Dark Warrior (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

by Julie Shelton

  By the time they reached the main pavilion, it was clear that they were the last to arrive. The packed sand floor had been covered with colorful Persian carpets, the back wall hung with tapestries to keep in the warmth provided by coal braziers positioned every three feet. Gold-and-green silk panels, embroidered with the Berwick crest, rippled in the slight breeze. Nicholas’s knights, resplendent in their shiny mail and silken surcotes emblazoned with the Berwick crest, flanked the entrance and stood at attention along the back wall.

  Sir John and Lady Lowden, Sorcha Parsons, her six girls, her parents, and her sisters and their children were also there. The McGarrity men and their knights were milling around amongst the throng, tasked with being alert and watching out for trouble. Local noblemen and merchants filled the other pavilions. Farmers and villagers milled around at both ends of the lists, which had been dismantled for the day’s events.

  Thomas Parsons, as the designated Range Master, inspected all of the bows and arrows to make certain no one was cheating. All arrows were made with boxwood shafts, fitted with steel barbs and fletched with gray goose feathers. Each quiver held ten arrows. Thomas also inspected the butts, the specially shaped bales of straw, painted with very narrow red, yellow, and black concentric rings against a white background. Each color was worth a specified number of points. There were ten butts lined up side by side, twenty feet apart. They were set midway across the parade ground, approximately one hundred feet from the starting line, positioned so that the archers were facing south, to keep the sun from shining directly into their eyes.

  Thanks to the Archery Law, passed during the reign of King Edward I in 1252, every Englishman, no matter how humble his origins or circumstances, was required to learn the art of the longbow, and despite the fact that his grandson, Edward III, had taken more than thirteen thousand longbow men with him to fight in France, there were plenty of would-be archers ready to try their skills in the various contests.

  As the bells for terce finished ringing, Thomas Parsons, as the Range Master, stepped to the front of the Grand Pavilion and bowed to Nicholas and Kathryn. Trumpets sounded a fanfare as a herald proclaimed the rules of the first contest. Each archer would have ten arrows to accrue thirty points. There was another blast from the trumpets as the first group of ten archers marched in and took their places in front of the pavilions, opposite their assigned targets.

  Within moments the solid thwack of arrows hitting targets was accompanied by cheering and applause. The scores were tallied by squires, who also removed the arrows from the butts as each new group of ten archers lined up to try their luck.

  It took most of the morning for the nearly two hundred contestants to be winnowed down to the final ten, as the targets for each elimination round grew successively farther away. The ultimate winner wound up with ninety-seven points and was very pleased with the silver-hilted dagger Kathryn presented to him as his prize.

  After a slight lull, during which the crowd was entertained by stilt walkers, jugglers and tumbling acrobats, and a hammer-throw contest engaged in by the McGarrity knights, the next contest was announced. It called for each archer to land five arrows dead center within five rings, each no bigger than a lady’s pinky finger, suspended from various lengths of ribbon attached to the tops of the butts.

  At noon, pages served roasted chicken legs, meat pasties, skewered and grilled chunks of lamb, and fruit tarts to everyone in the main pavilion, washed down with copious amounts of ale. Other spectators either purchased food from the many vendors lining the road and the tiltyard, or they brought their own.

  While the archers were assembling for their last contest, people were placing wagers on the outcome of several wrestling matches and lively games of horseshoes. The last archery contest featured trick shots, including shooting two arrows simultaneously from the same bow in an attempt to hit the bulls-eyes on two different butts, and archers splitting the shafts of their first arrows with their second and shooting apples off the top of a straw dummy’s head.

  As soon as Kathryn had awarded the last prize, a woolen cloak made from the finest Berwick cloth and trimmed with soft rabbit fur, Nicholas stood and held up his hands. A trumpet fanfare called for quiet. As he stepped up to the front rail of the pavilion, a hush fell over the assembled throng.

  “My friends, hear me! I want to thank you all for coming today to help me celebrate my marriage to the most beautiful woman in the world, Lady Kathryn Herron, the new Duchess of Berwick.”

  Blushing deeply, she rose and moved to stand next to Nicholas to acknowledge the thunderous applause. Which grew even more thunderous as he bent his head and took her lips in a kiss that heated her blood until it was singing in her ears.

  Lifting his head, he smiled down at her, his eyes never leaving hers as he raised her hand to brush his lips across her knuckles. “I love you,” he mouthed silently, sending her womb clenching and her heart jerking in her breast.

  Then he dropped her hand and turned back to the crowd, once again raising his arms for quiet. “That being said,” he continued, “there is another, much more sobering reason for this gathering here today. Berwick Castle is about to be besieged by an army led by Robert Walford, the Duke of Pemberton.”

  A murmur swept through the crowd at this stark announcement.

  “I am certain many of you are familiar with the name of Robert Walford. Some of you are even more intimately familiar with the deeds of Robert Walford.” He paused, while a rumbling reaction ran through the assembled throng. “For nearly a year now, Walford has been abusing his power as Crown Magistrate to confiscate estates by throwing the rightful owners in prison on trumped-up charges of treason.” Some loud, angry cries rose from the crowd. “My friends, this man will stop at naught to get what he wants. And what he wants now are my lands and my estates.”

  The rumble from the crowd grew even louder. “Make no mistake about it, my friends. If he takes Berwick, the future of every person here is in jeopardy. This man means to rule England, and if Berwick falls to him, he will be unstoppable. He will have all the power and gold he needs to challenge King Edward for his throne!” He paused until the loud cries of outrage finally settled down. “I am standing before you here today to ask for your help. I need archers to help repel Walford’s army. Enough archers to be able to push back his first attack. Because I can state with complete confidence that his first attack will be his last.”

  A series of cheers and whistles erupted, momentarily drowning out his voice. As soon as they quieted again, he resumed speaking. “Six months ago, near the small town of Crecy, France, I witnessed first-hand the power of the longbow. That day ten thousand lowly English archers defeated twelve thousand French knights and Genoese crossbowmen. When the smoke cleared, four thousand knights, including two kings—the very flower of French chivalry—lay dead on the ground, struck down by the humble English longbow!”

  The cheer that went up with this announcement took nearly three minutes to subside.

  “The King is paying four deniers per day for his archers to fight in France. I will pay the exact same wage for any man here brave enough to stand and fight with us. With your help, we can defeat Robert Walford and put an end to his tyranny and his designs on the very throne of England!”

  More cheers erupted from the throats of hundreds of people at these words. Nicholas let them continue for another three minutes before once again calling for quiet.

  “If you are with me, sign up over there at those tables and receive your first day’s pay in advance.” He pointed to a series of wooden tables at the far end of the lists, manned by Ewan McGarrity and his kinsmen. “You will be fed and housed for the entire duration of your stay with us. And you will be trained and drilled by Thomas Parsons, the finest Master-at-Arms in all of England!”

  Another enormous cheer split the air, until a simple hand gesture from Nicholas commanded silence. “Finally, congratulations to all of today’s contestants. You acquitted yourselves with honor and skill. And thank
all of you for coming today. May God go with you on your journey back to your homes.”

  As the exuberant crowd began filing out of the arena, all but a handful of the archers went to line up at the tables. The rest shouldered their quivers and bows and shuffled out with the rest of the departing throng.

  Kathryn watched the crowd dissipate. Except for Rolf, standing slightly behind her, she and Nicholas were alone in the pavilion. “How many of them do you suppose were Walford’s spies?” she murmured to no one in particular.

  “It matters not,” Nicholas replied, handing her down the steps of the pavilion. “They’ve naught to tell him that he won’t discover for himself when he arrives with his army.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “I know not, beloved. But I feel it will be soon.”

  They were just sitting down to supper that night, when a solemn and subdued Ewan McGarrity, accompanied by his sons, brothers, cousins, and nephews, strode into the great hall. The group of men approached the high table and fell as one onto their bended knees. Thomas and Sorcha Parsons, along with all of the McGarrity women, stood, arms folded across their chests, in a phalanx between them and the door, as though to prevent them from escaping.

  Nicholas rose from his chair. “Ewan. My friends. Please rise. What is the purpose of this?”

  “Your Grace.” Ewan’s normally gruff voice was subdued. “We have come to apologize for our behavior at table last evening. It has been borne in on us”—he turned his head slightly to acknowledge the stern-faced women standing behind him—“that we are guests in your home and we repaid your gracious hospitality with,” he paused, and said carefully as if he had been forced to memorize and rehearse the words, “ehm, boorishness, villainy, drunkenness, and an unforgivable lapse of proper et-ti-quette.” He pronounced the word slowly, emphasizing each unfamiliar syllable. Smiling, he sneaked a glance over his shoulder at his wife, who was still glaring. His smile faded. Turning back to Nicholas, he finished with, “Please accept our most humble and abject apologies, Your Grace. I swear by all the saints, it will not happen again.”

  “I accept your most gracious apology, my friend,” Nicholas said, struggling to hide his amusement. He spread his arm, indicating the chair beside him. “Come. Dine with us.”

  Sorcha, her face now wreathed in smiles, strode up to her father, lifting her face for his kiss. As she and Thomas and Ewan took their seats, she gave Kathryn a wink. A promise that tonight’s meal would proceed without incident.

  This was fine with Kathryn. Just as long as it also proceeded without bagpipes.

  As soon as supper was over, Nicholas, Rolf, and Kathryn retired to their solar. In addition to the fireplace, dozens of candles cast soft, flickering light everywhere, transforming the room into an enchanted fairy land. “William strikes again,” Rolf murmured, stepping up behind Kathryn and placing his hands on her shoulders. With a deep sigh of satisfaction, she nestled her bottom into the cradle of his pelvis. His cock was a stiff pole against her spine. Both men devoted themselves to the pleasurable business of kissing every inch of skin bared by her gown. Nicholas pressed his lips to each cheek before slanting his head and sipping at her lips in a series of slow, enthralling kisses. Rolf dropped a string of kisses, like beads in a necklace, up the side of her neck to her ear, making her writhe and squeal in ecstasy as his tongue came out to lick the delicate whorl. And while they were busy kissing her, they were also busy undressing her, one garment at a time, dropping each item on the floor until she was standing naked between them. Turning, they led her to the bed. “Lie on your back in the center of the bed,” Nicholas instructed.

  Pulse hammering wildly through her veins, she followed his directions, her limbs trembling with anticipation. Rolf and Nicholas climbed up onto the mattress, one on either side. They lay on their sides, facing her, their heads resting in one hand while each of the other hands reached for a breast. “Oh, God!” Pleasure lanced through her as they plumped and kneaded her aroused flesh. Through slitted eyes she watched as two heads, one black, one bald, leaned toward her, as two mouths closed over her nipples, sucking her into their hot, wet interiors. She arched up off the bed with a shriek as they pulled deeply on her hard, throbbing points, lashing them with their tongues, sending bolts of jagged lightning arcing through her body.

  Slurping noises filled the air as they licked and suckled and pleasured her breasts. Nicholas moaned and that deep, rumbling-thunder sound strummed across her nerve endings like fingers strumming the taut strings of a lute, sending waves of pleasure pulsating through her body straight to her sex. Their suckling mouths, their caressing tongues were burning her alive, igniting flames everywhere they touched. Along her skin, through her blood, straight to the weeping heart of her feminine core. A high, shrill cry left her throat.

  “Oh, God! Rolf! Nicholas! That feels so good! So good!” She was gasping, whimpering, writhing beneath them, even as they strove to hold her still. Hot chills raced up and down her spine. She was delirious with the excruciating sensations blasting through her. She arched her neck. Her eyelids fluttered shut.

  Two warm hands stroked down her belly, fingers spearing through the tight, thick curls of her mound, sliding through the steamy trench of her vulva.

  She shuddered and moaned, her hips jerking as one finger rasped across the center of her pleasure, while two others penetrated the fluttering entrance to her sheath.

  And then, all of a sudden, the exquisite sensations stopped. The heat, the fire, the annihilating pleasure were suddenly gone, leaving only the cold air brushing over wet, throbbing nipples and the wet, slippery skin of her slit.

  She felt abandoned, bereft, every inch of her skin quivering with unfulfilled need and tingling with pleasure denied.

  “Nay,” she moaned low in her throat. “Don’t stop! Prithee, do not stop. It-I-Please…”

  Nicholas chuckled around a sharp stab of hunger as he gazed down at her beautiful breasts, pink and swollen, her berry-like nipples hard and distended from the loving attention of their mouths. “Fret not, sweetness. We’re not stopping. In fact, we’re getting ready to pleasure you even more. Get on your hands and knees, facing the foot of the bed.”

  While she did as he commanded, pushing down the furs as she went, he slid down the bed and lay on his back, his impressive erection rising straight up from the nest of black curls at the juncture of his thighs. Sitting up, he grabbed her hips and pulled her up the bed toward his head. As he lay back down, positioning her with her knees on either side of his head, he lowered her hips, placing her kernel right above his mouth.

  “Suck my cock.” he instructed in a harsh, guttural growl as he parted her outer labia to open her slick, wet folds to his hot breath, his wicked tongue. “While I feast on this delectable treat hovering so beautifully above me.” He groaned, his fingers tightening almost painfully in her flesh. “Christ, angel, you’re so wet, you’re dripping. I can’t wait. I have to taste you.”

  Moaning deep in his throat, he licked his tongue hard up the entire length of her slit, the sweet, fruity taste of her bursting into his mouth.

  “Oh, God! Oh, God!” She screamed, her body shuddering with a pleasure that sent her senses reeling. She panted for breath as convulsions rocked her cunt. Grabbing the base of the cock jerking and throbbing in her fist, tears streaming down her face, she struggled to focus her mind and catch her breath as he prepared to destroy her with pleasure.

  “Oh, God, Nicholas. Wait. Stay. I’m—” She licked her lips, staring at Rolf, who was regarding her with a mixture of love, lust, and amusement as he caressed his cock with his left hand. “Wh–what are you going to do?” she asked him breathlessly, trying to steady her labored gasps for air. Trying desperately to prepare herself for the destructive pleasure to come.

  “I know not, yndling,” he said with an indulgent smile as his other hand stroked his drooping mustache and goatee thoughtfully. He looked like a pirate, rakish and intensely masculine, preparing to ravish his helple
ss prisoner. His grin was wicked. Primal. Elemental. He gave her a wink. “But I’m reasonably certain I’ll be able to think of something.” He cocked his head, as though considering. “Perhaps a bit of exploring.”

  Nicholas’s hands tightened on Kathryn’s hips, fingers biting even deeper into her soft flesh as he pulled her down onto his waiting mouth. “Take me in your mouth, beloved,” he said, his voice harsh with need. “Suck my cock.”

  His cock was huge, iron hard, engorged with pounding blood. She flexed her fisted fingers around it, holding it still as her mouth closed over the widely flared head, raking her teeth, then her tongue against the sensitive underside.

  “Christ, Kathryn!” He jerked his hips upward, fucking his steel shaft deeply into her mouth. “That’s it, sweetness. Suck me. Suck me hard.” At the exact same moment, he circled his hard tongue around her pearl and pulled the succulent bit of flesh into his mouth, nibbling and sucking.

  She screamed, hips jerking before inhaling his cock as far down her throat as she could without choking.

  Holding still, they lay there throbbing, panting. Moaning. Waiting for Rolf to make his move.

  He crawled up the bed and knelt above Nicholas’s head. His fingers gripped the cheeks of Kathryn’s ass, spreading them as far apart as he could. Revealing the tiny rosebud opening of her anus to his hot, lustful gaze. Bending forward, he inhaled her scent deep into his lungs. “By Odin’s beard!” Then he fluttered the tip of his tongue against the puckered opening of her ass.

  Oh. My. God! She sobbed, then moaned around Nicholas’s cock as both men began to give her a pleasure so dark, so carnal, she thought she would surely die.