by Evie North
Copyright © 2013, Evie North
KINDLE EDITION
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THE GOLDEN LION by EVIE NORTH
(KNIGHTS OF PASSION SERIES 2)
1192AD
The fever made him burn. Some days he was in hell, on fire, and on others he shivered as if he was in the frozen wastes of the north. Some days, like this one, he felt better. The injury to his head had been so bad that he despaired of surviving at all, and they still didn’t know if he would live or die.
He opened his eyes and saw the blazing sun in a sky so blue it was beyond description. And then he blinked and he was inside a dimly lit room, in a soft bed with a scented candle burning and a woman’s gentle hand bathing his brow.
“The fighting?” he said, ready to rise up and pick up his sword and stand with his men against the enemy.
“Hush, you are safe. Sleep now.”
He turned his face away from the cool cloth, trying to remember. There were flashes, moments, where he was in the desert, injured and dying, and then he was lying aboard a sailing ship, being tended by the ship’s doctor, and at other times he was in a cart being taken home through the English countryside.
Or was all that a dream?
“I will tell you a story, Garrick.”
The woman’s voice was soft and clear, but he did not recognise it nor the name she called him.
“What is my name, wench?” he demanded roughly.
The cloth again, cooling his hot brow. “Sir Garrick Morrance is your name. You are a brave knight. You went with King Richard on his Crusade.”
“Yes.” The memory was fleeting but he saw the king, ruddy haired like his father, more French than English. He saw the crusaders with their white surcoats decorated with their red crosses, and he remembered how long was the journey to the Holy Land.
So much death and devastation. There had been little glory, and in the end, not much victory either. Richard had made a truce and then they had begun the march home again. For a time Garrick and his men had stayed in a palace, a grand palace. Was that when it happened? The attack that left him injured and damaged?
“Let me tell you a story,” the woman said again.
“Yes,” he whispered. Anything to turn his mind from the constant seeking for answers that were not there. He fixed his gaze on her, his eyes clouded with fever and pain. “Tell me a story, wench.”
“There was a woman called Batilda . . .”
***
Batilda looked out through the intricately carved screen that shielded her from the hot sun and the outside world. She was a prisoner in the palace of Aghar, a self-styled Sultan, who lived in a land not far from Cyprus. She had been here since she was very young and the ship in which she travelled with her parents struck the rocky coast. She was sold, as were all those who survived, and it was Aghar who bought her.
Aghar’s origins were unknown. The general belief was that he came from somewhere further east but he had set up his kingdom with money which was said to have come from a wealthy prince, money he had stolen when he was the prince’s adviser. He had stolen other things as well, objects that were rumoured to be magic.
As the years went by and Batilda grew into a beautiful woman she drew Aghar’s eye and he took her into his bed. At first this was new and strange, and Aghar touched her body in ways that made her cry out with pleasure before he entered her and took his own pleasure. But then he found a new girl to initiate and she was sent back to the harem. After once being the special one it was now difficult to be ignored and she became lonely and unhappy.
She hoped he would let her go and she even begged him to free her so that she could go home, but he laughed at her and refused.
“Once you are part of my harem,” he said, “then you are here forever.”
And so the days passed and then the years passed and Batilda was still a prisoner in the sumptuous harem.
Then she discovered something that set her free. At least, temporarily.
Batilda, being curious and intrepid, had a habit of going into corners of the palace where she should not be. One day she wandered into a room that was usually kept locked. It was the room where it was whispered that the magic objects were kept, but on this occasion the careless guard had left the door open.
She saw a golden orb with jewelled patterns on it, and some pieces of bone in a velvet lined casket, and a few other strange things she did not recognise. And then she saw an old roughly woven cloak with embroidered symbols on it.
Thinking that this could not possibly be anything important she picked it up and swung it around her, wrinkling her nose at the strange musky smell of the cloth. Just then the guard came from a room next door, and Batilda knew she would be punished for being in here. She stared at him with wide eyes, waiting for him to shout at her, to drag her before the Sultan.
But he didn’t.
He didn’t even look at her.
It was as if he could not see her, although she was standing right in front of him. After a moment he went out again, and from the voices and laughter and then the groans of passion, she realised he had a woman in the other room and that was why he was neglecting his duties.
Carefully Batilda removed the cloak and set it aside and then she crept back to the harem.
The event puzzled her but after some time she understood what had happened. It was the cloak that stopped the guard from seeing her! It must be. And it also solved another puzzle.
For some time the women of the harem had claimed there was a ghost that came to them in the night. Often they would awaken to the sensation of someone touching them, only to find there was no one there. In fact, Batilda herself had once seen the woman beside her, half naked in the heat, moaning as invisible hands caressed her breasts. She could actually see the flesh being depressed by those ghostly fingers, and it had frightened her and made her determined always to wear all her clothes at night, even if it was unbearably hot.
Could the ‘ghost’ have been a mortal man wearing the cloak? And could the cloak have the power to make that mortal man invisible while he wore it?
It so happened that Batilda was able to test her theory the next night, for as she lay half asleep in the harem she became aware that one of the other women was sighing, and then moaning. Carefully, Batilda rolled over and lifted her head so that she could see what was going on.
Several feet away from her, one of the harem women lay naked upon her bed, and it seemed to Batilda that her flesh really was being touched by ghostly hands. First her breasts began rippling as if someone or something ran their fingers over the fleshy curves, and then her nipples were tweaked into firm peaks. She could see the skin on the woman’s stomach being stroked and then her mound, and then suddenly her outer lips were being pressed open. The little bead began to move about and Batilda stifled a giggle.
The woman moaned loudly, arching her body toward the intruder’s busy hands, and a moment later she cried out as her climax came. The next moment she was sitting up, eyes wide, shrieking about the ghost.
Batilda heard footsteps moving by her and quickly put her leg out. She felt something strike her shin and then there was a grunt and a tumbling sou
nd as the invisible person fell. A moment later she heard him get up and run for the door.
She smiled to herself. Whoever it was, and she was pretty certain it was the randy guard, would return the cloak to the locked room. But now she knew its powers Batilda was determined to use it for herself. Suddenly the world outside her sumptuous prison had opened up to her and with a little bit of planning and luck she could escape.
It wasn’t difficult.
The next time she went wandering she bribed one of the slave girls to tempt the guard away. She waited until the girl was kneeling before him in the other room, her mouth filled with his cock, and he was too far gone to notice Batilda as she quickly snatched up the cloak, put it on, and walked boldly out of the palace.
Her heart was beating fast but no one stopped her because as difficult as it was to believe, no one could see her.
That day was the best she had ever known. She visited the markets and ran her hands over the fine rolls of cloth and breathed in the scent of the spices, and finally she stood on the dock and looked out to sea and thought about climbing aboard a ship and setting sail.
But where would she go? It was so long since she had been taken into the harem that she no longer remembered where she came from or who she belonged to. At least inside the Palace she was fed and cared for and she was safe. It was still a prison, however, and she’d hoped that one day she might find the courage to escape. And now she had the means to do so.
“She could go wherever she wished and no one could see her?” Garrick said sleepily. His eyes were closing.
“That’s right. She was invisible when she was wearing the magic cloak.”
She watched him as he slept, knowing he was dreaming of Batilda. She lay down herself and closed her own eyes, and prayed that tomorrow he would be a little better.
***
“So of what use to her was the invisible cloak if she was still a prisoner in the harem?” Garrick said, as soon as she entered the room the next morning. He was awake and he had been thinking about her story.
She smiled. “We are coming to that, Garrick.”
He settled down and waited for her to begin.
“One day she saw a golden lion . . .”
“A golden lion? Were there wild beasts there in the palace?”
“The golden lion was what she called him to herself, but he was an English lion, really.”
“An English lion?”
“Hush, Garrick. Let me tell the story.”
He was standing in the inner courtyard, walking with the Sultan’s adviser, and they paused by the fountain, with its cool water and flower petals floating on the surface. He looked up toward the carved screen where Batilda was watching him.
He was glorious. Tall and broad shouldered, with golden hair and blue eyes, and dressed in fine clothing.
Her body, which was no longer innocent of course, grew warm and desire filled her. Before she had pretended at being lustful, for the Sultan’s pleasure, but she had never really felt lust. She had never really felt love. Not for any man. But at that moment, gazing down at the golden English lion, how she wanted him!
But she was in the Sultan’s harem, and she could not look at another man. It was not allowed and she knew that to do so would be to risk her life, and yet the vision of this man took root in her mind and her heart, and she determined that whatever the risk she would have him.
It so happened that the Sultan wanted a feast for his English guests, who had been stranded on his shores when their ship was wrecked on their way home from the Holy Land. The night of the feast he commanded some of his women to dance. Perhaps it was because the Sultan wanted to show the Englishmen how lucky he was to have so many wives, or perhaps he genuinely wanted to please, one never knew with Aghar, but whatever the reason Batilda made certain she was one of the dancers.
She was good at dancing. The music seemed to creep into her blood and bones, and she moved sensuously to the sounds. Tonight, she knew that the golden lion would be watching her and she was determined to dance even better than usual so that she could capture him.
Her costume was made up of a number of silken veils in pale colours, and with the sinuous movements of the dance, her flesh was revealed tantalisingly and then the veils were cast aside as the dance grew more intense. Not all of the veils of course, but enough to cause the men to wish they could take the dancing women to their beds.
Batilda danced as she had never danced before, turning and spinning, her hips gyrating, her long dark hair tumbling about her, her eyes flashing over the silken veil across the lower half of her face. Her shapely legs and arms moved with the rhythm of the drums and the pipes, and she swayed and circled, faster and faster as the music grew frantic. And then she fell to the floor, her hands stretched out before her in supplication, her face upturned, her eyes on him.
And he was watching her, her gaze fastened on her as if he had never seen anyone as fascinating and as beautiful.
She stood up, her breasts heaving, their rounded shape barely covered now, her nipples hard with excitement. Perspiration made her skin shine and the veil that lay between her legs was damp enough to outline her shape to any who looked. Her hairless mound, the swollen lips of her sex. She may as well have been naked.
The Sultan was smiling but there was a glitter to his eyes that she knew meant he would call for her tonight. And then she saw the golden lion lean toward him and ask him something, and the Sultan’s shake of the head. And then he asked again, more insistently, and again the Sultan shook his head, and this time he was adamant.
The lion was asking the Sultan if he could have the girl, and the Sultan refused because he never shared. He was a greedy man.
The Sultan did send for her later that night and he was insatiable, thrusting his cock into her and pumping until he came, again and again. And that was when Batilda knew he would never let her go, not willingly, not ever.
She was trapped in the depths of the harem, in the claustrophobic world she had grown to loathe.
That night, when the Sultan had finished with her, she lay in the airless harem with all the other women, and she ran her hands over her breasts and imagined they were his hands, and she slid her fingers inside the fleshy lips between her legs, and dreamed they were his fingers, and when she drove her fingertips into her core, deeper and deeper, while her thumb stroked her hard little pearl, she pretended he was making love to her as she longed for him to do.
“And what happened to her after that?” Garrick asked. “Did she ever see him again?”
The woman stroked his cheek. “You will have to wait until later. Sleep now. You need to sleep and get well.”
So he slept, and dreamed of the girl Batilda, with her dark hair and wanton smile.
***
“What happened next?” Garrick was naked on the bed. She had been bathing his feverish body, cleaning him with loving hands, and wondering if he would ever regain his full strength. “What happened to Batilda and the English lion?”
“Do you remember how Batilda found the magic cloak that made her invisible and was able to sneak out of the harem when she felt like it? How she visited the town and the markets? Well a few days after the dancing she decided she would visit the Englishman.”
The Sultan had given him and his men a house nearby, and she waited until it was evening, and then went to the same slave girl she had used last time. The girl was willing, and when she had the guard occupied in the room next door Batilda put on the magic cloak and went to the house.
One of the Sultan’s eunuch guards was at the door and Batilda slipped around him when she had the chance and went inside. It was late and the men were either sleeping or preparing to. Invisible as she was, she checked all the rooms until she found the room of the English lion.
He was lying on his bed, awake, the candle flickering in the draft from the open windows. His chest was bare, his skin as golden as the rest of him, and he wore his breeches, the cloth clinging to his hips and muscular le
gs.
Batilda’s mouth watered. She wanted to lick his skin and taste him and learn all there was to know about what gave him pleasure. But she did not want to startle him and she did not want to throw off her cloak in case he thought her a witch and called for the guard.
She was still considering her best course of action when he spoke.
“Who are you?” He sat up, blue eyes narrowed, and looked about the room. “I know you’re here. I can smell your perfume. Show yourself.” He reached down beside his bed and withdrew the wicked looking sword he kept there.
She gasped and the sound seemed very loud. And then he stood up, the sword in his hands, as if he was going to swing it through the air, and quickly she divested herself of her magic cloak. As it fell to the floor at her feet, suddenly she was visible once more.
He looked startled, as well he might. She was wearing her flimsiest costume of silken scarves, a jewelled belt low on her hips, and her dark hair was loose about her. The scarves were so fine she might as well have been naked, and she knew he could see the curves of her body through them.
He came and stood before her and she looked up at him, her dark eyes shining. He was just as big and handsome as she remembered, with his golden hair and smiling mouth. Then she noticed there was a scar through his left eyebrow and somehow that imperfection made him even more desirable.
Tentatively he reached out to touch her arm as if to confirm that she was real and not a ghost. His fingers were warm and when he was satisfied that she was made of flesh and blood he closed them around her arm to hold her.
“You are the woman who danced at the feast,” he said.
She smiled, because he’d remembered her.
“What is your name?”
“Batilda.”
He brushed his fingers across her cheek and then traced the shape of her lips. “How are you here, Batilda? Are you a witch that you appear out of the air like this? Should I be afraid of you?”
She shook her head. “No, I am no witch. It is Aghar’s magic cloak. I . . . borrowed it. Once it is on I become invisible. You see?” She lifted the cloak and swung it around her shoulders. At once she was invisible again but he reached out and found her.