by Zadie Black
But the leader was not distracted. “Come, your majesty, it is time to go,” he said. The queen stepped toward the door without hesitating, her beautiful eyes blank. “A moment, your majesty,” the man said. “We must alter your appearance first.” Once more he began to chant strangely as he waved his hands. The queen seemed to shimmer, and then where once a regal woman in silk had been standing was now a filthy, dark-haired woman in rags. One of the men clapped metal cuffs onto the woman’s wrists, chaining them together. Another put a collar around her neck.
An observer might have thought that there seemed to be little need for these restraints - the disguised queen followed the men obediently as they strode down the corridor. When they reached the great oaken door, one of the false soldiers turned the key and pushed the heavy door open. The guards on the other side were surprised to see several of their number accompanied by a beggar woman in chains.
“We have caught an intruder breaking into the queen’s chambers,” said the leader of the false guards in an authoritative voice. “We are taking this woman to the dungeons to await the King’s Justice.”
“Very good, sir!” said the door guards, and saluted. The false guards swept by along with their ragged prisoner.
They wound through the castle and out into the courtyard. Several times they were challenged by guards, but each time they told the same story and were allowed to pass. Instead of the dungeons, however, they exited the castle through a side entrance and made their way to the stables. There they found the rest of the ‘monks,' now disguised as soldiers, with horses saddled and ready to ride.
Their leader mounted up on a great black horse. Two of his retinue lifted the ragged woman, her chains jingling, to sit before him. Then, the rest mounted their horses as well. At a harsh command from their leader, they were riding to the castle gate.
When they reached the portcullis, it was shut. They were hailed by the captain of the guard. “Riders,” he called out. “Where do you go at this late hour?”
“The King’s business,” replied the leader. “This woman has brought reports of raiders in an outlying village. His Majesty will not wait ‘til daybreak to discover the fate of his loyal vassals.”
“Hail to the king!” said the captain. “Godspeed, then. May you come swiftly upon your adversaries.”
He gave a shout, and the great portcullis was raised and the drawbridge lowered. The riders urged their horses forward. They thundered across the bridge. They followed the great cobblestoned road as it wound through Strokington and then spurred their horses to a gallop as they reached open country. Feeling the wind rushing past, the leader snapped his fingers. Instantly, the appearance of all the riders changed. They were no longer royal guards, nor were they monks. Now they wore black leather armor and red hoods. Their leader was robed in red, his clothes embroidered with arcane symbols. He had a black beard and mustache, and his long black hair streamed in the wind behind him. In his arms, clad only in her silk nightgown, was the Queen.
Queen Aureola came to with a jolt. The night air was rushing past her. She was wearing only skimpy silk, and she was astride a horse with a strange man who had his arms around her. Her wrists were chained together with golden chains. She reached up and felt a golden collar clasped around her throat.
With one hand her captor let go of the reins and clutched her stomach through her scanty gown. One finger trailed down to her crotch as he pulled her tightly against him. Through the thin silk of her nightgown, she felt a bulge pressing against her buttocks. She realized what it was, and gasped.
“Who are you? And where are you taking me?” she cried.
The man in the red cloak did not respond. Instead, he threw back his head and laughed. The other riders joined him as well, howling with demonic laughter. They thundered across the darkened countryside away from the castle. With her heart thudding in her chest, Queen Aureola realized that she was alone, half-naked, and in the hands of an enemy.
Chapter Two: Sir Richard of the Lance
Sir Richard of the Lance expected his entry into Strokington to be a triumphant one. The morning sun shone down on the burnished armor of his company of knights. Their horses stepped proudly. The knights were weary but exultant, having dispatched the poachers that were raiding the outland villages. Now the leader of the brigands and many of his followers were in chains, walking with slumped shoulders in single file behind the knights and their retinue.
On an ordinary day, mused the knight, such a sight would result in a boisterous crowd gathering to watch the procession. They would cheer the knights and jeer at the prisoners, the latter of whom they would pelt with rotten produce. The maidens would call out to Sir Richard. Some of them would even pull down their bodices and flash him their flouncing breasts. Sir Richard would try to pick out an especially fetching one. That night, if his duties permitted, he might invite her to his chambers for some fun. Sometimes he might also invite her sister. On occasion, even one of her friends might join in the evening’s play.
Sir Richard of the Lance was tall, dark, and handsomely formed. He had brooding blue eyes that made women melt. His reputation as a valorous knight made both maidens’ undergarments and their inhibitions vanish. He was almost as legendary for his conquests in bed as he was for those made with his mighty lance.
Sir Richard wrenched his mind free from such lewd thoughts. He seldom indulged in such sport these days. His duties to his king took up too much of his time. And when time permitted, his restless thoughts were of her.
Today, it seemed, was not a day for lifting lasses’ skirts anyway. No cheering throngs greeted their return. The capital was strangely subdued as Sir Richard and his men wound their way up the cobblestone street towards Castle Greyhart. The knight had a sudden sense that the whole town was holding its breath. He wondered what he might find when he reached the castle. What could have befallen? Could the king have died suddenly? His mind churned restlessly.
Long ago, Sir Richard had served a baron who had rebelled against King Gregory. Many a time he had fought in battle against the King and his knights. Once, after a skirmish had gone badly, he had accompanied his baron as the rebels fled down a mountain path. Suddenly, Sir Richard’s horse had stumbled, throwing him down a sheer cliff face. The baron had left him for dead.
But Sir Richard was not dead. He was, in fact, hanging on by his fingers from a great root. When King Gregory arrived in pursuit of the rebel baron, he spotted Sir Richard and ordered a rope lowered to rescue him. Not only did King Gregory save the knight’s life, but rather than putting him to the sword, as would have been just, he spared him in return for his allegiance.
The grateful knight became the king’s most loyal vassal - and in time, his most legendary champion.
If his Majesty was dead, Sir Richard thought --
But, no. He shook his head. He was letting his imagination run away with him. He must reach the castle and hear the news himself.
At the castle gates, the guard acknowledged him silently as they raised the massive iron portcullis. As Sir Richard rode by the guard captain, he called out, “What news?” But the man shook his head. “You’d better hear it from the king himself, sir.” Sir Richard allowed himself a tiny sliver of comfort. King Gregory, at least, was still alive. But surely whatever news he had to deliver was grim.
Sir Richard knelt before King Gregory. The king’s hair was shot through with gray, but he still held himself tall with regal dignity. His craggy brow and bushy beard spoke of the kindness and wisdom with which he ruled his people. “Majesty,” Sir Richard said, bowing his head. The king placed his hands on his shoulders and raised him up. “Dick,” he said, “my old friend. Dire trouble has come upon my house this very night past.”
“Your majesty,” said the knight, “tell me all so that I might serve you.”
They were standing out on the marble veranda overlooking the garden. King Gregory came here often with Queen Aureola.
Sir Richard had a
sudden flashback to a memory of a servant leading him out onto this same veranda. The king and queen had been wedded only days prior. Ever since, the two lovebirds had been cloistered in either their chambers or the royal garden. Sir Richard presumed that the two were getting to know each other more… intimately.
When he had arrived at the castle to deliver a report on the progress of the campaign to the south, he had expected that one of the king’s trusted advisors would hear his message. Instead, he was ushered into the royal garden and the presence of the royal newlyweds themselves.
The king had been seated on a comfortable divan on the veranda, his back to the approaching knight. The queen was curled up on his lap, facing him. The robe she was wearing was blue. It rode high on her luscious thighs and hugged every curve of her body. Sir Richard felt his heart rise in his throat. As he watched, the king opened the queen’s robe and began to fondle one of her large, shapely tits.
Looking over the king’s shoulder, Queen Aureola saw him first. “We have company, my king. Is this the loyal knight that you spoke of?” She winked at him over the king’s shoulder.
It was at that moment that Sir Richard of the Lance knew that he was in love.
“The news concerns Queen Aureola,” said the king, jerking Sir Richard away from his sensual reminiscence. His monarch’s noble visage was clouded, and he could have sworn the stern man was on the verge of tears. “She was taken from her bedchambers in the dead of night and spirited away by unknown men on horseback. They entered the castle through base trickery, disguised as monks.”
“By all the gods!” swore Sir Richard. “Who has done this foul deed? Tell me so that I might smite him and rescue her majesty!”
The king handed him a small, rolled up parchment with a red wax seal, now broken. “This note,” he said, “was left on her bed.”
Sir Richard unfurled the note and read,
King Gregory,
Using my dark magic, I have taken your Queen Aureola and spirited her away to my hidden keep in the southern hills. If you want to see your queen again alive, send your finest champion, alone. If he can best the challenges I set before him, he may return with your royal bride unharmed and unspoiled. Otherwise, she will die - but not before I sate my lust in her sweet flesh and make her a whore to all my men.
For your queen’s sake, I pray, do not tarry long.
Signed,
The Sorcerer Mordred
For a moment, Sir Richard of the Lance felt a deep hollow in his stomach. Then that hollow filled with white-hot rage.
“By your majesty’s leave, I will ride at once to rescue the queen and impale upon the point of my lance this foul sorcerer and every dog that follows him,” he said, his clenched fist trembling.
“Hold, Dick,” said King Gregory. “This is surely a trap. Should I not send two dozen of my finest knights - with you at their head - to rescue the queen?”
“If you do that,” said Sir Richard, “Mordred will murder the queen. Sire, he hates you and all your line. He wishes you only ill, no matter the cost. You know that he will not hold back.”
“Of that, my friend, I have little doubt,” said King Gregory, he sighed and settled onto the divan. “Yet I hardly think that Mordred will play fair with these challenges he proposes to set before you. Perhaps he intends to kill you and have the queen into the bargain. Yet, as you say, should I send the full force of my knights, I may sign the queen’s death warrant.”
The king stood abruptly and began to pace. “Damn that sorcerer. May he rot in the thousand hells! I know not what is the right answer. Perhaps there is none.”
It troubled Sir Richard to see his king so irresolute. Always before King Gregory had been proud, decisive, and utterly sure of himself. The loss of his young bride had shaken him to the core.
Sir Richard looked his king directly in the eye. “Sire,” he said, “have I not ever served you loyally and faithfully? Have I ever once failed you? I would die for you, and I would die for the queen. If I undertake this desperate quest, I promise you I will not fail, though it cost me my life. Send me as your champion for the queen. I will see that she is returned to you.”
King Gregory looked at Sir Richard for a long moment. A single tear rolled down his face. Then he wrapped the knight in a sudden, fierce embrace. “I do trust you, Dick. You are like a son to me. Go. Go and win back your queen.” With equal suddenness, he released Sir Richard. “But I dare not wait too long. Do not tarry. The rest of the knights will be a day’s ride behind you. If you should fail… then they will attack.”
Sir Richard nodded. “So be it,” he said.
“Queen Aureola’s life is in your hands, Dick,” said the king. “All the kingdom is counting on you. I am counting on you.”
“I will not fail you, your majesty.” Sir Richard said. “Only one request do I make, my liege.”
“Anything,” said the king.
“Lend to me your magic sword,” said Sir Richard. “It is warded against evil spells and sorcery. I think that I will have sore need of such a weapon.”
The king turned and called for his servant. “Fetch me the magic sword,” he ordered, “and see that my finest champion has anything else that he should need.”
“I ride light, your majesty,” said Sir Richard. “I will take only my squire, Corin.”
“You must take also one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting,” said the king. “If you win her back safe, she will need one of her maids to attend to her needs and protect her virtue.”
“Certainly, sire.”
“Take the little redheaded girl that she is close to. What is her name?”
“I believe it is Delmar, sire.”
Delmar descended the tower steps in haste. She knew not why she had been summoned, only that a messenger from the king had instructed her to attend to Sir Richard of the Lance at once in the spare chambers he occupied near the barracks.
Finding the door open, she walked in. She stopped. A large, round wooden tub filled to the brim with soapy water occupied the middle of the room. Sir Richard, his back to her, was just standing up from it. He was naked. Water cascaded down his broad back, which was criss-crossed with many scars, evidence of a long career as a fighting man. Beneath his bare skin, powerful muscles rippled. His buttocks, glistening and wet, were compact and powerful. Delmar could have sworn that she caught sight of something dangling between his legs. She blushed and looked away.
“Lady Delmar,” said the knight without turning. “Kindly hand me that towel.”
She handed the knight the coarse linen towel that lay on the room’s lone table. “Sir Richard,” she said, clearing her throat, “you wanted to see me?”
“Yes,” said the knight, wrapping the towel around his waist. He turned to face the girl. “The rumors are true. The Queen has been taken.”
“How – how did they get in?” asked Delmar.
“I know not,” said the knight. “All that matters now is her safe return. Pack your things and meet me by the stables. We ride to rescue the Queen.”
Sir Richard strode into the courtyard. Seeing a knight in a full suit of burnished plate armor, many passers-by saluted. Sir Richard nodded at them. “Squire!” he shouted.
A lad with a wild thatch of brown hair emerged from the stables, leading a handsome black stallion with iron-shod hooves.
“Sir Richard!” said his squire, who was named Corin. “I’ve fed and watered Starlock and checked his gear. He is practically good as new and ready to ride.”
“Very good, squire,” said Sir Richard. “I need you to saddle up another horse, though. Bring one of the mares.”
Delmar entered the courtyard in a green riding kirtle. A young servant girl behind her struggled with a large bag.
Corin led another horse out of the stables, this time a steady gray mare. He brought it up to Sir Richard. The mare shook her head proudly. “This one is named Maja, sir,” he said. He awkwardly ducked his head at the redhead
ed Delmar. “Milady.”
“She’ll do fine,” said the knight, patting the mare’s neck. “Hello, Maja.”
“Put my things onto the horse, stable boy,” said Delmar to Corin. Corin sputtered. “All that? Are you kidding? And besides, I’m not a stable boy.”
“These bags are full of necessities for her Majesty the Queen,” snapped Delmar.
“Corin is my squire, Lady Delmar,” said Sir Richard. “And while I appreciate your thoughtfulness towards her Majesty, we must ride light. Perhaps you could go through your luggage and be a little more… selective. You and Corin will be riding Maja together.”
Now it was Delmar’s turn to sputter. “What?!?”
The horses trotted south along the road. Despite the oppressive heat of the afternoon, the sky was overcast and gray. They had been on the road for hours.
All three riders rode in silence, the only sound the steady clop of the horses’ hooves. Corin and Delmar were ignoring each other. At least, they were attempting to do so as well as two people can when they’re riding on the same horse, and one is aware of the other one’s breasts squished against his back and her arms wrapped around his waist.
Delmar had made it clear that as a lady of rank she was above talking to a dirty squire. Corin was desperately trying to think of something funny or suave he might say that would break through the redheaded girl’s armor of aloofness, but he kept coming up empty.
He nursed a hope that simple close physical proximity would break down her defenses in time. In his mind, he imagined them making camp for the night. The temperature would drop - then the redheaded girl, clad only in her underthings, would come and lie down against his back for warmth, wrapping her slender arms around his neck. Corin imagined that he might turn over to face her. He would gaze into her liquid green eyes for a long moment, and then their lips would meet. They would lie there with their arms entangled around each other. He would move one hand down, cup one round, yielding buttock with his hand. She would kiss him harder, more deeply, as he lifted up her skirts and grabbed her pretty little ass with both hands. Gently kneading and spreading her buttocks, his fingers would creep inward, towards Delmar’s moist, forbidden secrets. She would moan softly as his finger trailed over her sensitive anus - and then found her soft nether lips. His fingers would part her tender butterfly wings and dip inside her pink crevice. It would be moist, dripping with her womanly nectar. He would bring a finger covered in her sweet honey up to her lips and thrust it into her mouth. She would moan as she sucked her own juices from his finger.
