by Georgia Fox
Upon the death of old King Septimus his only son is about to ascend the throne, but nine year-old Gaston III is in danger. There are many who could benefit from the boy-king's prompt demise, and his young mother, Ariana, worries for his life. She needs brave and loyal warriors to help safeguard her son.
Ramon Villaverde, known as Ram "The Thruster", is the one soul to whom she turns in her hour of need. A warrior of few words and fiercely devoted to old King Septimus, Ram's stern heart has long held a buried secret. But on the day the king takes his last breath, he can no longer deny his desires for the sake of duty.
For when beautiful, widowed Queen Ariana looks to him for help, he pledges a vow to put her son's life before his own if need be. But his fealty will come with a price.
Now, Ariana must decide how far she will go, for the good of her son and the protection of his throne. She had no idea that her husband's most trusted warrior ever thought of her with anything more than disdain. Although he's always been cold to her and dismissive, she's about to discover Ram's deepest, darkest secret.
And why they really call him "The Thruster".
Ram Thruster
The Queen’s Men, 1
by
Georgia Fox
MF, SPANKING, AND ANAL SEX
Twisted E Publishing, LLC
www.twistedepublishing.com
A TWISTED E- PUBLISHING BOOK
Ram Thruster
The Queen’s Men, 1
Copyright © 2015 by Georgia F. Fox
Edited by Marie Medina
First E-book Publication: August 2015
Cover design by K Designs
All cover art and logo copyright © 2015, Twisted Erotica Publishing.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
All characters participating in sexual situations are over the age of 18.
Ram Thruster
Chapter One
1496 AD
The first shout rang out over the palace walls, startling a murder of crows from their perch along the battlements. "The King is dead. Long live the King."
Under a storm flurry of black wings the sky darkened prematurely. An echoing caw swept through the hot air, soaring and swooping. Men, sweating in the fields, looked up at this menacing clatter and when the herald's cry reached their ears they passed the message down along the rows of wheat. It traveled swiftly, over walls and through doors. It pricked the ears of dogs who, suddenly woken from afternoon naps on the warm stone street, barked anxiously to find their sun vanished beneath a sinister cloud. The news rumbled over cobblestones, ruffled the trees with a sudden breeze, blew around corners, and squeezed down narrow alleys, bringing with it the strange mix of sorrow and celebration.
And a quarter mile from the palace, Ramon Villaverde heard those words passed on as he sat outside a tavern. With head bent and eyes closed, a mug of ale clutched in one fist, he let the chant rise and fall around him, but he did not contribute to its journey. Anyone watching him would think he slept. For a long time he made no move.
After all, what was there to be done now? What was there to be said? The man who had told him what to do for most of his life was dead and gone. Ram obeyed no one else's orders. His loyalty was steadfast, unshakeable, and given to only one master. Therefore, what now for him? He was at a loss.
Ram had known no other king but Septimus. All his thirty-one years had been lived in the reign of that man. To him, Septimus was a god-like creature, generous and wise, a sovereign he had served with devotion. Now that figurehead was gone and Ram was set adrift.
Of course, he'd expected this news for some time. King Septimus, aged and sick, had enjoyed a long, full, prosperous reign— thanks mostly to the competence of his fighting forces, and the unquestioning fealty of warriors like Ram Villaverde.
But still these tidings brought with them a rush of mixed emotions.
Ram wasn't very good with feelings. He usually buried them deeply, ignored them until they passed. Today he could not. He was a fortress besieged from all sides by the tremor of a thousand different thoughts and sensations.
He felt sadness that the great ruler had taken his last breath, but also relief that the man was finally spared his suffering. Then there was concern for the young boy who would now ascend the throne in his place— Gaston— not yet ten years of age and the king's only son. Such a responsibility on the shoulders of a child.
There could well be war. Several neighboring countries eyed the wealth and prosperity of Ersadonia and, while there was no strong, battle-tried leader in command, they might see this as their chance to invade. In the past few weeks, some had already reached out to Ram with sly, tentative offers. As the King's health declined, they thought the infamous warrior's ties to Ersadonia would weaken likewise. Everyone knew he had no family there, no connections. He had always kept himself unburdened, free to come and go as he pleased. Not that he ever left.
Because there was a certain matter— a fiercely kept secret— that stopped him from leaving.
Ariana.
Since he had never liked to label what he felt for the young Queen, he had nothing to call the emotion now. Her name was enough to invoke so many things: lust, envy, guilt, frustration, compassion, despair. All of that and more.
He finally moved, lifting his tankard and draining it with one long, thirsty gulp. He'd lost count of how much he'd drunk that day, but he seemed to have developed hollow legs because it wasn't helping the way it usually did. Copious amounts of ale had not dulled the edge of his thoughts today, or loosened the knots of tension.
The King is dead. Long live the King.
There was so much contained in that message. So much mental pain that seemed to manifest itself in physical aches. His stomach hurt. His jaw ached. His knee burned. And when his thoughts wandered again over Queen Ariana, there was a sharp pinch in his chest, under the hard muscle. He didn't want to feel any of this, but he did.
Glum, he gazed into the empty tankard, wondering if his ale was watered down. Was the tavern-keeper trying to cheat him? The fellow ought to know better, if he wanted to keep his head attached. No one cheated Ram Villaverde.
Perhaps he could get into a brawl, he thought, looking around with narrowed eyes, searching for a likely cause. A good fight always helped him relax.
That was the trouble with peacetime, he mused grimly. A soldier on leave was like an untended powder keg. Or a too-long stabled stallion, scraping its hooves on the ground and slamming its hindquarters into the stall, looking for a way out.
Ram surveyed the other tavern patrons, his cynical eye ready to find the smallest irritation. But there was no one casting him a shifty look. No one with a particularly annoying face to rouse his temper. He looked down at his knuckles, disappointed not to have cause to use them just then. Flexing his fingers he noted the grime under his nails and tried to remember the last time he bathed.
Damn he must be bored to be thinking about a bath.
Or else he was simply trying to keep his mind occupied and away from thoughts of her.
Ariana.
Finally he raised his hand for another refill. One damn way or another he'd get to that fog of carelessness.
"Are you the one they call The Thruster?"
Ram didn't turn his head because it was aching too much just then, but he let his gaze sweep sideways until he found the figure of a thin, pale lad in the crimson and gold tabard of a palace page. "Who wants to know?" he grunted.
"You are summoned
, sir, and must come at once."
"Who summons me?" Couldn't be the dead King Septimus, could it? Ram Villaverde, ruthless warrior and unstoppable conqueror, scourge of the lowland rebels, answered to no one else. There might be a new set of buttocks soon perched on the throne, but Ram didn't cow down to a boy's will. His friendship and loyalty was earned, not given out blindly because it was expected. So he hadn't yet given his pledge to a new ruler and he might not. He had other offers to consider. He could become a mercenary and fight for the highest bidder.
But perhaps he was too old to keep fighting anyway. Is that what all these aches and pains were telling him? Perhaps he was done with the life of a warrior and should hang up his sword. Might take up farming, he thought, scowling into his empty tankard again. Get old, thick in the waist, find a wife with a nice plump backside he could spank to his heart's content.
Perhaps.
He burped. "Go away, lad. I'm not in the mood."
Eight weeks ago he'd exiled himself from the palace. Now, they sent a child to bring him back! A knock-kneed, spotty-faced lad of no more than twelve. Was that all they thought to spare and send for him? Was that how he rated these days?
Even in his mind he said "they", of course, instead of her name.
But the page stepped around the small, crooked table and determinedly put himself in Ram's view. "My mistress said, if you were difficult, I should show you this." He held out his hand and carefully unfurled his fingers to show a pressed four-leaf clover in his palm.
Ariana.
There it came again, the emotion he'd named after her. It crashed and careened through his body like a storm-stirred wave against the rocky cliffs.
Damn and bugger.
Fuck 'em all.
A long moment passed. At least, it felt long to Ram, as the world and the people around him suddenly moved in a slow, languid pace as if their limbs and mouths were heavy.
"You must come, sir," the page demanded.
No "please", he noted. She'd never say please to him, would she?
Now he was drunk. Now the ale took effect. Of course it did, he thought dourly. That was his luck. Just in time to make him look a fool in front of the Queen.
This skinny lad was looking at Ram now with a hopeful expression, eyes wide with the naivety of youth.
Ram had never looked like that. He came out of the womb angry, pugnacious, trusting no one. Good thing too. It had saved him a lot of time and trouble in life. But this boy had probably enjoyed a very different childhood. He was clean, had shoes on his feet, clothes on his back. Being a page in the Queen's service he was likely the son of some worthy palace dignitary. Well fed, educated, sheltered. Loved.
Ram, on the other hand, had grown up with none of those advantages. But a tough life had made him into the man he was— The Thruster—standing aside for no man, forging a path through many a bloody battlefield, always leading the charge. Love and pampering made a man weak, softened his skin. Love was for poets and other, similar, idiots. Ram was a force of nature, fearless, merciless and —
What he really needed right now was a piss.
Chapter Two
Where in the name of all that was holy— or unholy in his case— was that surly, obstinate bastard?
Ariana paced in her chamber, hands clasped tightly in some sort of prayer, although she had no idea to whom or what she should pray. Ram Thruster, her husband's most loyal knight, lived by his own rules and his own form of religion. He would have come for King Septimus without delay, of course, but would he do so for her? No. He would make her wait.
Over the past ten years, since she first came to Ersadonia to marry the king, Ariana had often caught her husband's faithful warrior scowling at her with such a fierce expression she thought he might one day plunge his sword through her chest. He didn't like her; he made it clear from the beginning and he didn't need words to do so when his actions spoke so eloquently.
He thought she was a foolish woman, pampered and cosseted, but she hoped that his devotion to Septimus would overcome that dislike and make him want to help her now. For a while at least. For the life of her son and the good of the country.
Oh, stop pacing, you stupid woman! He will only look at you in that disapproving, critical way again if he sees you spinning in circles like an idiot. Be composed. Be royal. Show him you're not afraid of him or what he thinks of you!
She strode quickly to a chair by the fire and sat. Her heart was beating too fast, and her palms were damp and hot. She must calm herself. The damned man always made her feel off balance, inadequate in some way, which was quite ridiculous since she was royal and he was simply a soldier who served her husband. A commoner who raised himself up by the sword. A notorious killer. A man who could barely bring himself to speak to her.
Ariana rubbed her arms where they suddenly felt cold, despite the proximity of that good fire.
Would the four-leaf clover bring him to her? Would he even remember the day he gave it to her? How long ago it seemed now.
Staring into the fluttering flames, she thought back a decade to that day in a sun-spangled forest glade, when she first saw Ramon Villaverde. He had been sent by King Septimus to meet her caravan and escort her the rest of the way to Ersadonia. She also suspected that the warrior was there to give his approval of her. Certainly he'd looked her up and down with a searching, demanding perusal that left her feeling as if his fierce eyes stripped her naked.
"Well, of all the sauce!" her nurse had muttered in her ear as Ram turned his back to them in that warm, fragrant glade. "How dare he look at a princess that way, my lady? You ought to say something!"
But what? What did one say to a man who looked as if he paid heed to none and cared for courtly manners as much as he did for bathing? To a man whose silent, heated appraisal had told her more about herself than she could have learned by consulting a looking glass.
Apparently she passed his inspection. Just.
If he'd found her appearance lacking, would Ram have sent her home again and told Septimus to keep searching for another bride? Ariana often wondered about that, for once they arrived in Ersadonia, she'd soon found out how much Septimus relied on the young man and valued his opinion. Likewise, Ram was devoted to the King— to such a degree that he appeared to have no life of his own, and gave up his entire being to the King's service. He had no wife, no family. As far as Ariana knew he didn't even have a home. She heard nothing of any woman in his life.
Occasionally she'd pondered the possibility that Ram Villaverde preferred men, although there was no proof of that either. "The Thruster" kept to himself, said very little, smiled even less.
She'd once sat next to him at a feast and he did not speak a word for two solid hours, although his knee bounced up and down under the table the entire time, making her think there must be something wrong with his leg. A war wound that plagued him, perchance.
But before all that, in a sunny glade, on the day he met her for the very first time, when she was a girl of barely seventeen going to her wedding day, he had done a very odd thing. A thing she would come to know as extremely out of character for the stern warrior.
Having suddenly spied a four-leaf clover on the ground between them, he bent, picked it and gave it to her. "Brings fair fortune," he'd grunted, the words so far under his breath that she barely heard their meaning.
She'd saved it ever since, pressed between the pages of a prayer book. He must be very observant, she'd thought at the time, to spot such a small thing from his great height. But, after a while, Ariana came to realize that the warrior kept his scowling gaze on the ground a vast deal in her presence. Must have a many more important things on his mind, she supposed. Or else he found her too irritating to look upon.
Would he remember giving her that clover, and think of her as the young, innocent girl he once escorted through a forest? Whatever rare little bit of kindness he had felt for her when he gave her that clover would, hopefully, be refreshed by the reminder.
Sin
ce he had never shown her any similar softness in the years since, it seemed a vain hope, but she must try.
"You came betwixt him and the King," her old nurse had suggested some years ago, when she was upset in a weak moment and trying to find some reason for his cold manner toward her. "Now the King listens to your advice as much as he does to the opinion of that great ox. Men are like that, bitter and resentful, when their big noses are pushed out of joint."
Septimus had merely laughed at her frustration with the menacing soldier who acted so dismissively toward her. "You must excuse Ram. He has his strange ways, but he is loyal to us and we do not know what this country would do without him. The Thruster has won many a battle in our name."
Of course, Septimus always referred to himself in the third person. He didn't actually mean that the warrior fought on her behalf too. Goodness no.
Oh, but now she needed him on her side. She needed Ram Thruster.
Such a silly name for such a serious, unsilly man.
Ariana got up again, unable to stay still. She walked to the arched window and peered through a knot hole in the shutters.
It would be dark before long. The courtyard below was empty of life, everyone mourning indoors. Even the dogs were muzzled tonight and the stable-yard cobbles covered with straw to quiet the horses’ hooves. The liveried servants all wore black armbands. Below, in the great hall, her husband was laid out in gold finery, surrounded by guards who would watch over him until dawn, when he would be interred in the royal crypt. The weather was too warm to let his corpse lay out in splendor for more than one night, so the interment must be tomorrow. Then, after a period of national mourning, there would be a coronation for Gaston. The sooner the better, before anybody tried to take the crown from her son's hands.
