Under the Sign of the Dragon

by Jean Roberta

  “Dear heart,” he said, stroking my hair as it lay about my head. “I have commanded that none be harmed for our sake.”

  “That is well,” I replied, “because the King ought to know of the love that Geoffrey of Cornwall bears for him. Anyone with eyes can see that it is far beyond the duty of a subject, and there is no shame in it.”

  The man beside me tried to kiss the worry from my forehead. “You trouble yourself too much, Igraine,” he protested. “We have not spoken of shame.”

  “Have you not charged my lord Cornwall with treason?” I replied. “If a loyal subject be forced to act the role of a traitor to the King he adores, who then has broken faith?” Tears spilled from my eyes, and I wept for us all three.

  The man’s eyes darkened like the sky when a storm approaches. Before my blurred sight, the features of my husband Geoffrey wavered and resolved into those of Uther, my beloved. “What would you have me do, woman?” he demanded. “I know something of the love of soldiers, men who face death on the battlefield, and know that each night they spend together might be their last. Cornwall the Pious was not the first to offer me his body without saying a word. Was I obliged to answer him?” He paused to wipe away my tears. “Little bird, you cannot imagine the life of a King. If I am to control a kingdom, I cannot play Zeus to every shepherd who wishes to be carried away to Mount Olympus.”

  “Yet you would carry me away.” I could not reproach him for it.

  “I would,” he smiled. “I know not why, but you please me better than the comeliest youth I ever trained to swing a sword.”

  Uther seemed determined to dispel my sorrow and my fears with ribaldry. “Igraine, if you are wise in the ways of men with men, would it please you to serve as my squire this night?” He grasped my arm above the elbow and squeezed gently, as though testing my muscles. He did the same to my other arm, and his expression provoked me to laugh through my tears. “A fine lad you are, Alan,” he said. “You shall make a worthy bedfellow.”

  The man raised me until I sat upright. He embraced me from behind, and held my breasts in his two hands. “The bosom of a warrior,” he remarked, pinching my nipples, “in the fullness of time, of course.” He stretched one hand downward to the hair that covered my opening. “You lack something of a man, Alan, but no matter.”

  “My lord,” I responded in the spirit of the game, “I regret falling short of your expectations.”

  “Well, allow me to continue my inspection, and perhaps we will each find compensations in the other. Lie on your belly, lad.”

  I did as the King commanded, and he pressed a slow, firm hand down my back to the cleft of my buttocks. He kneaded each globe as though it were dough for bread, and smacked each in turn. The skin of my backside had not received such attention since I was a child.

  “Have I displeased you, my lord?” I asked.

  “Not at all, good boy,” he answered. “I am merely testing your mettle.”

  Uther proceeded to seek out my smaller hole with a gentle finger, but I was as uneasy as a young man at the mercy of his master. “An unopened rosebud,” said he. “The maidenhead of a youth. I shall treat it with care.”

  At first, I dreaded being violated in that foulest of regions, but the slow, circular penetration of Uther’s finger banished my dread completely. “Just a thimbleful of fat would be a magical balm for our purpose, Alan, but we are poorly supplied. Will you allow me to have my will without it?”

  “My liege,” I answered. “I am your faithful servant, but will you allow me to decline?”

  “Alan,” he muttered, as I turned my head to see his face. “You know not what you ask.”

  “Indeed, I know not,” I retorted. “Please enlighten me, my lord.” I sat to hear his reply.

  “Alan, you must learn from my example.” He pushed me back onto my belly, and smacked my bottom. “War inspires the noblest of knights to the vile use of ladies. I have long wished to unite all England that it may be strengthened, and with my army, I have overrun many a castle and a town. Ten years since, when my men and I were in the north, we sought out all the wenches in a poor village, little thinking to find a powerful sorceress there. But such she was, and she took such offense at being ravished that she cursed me to death, should I ever again offer such mistreatment to any being, even if it were a sheep.”

  I hoped that Uther could see my smile. “She did well, “I remarked. “She was a northern wisewoman indeed. I hope she spread that curse amongst all your men.”

  A heavy sigh blew through my hair like wind. “She did, lad, and although we were a small company, we have become noted for our chivalry since that day, even beyond Britain. I cannot bed anyone I cannot seduce, and the willingness of my companion must be strong enough to break the spell that would visit my own violence on my own head.”

  “Uther,” I asked, “could not Merlin undo that spell?”

  “Ah,” replied the King, resting a hand on my bottom. “I have no doubt, but to what purpose? No, my boy, I have come to accept the condition in which I must live. Love must not be forced, and who better to embody that principle than a leader of men? I deserve no release from the spell, nor do I seek it.”

  My heart was moved, but my loins still craved attention. I wriggled beneath my lover’s hand. “Please, my lord,” I begged, “mightn’t you find a thimbleful of fat in the kitchen below?”

  He laughed heartily. “Better than that, Alan,” he told me. “I misled you to find out your will. I carry an unguent with me.” He then proceeded to coat two fingers liberally in a lubricant which eased their way, one at a time, so deeply into me that the sparks of pleasure ignited my larger opening.

  He stroked and explored that part of me which had never known such an intrusion, even from my own hands, and it brought me to ecstasy beyond my imagining. “Oh!” I screamed, then quickly covered my mouth with a handful of the coverlet. “My dear lad,” he whispered, “how do you like the games of man with man? Shall I take your bottom with a better weapon?”

  I was so aroused in my cunt, and so afraid of spoiling my pleasure with unwanted pain, that I reluctantly refused him. “Please, dear master,” I replied, “I prefer to offer you that when next we meet for the games of love. Would you enter me by a larger entrance?”

  Uther laughed, rolled me about in his arms, and plunged into me without further ado. I wrapped my legs around his waist, and clung to him as his own bottom rose and fell with his thrusts. We galloped together to a most satisfying conclusion.

  We were both so indiscreet in our noisemaking that I feared discovery by the servants; luckily, we were not disturbed by approaching footsteps. We lay panting in each other’s arms until, as though returning from the land of Faery, we each became aware of where we were. And then we embraced in earnest, wishing to postpone the intrusion of grim reality.

  We fell into the sweetest sleep imaginable, but my dreams were troubled by the image of a lost knight in armor, calling for my help as he strove in vain to swim in the merciless sea.

  On the morrow, we awoke to the light of truth. King Uther sat beside me, usurping Geoffrey’s bed. “Igraine, if you are a true follower of Christ Jesus,” said my lover, “you are bound to forgive me, are you not?”

  I laughed. “I am no true Christian, but I forgive you anyway, my love,” I told him. “Perhaps it is I who need forgiveness.”

  The King feigned surprise. “You are the most blameless woman in England,” he said, “but if you crave my pardon, you may certainly have it.”

  I resolved to ask Father Blanchemains, and then Lord Merlin, whether a sinner may pardon his fellow-conspirator in sin.

  We arose from bed, of course, because we had much to do. When I summoned Hilda, my maid, to dress my hair and fetch my attire for the day, I asked her to bring me a gown as brown as the earth because I expected doleful news.

  In the afternoon, when the sun was highest, a troupe of men in dragon livery brought Geoffrey to Castle Tintagel on a litter. I rushed to see my husband, an
d to offer him my care, but it was too late. His face was cold where I touched it, and no breath moved his still form. A horrible wound in his side showed too clearly what had robbed him of life, and all his bearers were smeared with his blood.

  King Uther grew pale at the sight of his adversary.

  “My lord,” I demanded, “what say you to this?”

  “I swear on my mother’s life, Igraine,” he answered, “I gave no command for him to be slain. I wished for him to be captured only, and for his lands to be forfeit to the crown.”

  To the astonishment of our attendants, the King fell to his knees, and pressed his lips to the pale forehead of my husband’s corpse.

  The King soon recovered his composure, rose to his feet, and commanded his men to give him a full account of the battle. One of his captains confessed that the Duke of Cornwall had surprised them as they approached Castle Terrabel, where they supposed he was prepared to wait out a siege. The Duke’s men, said the captain, attacked first and with the fury of those who believe they must right an unforgivable wrong.

  “We are soldiers,” the captain told his King. “We were forced to fight for our lives.” His explanation held a dismal logic, and I could hardly find him more villainous than any other man in his profession.

  I asked Father Blanchmains to help me arrange a suitable funeral for my late lord. There was much weeping in the castle that day, for my lord had been kind to his servants. I hoped with all my heart that Geoffrey’s spirit was at peace, and that he was reunited with his first wife, a most pious lady whom he had loved dearly.

  At length, King Uther was compelled to return to his court in London, while I was allowed to remain in Castle Tintagel for the time being, where I could be seen to live simply in my widowhood, and to stand on a cliff to hear the sea’s lullaby.

  When I had been in mourning three months, the shape of my belly showed to all what I had known in my heart for weeks past: I was with child. I sent a messenger to London to inform the King, although it seemed likely to me that Merlin had observed me in a scrying glass.

  The King returned to me post-haste. In privacy, he delighted in pressing his ear to my round belly to hear the heartbeat of the dear babe growing within me. “If he is a son, I wish him to be named Arthur,” said he, “an eagle among men and future King of all Britain.”

  “How so, my lord Uther?” I asked. “I am no more than your mistress, and I was married to the Duke of Cornwall, whom you have deemed a traitor, when the babe was conceived. Our poor child is more likely to be murdered or driven into exile than hailed as your son and heir. Should you declare him so, your nobles will surely rise up against you.”

  King Uther held me on his lap, with my head on his shoulder. He did not seem discouraged. “Igraine, my dear, you are as wise as you are fair, but my men will bear witness that your husband was slain before our son was conceived. Merlin himself will confess in public to his role in my deception of you.”

  I laughed. “A poor deception, Uther,” I told him. “Perhaps Merlin needs to practice his art more diligently.”

  “Perhaps,” the King answered mildly. “And as for the skeptics in my court, nothing softens opposition as well as a grand celebration. The streets of London will run with wine for our wedding.”

  “There can be no wedding,” I reproved him, “if there has been no proposal.”

  “My lady, I beg you to accept my offer.” He buried his face in my hair. “Our people will love you better as Queen than ever they have loved a sinful King.”

  “I accept!” I laughed. “Dear heart, I still fear that our son may not be accepted by all.”

  “Then I will charge Merlin to devise a sign to prove our son’s royal blood to all who doubt it. If anything can sway the crowd more than a procession and a holiday for every butcher, soldier, and apprentice, it is a display of divine right.”

  And so it was with our handsome and clever son Arthur, when he was as young and untamed as I had been when first compelled to accept my fate. But that is a tale for another time.

  * * *

  The End

  About the Author

  Jean Roberta lives on the Canadian prairies, where the vastness of land and sky encourage daydreaming. She has taught English in the local university for over 25 years, and now teaches creative writing there. Her diverse fiction (mostly erotic) has appeared in many print anthologies, including two volumes of The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica (6 and 13), and several volumes of Best Women’s Erotica and Best Lesbian Erotica. Her single-author books include: Obsession (Renaissance), The Princess and the Outlaw: Tales of the Torrid Past (Lethe Press) plus The Flight of the Black Swan: A Bawdy Novella (see below). She coedited Heiresses of Russ 2015 (Lethe), an annual anthology of the year’s best lesbian speculative fiction. The opinion pieces she wrote for a monthly column, Sex Is All Metaphors (based on a line in a poem by Dylan Thomas), are available as an e-book by that title (www.eroticanthology.com).

  She now blogs here: www.ohgetagrip.blogspot.com every Friday, and here: www.erotica-readers.blogspot.com on the 26th of each month.

  Excerpt: The Flight of the Black Swan

  If you enjoyed UNDER THE SIGN OF THE DRAGON, you might also enjoy:

  THE FLIGHT OF THE BLACK SWAN: A BAWDY NOVELLA by Jean Roberta

  * * *

  What happens when an adventurous young lady in Victorian England is invited to cross the Atlantic with a group of gay sailors in a stolen ship? She accepts!

  * * *

  Publisher’s blurb:

  * * *

  Imagine an upper-class English girl kidnapped by pirates when she was eleven, and eventually returned to her family. If this sounds familiar, you’ve probably either read the classic book A High Wind in Jamaica by Richard Hughes, or seen the movie. Whatever you may imagine, Jean Roberta has taken the grown-up Emily far beyond your—or the younger Emily’s—wildest speculations. This is, indeed, a “Bawdy Novella,” but there is more to it than that. Emily is a smart, spirited heroine, adventurous enough to see the bright side of the unspoken (and unfounded) assumption that she must be “damaged goods.” When her romantic affair at a girls’ school is abruptly ended because of her lover’s cowardice, Emily tosses off the constraints of nineteenth-century English society and returns to the sea on a more-or-less pirate ship, the Black Swan, manned by gay fugitives from the British Navy.

  * * *

  Warning: This title contains graphic descriptions of m/f and f/f sex, plus references to m/m sex.

  * * *

  Excerpt from first chapter, “Cupid’s Cruel Aim:”

  That night, I crept into Lucy’s bed when all the lights were out, and eased myself under the bedclothes. She pretended to be asleep until I wrapped her in my arms and kissed her on the lips. She couldn’t maintain her façade, and burst into giggles. Her hips moved beneath me. “Ssh!” I told her, fearing discovery.

  “Our nightgowns are in the way,” she whispered. “Move a little so we can take them off.”

  When we were both naked, we admired each other as best we could in the dim light from the nearest window. Lucy grabbed both my hands and brought them to her exuberant, womanly breasts. “Emily, I want you to have me,” she whispered as urgently as she could, holding the counterpane to muffle the sound. “I want you to do whatever you like. We can both be fallen women together. We’ll have our won code of honor, no matter who scorns us.”

  She reached beneath the mattress to bring out the candle she had hidden there. I had no doubt that she had already experimented with it alone. I was equally sure that she believed a real loss of virginity must be a two-person undertaking. Dear Reader, the pleasures of Venus are too thrilling to be covered by a blanket of silence. Surely you knew when you embarked on my story that it would prove thoroughly candid.

  I didn’t know what to say, so I wrapped my arms about Lucy and gently pressed my lips to hers. For a long while, we kissed like bosom friends. Then she pushed her tongue in between my lips and my teeth, and the intru
sion gave me the strangest feeling between my legs, as though she were tickling me there.

  She withdrew to see my expression. “That’s a French lover’s kiss,” she whispered. “It’s in Mademoiselle Rosier’s French book about the arts of love.”

  “Did she lend it to you?” I could hardly believe it. Lucy laughed.

  “No, silly,” she answered. “I can unlock doors without a key. I’ll show you later. Do it to me now, Emmy.” She wanted to be unlocked, invaded, burgled and read from her head to her toes.

  I wanted to do every intimate thing described in the filthiest of French books, but I didn’t want her to think I lacked finesse. I decided to proceed cautiously, by degrees. I caressed her breasts and felt the weight of them in my two hands. I nuzzled my face between them, enjoying the sound of her sighs. The tender buds that crowned her bubbies grew hard beneath my fingers.

  Feeling her beneath me was the sweetest experience imaginable. Like a flower, she had her own distinct fragrance, which grew stronger as I nuzzled her neck with my lips and left a trail of kisses from her collarbone to her breasts to her waist and the soft skin of her belly.

  I could hear her breathing as I nudged her thighs apart and enjoyed the aroma of the dark curly hair between them. On impulse, I kissed her hairy cleft. When she squirmed, I imagined that her cunny was an animal with a mind of its own.

  “Emily darling,” she whispered. “Use your fingers. I want you to.” I slid an index finger into the sucking wet heat of her, and stroked her inner folds. She was like an oyster inside. I had touched myself there when I was sure no one would discover me, but discovering Lucy’s inner sanctum was like exploring a new continent.