Tamed by the Knight

by Loki Renard

  “Follow me, squire,” he winked, lightly spurring his mount forward. Madeline followed suit, nudging the buckskin filly forward. She was accustomed to traveling in the stallion’s wake, for she followed the larger horse’s pacing quite naturally as the knight and the princess-turned-squire rode out of the gates and headed to the north.

  Chapter Five

  Their route took Madeline through countryside she had never seen before. Her travels had been few and though she had sneaked numerous rides around the immediate area, she had never picked a direction and ridden so far in a single direction. Sir Gregory chose to take the main route north, valuing speed over stealth. After all, there was no need to hide their presence, for they were but a knight and his squire going about their usual business.

  Their pace was steady, but not overly fast to allow Nosewise and Holdfast to keep up. It gave Madeline enough time to enjoy the passing scenery. She was not as concerned as she should have been; in fact she was not concerned at all. She could not imagine a safer place in all the world than by Sir Gregory’s side.

  Sir Gregory was handsome, bold, and brave. Had he been less of a knight and more of a king, she would have considered him an excellent match. He certainly had the bearing and authority of a king; he was, however, missing the kingdom part of being a king and that was a rather serious lacking.

  “Keep your thumbs atop the reins,” he directed, pulling alongside her. “I will not tolerate a squire with lazy hands.”

  “What’s the difference?” Madeline dropped her hands and frowned at him.

  “If you hold your hands with the thumbs on top and keep the reins neat, then Melyngar will be more comfortable and your arms will move more naturally with her. If your hands drop horizontally, your elbows lock and your arms stiffen.”

  Madeline tried holding herself the way he instructed and found that her arms did move more freely. Melyngar’s ears pricked forward and she moved with a lighter step.

  “Better,” he nodded, giving her a little wink. “Melyngar will appreciate the effort.”

  Madeline smiled, glad to have learned something useful. She had more or less taught herself to ride absent of any proper instruction, as such instruction had been forbidden to her. “Is there anything else I should be doing?”

  “Well,” he said, casting a critical eye at her as he rested his hands on the pommel of his saddle. “Your heels could be a little lower, your thighs a little straighter, and your hips more engaged, but you are quite a nice little rider, all things considered.”

  The princess could not hide her smile. Praise was a rarity; to receive it from Sir Gregory made her stomach fill with happy warmth.

  Their first stop came several hours later at a tavern by the old crossroads. Sir Gregory dismounted and tossed his reins to Madeline, clearly expecting her to undertake a squire’s duties. Madeline would not have minded quite so much if she had any idea what the duties entailed precisely. The hounds had kept pace for the duration of the ride, but threw themselves down at the stables and refused to move even when she prodded at them with the toe of her boot.

  Sir Gregory was welcomed most obsequiously by the tavern keeper, but Madeline was more or less ignored. She stood outside the stables, looking at snoring mastiffs and holding the reins of sweat-soaked horses, a scowl on her face. Did he really think she would fall to menial tasks without the slightest complaint?

  “You look lost, boy.” An old man loomed out of the stable, rubbing knobby arthritic hands together. “Bring them horses in here and get them wiped down. They’re right lathered.”

  “The dogs are in the way.”

  “They’ll move,” the old man snorted. “Bring the horses in and get ‘em washed down.”

  Madeline led the horses toward the stable doors and discovered that the dogs did indeed move rather than be stepped on by heavy hooves. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dark of the stables, during which time she tripped over a young man who had been sleeping curled up against the wall.

  “Oi!” He sat up and pushed blond hair out of his eyes. “Watch it!”

  Madeline scowled down at the squire. “You watch where you’re sleeping. You’re right in the middle of the way.”

  “I’m Earnest, Sir August’s squire,” the young man said, taking to his feet. He was lanky, but tall and he had a good foot on Madeline. “Apologize at once!”

  “I will not,” Madeline replied, putting the horses into a stall. She gave the squire Earnest a dirty look as she fumbled with the buckles of the saddle.

  “If you will not, I will beat you.”

  Madeline hauled the stallion’s saddle off, swearing as the leather pinched her fingers. “Go away, boy,” she snapped heatedly.

  Earnest, Sir August’s squire, apparently had quite a temper on him, for he strode forward and pushed Madeline with both hands, sending her tumbling into the straw where the stallion had just relieved itself. Smelling of pee, Madeline rose with her hands clenched into fists, curses flying off her tongue.

  She had never been in an altercation of any kind of course, but she found her temper guided her actions well enough. She shoved Earnest back, sending him stumbling back toward the wall. Earnest did not like that in the slightest. He swore and bunched his hands into fists, then came charging across the stables straight at Madeline.

  Sir Gregory’s earlier words seemed to be prescient. Madeline’s agility was what kept her safe from the swinging fists. She dodged away, leaving Earnest’s fist to swing itself into a solid beam of wood. His shrieking curse filled the air, as he clutched at his hand. It was already swelling, showing signs of being broken.

  “Coward!”

  “Dullard,” Madeline replied, smirking unpleasantly. “The wood never did anything to hurt you, why did you insist on striking it?”

  “You know full well it was you I intended to strike, you milk-drinking whelp!” Earnest was furious, but having injured his hand there was little he could do.

  The matter might have ended there, but for the fact that their altercation had been reported by the old stable hand. The horses had not been overly bothered by it; they had been more interested in water and grain than the two humans shouting bloody murder at one another and fighting in the stables. Nosewise and Holdfast were equally indifferent, tired by their great journey; they slumbered as Madeline and Earnest squared off, their great jowls fluttering with their deep snores.

  Madeline stood and watched as Earnest nursed his hand, throwing curses at her and promises to do her ill.

  “I need not my good hand,” he declared. “I can beat you as well with my left as my right!”

  She prepared herself for another scuffle, but Earnest was interrupted before he could make good on his promise.

  “Earnest! What are you doing!?” A great red-bearded man stormed into the stables. “What the blasted blast is the meaning of this! What have you done to yourself?”

  Earnest straightened up, threw his shoulders back, and tried to hide his hand behind his back. “Nothing, sir.”

  “Sir August, I presume,” Madeline said, wiping a smear of dirt from her cheek.

  “You’ll not speak to me, boy!”

  “Are your ears too tender for simple words?” Madeline spoke rudely and rashly, her temper sparking at Sir August’s derisive disrespect. She found it quite outrageous to be treated in such a manner, by one who wore her father’s colors and fought under his flag.

  “What did you say, boy?” Sir August rounded on her, a great wall of a man far more imposing than his squire.

  “It matters little what I said,” Madeline replied. “You are too dull to comprehend it.”

  Behind Sir August, Earnest was shaking his head violently, his eyes wide with warning. It was rather kind of him to attempt to save Madeline from herself, given that they had just been engaged in a scuffle of their own.

  Sir August growled and his fists clenched. Madeline was one second away from the beating of a lifetime when Sir Gregory raced into the stables, snatched
her up by the back of her shirt, and shook her like a pup. Madeline was rather surprised at his strength, for he held her off the ground without any real effort at all, her feet dangling in mid-air as he growled at her. “You scamp! I leave you be and this is what you do? Brawl like an urchin?”

  “I did very little brawling,” Madeline said quite honestly. “Earnest took issue with the wall, it seemed. A fine squire he is, ready to protect his master from oak and ash alike.”

  “Your squire has quite a tongue. I hope his skill with the blade is equal,” Sir August observed. “His manners are certainly lacking.”

  “You would be surprised at what else I lack,” Madeline replied, enjoying her secret.

  “Enough,” Sir Gregory growled in her ear. “I will not hesitate to thrash you if you do not apologize this instant.”

  “Apologize? For what!?”

  “Let us begin with your impertinence.”

  “Nay,” Madeline refused. She would not have apologized if she had been offered a mountain of gold. As far as she was concerned, both Earnest and August were unworthy, rude, rough men undeserving of an apology from someone like herself. The only apology they deserved was from the unfortunate women who had birthed them into the world.

  Ordinarily her refusal would have led to some discussion, but Madeline soon discovered that though a knight might discuss a princess’ punishment, he did not discuss a squire’s comeuppance. Sir Gregory took a rod that had been leaning against the wall amongst several others apparently left there for the purpose and brought it down hard across the seat of her britches. Madeline let out a shriek that startled the mare and caused Sir Gregory to drag her out of the stable proper to avoid further concern to the animals.

  Out in the open, he propped his thigh up on a chopping block and used it as a fulcrum over which to punish her. His hand was secured strongly in the back of her tunic, her hips pressed against his strong thigh as his other hand plied the rod back and forth against her hide with little mercy. The fact that Earnest and Sir August were looking on made the experience all the more humiliating for the princess who had never been publicly chided before, let alone physically chastised.

  “He squeals like a maiden,” Sir August observed. “Your squire needs a good deal more thrashing, and a great deal of feeding up, Sir Gregory. He’s too small for battle.”

  “I will deal with mine,” Sir Gregory replied. “You deal with yours.”

  Madeline took the opportunity to bite her thumb at Sir August out of the sight of Sir Gregory, whose eyes were fastened on her behind. Sir August did not seem overly concerned by the gesture, for he was still witnessing her continued punishment.

  “Defiance is not a good quality in a squire,” he rumbled. “You could whip that lad all day and he would not learn his lesson, I’ll warrant.”

  “There you might be correct,” Sir Gregory admitted.

  Madeline’s bottom was ablaze with bursting, burning pain. Each of the rod’s strokes had left an imprint on her flesh, even through the rough fabric of her britches. She was beginning to feel very sorry for herself, for she was filthy and she was sore and she smelled of horse urine and nobody was treating her with any measure of tenderness at all. Being a squire was not easy.

  Sir Gregory dropped his knee, letting her take her feet once more. It took all her effort not to cry as she turned her face away and sniffed deeply.

  “Come, lad,” Sir Gregory said, putting his hand on her shoulder. “You need bathing.”

  Madeline did not have the fight in her to disagree. She allowed herself to be taken into the tavern and up to a room that would not have suited her in the slightest as a princess, but that seemed like heaven compared to the rough stables below. A bath had been filled with steaming warm water. She gravitated toward it without a word to Sir Gregory, peeling off her filthy clothes as she walked. Modesty was not a concern; after all Sir Gregory had seen the various parts of her in a state of undress before—why not let him see her in all her nudity? She had little pride left, her muscles were aching, and her buttocks were stinging, and she wanted nothing more than to be warm and clean.

  Clambering into the tub, Madeline sank down until the water covered her to her chin. The heat was not pleasant against her whipped flesh, but it felt so good against the rest of her body that she decided to bear the discomfort.

  Sir Gregory made tutting noises and picked up her discarded clothing. “You will have to learn to clean. Your duties as a squire involve keeping my quarters in a suitable state.”

  “And your duties apparently involve beating me instead of rescuing me from brutes who wish me harm.”

  “Your task was to tend the horses,” Sir Gregory stood over her as she bathed. “Not start fights with other squires.”

  “I didn’t start the fight.” Madeline scowled from her watery bastion. “He was the one sprawled out in the middle of the stables like a dead drunk. He was asking to be stepped on. And he pushed me first. I did very little; if anything I was the victim of circumstance.”

  “If anything, you were the victim of your own mouth,” Gregory disagreed. “Not a day into our trip and you have already found trouble.”

  “Trouble finds me,” Madeline informed him. “You decided that I should pretend to be your squire, but you gave me no training in the matter. You seem to think that I will learn if you strike me enough.”

  “You will soon learn what not do to,” Sir Gregory said without any guilt or remorse in his tone. “And you deserved each and every stroke of that rod. You were rude to a knight. No squire would dream of taunting a knight.”

  Shifting ever so slightly in her bath, Madeline shrugged. “I am not a squire,” she said. “I am a princess. I am accustomed to being treated with respect. You cannot expect me to abandon my nature and position in an instant. I have spent a lifetime as a princess. I have been a squire for all of six hours.”

  Sir Gregory’s expression softened a little. “Perhaps you are right,” he said. “I should not have left you alone with the horses. I should not have let you out of my sight. I will not make that mistake again.”

  It was not an apology, but it was about as close to one as Madeline was going to get. She finished her bath in grumpy silence, dried herself off, and made for the bed. She could feel his eyes on her as she walked, following her reddened rump with his gaze.

  She was still quite naked when she got into bed, leaving him to bathe in the remaining water. He kept his eyes on her as he stripped off his clothing. Though she pretended to be immune to his charms, Madeline nevertheless bunched the sheets up in such a manner as to allow her to look upon his naked form.

  He was magnificent. He removed his leggings first and she saw that his legs were muscled and hard all the way to his rounded posterior shaped like that of some pagan god. When he removed his doublet and shirt, her quim began to pulse of its own accord. His manhood hung thick and long between his thighs, but it was his torso that truly took her breath away. His hips were slim and his abdomen was furred and toned, but his shoulders were broad and his chest was spectacularly formed with slabs of muscle bigger than her head. Sir Gregory was far more imposing without his clothes than with them. Madeline could not stop herself from staring, her roaming eye taking him in over and over again until he sat in the bath and just his knees and shoulders were exposed.

  “You know I can see you, princess,” he drawled as he began to wash himself. “You may look upon me without shame. We are betrothed.”

  Madeline made no reply, for she was not going to admit her carnal curiosity. She was so deeply affected by her reaction to his body that it scared her. He had filled her head with wanton thoughts so torrid she could barely have stood to look herself in the eye. She chose to cover her face and listen as he washed. She could imagine the water beading on his skin, trailing down over the planes of his muscles in a slow trickling torrent.

  “It’s not like you to hide, princess,” he said, clearly amused by her modesty. “What is the matter? Have you not seen a
man in a state of undress before?”

  “Of course I haven’t,” Madeline snapped. “I have seen your manhood before though. I have touched it if you recall. I have tasted it.”

  “My manhood, yes, but not my body. It is one thing to see a part of a man, something else to see what he is like in the flesh.”

  She heard the rushing water as he stood up, then the soft sounds of his body being toweled dry.

  “Last chance to see, princess,” he said in teasing tones. “I am about to don my nightshirt.”

  “I don’t care,” Madeline lied, shutting her eyes tightly. She was battling with herself, against the instinct that made her want to throw back the sheets, spread her thighs, and welcome him deep inside her body.

  “I know you are not truly shy, princess,” Sir Gregory drawled. “So I can only imagine this temper of yours is related to the stripes on your bottom. If you plan to sulk every time you are chastised, you will be sulking a great deal.”

  “I’m not sulking,” Madeline said, sitting upright. She gathered the sheets about her and pushed pillow after pillow around her so that she would not be touched when Gregory came to bed. Lying on her side, she manned her soft fortifications with all due fierceness.

  “What is this?” Sir Gregory chuckled as he strode toward the bed in the incongruous nightshirt that did little to hide his charms.

  “This is my protection,” she said, her chin jutting high.

  His blue eyes sparkled with humor. “You think a pillow will protect you from the ardor of a knight?”

  “No,” she said. “It is symbolic. Like that griffon you wear on your tabard. My father is not literally a griffon, is he?”

  “No, but his daughter’s claws are as dangerous, her rump as beautiful, and her beak as sharp and deadly.”

  Madeline tried not to look too pleased at Gregory’s assessment. “I am a princess, you know. Even if we are pretending that I am your squire.”

  “I have not forgotten,” he said, standing before her. “Have you forgotten that I am your betrothed?”