Igraine

by Jane Godman

  She lifted her hips to meet him, and he groaned as if with unbearable pleasure. She sensed him fighting not to rush this, but the feelings between them were too strong. Fully opened to him, she bucked her hips, matching each of his long, powerful thrusts. Reaching around him, she clawed her fingers under his doublet and up the smooth flesh of his back.

  His breath came faster and harder as his thrusts grew wilder. Primal instincts overtook them both. Her cries urged him on as her ankles locked around his back. He pulled them up over his shoulders so he could drive even deeper.

  “The feeling of you wrapped around me is like nothing I have ever known before. I want this to go on forever.”

  Pounding faster, he triggered the first spasms and she threw back her head, crying his name to the tree tops as her body shuddered in a series of waves so violent she thought she would never be able to stand it.

  As she exploded around him, Alain held her closer, thrust once more as deep as he could, then he arched, moaned, and spilled his seed within her. His movements slowed as his body shuddered, his pulse slowed, and his excitement ebbed. With their lips locked in a kiss, he withdrew and rolled onto his back.

  “Forever is not for us,” Igraine reminded him sadly, as she lay in his arms sometime later. She had never experienced anything so sweet and tender as his lovemaking. It would keep her warm at night during the coming years when he was gone.

  “We don’t have forever.” His hand stole down to cup her breast once more. “But couldn’t we have one more time?”

  * * *

  How was it that each time he returned to Tintagel, Igraine’s beauty seemed enhanced? This time, her enchantment was stronger than ever. As Gorlois dismounted from his horse and she came out to meet him, she took his breath away. It was as if she was lit from within by an inner glow. Striding up to her, he gazed down into the endless blue of her eyes before crushing her to him and—heedless of the fact that all his men and half the population of the castle were looking on—plundering her mouth in an endless kiss.

  “I have missed you.” It was the closest he would ever get to a lover’s speech.

  “All has been well here, my lord.” Her voice was serene. “The children are eager to see you.”

  “And I them. Although I am more eager for some privacy with their mother first.”

  The blush he knew so well touched her porcelain skin as she nodded.

  “First, I must introduce you to our guest, Gorlois.” She beckoned, and a young knight came forward to make his bow. “This is Sir Alain. He is traveling to London and has paused here on his way.”

  Gorlois looked the man up and down. The lad looked strong and fit, if a trifle fair of countenance. “I hope my lady has made you welcome, sire?”

  “Beyond my wildest expectations, my lord.”

  Gorlois nodded, barely heeding the words, such was his impatience to get Igraine alone. He drew her hand into the crook of his arm, leading her into the castle. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Sir Alain walk away. There was something infinitely sad in the young knight’s demeanor.

  “Methinks yon Frenchman is a poet,” he remarked, as they entered Igraine’s bedchamber.

  “What makes you say that?” Her voice sounded breathy.

  Gorlois laughed. “Have you not noticed his manner? The sorrowful droop of his shoulders? The lover-like tilt of his head? Mark you, we’ll be hearing his latest composition while we eat our dinner this night.”

  The frown left her brow. “Truth to tell, I have not had much to do with him since his arrival. I must take more care to observe his demeanor.”

  “You, my lady, will have other things to occupy your time.” Gorlois tugged his hose down. His cock, always rock hard as soon as he thought of Igraine, thrust itself toward her. Beckoning her to him, he placed his hand on her shoulder, bringing her to her knees. “And your mouth.”

  Several hours later, having fucked Igraine until they were both exhausted, Gorlois woke from a deep sleep. He was a warrior duke, but, by God, he sometimes thought he would be content to spend his days at Tintagel with his lady by his side. Reaching out a hand, he was surprised to discover her side of the bed empty. This was unusual. Normally, upon his return, she would keep herself in readiness for him, knowing he would want her over and over until the fires that had burned for her during their separation had been extinguished.

  Rising from the bed, Gorlois washed hurriedly, dressed, and made his way down the stairs to the great hall. All was quiet. Igraine was an accomplished chatelaine, and he took a moment to feel pride in her housekeeping. Their home was one of the finest in all England. He made his way along the corridor toward the kitchens in search of food, passing the wine cellars along the way. An anguished voice from the darkness within drew his attention and he paused.

  “I thought I could bear it, but I cannot. I love you too much. Come away with me.” Gorlois almost chuckled. So the pretty poet had himself a lover, did he?

  “You talk madness, Alain. My home is here with my husband and children.” Gorlois clenched his fists at the sound of Igraine’s voice. Why was she meeting the Frenchman in a dark corner? But at least she was sending him on his way…

  The next words chilled him to the bone. “Is it madness to want more of what we had when he was not here? Of your lips wrapped around my cock? Of sinking deep inside your tight, wet channel? Of holding you in my arms every night and watching you sleep?”

  Feeling as though his fury might choke him, Gorlois listened as his wife gave a sound close to a sob. He wanted to walk away, but his limbs refused to obey him. Instead, he was forced to listen to the urgent rustle of clothing, followed by a man’s hungry groan. His heart felt as though it was about to burst from his chest as Igraine’s soft sighs became gasps, and he heard the slick sounds of urgent fucking and then finally the unmistakable muffled cries of two people climaxing in unison.

  Chapter Five

  “How like you the joust, Sir Alain?”

  Gorlois had been strangely quiet during dinner, so the question, addressed across the table to their guest, took Igraine by surprise.

  “Fine well, my lord.” Alain, although he looked taken aback at being thus addressed, gave the reply promptly.

  “Good.” Gorlois raised his glass and drank long. “We’ll see how your lance fares against mine upon the morrow.”

  Later, when Gorlois and his men sat drinking and talking of the sport they would have the following day, Igraine managed to snatch a moment alone with Alain. “You cannot meet him in the joust. Leave Tintagel tonight.” She glanced quickly over her shoulder. Her heart pounded wildly. “Somehow he has discovered us.”

  “Sweeting, what nonsense is this? Tis a friendly challenge, naught more.”

  She shook her head. “You do not know him. Alain, I beg you. If you meet Gorlois on the morn, you will not walk away from the encounter.”

  He laughed, refusing to listen to her. Reaching out a hand, he attempted to draw her to him, but she shook her head. It was too dangerous. With a leaden heart, she walked away. This is what she had brought upon him. He would be murdered tomorrow because of her. Why hadn’t she made him leave when he had the chance?

  Because you are a weak fool. Your body cries out for his sweet kisses and his delicious cock, so you have put your own hunger above his safety. And this is what it has brought you. This man is about to die and it is all your fault.

  Feeling sick with fear and self-loathing, she returned to the great hall. Gorlois immediately beckoned her to him, clamping an arm about her waist. He pinned her to his side as he sat in his great chair on the raised dais at the head of the room. His eyes had glittered dangerously, and he continued to drink long after his mood had gone from jovial to hostile.

  “You will watch the joust tomorrow, my lady.” His fingers dug deep into the tender flesh of her waist.

  “I had thought perhaps, my lord, I might spend some time with the children…”

  The flash of anger in his eyes drove the w
ords from her lips. “You will watch because I want you to. Aye, and you will give me your colors to pin upon my lance.”

  “As you wish, Gorlois.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Remember those words. Live by them.”

  As he spoke, Alain returned to the hall. The Frenchman’s presence seemed to inflame Gorlois further. Rising to his feet, he caught hold of Igraine with both hands about her waist, startling her. Hoisting her over his shoulder, Gorlois made his way to the foot of the grand staircase. Turning, he addressed the assembled company. “My lady and I will bid you goodnight.”

  There was a ripple of laughter as some of the knights raised a glass in toast. Mounting the stairs, Gorlois sprinted with remarkable agility up to his bedchamber. Barely breathing heavily, he deposited her on the bed, leaning against the bedpost with a slight smile on his lips as she scrambled into a sitting position.

  Igraine regarded him warily. If he knew about her and Alain. why was there no towering rage? No threats of violence and retribution? This was a mood she didn’t recognize. It scared her more than his anger.

  “I always knew this day would come.” His voice was conversational.

  Igraine tilted her chin proudly. She would not grovel or shame her feelings for Alain with denials. “The fault was mine.”

  “No. That isn’t true.” He came to sit beside her, running the back of his hand down her cheek. “You, my Igraine, are as the pollen to the bee. There is that about you that draws men to you. We are powerless to resist. I have no choice about what happens to him. You know that, don’t you?” His voice was almost regretful.

  “You could let him go.” Even as she said the words, she knew it would never happen.

  “When he has been inside my wife? Never. I heard you, you see. In the wine cellar. I heard the sounds his cock made as he fucked your cunt.” His hand moved lower to cover her breast. “It made me harder than I have ever been in my life. So, tonight, my duchess, I am going to enjoy the memory of being a cuckold.” His grip tightened until she gasped in pain. “But it will never happen again.”

  * * *

  The next morning dawned bright and clear, as only a Cornish day could. The sea breeze was warm and brisk, and the sun shone on the jousting arena, adding to the sense of theater. Most of Gorlois’ knights were taking part in the lists, and armor clanked and swords clashed as they limbered up before mounting their horses. There had already been archery and sword fighting, and the masculine banter had reached its height.

  The excitement was tangible as crowds gathered to watch the high point of the entertainment. Igraine sat in the stands with ladies of the castle and wished the ground would open up and swallow her so she did not have to witness what was to come.

  “Is it not thrilling, my lady?” Marigold’s chatter added to her tension.

  Igraine turned anguished eyes to her friend. “I hate these displays. Why must they be so brutal?”

  Marigold, perceptive as ever, regarded her with concern. “Is it your husband for whom you fear? Or another?”

  Igraine shook her head, unable to answer. Her body ached inside and out from the onslaught of Gorlois’ passion. She had not snatched a minute of sleep in all the hours of darkness. He had kept her tethered to the bedpost so that, as he told her with a wicked smile, she could not sneak away and join her lover in the night. Even without her bonds, there had been no opportunity to do so.

  His demands on her body had been wild and constant. As always, Igraine could not say she didn’t enjoy it. Even now, as she watched Alain mount his horse, her body thrummed at the memory of the things Gorlois had done to her. Could anyone guess, she wondered as she glanced around, that beneath her serene exterior, she was in the grip of both extreme terror and erotic fantasy?

  The first knights in the lists were young Cornishmen who were loyal supporters of Gorlois. The spectators in the stands cheered loudly as, pulling their visors into place, the opponents faced each other with shields and lances raised. Pounding wildly down the jousting arena, with their horses kicking up clouds of dust in their wake, they held their lances at chest height.

  One young knight was hit hard in the center of his breastplate and came unseated from his saddle. His opponent raised his lance, claiming victory, and the crowd cheered in delight. The defeated knight staggered to his feet and, tugging off his helmet, was helped by his friends to a stool at one side of the arena.

  “You see, my lady, ‘tis possible to be defeated and live.” Marigold attempted to reassure Igraine.

  Gorlois will not let Alain live. He cannot. His pride will not allow it.

  Several more bouts took place, and then Gorlois, taller and broader than any other knight present, rode into the arena. About the handle of his lance, he had tied ribbons in Igraine’s favorite rose pink. His lady’s colors. Beside him, Alain, his armor gleaming silver, looked like a boy. A beautiful, doomed boy. Igraine pressed her hands to her lips.

  Gorlois halted his horse before Igraine. “Yours must be the hand that gives the signal, my lady.”

  His eyes brooked no defiance and, ignoring her trembling limbs, she rose to her feet. Loosening the violet scarf that bound her hair, she held it in her hand. It fluttered in the breeze, a signal of the end of her romantic feelings for Alain.

  The two men rode to opposite ends of the arena. A hush fell over the watchers as though even the noisy crowd sensed a change in the atmosphere. Gorlois lowered his visor and held his shield in place. Alain did the same. Both men bowed to Igraine and raised their lances to chest height to signal their readiness. Igraine’s scarf fell.

  The hoof beats were like thunder, the ground churned to a swirling mass of dust as the two men charged toward each other. Igraine kept her eyes lowered as she heard the inevitable thud of a lance hitting armor followed by a body falling to the ground. The continuing hush told her all she needed to know. This time, the loser was not rising to his feet.

  “Never fear, my lady.” It was the voice of Gorlois’ trusted steward, Godfrey. “The duke is the victor.”

  Still she dared not look. “And Sir Alain?”

  Godfrey shook his head. “The blow that caught him was so fierce, the duke’s lance pierced his armor and went straight through his heart.”

  Chapter Six

  Caerleon, Wales 475 AD

  Caerleon. At last. The beauty of this place was legendary, and he paused a while to savor it. It had been a long and arduous journey. The valley below him was the bright, stinging emerald of a summer morn. Above, the darkness of a mystic forest beckoned. Darkness held no fears for him. There were those who would claim he was the darkness. Birds serenaded him with songs of great glee, and a deer peeped shyly from the shelter of the pine.

  He chose a low ridge of rock above a burbling brook on which to rest. Clad in the clothes of a beggar, his cloak hung in tatters about his sparse frame and his leather sandals were worn almost through. He carried a staff as tall as himself, on which he leaned heavily when he walked. His beard was as white as the snow that lingered still on the distant peaks and hung almost to his waist. Even though his shoulders were hunched and his hands gnarled, within the shadow of his hood his eyes were keen and bright.

  Even though he knew what to expect, he studied the surrounding area with interest. Behind him, a narrow road hugged the base of the mountain and curled sinuously close to the woods. No passing villagers troubled his contemplation of the scene, and he turned his head back again to gaze at his reflection on the pool’s surface.

  As he did, it rippled ever so slightly as if stirred by a sudden breeze. His hand moved once above the surface of the glossy waters in a circular motion and then fell back into his lap and stillness. He tilted his head expectantly, as though listening.

  It seemed good fortune was his. The distant clatter of hoof beats was greeted by a single satisfied nod of his hooded head. It was some minutes before the rider appeared on the road above where he sat. A flash of speeding horse, the sheen of sunlight on chain mail, and a streak of b
right color hove into view. The watcher by the pool moved his hand again, this time in a single, beckoning motion. Then he pulled the cowl of his cloak farther down over his face and waited.

  The knight reined sharply in and tethered his horse to a tree. Coming to the pool, he knelt and, cupping his hands, drank of the cool water.

  “Hail you from Caerleon, friend?” the knight asked the old man.

  “Not I, sire. I know not that place, save that Britain’s great king, Uther Pendragon. was raised there.”

  “You would speak of Uther? Put back that hood when you say my name.”

  “Gladly, my liege. Behold me, I keep my promises.”

  The old man rose, the hood fell back, and the stooped figure unbent. Instead of the wizened figure, it was a muscled giant of a man who rose and stood over Uther’s still kneeling form. A smile played upon his lips. He reached out a hand and drew Uther up into his embrace.

  “Merlin, my old friend.” There were tears in the king’s eyes.

  They walked a while and spoke of good friends and bygone times. Then Uther talked of the vision that had come to him one night. In it, a glorious star had broken through the heavens. A great glow had emanated from the celestial body, and from it there arose a shimmering mist. The mist had formed itself into a golden dragon, and from the dragon’s mouth there had come two streams of fire that had encircled Britain.

  Merlin listened to this recital then withdrew slightly to look long and hard at the sky. Dusk descended now, and the slanting gleam of the sun warmed his face and flashed red fire from the armor of the king.

  “I see all, my king.”

  Uther strode from the tree trunk where he had been leaning as he watched the great sorcerer in his trance. “Say on then.”

  “You, Uther, are the star and the dragon will be your son. He will unite Britain within a band of fire, beat back the Saxon wolves, and cast his glory over Britain’s realm. His name will be Arthur. A name that will shine in history, sun-bright, magnificent, and pure. This, Uther of the Dragon, is the vision that was yours that night. This reality will be yours within the twelvemonth.”