Knight of Westmoorland: The Queen and the warrior

by Toboorg, M. S.

  “Now.”

  They dragged him off the table and across the room. He concentrated his efforts at remaining conscious and didn’t resist as they shackled his hands above his head, held far apart and high by the chains hanging from the ceiling. They secured his ankles to the floor before removing the loop of leather from his throat. Then they left the chamber, taking the torches with them and leaving him in darkness.

  At least, he could stand flat-footed. He let his head drop to his chest and closed his eyes.

  He heard the guards enter the dungeon, but didn’t raise his head until he felt a hand on his side. He cut his eyes to the left. It was Gaius beside him, removing the bandage from his wound; Queen Gracelyn stood in front of him. When he met her gaze, she turned and walked to the table. He watched her peruse the instruments of torture, barely aware of the physician’s hands as he treated the wound and covered it with a fresh bandage.

  Gaius approached the Queen, laying a hand gently on her shoulder, and murmured in her ear. She answered him softly, with a slight shake of her head. He gave the captured warrior a long look before leaving the room.

  The Queen returned to the warrior, crossing her arms over her bosoms. “Are you ready to answer my questions?” Her voice was soft and her eyes troubled, the skin underneath them discolored.

  He sighed. “I’ve given you the only answer I can.”

  Disappointment flashed in her eyes, quickly replaced by determination.

  “King William does not deserve your loyalty.” She spat out the name with loathing.

  The warrior knew this to be true. As king, William had his allegiance. But not his respect. He tried to shrug, but his arms and hands were numb from being stretched over his head. “Westmoorland is my home. He is her Sovereign King.”

  “So…” The queen’s eyes narrowed as she studied him. “Your loyalty is not to King William, per se, but to Westmoorland.”

  “King. Kingdom. One in the same.”

  “But you must know, I am not a threat to your homeland!” She was trying to reason with him. The desperation in her eyes hurt him more than his wounded side. Feeling hopeless, he lowered his head.

  “Very well, then,” she said softly and turned away.

  She activated the pulley and the chains attached to his shackled wrists drew towards the ceiling, until his weight was again on the balls of his feet.

  Retrieving a circle of leather from the table, she approached him. The leather had a split down one side and she fit it around the top of his sac and then laced it tightly.

  He inhaled through clenched teeth. Thorns imbedded in the underside of the leather pressed into the tender flesh of his balls. She cinched the leather below his testicles and attached a weight to it. Without a glance in his direction, she retrieved a matched pair of floggers from the table and took her position behind him.

  She gave him no warm-up. The strike of the first flogger upon his back was fierce, rocking him forward. The weight swung beneath the leather, driving the thorns deeper into his skin. He had no time to recover his balance before the second flogger struck. The Queen’s rhythm was swift and strong as she landed the tails of the floggers on his ass, upper and lower back. The speed and power with which they landed increased to a frenzied point until the warrior could tell no lapse in time between the strikes.

  He tried to block the pain from his mind by imagining how the Queen appeared as she danced the leather across his skin. He had observed this type of double-handed flogging before, and the grace and beauty of it had mesmerized him.

  At the time, he’d spared little thought to the plight of the poor man on the receiving end.

  But now, the pain of receiving drove the image from his mind. The force of the floggers kept his body constantly rocking, his balls stretched by the weight and tortured by the prick of the thorns.

  In all of his years of training, of battles won and lost, he’d never felt such pain. It radiated from the inside, out and back in again. Finally, the pain wrenched a scream from his parched throat.

  She stopped. He settled down onto the balls of his feet and tried to catch his breath.

  His respite was short. She addressed him, each word accentuated by a potent strike from a flogger. “Answer. My. Question! Is. He. Planning. An. Attack?”

  She moved in front of him, waiting for an answer. His breath was ragged and his chest heaved as he gazed at her.

  “Tell me!” she pleaded.

  He dropped his head.

  She tangled her fingers in his hair and raised his head, searching his face as tears glistened in her eyes. “I have never failed to break a man,” she said softly, her voice uneven. “I cannot fail now! If King William plans to attack, I must know! I have allies I can call on, but…I can’t ask them to send their armies—leave their own realms unprotected—unless I know!”

  But he couldn’t tell her what he didn’t know himself. And to tell her what little he knew would be traitorous. Cowardly.

  Not to mention, make him appear weak.

  He wasn’t to that breaking point. Yet.

  He closed his eyes.

  “If you will not talk…” she pulled her fingers out of his hair. He opened his eyes to see her stride to the table, returning with a large rag. “Then, I shall make it so you cannot talk!” She wrapped the rag around from the back of his head, tying a knot and pulling it so tightly, he had no choice but to part his teeth. She tied a second knot, forcing the rag into his mouth. The rag tasted repugnantly of dirt, sweat and blood.

  She took her stance behind him and resumed her flogging with renewed determination.

  After a while, he mercifully passed out.

  Chapter Four

  THE WARRIOR AWOKE, INSTANTLY ALERT but remained still, using his other senses to explore his situation. He was lying on his side, his hands shackled behind him and his ankles chained about a foot apart. And he was warm.

  Opening his eyes, he raised his head slightly. The stone fireplace glowed orange from a small fire and a blanket covered his naked body.

  He turned his head to see the rest of the chamber. Philippe stood watch with two other guards by the open door. Philippe noticed his movement and disappeared out into the corridor. The other two kept their places, observing him curiously.

  He shifted his body, sitting up and leaning gingerly on the wall. The cold stones felt almost soothing against his welt-covered back. He used his movement as a disguise as he tested the chain between his wrists. It was short, but it allowed him enough slack that, with effort, he could get his hands in front of him and then he could fight. He watched the guards, waiting until their eyes drifted away from him, and then braced his feet on the dirt floor and lifted his body. He pulled his hands underneath his ass, working the chain towards his thighs.

  Philippe entered the dungeon, Queen Gracelyn two steps behind him, followed by Armand, carrying a tray. A goblet, pitcher and plate of foot sat upon the tray.

  The warrior paused, and then reversed his actions, working until his hands were again securely behind his back. He would fight the guards in her presence or not, but he would not allow her to be caught in the middle of it.

  Besides, the aroma from the food made his mouth water. He’d successfully controlled his hunger, up until now, but the presence of food made that control difficult.

  She approached him, pulling the blanket off his legs and onto the floor, and then settled onto the blanket. Armand placed the tray on the floor beside her, bowing to her before he went to join the other guards.

  She filled the goblet with water and held it to his lips. He drank without hesitation. But when she offered him a piece of meat, he stubbornly turned his head away, unwilling to surrender his only measure of control.

  “You must eat. Or you will perish,” she insisted.

  His eyes wandere
d to the table, several feet away, upon which he had lain while Gaius cauterized his wound and the Queen tortured him with candles. Then, he gazed across the chamber, to the chains still hanging from the ceiling. Finally, he raised his eyes to the Rack in the corner of the room.

  “Warrior…”

  He returned his gaze to her face, surprised by the concern he saw there.

  “You will not die by my hand. Now, eat.” She again offered him the meat, held between her finger and thumb.

  Holding her gaze, he leaned forward and opened his mouth. She placed the meat on his tongue, waited until his mouth closed around it and slowly pulled her fingers across his lips.

  He closed his eyes and savored the roasted beef, tender and juicy. Momentarily forgetting about his back, he leaned heavily against the wall. Pain crossed his face before he could prevent it.

  “How is your back?”

  How the hell do you think? But he bit his tongue to hold back the sarcastic remark and responded softly, “It hurts.”

  “I guess it does.” Her eyes fluttered downward as she picked up a piece of potato, again waiting until his mouth closed on the food before withdrawing her fingers.

  She continued to feed him, caressing his lips with her fingers after each bite and frequently offering the water. The plate was emptied too soon; the food was only enough to awaken his appetite. His stomach growled.

  “There will be more, later. First, I have a task for you; a test, if you wish to call it that.”

  The warrior groaned. “Your Highness, I cannot answer your questions.”

  Sighing, she reached out her hand and touched his face. “No questions, this time. Something different. But first…” She tugged on his scruffy beard. “I will rid you of this.”

  He frowned at her, confused. She laughed softly and rose to her feet, glancing at Philippe, by the door. He beckoned to someone in the hall before coming to retrieve the tray.

  A young woman entered the chamber. Her dress was plain and her blond hair was pulled back with a simple bow. Her blue eyes were wide, tinged with fear, as she looked around the dungeon. She carried a tray, laden with a bowl of water and a rag, a cake of soap, a shaving brush and a straight razor.

  The warrior watched her approach. She was no older than Queen Gracelyn had been, the first time he’d seen her. As she neared, her eyes fell on his naked form and a blush rose to her cheeks.

  The Queen leaned back on the table. “This is Emily Rose, my maidservant. I suggest you hold very still. She’s never done this before.”

  He leaned his head against the wall, watching the maid work the soap into lather. When she raised the brush to his face, she met his eyes and the blush on her cheeks deepened. She picked the razor up with a trembling hand.

  Sighing, he closed his eyes and sat still, feeling the blade of the razor on his cheek.

  When she finished shaving his face, she pressed her finger under his chin. He raised it high, stretching his neck, and opened his eyes.

  Queen Gracelyn was watching them, her eyes bright and a flush on her face that had nothing to do with the warmth in the room.

  She was excited.

  The warrior’s heart started to pound.

  The maidservant finished shaving his neck, checked for any spots that she had missed and then dipped a rag in the warm water and wiped his face. Returning the items to the tray, she rose and backed away.

  Queen Gracelyn stepped up to him. “Stand up,” she commanded softly.

  He rose to his feet. The Queen stroked his face and examined his neck. With a nod, she smiled over her shoulder at her maidservant.

  “Very nice, Emily Rose. Your first time, it is a close shave and you didn’t cut him.” And then she addressed the warrior. “You grew a beard and mustache especially for your disguise; I can tell by the sun-color on your face. I have wondered about that. I like you much better shaven.”

  Her words puzzled him. Did she remember seeing him at Westmoorland? But he didn’t have the time to wonder about it long.

  She glanced at Philippe. “Take your men and leave us.”

  Philippe hesitated, approaching the Queen with a bow. “My Queen, I must caution you…”

  “I said leave us. He is a knight; he wouldn’t harm a queen. Would you, Knight of Westmoorland?”

  Running her fingers through his hair, she smiled, her eyes still bright with anticipation. The warrior didn’t respond, but he knew in his heart she was right. He would die a thousand deaths before he would raise his hand to harm her.

  But how did she know that?

  Still frowning, Philippe bowed and headed for the door. Once the soldiers were gone, the Queen placed her hands on his shoulders, pulling with one and pushing with the other.

  “Turn around. Face the wall.” She took a strip of fabric from the folds of her dress and tied it around his head, covering his eyes.

  His pulse quickened. “Your Highness…I am to accomplish a task for you…without my sight?”

  She laughed, deep in her throat. “You won’t need your sight for this, my Warrior.”

  His heart leapt at her words. This time, he was certain he had heard correctly. She had called him Her Warrior. He didn’t know if it meant anything to her, but it meant everything to him.

  She called for her maidservant and he could feel both women standing behind him. The Queen twisted her fingers into his hair and pulled his head back, her voice close to his ear.

  “Emily Rose has never known a man, never felt the pleasure a man can bring. This is your task: you will service my maid. And then, if you perform well, you may eat until your stomach is full.”

  The information raced from his mind to his groin. His cock stirred, abruptly reminding him of the steel cage surrounding it. He gulped. “But…”

  “What?” Her voice was amused. “You know how, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do,” he snapped. “But…um, the cage…”

  Laughing, she pulled her fingers through his hair and touched his face. “You’ll not need your cock, my Warrior.” He felt her other hand slide between his thighs and lightly grip his balls. “I suppose it would be easier for you if I freed it. But then…it wouldn’t be much of a test, would it?”

  She stepped away from him and he groaned inwardly. His ears caught the soft rustle of fabric moving out of the way. And then, he felt flesh press against his hands. Flesh that was soft and smooth.

  He frowned slightly. The maidservant—what was her name? Amy Rose? No…that wasn’t quite right—but she was old enough to be past puberty, wasn’t she? Not that it really mattered. He was a Knight, given a task by a Queen. And he was hungry, his hunger awakened by the small portion of food he’d received. He would complete the task.

  He worked his middle finger between her folds and felt her heat; she was already becoming wet. He stroked his finger up and down her slit and her natural lubricant spread across her lips, allowing him easy passage inside. He found her clit; it was swollen and semi-hard. He flicked it with his fingertip and heard her moan softly, felt her body press closer against his. He rolled it under his finger and felt it get harder.

  As she responded to him, his body responded to the situation and his swelling cock pressed into the thin bars of the cage. He winced and used the force of his will to sever the connection between his fingers and his groin. Fingering the maidservant—what was her name?—was something he could do, without much thought. His fingers began to move automatically, as his mind pursued neutral ground. His home…his family, which consisted of his sister, her husband and their daughter…his early days of soldiering…these were safe thoughts.

  The woman behind him moaned again, gyrating her hips against his hand.

  This had little effect on the warrior. His fingers continued to work, while his thoughts remained elsewhere
. The newly shaved skin on his face itched and he casually scrubbed his face against the rock wall. His movement lifted the blindfold and he opened his eyes, peering under it.

  His fingers froze, as his mind grappled with what his eyes were seeing.

  The maidservant stood at the far end of the table, her eyes down and her face scarlet.

  “Don’t stop!” Queen Gracelyn hissed in his ear.

  He felt excruciating pain from his groin in response to the Queen’s voice, as he realized what was happening.

  He wasn’t pleasuring the maidservant.

  He was pleasuring Queen Gracelyn.

  His beloved.

  An overwhelming need to please her exploded within him. Arousal, frustration and pain coursed through him in equal parts. He voiced his emotion with a growl, pushing his finger against her swollen place and raising her onto her toes.

  She gripped his shoulders, pressing the length of her body against his back and dancing her tongue over his neck. He felt the heat of her desire radiating off her whole body, felt her bare nipples brush against the welts on his back. And realized…Queen Gracelyn had completely disrobed.

  He pressed her knob harder, rolled it under his finger, controlling her sensations. In retaliation, she twisted her hand in his hair, pulling his head back as the blindfold moved back into place. She nipped the flesh of his neck and shoulders, her breath hot and ragged as she moaned into his ear.

  Pain caused by the cage warred with his need to please her. He clenched his jaw and plunged his finger deeply into her hole, working in and out and around. She spread her legs and he felt her thighs tremble as she clutched him, panting. His growl became a roar as he fucked her with his finger. She humped against his hand as she began to climax.