by Jean Roberta
Under the Sign of the Dragon
Jean Roberta
Contents
Under the Sign of the Dragon
About the Author
Excerpt: The Flight of the Black Swan
More From Excessica!
Under the Sign of the Dragon © January 2016 by Jean Roberta
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
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Under the Sign of the Dragon
My lord, the Duke of Cornwall, has accepted Christ Jesus as his savior for a score of years. As his lady, I have a duty to pray as he does before our people, whatever I believe in my heart. My lord’s honor deserves no less.
How different things were when the Maiden, the Mother and the Crone commanded us to follow our hearts. No man took offense if his lady held a paramour in her arms before the Beltane fires, nor would a good woman try to keep her wedded lord on a short tether throughout life. I remember a time when love was not confined, but I was a little maid who barely understood it. I was simply Igraine then, and I was too merry to be wise.
Now I wait alone behind the thick stone walls of Castle Tintagel for news of my lord Cornwall, and of the King that I love beyond measure. They plan each other’s destruction, and I fear for them both.
My reader, you who finds this after all has been resolved, please receive my tale with an open heart. In the hope of your merciful understanding, I shall lead you down the path that brought me here.
I hardly expected to wed at all, and certainly not before the age of twenty, but so it was to be. The Duke of Cornwall was a mighty lord who wished to gain the good will of all the nobility in neighboring realms, and such were my parents.
At our first meeting, he gazed at me with the kindness and the sorrow of a man who has seen forty winters and outlived the wife of his youth. “You may call me Geoffrey,” he said,
taking my hand, “if I may call you Igraine.” Later, when we were alone, he swore on the Holy Book of his faith that he would never harm me while he lived.
I saw myself in his eyes as a young woman with thin shoulders and budlike breasts. My black hair and milky skin contrasted with his light-brown hair, flecked with grey, and the ruddy face of a man who has spent much time outdoors. I was not accustomed to wearing my hair bound up, nor my restless body encased in a silken gown. I did not wish to appear to my noble suitor as a child, but my young spirit seemed to delight him.
I wore a white gown for my wedding, embroidered with golden anchors and trimmed with French lace. I wore on my head a circlet of roses and ivy leaves, and I was attended by three maids all dressed in blue. Geoffrey was richly attired in purple, and his tunic bore a design of black Cornish choughs, their eyes and beaks cleverly worked in red. His own eyes looked as bright and observant as those of a wild bird. From his neck hung a gold pendant in the form of a cross, and this seemed to promise that all his action would be forever guided by Christian notions of charity and sacrifice.
As the priest led us through our vows, surrounded by many witnesses, I vowed to myself to deny my lord nothing. At that time of my innocence, I could not foresee that my desire might ever be contrary to his.
Before our wedding mass, I scarcely noticed the large company of our guests, which included the very King of all England, Uther Pendragon. His nut-brown beard showed no trace of silver, and he appeared jolly and strong enough to bear the weight of a jewel-encrusted gold crown without finding it wearisome. He was surrounded by attendants in livery, all adorned with
the sign of the dragon. The King had no wife, but there was no shortage of fair women in his entourage.
I had heard that the King traveled with a mighty sorcerer named Merlin, but in all the royal company, I could not tell who that might be.
The wedding feast was more elaborate than any I had seen. We were served every bird that could be eaten, from doves to pheasants to geese, with good roast venison to follow. A course of sweets honored the sweetness of the occasion. There were minstrels, lute-players, jugglers and jesters.
And then came the time for dancing. As the musicians played the first notes, I leapt to my feet and held out my hands to my wedded lord, thinking that none but he could join me in the first dance of the evening. As I did so, most of the assembled company rose and took their places.
Geoffrey stood up, but he did so only to acknowledge the approach of King Uther, who strode to me, held out both his hands, then wrapped me in his arms, whispering “Igraine! Be not afraid of me.”
The closeness of the King, who was clearly a man like all others, alarmed me despite his message of encouragement. I felt myself growing hot beneath my clothes, and then the whispering assaulted my ears. The whole company seemed to be repeating: “jus primae noctis.”
Impulsively, I looked toward my parents, and saw them both smiling and nodding at me, as if to bid me accept the King’s attention. Then I looked at my newly-wedded lord, who gazed meaningfully at me and at the man who held me so possessively.
Clearly, Geoffrey had already made an agreement with King Uther to grant him the right to deflower his bride in exchange for a feudal alliance. My maidenhead was the price to be paid for the King’s protection of the Duchy of Cornwall against any who might seek to invade and overthrow my lord’s rule.
I knew that King Uther wished to unite all Britain under the sign of the dragon, and to offer peace to all those who followed him while threatening war against all who might seek to overthrow him. The marriage that Geoffrey had negotiated with my parents was part of a strategy to keep us all safe.
My husband and my father clearly feared that their armies would be no match for the army of the King, and therefore they had united to offer him my body for one night. Despite my lord’s claim to revere the sanctity of a marriage between one man and one woman, ordained by God, his need for the King’s good will trumped all.
Why did I not foresee what would happen on my wedding-night? I had been thinking like a child.
My despair must have shown on my face. King Uther released me, but retained one of my small hands in the heat of his larger one. “My lady!” he whispered. “We are being observed.
Please do not refuse me openly, and I will not violate you against your will.
”
The King’s assurance restored me to something resembling my former state of calm, even if I could never again be a light-hearted maid. “Your Majesty,” I responded, looking into his eyes to judge of his sincerity, then down at the floor to appear modest.
The whole assemblage seemed to sigh with relief when the King led me in the dance, and all those standing began to move together. Geoffrey chose one of my bridesmaids as his dancing partner, and she looked pleased enough.
The roomful of bodies, all swaying and whirling in rhythm, reminded me of the waves of the sea beyond our walls. Even the King, I thought, cannot foresee or control everything that will happen in the world.
Too soon, the time for dancing was over – or at least, no one intended to continue dancing in all their finery. Geoffrey embraced me and kissed me on the lips, as though seeking forgiveness, and promised that he would welcome me back the following morning.
“Please bear it for my sake, Igraine,” he begged. “I will love you dearly for your sacrifice, and I will always honor you as my faithful wife after this night.”
“You might have warned me,” I responded. “You make it difficult for me to trust you, my lord.” I turned toward the King, who was waiting to escort me to a bedchamber on an upper floor of the castle. The King was in good humor, and he wrapped a strong arm about my slender waist with an air of familiarity.
I could go mad, thought I. No, I amended to myself: I could feign madness. I could wrest the circlet off my hair and tear the leaves and flowers to pieces before trampling them underfoot. I would be deflowered indeed, and I could tear my gown to shreds, screaming curses at all who had planned my humiliation.
I could run, and if I could exit the doors of the castle without being captured, I could throw myself off a cliff into the dark, surging sea, watched by the uncaring stars above me. I could gasp for breath, feeling my mouth and lungs filling with cold brine. I could die painfully, knowing that Geoffrey would be tormented by a fantasy of me in Hell, condemned to suffer there for eternity as a self-murderess.
I had not the will to carry out this plan. While imagining myself running, running, down stone corridors and into the night air, I was walking up an endless staircase, guided by the King’s arm and his discreet whispering in my ear. “My lady,” he told me, “I have a man’s desire, but I have no wish to break your spirit. Please believe that I wish to earn your trust, not your hatred.”
A fragrance arose from the King’s strong limbs, from his beard and his hair and his very breath. It was the smell of a man, but as sweet as the hedges in spring. I sensed no disdain in him, and no wish to treat me as a captive maiden taken in war. The air surrounding him seemed to vibrate with his joyful spirit.
I was perplexed. I had not expected to find such delight in his company.
The King guided me into the bedchamber before him. I could feel his warm breath on my neck.
The bed rose before me, draped with a soft coverlet and pillows stuffed with goose down. Had I been alone, I would have locked the door, undone my laces, stripped off every stitch of my clothing, and lain down at ease.
“Igraine, my dear, you are no court lady, and for that I am grateful.” He turned me to face him, and wrapped his arms about me. He pressed his lips to mine, and I felt as if I could melt.
“Little white swan,” he said, laughing into my eyes. He held me by the waist, and raised me off the ground. “Your weight is like feathers, but you are no light wench.” He smiled at his own wit. I was relieved that he did not consider me a whore. He kissed my chin, and tipped it upwards so that he could leave a trial of hot kisses along my neck, and down to my bodice.
The King’s breathing increased until it sounded like wind in my ears, and my own kept pace with his. I felt lightheaded. I wrapped my arms round his back to hold myself steady, and this seemed to please him beyond words. “Lady, you would tempt a hermit in his cell.” The King’s voice seemed to stroke the skin under my clothes, and resonate in my very head.
I could feel myself trembling, and a certain tingling throughout my lower parts reminded me that my desire matched his, regardless of my intentions. He was more than the King of England. He was the man who had courted me in dreams so secret that I had never confided them to anyone.
With one arm about my waist, King Uther pressed my backside against him. I could feel the hardness of his cock pressing through his snug breeches and my gown. Oh, how I wished to feel that marble scepter pushing in between my legs as deeply as it could go!
I pulled his arm away, and he did not hinder me. I turned to face him. “My Lord, if you think so, why have you never said so before my wedding to another?”
“Please forgive my hesitation, my lady,” he said, smiling, “but I esteem your parents greatly, and you have not been long out of childhood. I did not wish to offend them by courting you too soon.”
I could not think of an answer to this. What if King Uther had made me his Queen before the Duke of Cornwall had reached an agreement with my parents? I would not now feel like a traitor to my wedded lord.
“Alas!” continued the King. He pulled me into his embrace, and I did not resist. “Now I can only claim you for one night, if you will have me. Igraine, will you deny me that?”
Tears burned my eyelids. The King’s skin was hot and moist where it touched me, and mine felt the same. My breasts wished to be squeezed and suckled. The tingling between my thighs prompted me to move my hips as though in the lascivious dance of a Saracen concubine.
I no longer wondered how I could bear to feel the King’s eyes and his hands on my naked body, and to feel his cock claiming me. I wondered how I could give him up.
Geoffrey expected me to return to him with my maidenhead truly lost, and he would be pleased. How could that be? I had seen him gaze at the King as a sunflower lifts its petals to the sun. A Christian man could hardly offer himself to a man he admired without fearing the flames of Hell, but he could secretly dream of such pleasures, and he could offer his bride as a valuable gift. I resolved to consider the complexity of our three-sided alliance when I could be alone with my thoughts.
King Uther held me to his broad bosom and kissed me passionately. “Dear heart,” he asked tenderly, “are you afraid?”
I considered my answer. “Not of you, my lord.” I resolved not to complain if his weapon felt too large in my scabbard, and I hoped that any pain he might cause would be as brief as a flash of lightning. My heart pounded within my ribs, as they rose and fell with my breath.
The King gently removed my circlet and released my hair to flow over my shoulders. He sighed almost inaudibly as he buried his nose in my loose tresses. “Fair she-knight in the trials of love,” he laughed. I knew that he did not intend any discourtesy.
He explored my gown to find ways to remove it from me, but he was clearly no lady’s-maid. I couldn’t help smiling as I helped by untying my laces and by pulling my garments over my head.
The King obliged me by removing his tunic and his breeches as I assisted as much as I could.
We lay together on the bed, wrapped in each other’s arms, inhaling each other’s breath. He kissed me from my neck to my shoulders to the tips of my breasts. With his tongue, he coaxed their tips to grow stiff, and when I thought I would faint from pleasure, he pulled each one into his mouth and suckled me like a nursing babe. I writhed against him.
King Uther gently spread my thighs apart. He stroked between the lips of my cleft until my moisture increased, and I could see it on his finger. “Igraine,” said he, “do you give pleasure to yourself?”
“No,” I answered quickly, fearing to be scorned if I answered truthfully. “Pleasure myself! I do not know how.”
The King’s cock was as upright as the oaken mast of a ship. Despite my eagerness, its size alarmed me. “Are you sure, my dear?” he smiled. “I would greatly enjoy watching you try.”
“My lord! Do you command me to deflower myself?” Even while I showed my astonishment, I could see the w
isdom of his plan, if such it was.
“Igraine, my dearest,” he answered patiently, “I will not proceed without your full will. I cannot. You must show me what you desire.”
That was not a simple thing. Had he left the room, I would have stroked my private parts with abandon until I brought myself to a shivering ecstasy, unseen by any.
“Perhaps,” added the King slyly, “a lady of your parents’ court has shown you how pleasure may be shared among women.”
Perhaps indeed, but why would a King desire such knowledge? I considered his word, “cannot.” I thought of his magical advisor, Merlin, and wondered if the King were under a spell which would bring him grievous harm if he ever ravished a woman, even one resigned to suffer such indignity from her King.
Just as he could go no further without my heartfelt consent, I could not deny myself relief. Without another word, I withdrew from the King, lay on my side, and pulled my knees towards my belly. I glanced at him, and slipped one of my hands between the hairy lips, now wet with dew, between my thighs. I closed my eyes to shut out the sight of his piqued expression.
I found the little knot of flesh at the head of my opening, and it was almost unbearably tender. I caressed it until my inner flesh demanded attention, and then I pushed my finger as far into my cleft as it would go. My lower mouth seemed to open within, as though hungry for meat, and so I offered it another finger, and that one was thicker.
I used my two fingers to push in and out of my secret cave, and my rhythm increased from a walk to a gallop.
“So that is how you dance a measure,” remarked the King, barely containing his mirth. He lay behind me so as to hold me fast and press his hard cock against my backside. “Allow me,” he said, and replaced my two fingers with one of his own. I grew so excited that he was able to enter me with two of his fingers, although his were altogether different from mine, being larger in every dimension as well as more insistent.