Chapter Text
My back hits the dirt. My opponent's armor collides with mine, steel on steel clattering as he wrestles me into submission. A rondel is pressed into my armpit and I freeze.
"Do you yield?"
I swallow saliva and adrenaline, tapping the ground next to me. He takes a ribbon from my belt, stands, and doesn't bother to help me up; instead flaunting himself before the bleachers, eyes resting on the royal booth. He steps closer, bows to the king and queen, and holds my ribbon out to Princess Melisende.
"For you my lady!"
She takes the token but her eyes stay on me as I stand, bow, and walk out of the arena.
"How'd it go sir?"
My squire Hob, a sheepish freckled brunette lad, has been under the impression that conversation lifts my mood.
"Same as ever." He hands me a flask of weak acorn ale. I take my helmet off, freeing my flat black hair, and take a swig. I wouldn't call it warm but I wouldn't call it cool either, "Help me out this armor won't you?"
He goes about undoing the various buckles of my great grandfather's armor, yapping about the fair weather we're having. My chain-mail shirt is lifted and we're down to the two padded doublets I wear to fill out the armor. In spite of a life's worth of training, my body never quite filled out like the men in my family. My father blames my mixed blood: which is to say he blames my mother.
"—events sir?"
I shake my head, "Lost in thought Hob, what was that?"
"Will you be attending any side events sir?"
Free of my layers, I pull my damp tunic off and down another draught, "Not this tourney…" My squire can't hide his disappointment, "but, tell you what. Grab me a flagon of better ale and you're free to roam."
Hob perks up and takes off. I take a seat, groan from soreness, and drink more. By the time I reach the bitter grits at the bottom, the flaps of my tent open. My squire has a stout dark enough I can smell it and he's not alone. Following him is a plain, pale, woman in an embroidered caul and an olive dress far too fine to be stepping into my tent.
"Sir Gerelt of House Brunor?" She speaks in monotone.
I put my tunic back on, gesture for Hob to hand me the flagon and look to our guest, "Aye." I dip my head, "Well met my lady, to whom do I owe the pleasure?" I start to pour myself a second, cooler, drink.
"Isabel, lady in waiting for Princess Melisende of House Pendragon."
Ale pours over my hand and shirt, I stand with a sharp inhale and give a proper bow.
"Forgive me for any impudence, how may I be of service Lady Isabel."
If spilling my drink amuses her, she gives no indication, "My mistress is of a mind to speak with you, I am to bring you to her."
I cough and nearly choke myself on my next words, "Give me but time to change my attire… might I ask why the princess seeks my audience?"
"You are free to ask her yourself Sir Gerelt."
She dips her head. The moment she steps outside I whip my attention to Hob, whisper-screaming through my teeth, "What happened?"
He whispers back, "Lady Isabel found me when I was fetching your drink. She just asked to speak with you and didn't mention who she served."
"And you didn't ask?"
Hob shrugs, "Pretty lady."
I groan and run my hands over my face.
"What's the nicest clothing we brought?"
"Well at this point most of your shirts are stained… but you have that black doublet to cover up? Red pink pants to go alongside it?"
"Good enough." Hob searches through my trunk and hands me the clothes. I change quickly and he gives me a once over.
"Dashing sir."
"Don't patronize me, Hob."
"You look well enough sir."
"Okay, patronize me a little."
Hob settles on two thumbs upwards. I grab the stout, chug it, brace myself, and together we step out of my tent. Lady Isabel is standing a meter away, fanning herself. She looks me over.
"All set Sir Gerelt?"
"Yes my Lady. Lead the way."
Princess Melisende's tent is at the edge of the tourney grounds. Halberd bearing guards patrol the area. The structure itself is easily quintuple the size of mine, striped royal blue and sunflower yellow. In spite of the mud, smoke, and manure that define a tourneys smell, I can make out lavender perfume and white wine coming from within. Lady Isabel enters before us and we wait for roughly five minutes before she exits.
"Princess Melisende would like to speak with Sir Gerelt without the company of his squire."
Hob and I share a wide eyed glance. He pats me on the back and I step forward into the tent.
The lavender and wine fills the air within. Planks of wood give the tent a solid floor. Plush pillows, rugs, and blankets haphazardly lay about and I become acutely aware of the dirt on my boots.
Princess Melisende lounges on a long cushion, back resting on a stack of pillows. Her grain and gold hair is pulled up into a bun. Her plump cheeks are flush and her lips are painted a soft pink to match her dress. Between now and the tournament some layers have been stripped away, not scandalous but the right gossipmonger could paint it as such. In one hand she holds a book, in the other she holds a gold and gem goblet. She says nothing until she turns a page, places a ribbon in the book, sets it aside, and finally looks at me. Her eyes are a pale green, like sage. They lock onto mine and I avert by taking a knee and ducking my head.
"Princess Melisende, it is an honor. How may I best serve you my lady?"
"You can start by looking at me Sir Gerelt." Her voice is sweet if nasally.
I look up and she's kneeling on a cushion less than a long-sword away. I flinch backwards and she turns her head to give a quizzical look.
"I don't bite Sir Gerelt."
I try to speak and bumble my words into a series of "ums" and "ehs" that resolve in a "Yes, Princess Melisende."
She looks to her lady in waiting and snickers, Lady Isabel seems to stay stoic, it is increasingly clear that's her default. When her amusement begins to die down, I find language again.
"Might I ask why you've requested me, Princess Melisende?"
Her giggles fully cease, "Yes of course; Ibb, make music."
"Yes Princess Melisende." Lady Isabel opens a case and withdraws a handheld hurdy-gurdy, smallest I've seen. She turns the winch and begins to play a somewhat menacing caccia.
"You may stand Sir Gerelt." She speaks under the music.
Happy to have a concrete order, I obey. My heartbeat picks up when I realize she has no intent to stand with me. I look at her lady in waiting who offers raised eyebrows and nothing more.
"I'd rather have this conversation with you looking at my face Sir Gerelt."
"Conversation?" I drag my eyes back to hers. She sips from her goblet of wine and smacks her lips.
"Negotiation really… I would like to enter into an accord."
Ah, something needs to be harmed or slain. I'm hardly the best candidate, but I can assume it's either light work or a more expendable knight is needed. I'll believe the former, "House Brunor is happy to help House Pendragon in any matters. Who or what is the target of my quest?"
She snickers again, sips more wine, "Me, Sir Gerelt."
I must have heard her wrong, I open my mouth to say as such—
"You heard correctly." She sets her goblet down, rests her palms on her calves, pushes her chest out, and tilts her eyes more than her face to look at me, "I wish to make an arrangement with you where you… hurt me."
I conclude that I was knocked unconscious during the tournament, "I am going to leave now Princess Melisende."
She continues before I can turn away, "I order you to stay, Sir Gerelt of House Brunor." Her face twists and she lets out a long sigh.
If this is real, I'm destined for the executioner's block either way at this point. Better to indulge I suppose.
"Ibb, can you explain for me? It's too…"
"Melisende is afflicted with perverse desires, Sir Gerelt."
"Ibb, that's hardly fair. I do nothing that would harm my chastity and half of what monks partake in."
"Torturing yourself might be monastic, but you don't do so with God on the mind."
"You don't know that."
"Sure my lady."
I pipe up, "Should I take my leave?"
Princess Melisende seems to remember I'm in the room, "No!" Her blush grows, "Ibb, explain properly."
"As I spoke, Melisende is afflicted with desires that have escalated beyond her own ability. She finds pleasure—don't deny it my lady—in harm, restraint, and… behaving below her station. In short, she's looking for someone to flog her on holidays." She plays an upbeat Christmas ditty and returns to the caccia.
"… this seems wildly inappropriate."
"I assure you Sir Gerelt: it is."
"Ibb!"
"Why me?"
Lady Isabel raises her brows, "Oh no, you aren't leaving. To be forthcoming, Melisende finds you… unthreatening."
My consistent tourney losses haunt me, "For my honor, I must express resentment at that my lady."
"Take it as a compliment. She does not wish for someone brutish, nor someone with too gentle a hand."
I have a familiar thought that I'll likely never shake, "… if this has anything to do with my mother I'll take my leave."
Princess Melisende's eyes go wide and she nearly sits up, "Nothing of the sort Sir Gerelt!"
"To my knowledge Melisende has not considered your heritage, but I have."
"Ibb?"
"Between the veritable collection of your ribbons she has, the standing of house Brunor, and— unfortunately— your mixed blood: were the two of you to get caught… well… the rumors would be easy to dismiss as libel."
There's another factor the two of them can't be aware of. I chew the inside of my cheek, "… I shall need time to consider this my ladies."
Princess Melisende shuffles a little closer, "May I give you a taste of my desires Sir Gerelt?"
I pause, curiosity wins over restraint, "As you wish, Princess Melisende."
She leans forward, palms on the floor, and crawls over to my feet. Lady Isabel produces a handkerchief for her, and with a cursory wipe some of the dirt is loosed. When she cleans, her breath quickens. When I realize where this is leading to, mine does too. She lays a gentle reverent kiss on my boot, leaving a smudge of pink, and looks up at me with foggy eyes. From her angle she must be able to notice the tightness in my pants.
"You may take your leave Sir Gerelt."
I've never exited a room faster.
My heart is still pounding a half hour later, "More ale Hob."
"You're a flagon deep Sir Gerelt."
"I intend on two to three."
A look of concern settles on his freckled face, "Did you dishonor our House in front of Princess Melisende?"
I laugh, "Oh hardly."
"Why the excess?"
I come up with a lie, quick and drunk, "I'm under oath not to say."
"… so you fucked?"
If I wasn't out of ale I'd be spraying it across the tent, "Nothing of the sort! We simply… talked. She had a request. I'm considering it."
"While drinking?"
"Some decisions aren't to be made sober."
"You're supposed to be a good influence on me Sir Gerelt."
"That passed several tournaments ago, Hob."
He shrugs and leaves. I collapse onto my hay mattress and stare at the top of my tent. I can't lie to myself, the arrangement excites me. A lady on her knees, kissing my boot, and images of flogging her stir my loins. Her being of higher station, the highest station, only hastens my breath. I thought I had but one unholy—at least I believe it to be—fantasy… perhaps she will indulge me.
I find the nearest quill and parchment and begin to write. I keep it brief, layer and obscure the meaning, and seal it with green candle wax. Hob returns with a flagon in one hand and a loaf of bread in the other as I'm blowing on the stamp.
"More work for me Sir?"
"Ensure this letter is delivered to Lady Isabel or Princess Melisende. Then, you're free to go back to the evening events." I toss him my coin-purse, "Take the night off."
My squire looks at the letter, then the money, and makes a decision, "On it sir. I'll see you come morning?"
"See you come morning. God be with you."
"God be with you." He departs with a wave and I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding. I light a lamp for the incoming night and sit on my tick mattress, nursing a mug of stout and scarfing down the rye. I'm queasy with anticipation. I feel fourteen again, butterflies in my stomach at a grand hall when I asked a girl to dance. The longer I wait the more I wish I had thought more before responding. Perhaps this was a decision better made sober. I finish my food and drink by the time I hear Lady Isabel speaking outside.
"Sir Gerelt, it's Lady Isabel. Princess Melisende requests your company."
I sway when I stand, compose myself, and take regretful steps out of my tent. Lady Isabel is accompanied by two guards, given the festivities under the cover of night I shouldn't be surprised, but for a moment I fear arrest. I bow, and am led to the edge of the grounds.
<>
Her tent is lit by scented candlesticks. She stands in a back laced slip and I'm able to better take in the shape of her. She's my height, maybe even a hair taller, and healthily pudgy. Wide hips and heavy breasts. Her hair cascades down to her waist, freshly combed, it's waves glitter in the candle light. From her flush, it seems she's had as much to drink as I have. She has a leather riding crop in one of her trembling hands.
She almost trips on her way over to me, takes me by the wrist to shove the crop in my hand, steps back, and drops to her knees on a rug. I realize I like her there, looking up at me, and force myself to breathe. Lady Isabel is reclined off to the side, putting more attention on her instrument than us, a slow and somewhat dark melody.
I still my own shaking hands, "What do I do?"
Princess Melisende mutters under the music. I step closer and halt when she flinches. I try to speak softly but my voice shakes, "I didn't hear you Princess Melisende."
She looks down at her knees, "Unlace my dress and… whip my back. Hard. As hard as you're willing. Even if I tell you to stop. I… I'll want the pain regardless… Sir Gerelt."
Concerning, "For my comfort I need to know when to yield."
She takes a moment to consider, "… if I stand?"
"What if you can—"
"If I even try to stand. Or crawl away from you? Sir Gerelt."
I look to Lady Isabel for assurance and she offers none.
"Alright… but I have a request. One that may call off the arrangement."
She looks up, slightly panicked, "I doubt that but go on Sir Gerelt."
She has chosen to be vulnerable with me, it's only fair to be vulnerable with her. And if past dalliances have proven anything, it's that I can't truly enjoy this if she doesn't know, "While we are alone, so long as this contract lasts, I don't wish to be called 'Sir.'"
"A higher status makes sense. Lord then?"
I swallow the lump in my throat, "Lady. I prefer lady."
I close my eyes and brace for rejection. My perversion runs deeper than hers, a very rejection of God's design… no words come. I crack an eyelid open and am shocked to see a wide smile on her face.
"Delightful! Odd, but delightful. This will make things easier."
"… my lady?"
Lady Isabel's stoicism breaks and I can hear her giggling in the corner, the hurdy-gurdy playing off beat, "Melisende you lucked into the perfect knight!"
"How does she mean?"
Princess Melisende seems to relax, her hands are no longer quaking at the least, "I have a preference for the company of women… Lady Gerelt. If you desire to be referred to as one I am content, no, happy with that arrangement."
I must have fallen asleep on my mattress. I look at her riding crop… might as well enjoy this dream.
"Then… everything is settled. May I unlace your dress, Princess Melisende?"
She releases a breath, "Yes my lady."
She crosses her hands over her chest to stop the front from falling away as I undo the strings. I inhale when I catch sight of her back, her otherwise soft skin is patchy with light scars, mainly on her right shoulder-blade.
"Is this all your doing?"
"… yes my lady."
I stand back, running the crop along one of the scars. She squirms.
"That tickles my lady."
At that I keep up the gentle touch until she's laughing and having trouble staying upright. I catch myself smiling and pitching a tent. Something about this, the dominion and the proper title, is more appealing to my heart than my prior relationships. I barely recognize that sadism has fogged my brain and allow it to regardless.
"I'll stop if you bleed."
"Wha—"
Without warning I swing harder than I intended to and she bites down a scream.