by Jean Roberta
My ecstasy approached, and I feared appearing to the King as a madwoman or a she-beast. “My lord!” I said quietly.
“My love,” he answered as warmly as a thought. “Show me your pleasure.”
His use of my name as he explored my inner flesh so intimately sent me into a frenzy, and I could not control my response. “Ah!” I gasped, as my cleft sought to hold and keep him within. My dew became so copious that I was sure I would leave a wet stain on the bed-covering.
King Uther withdrew his fingers, rolled me in his arms and kissed me as though he never wished his lips to be parted from mine. His tongue even found its way into my mouth, and greeted my own. “Good wench,” he teased. “Did you find it sweet to surrender?”
“Yes,” I confessed under my breath.
The King seized my fingers and wrapped them round his solid cock. I soon learned from him how he wished to be stroked, and I continued this service until the mouth of his organ spewed forth its own dew in a fountain, accompanied by a long groan from the King’s throat.
When he had regained enough breath to speak, he said, “Igraine! You are the mistress of my heart.”
I was not certain whether I had yet been deflowered according to custom. The King settled my uncertainty by settling himself atop me, supported on his elbows. He showed me how to spread my legs apart as widely as possible so that he would have a clear shot at his target. He guided the head of his cock into my wet cleft, and it found lodging there.
To my great relief, I felt nothing but joy. This state did not last, however.
In a series of heaves, the King pushed his cock deeper and deeper into me, and it caused such a variety of sensations that I hardly knew how to respond. There were sharp pains like pricks from a needle, accompanied by a steady ache and the tingling of pleasure like the ringing of a silver bell over the thump of a drum.
When the King was lodged as deeply into me as he could be, he continued moving up and down until, with a groan like that of a dying warrior, he stopped. I could feel something twitching deep within me, and his cock brought forth a response from me, like an echo of the paroxysms I had felt when his fingers had stroked me so well.
His cock softened enough that it could be withdrawn, but my lord – my lover – continued to lie atop me, resting his weight on the bedding rather than on me. I could feel our combined love-fluid trickling under my thighs. The hair of his body was like the warm pelt of a wolf over my breasts, and his beard tickled my face. I felt as if I could erupt into ecstasy again and again, simply from his nearness.
I could not refrain from twisting away from the King to see whether any trace of blood, the sure sign of my deflowering, could be seen on the bed-covering. It was there.
“My dearest love,” whispered the King, “you are yet unsatisfied.”
“No, my lord,” I assured him. “For the moment, I am perfectly content.”
“Igraine,” he told me as though divulging a secret, “you will bear the heir to my throne.”
“I certainly will not,” I told him. “Forgive me, my lord, but have you forgotten that I am not your wife? Any child I might bear to you would be a royal bastard, and nothing more.”
“Call me Uther,” he commanded. “I will not have you address me as your lord when we have been so closely joined. We cannot be parted now.”
But we must, thought I, or dire consequences shall follow.
“My lord Uther,” I protested. “I have a duty to my husband, the Duke of Cornwall. He bears the utmost loyalty to you, his King, and he – he lives according to his faith. As a Christian, he would not share me with another man beyond this night.”
I did not dare tell Uther what I knew: that Geoffrey would gladly lie with the King himself, but he would not simply give up his new wife and accept abandonment by both of us. No gentleman of rank could be expected to accept such discourtesy without protest.
King Uther caressed my back as though offering me comfort. “If that man is his King,” he explained, “your husband will have no choice.”
A powerful wizard, I thought, and only he, could enable all three of us to have our hearts’ desire. And if there is no spell to meet such a requirement, all our hearts may well be broken.
“Uther,” I pleaded. “If you wish me to address you so, hear this. If you break the bargain you made with my wedded lord, you will break the peace of your kingdom. I would rather throw myself into the sea than become known to all as another Helena of Troy, a cause of hellish war among men.”
The King tightened his embrace, as though to claim me as his. “Igraine,” he said, “calm yourself. I will never let you come to harm. I shall invite the Duke of Cornwall and yourself to visit me in a fortnight, and I shall ask my counselors for advice on this matter. You have no cause for fear.”
A King can be wrong, and many past wars have proven so beyond a doubt. Yet I could not refuse the prospect of visiting him in his own abode.
As daylight spread throughout the sky, we both rose and dressed ourselves. The servants had wisely respected our privacy, but when we emerged together into a corridor, they greeted us both with the smiles of conspirators.
“My lady,” said a maid in my husband’s service, “may I offer you assistance?” She gazed directly at my hair, which I had plaited in haste to make myself fit to be seen in company.
Servants and minor nobles bustled to and fro, curtseying and bowing to the King and looking at me with veiled amusement. I needed no words of advice to inform me that from that day forward, I was to present myself as the Duchess of Cornwall, highest lady of the household, and a jewel on my husband’s breast-plate. Igraine the untamed colt was to be banished.
“Yes,” I told the maid, as though my state of disarray were her fault. “Please excuse me, my lord,” I told the King. He smiled indulgently as the maid led me to a room that seemed to exist only for the attiring of ladies.
When I was ready, Geoffrey was telling the King: “You honor us, my liege.” In a different tone, he said, “My dear lady wife,” and seized me by the hands. If I flinched at his touch, he disdained to take note of it.
As the King’s attendants prepared him for departure, he would not allow me to leave his sight. “I shall gladly await your arrival in London, my lord and my lady,” said the King, “where I shall repay your hospitality in full.”
No one could mistake his meaning. Geoffrey gazed earnestly at his lord, but at length the light faded from his eyes. He wore an expression of pain as he bid the King godspeed. I could not refuse the King’s embrace, nor his kiss, and how they heartened me! Nonetheless, I received them like a condemned prisoner receiving last rites before an appointment with death.
That night, Geoffrey bedded me tenderly. As I lay in his arms, he asked me whether I still felt sore, and whether I had pleased the King. “Throughout the long night,” asked my wedded lord as though thinking aloud, “did he speak of me?”
“Indeed he did,” I answered. “He told me that he holds you in the esteem of an older brother who gives wise counsel.” Geoffrey seemed so gratified that I continued as recklessly as I had begun. “He said that Cornwall is the anchor of Britain, but he asked me not to reveal the importance of our duchy to anyone beyond its borders.”
Geoffrey entered me with the eagerness of a man who drinks from the Fountain of Youth. My hunger had been awakened on the previous night, and I met his passion with
my own, although mine was perhaps closer to the passion of a martyr than was his. The pleasure of our honeymoon would not last long, and this I knew.
A fortnight later, we traveled to London with a small retinue. On our arrival, the King’s attendants took charge of our steeds and led them away.
King Uther himself strode into the courtyard to greet us. He kissed me fondly, seized me in his arms, and lifted me from the paving-stones.
I feared revealing how much I enjoyed this reunion. “My lord!” I cried. Alas, my response was ill-considered.
“Welcome, welcome!” excl
aimed the King, still holding me in his arms. “Cornwall, we trust that you had a safe journey.”
This was the greeting of any host to a guest for whom he feels no particular affection. I could see the hurt in Geoffrey’s eyes, and his awareness that his hidden love for the King might never be requited, nor yet be replaced by the love of another.
And still, Uther would not let me go, despite my efforts to slip from his arms. He seemed to wish all the world to know how he regarded me.
My husband grasped the hilt of his sword. “Sir,” he said calmly. “Please release the Duchess, my wife. Such familiarity is unseemly.”
“Cornwall, my brother!” shouted the King, making no effort to avoid being heard by all who surrounded us. “The lady is a treasure, and you have given her to us. We are
grateful, and if you remain loyal, you shall be rewarded. Do not test the patience of your King now by making impertinent demands.”
Shock, sorrow and outrage competed in Geoffrey’s face. “Sir!” shouted the Duke, pulling his sword free. “Release my wife at once!”
“My lords!” I responded. I strove to control my voice as my feet returned to the ground. “I beg you to put up your weapons. As I owe allegiance to you both, you must show courtesy to each other.”
Geoffrey did not move, nor did King Uther. “Do you threaten us, sir?” The King was immediately surrounded by archers with drawn bows, his personal guard.
“Peace!” I screamed. I probably sounded more like a falcon than like a noblewoman. “For the love of all that’s holy!”
Geoffrey brandished his sword as though he intended to kill or to die for my honor. “My wife is a Christian lady!” he declared. “She is not to be traded like a common whore.”
“Your Majesty,” I said, “we must take our leave. I implore you to excuse us.” A small group of the King’s men surrounded me. “Our Savior loved his fellows,” I admonished the general company. “He commanded us to do the same. We will not disturb the peace of the King.”
Holding my skirts, I slipped between two guardsmen, and ran to find the royal stables and mount a horse before I could be prevented. My husband sensibly returned his sword to his scabbard and followed me, while a half-dozen of our attendants accompanied us.
Geoffrey dressed and mounted his horse, Heavenly Grace, with a dexterity born of long practice, and helped me to climb up behind him. Grace’s hooves struck sparks from the stones as the faithful steed bore us beyond the castle gates.
A great clamor behind us caused me to turn my head to see a confusion of fists and steel. Several of our men, wearing the device of Cornish choughs, fought in deadly earnest with the King’s men in their dragon livery. I grieved to see it, but we could not remain to offer help to our loyal defenders.
We were able to give rest and sustenance to Grace in my parents’ stables, and they offered us a fresh horse for the remainder of our journey. We had scarcely arrived home at Castle Tintagel when Geoffrey bid me remain there while he gathered a fighting force to accompany him to Castle Terrabel, which he intended to defend from the King’s men. We both feared that the King would declare the Duke of Cornwall a traitor, and his lands forfeit.
Geoffrey begged of me a handkerchief, laden with my scent, to carry with him always. He said it would give him courage in the trial to come.
I have waited alone for a fortnight, and no messenger has brought me news of good or ill. I scarcely know what news would cheer me.
The priest, Father Blanchemains, assures me daily that God favors the virtuous man, and in this war, my husband surely has a host of angels on his side. The Father tells me often
that Geoffrey was chosen to defeat licentiousness, as embodied by the King, and idolatry, as practiced by godless pagans and Saracens.
Although I am assured that God has set his plan, I am exhorted to daily prayer. I pray only that I not be with child by any man.
Here ends the first part of my tale. There is much more to tell, as you shall see.
The tedium of my days ended when a lone man in armor appeared at our gates. I wondered what horseless knight would seek lodging here, and whom he served.
“Where is my wife, the Duchess?” A merry voice rang through the hall even as a servant-boy ran to tell me that the Duke had returned from the siege of Castle Terrabel.
The man stood in the hall, holding his helmet. He wore the sun-browned face of Geoffrey, but with an expression altogether new for him. He had my husband’s voice, but it filled the space and reverberated from the walls in a way that Geoffrey’s never did.
There was a glamor on the knight. To put on the face and body and the very voice of another is the work of the Devil, or so my husband would say. There was even a smell in the air that was not there before: the scent of sorcery. I approached slowly, observing the man as closely as I could.
He demanded acknowledgment. “My dearest love, are you not filled with joy that I am alive?”
Yes! I thought. Praise to all the gods that brought you safe to me. I ran to him, and touched his nut-brown beard. “Yes, my lord!” I assured him. “But you are changed.”
There was no mistaking the gleam in those blue-grey eyes. My husband Geoffrey’s were warm and brown.
“Ah, you will not embrace me while I am clad in armor,” said he. “That can soon be remedied. Boy!” Three attendants came to remove their master’s armor, piece by piece, and carried it away to be tended. Perhaps the foolish lads then told each other tales of how many arrows that armor had resisted, and how brave was the man who wore it.
The man with Geoffrey’s face wore only a plain tunic and breeches. He held me by the shoulders and kissed me as though asking a question. “I have longed for you, Igraine.”
Tears filled my eyes. “I have longed to see you whole and strong, my lord,” I answered, and this was true no matter who stood before me. Only one of them, however, required my wholehearted consent before he could touch me. I threw my arms round him and repaid his kiss. Even if Satan awaited me in Hell, I could not resist the temptation that stood before me.
The man swept me into his arms and pressed me against his coarse tunic. I could hear his heart beating beneath it. “Geoffrey,” I said quietly, for his ears alone. “Have you slain the King that you love dearly?”
I felt a wavering in the arms of the man who held me. “Lady,” he said faintly, “let us be merry this day. We may speak of slaying another time.”
“We may indeed,” I told him. “And we may speak of Merlin, the great sorcerer, and of treachery and deception.”
The man lifted me in his arms and strode to the staircase. “Lady, this is a conversation for our ears alone. If you please, we shall continue it in our bedchamber.”
I could have protested, but in truth, my awakened skin and all my womanly parts had been neglected during the time of my waiting, and I wanted to be well-pleased. The man released me before the door to our bedchamber, and I opened it to invite him in.
He responded by smacking my backside through my skirt. “Oh, wife,” said he, “There is no woman like you.”
Wife! I repeated soundlessly to myself. From my lover’s mouth, that word was sweeter than honey.
“Perhaps,” I said aloud, “but there is a confounding resemblance here. My lord, if I am to receive you as you wish, I have a right to know whether I am committing a sin or doing my duty. No man has a right to take me by deceit.”
In the slant of light from the lead-paned window, the man glowed with merriment. “Igraine,” he said, smiling, “I shall show you that which is different for every man alive.” He removed his clothing, and stood before me as naked as a babe. The brown hair grew plentiful as ever on his chest, and a matching pelt graced his cock, which rose with every breath he took. “Would you kiss it, dear lady?” he teased.
I knelt to hold it in both my hands, and stroked it to its fullest length. I touched its head lightly with my lips, and the man pushed forward with his whole groin. I surmised what he wished me do, and I guided
his cock into my mouth, inch by inch.
“My dearest love,” he groaned. “You are kissing the little man who cannot lie, and I shall presently give you the proof.”
I used my tongue and my teeth on his shaft, while my fingers played on the sacks of flesh below, as though I were squeezing air out of the bagpipes. His cock jerked as I discovered different ways to summon a response. At once, fluid gushed from him and filled my mouth with a briny flavor. I regretted never having tasted such liquor before. I sensed that every man’s essence must be different, but I lacked experience to distinguish one from another.
“You are Venus herself,” said my grateful companion, “a mistress of the arts of love. You shall be rewarded.”
He helped me out of my clothing, and turned me about so that he could admire me from every angle, as though he had never done so before. He kissed a trail from my neck to each breast, down my belly and into the moist hair between my legs. I could smell my own fragrance.
“My lady,” he asked, “will you bend over the bed that I may offer my tribute from behind?”
I did as he asked, and he squeezed my buttocks as though their shape delighted him. He tickled me until I shook with laughter, and then he opened my cleft and pushed his cock inside. I felt too weak to retain my footing on the floor, but he held me in place.
I felt as if I could explode with pleasure. This time, he continued until I feared that he would weary of the dance before I would.
The man who pressed himself so eagerly into my depths reached beneath me with one hand. On one finger he wore a jeweled ring, and he used this so cleverly to stroke my little nubbin that I shivered in ecstasy, and drenched the bed-covering with my dew.
Afterwards, we lay together to kiss, caress, and play at other games. “Igraine,” said my companion, “what if you are with child? Would you hate me for it?”
“Neither the father nor the child,” I assured him. “I can probably bear the torments of birth as well as any woman, but I would grieve to think that any other has suffered so that our love could flower.”