these foreigners. Did you see them upon arrival? Several essayed a run or two against each other, and even in practice they showed strength and skill. One of them will win our princess, mark my words." He nodded toward a small group near the doorway. "My money is on the one in blue. Ser Estienne, I believe they call him."
Ser Hemming glanced at the knight in question. He was tall and broad, and yet he possessed an odd grace of movement that belied his bulk. His azure surcoat bore an impressive coat of arms: a shield of argent upon which a feathered crown above a rampaging unicorn stood emblazoned. He was also well favoured, with long blond hair that caressed his shoulders—a truly striking and handsome figure.
The knight, as if sensing Sir Hemming's scrutiny, looked up and met his eye. He nodded a greeting, which Ser Hemming returned before taking a much-needed deep inhale and encouraging Ser Nicol toward the door.
"Does Stace squire for you today?" Ser Nicol asked as they made their way to the outer courtyard to prepare.
"Yes. If he appears." Ser Hemming frowned at mention of his wayward stable boy-cum-squire. It was lucky he needed Stace but rarely, for he was far from reliable.
"You can always make use of my Roul. Assuming we are not in the same course."
"Gramerci."
Ser Nicol's kind offer proved unnecessary, however, since when they reached the pavilion, Stace was already there waiting with Ser Hemming's armour. With Stace's assistance, Ser Hemming dressed. His coat of arms, of which he was vastly proud, was worn upon a murray tabard and bore a shield of or with a tree stump in the centre. It was not the most beautiful of symbols, however, he believed it suited him well.
Not long after he finished arming, a messenger arrived to request his presence in the lists. Ser Hemming sighed and gathered his spirits. At least he could guarantee his elimination early in the competition. Then he would be at liberty to observe the rest of the tourney from the stands. He much preferred watching the jousts to participating in them. It was so much more exciting. When he raced toward his opponent, all he could do was wonder whether he would live to reach the far end. From the stands, on the other hand, he had the opportunity to admire the other knights' skills.
Outside, he mounted his beloved steed—the aptly named Flightfoot—and affixed his
helm. Stace passed him his lance, which he hefted until he achieved a secure grip, and then he waited. A few moments later, the herald announced his name in clear, ringing tones, and he encouraged Flightfoot forward and entered the lists.
Chapter Two
The tournament continued for several hours. Ser Hemming's triumph had ended, unsurprisingly, in his first course, but since then he had watched the others compete. Now, in the dimpse, only two riders remained. Both were foreigners. One was an as yet unnamed knight dressed all in sable, his coat of arms displaying a gauntlet upon a vert shield; the other was Ser Estienne. As things stood, Ser Hemming believed Ser Nicol was soon to be proven correct—Ser Estienne would be the victor. The black knight fought well, but Ser Estienne had a steadier arm.
The combatants entered the lists, Ser Estienne accepted the black knight's challenge, and the tourney began. Ser Hemming held his breath as the sound of thundering hooves filled the air. The opponents drew closer and both commenced their levée. The black knight's lance struck Ser Estienne's ecranche, splintering the wood. However, Ser Estienne's blow also found its mark. His lance impacted the black knight's cuirass, unhorsing him.
A cheer arose from the berfrois as the young ladies of the court showed their appreciation, and Ser Hemming joined them, roaring his approval. On the ground, the marshals hurried out, followed by the black knight's squire and the surgeon. However, the knight appeared uninjured, save for his pride, for he rose without assistance and stormed out of the lists, toward the pavilions.
Ser Estienne, meanwhile, proceeded to the end of the lists, where he dismounted. He handed the reins to his squire and pressed a kiss to his mount's chamfron before striding—as much as his armour permitted—toward the berfrois. There he made obeisance before the king.
"Rise, Ser Knight," King Wybert said, a contented smile on his face. "You are the victor in this, Our tournament. Tonight, at the feast, We will bestow upon you Our only daughter, the Princess Isabel. May your union be blessed with issue and may your lives be long."
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