Knight of Dawnbywritelove©
Fighting was never the most difficult part of my life. Sure it had danger -- the possibility of painful death. Yet I was an excellent swordsman and danger was the spice and joy of my occupation.
It was all the other stuff that bothered me.
The most obvious frustration involved the removal of bodily wastes. Urination was the most frequent problem. Rarely did I have time to remove the breastplate and pelvic armor before nature provided an immediate and yet unpleasant solution. With my helmet closed, the stench was unbearable, and gripped my head the way stocks encase a prisoner. Fortunately, the helmet was only required during an actual fight. The rest of the time I tore it off to dangle by crimson sash from my shoulder.
The more solid elimination was also a grievous aggravation. The newer armor had a hinge and plate to aid removal. Those of us with the older models had to deal with the stew of our own excrement. Sometimes it took years for replacement parts, so I had no immediate hope of salvation. The only possibility of rescue was on the battlefield – I might defeat someone who had a better one and thus make it my own.
Rain was another difficulty. Moisture gathered in the rivets and hinges of each piece of armor encouraging a growth of rust that might easily leave my equipment frozen and useless. To avoid such a calamity, I was forced to press animal fat into each crevice, every joint, all the places where one piece of metal rubbed against another.
The worst thing was a simple itch. One time I was riding high on my stallion when a small tickling sensation arose in my back. It was just a small feeling but of such an annoyance I could think of little else all day. I would have immediately torn off my breastplate, shoulder protections and mail coat, but at that exact moment a knight stood in front of me, his sword glistening in the fading light.
Today I felt none of these things. The sun was bright, my armor while never shiny was clean. Each surface was smooth, unmarred by scrapes or dents. I was riding my latest stallion, a black beauty of an animal, won in a recent tournament near a place called Eagle Mountain.
My thoughts were on the events of the previous evening. The opportunity had been like a gift from my liege lord, an alabaster bowl poured over my head.
She arrived with the swish of silk garments, not like the scarlet dressed hussies who frequented the taverns fat with tournament trade. She wore white, a long flowing gown, that kissed the steps as she descended the staircase.
"I have but little time," she said with a voice that sounded more like breathing than talking, as though she had just run across the castle when I knew it was merely a winding staircase, taken one slow step at a time, in full view of my assessment below.
I bent my head to the left and raised my arm to press my nose under it. A quick intake from my nostrils revealed that I still had a foul smell surrounding me. Perhaps she would never notice. After all, few men or even women for that matter bathed more than once a week, relying on perfume or a tightly bound tie to keep the odor contained. Yet it bothered me. My mother was an islander. She loved water -- boating upon it, swimming under it, and of course bathing with it. How she met a man from the interior, fell in love with him, and even married him is a different story.
"Where can we go to be alone?" I asked.
"You are so naughty - alone - without an escort. It can only be the garden. No one goes there these days."
Moments later, I understood why she chose the garden.
She lay on the soft grass, lifted an arm, a smile creeping over her lips, her legs spread apart.
I descended on her, a hand on her thigh, my lips hot against her softer ones.
"My husband has been long gone these many years," she said, her voice almost a whisper. "It has been lonely here in the castle. He may even be dead. The heathen are deadly in the holy lands."
Her words gave me pause for a moment, considering our situation. I was the tournament champion, yet of common birth, she of royal blood but without personal accomplishments, skills, or abilities. Unless the soft shadows showing beneath her filmy gown held special gifts, she was merely a prize to be taken, not a love for the cherishing. I hardly knew her. This was merely a man and a maid with their need for one another. Could anything more be accomplished here, I wondered.
My desire grew and I slid my hand along her thigh, over the smoothness of skin, under her gown, along her stomach, rib cage, to her breast. Under the filmy material, she was completely naked, the way she was born, without artifice, neither rich, nor poor, just a woman in heat.
She sighed as my hand surrounded her breast, massaging it, caressing it. My tongue parted her lips. Her tongue was a snake swirling with the growing need of me. And I responded with equal desire, our juices intermingling with the heat of our craving.
Her gown separated easily, revealing her breasts. I slid the tip of my tongue over her lips, down her chin, to her neck. With the barest of touches, my tongue trailed along the slope of her skin, down her neck, a touch, almost a tickle, the tip hardly tasting her. As I neared her breast, I opened my mouth, engulfing the softness of her mound.
"I never knew." Her whisper was almost without sound but in the stillness of the garden, I heard every word. "Let this last forever," she said sliding an arm against my chest, snapping a button open, then another until my shirt was open.
I pulled back, removing my shirt, staring at her lying on the grass. Her skin was alabaster, the scent of lilacs spreading upward. I opened the rest of her gown gazing down at her, her hazel eyes staring into mine. I let my glance move downward over the perfect breasts the small waist, a wisp of blond between her legs, and such legs. They were white as the rest of her, long and slender. I couldn't resist touching them, sliding my hand over the outside of them, touching her knee, her foot, then returning inside the leg, spreading them, lightly grazing her thigh, and placing a hand on the hair under her stomach.
She was far different from any of the other women I had known. I had no wife, no kept woman. I wandered from tournament to tournament, finding a taste of flesh here and there wherever my path would lead me. Most of them were tavern wenches, the kind that seldom washed, had dirt under fingernails with a bit too much flavor between the legs. As an islander, I had once sworn off women altogether. I liked the fish smell but these fillies had turned it sour, spoiled like rancid butter.
Despite my constant misgivings, the toss of long hair, the strut and swish of ample hips always had me sniffing around for more.
Samantha was different, a breath of fresh air, yet troubling in a way I did not quite understand. As I gazed down on her, I felt my penis quicken, hardening like a broom handle, quivering, wanting her more than thought itself. I would give up all fighting I thought, if I could just have this garden of delights every night.
"Your tongue," she cried. "Lick me, all of me."
I slid my tongue down her breast and along her chest. Like a worm, I wiggled the tip across her skin. She was delicious. As I caressed her with my lips, my tongue flicked between them, tasting her, exciting her, enticing her. Her taste was something I would never forget, a tinge of saltiness and something else, a fruitiness.
As I approached her belly button, I turned my body sideways, positioning my penis near her mouth, so close I could feel her hot breath on it sending a tingling sensation through me. My penis twitched with desire and rubbed against her cheek.
"Please," I said softly. "Suck me."
She placed me in her mouth. She was a novice but her inhibitions were disappearing as fast as the island tides change in the early morning hours. I felt her mouth tighten around me. I pushed forward until my penis hit the back of her throat. Her nose rested against my balls. Then she tightened her mouth and sucked me as though she had been doing it for years. I felt my stomach tighten, a stirring grew deep inside me, craving to let go. But I didn't want it to end yet. There was so much more to do.
My tongue wrapped itself around the hairs between her legs. I slid to the edge of her slit, delicately probing the inner sanctums of her private folds. They were wet and I lapped up the juices like a lapdog, tasting the sweet fragrance that seemed to call to me – fuck me, fuck me. But that would have to wait. I had a meal to finish.
I continued to swirl my tongue over the edges of her slit, inching closer to that little button of love, the nub of desire – her clitoris. As I lightly grazed it, she jerked upward an act that forced my penis deeper into her throat. I was now past the back of her mouth and several inches down her throat. I wondered how she could breathe properly since with each movement, her throat and mouth clenched my penis. I couldn't believe it that I hadn't shot my load long before.
And for a moment, all I could think about was the delightful way she jerked and quivered each time my tongue touched her clitoris. And each time this happened I quivered as well, her grip on my penis constricting tight around me.
"Don't come," she cried sliding off of me. "I want you inside me."
My penis bounced up and down, quivering in the cool air. Spreading her legs, I rested the tip against her pussy. She pushed upward and the tip slowly entered her. After a couple of inches it stopped. I pushed downward and slowly her pussy expanded to allow me to enter her further and further.
It had been a long time since she had been with a man. She was tight, so very tight, as though it was her first time. I eased my penis back and then pushed forward again. It went further this time and further still the next. I wondered what this would mean to the two of us. I was a commoner, she a lady, royalty. Sure I was tournament champion, but what value was that against the blue blood of an aristocrat.
She cried as I ripped her apart, my penis embedded full into her, my pelvis rubbing against her clitoris. Then slowly I drew back, my penis encased in as tight a pussy as I had ever felt before. Just as the tip almost exited her pussy, I slid back again.
"Oh," she cried. "It's like fire. Don't stop. It hurts like fire but I want it, all of it."
And I obliged. I slowed my pace down as the eruption of my desire grew closer and closer. She wasn't ready yet. I did not want to release too soon. I wanted her to find the pain and the glory, the sunshine and the rain. I wanted to rock her world, to change her forever, to remove the naïve little grin from her face. This was no love making exercise between two turtle dove adolescents. No this was a man possessing a woman.
Yet my control was almost gone. How I wanted to erupt inside her to feel her pussy convulse around me. We were almost there.
I gripped her shapely buttocks in my arms and pulled her toward me.
"Ahh," I cried as I shot my seed into her.
It was as though my seed had stimulated her beyond her resistance. She came as well, screaming my name over and over. I covered her mouth so the entire castle wouldn't hear us.
And then our passions waned. We lay back in the grass, legs entangled, chests together, a tiredness covering us like a blanket, protective and warm.
Some time later unsure of the time, I shook my head to clear it of sleep. I studied the woman beside me, my thoughts on how different we were. Her station in life was so much higher than my own. She thought herself better than I. It was something that I could not accept and with the passion gone, this stared me straight in my face. I had no desire to fight for her, carry her ribbon on my shield. I had more immediate concerns.
A knight approached me at a gallop, his shield swaying in the afternoon light, catching a stray beam of sunlight that had fought through the leaves and branches above us.
The crest on his shield revealed nothing, containing a single robin surrounded by green oak leaves. I had seen nothing like it in all my previous jousting experiences. His armor was black absorbing the sunlight like a dark cavern. This contrasted with his white horse -- light and darkness together – twins of disparity. What a sight you'd make at the tournament, I thought.
I was in the best shape of my career, armor in perfect order, a well-trained horse, even a bath late into the evening. I flexed my muscles, feeling the blood flood into my fighting arm. It held a lance at the moment, certain to be replaced shortly with my blade, Blue Sapphire.
As my opponent loomed in front of me, I noticed the size of his horse – 15 hands, small for a horse, any horse. It carried a knight with heavy armor. Yet the horse raced easily, eager for the battle to begin. The rider was smaller than I had first surmised. The contrast to the horse had made me think of a giant knight ready to devour me. Instead, he was much smaller than I.
I wondered what kind of a battle I would have. Would this be difficult or easy? As fine a fighter as I was, I always had this moment of doubt before a contest. Was I still the best? Eventually someone would show up to beat me. Was this the time? Had my speed slackened just a little, that small bit that separated the expert from the mediocre?
As rider and horse reached me I pulled on the reins. "Desist a moment sir," I shouted.
Ten paces from me the horse and rider stopped. We stood there for several moments in silence. Then I spoke.
"I have no conflict with you." My words were loud in the stillness of the glen.
"Why risk death when there is no reason for it?"
Still no response from the mysterious rider.
I sat motionless for many minutes, studying the equally still rider before me. Neither of us moved or spoke as the other rider adjusted his lance. Pointing it toward me, he kicked his heels into the side of his horse.
Lance fighting was about three things. The horse was the most important part of the entire conflict. A heavy horse, fleet of foot, would almost always demolish a smaller one. Riders were just extra baggage. My horse was heavy and fairly fast. My opponent's animal was on the small side. I still had no idea how fast the beast could run.
A proper seat was also crucial to good lance fighting. A well balanced and secure saddle would provide a fighter a good foundation for the critical thrust of a lance. In my early days, I had once used a simple wooden seat. My armor would chaff as it scraped and rattled against the wood. When my opponent's lance hit my shield, the lack of secure seating caused me to simply slide off my horse. As he collected my equipment, I almost felt grateful. Never again would I need to use my worthless saddle.
The last crucial ingredient for a successful lance fight was the fighter himself. The better the fighter, the more battles he would win. I was one of the best. Since that fateful day when my saddle caused me to fall off my horse, I had been flawless. That was at least twenty matches in the past. It would be so easy to be over confident now. Few knights had ever been so successful.
As we raced toward each other, I raised my lance, pointing straight at the other's shield. I had perfected a trick that almost always worked. Most knights would point the lance toward the center of an opponent's torso. The opposing knight would counter with his shield to receive the blow and at the same time deliver an equally powerful attack from his own lance.
My trick was to follow this basic pattern, but at just the right moment, shift the lance away from the torso and catch the shield off center. If implemented in just the right way, this would spin the other person and often unseat him.
I planned to perform such an exhibition today. The only risk was the rare possibility that I might miss the shield altogether, my lance slide into the air, leaving my left side open and vulnerable. So far that risk had never become reality.
The fight did not proceed the way I had expected. First, my adversary's horse was unusually fast. Then when I tried my trick of shifting my lance's point to the outside portion of my opponent's shield, I missed the shield altogether. It wasn't so much that I missed the spot I was aiming at as my adversary simply sidestepped the forward thrust of my lance.
I saw a flash of his lance, heard a clang on my helmet just moments before spinning stars fogged my head. When my head cleared, I was lying on the ground, my horse standing over me and my opponent a few horse lengths away, waiting.
There wasn't much I could do but try to get up again. Only trying and doing were two separate things, especially for a knight fully decked in tournament grade armor.
My back ached, my legs throbbed, and the blasted armor was so heavy, so incredibly heavy. I felt as though the inside was filled with lead. Every muscle in my body screamed in pain.
Eventually I propped myself against a nearby stump and with my back to it, was able to sit up. The other knight backed his horse toward me until its long tail swished around my helmet. Taking the hint, I grabbed the tail and the horse pulled me upright. As soon as I was vertical, I release the tail.
The other knight stopped his horse a few lengths away and leaped from the saddle. I had never seen anything like it before. None of the usual clanking and twisting, practically falling out of the saddle. No, this was a nice clean jump. That's when I realized that his armor must be different, not as heavy, less protective perhaps, but so much more agile.
As my opponent approached, Blue Sapphire leaped into my hand. The knight striding toward me also had a sword out, its sharp edges gleaming against the rays of light that fought through the leaves. Again I observed the smaller size of the other knight, his light armor , not much more than chain mail. I thought that perhaps this fight would be over quickly. And another thought crept into my thinking – Why had he helped me get back on my feet?
"I am a swordsman of goodly skill," I said. "I have oft times killed my opponents. I do not want this folly to fall on your head."
The other knight said no words in response, simply closed the distance and swung his sword. It was a lazy tentative swing and I easily blocked it. I decided to surprise him, and swung my sword with as powerful a stroke as I could muster. He didn't even bother to block my swing, simply flicked it aside so the strength of my stroke caused my sword to sweep into the air in an explosive arc of power but only finding empty wind to oppose it. The force of the motion through the air caused me to stumble.
The smaller knight pounced on this opportunity and whipped his sword toward my helmet. I jerked back so the blow was only a glancing one, but it still hit the edge of my helmet leaving my head ringing and almost forcing me to the ground again.
Then I swung at him, a probing swing, not committing anything, ready to parry a stroke, or swing for the kill. I was more cautious now, ice in my veins. This would not be a quick ending. I needed to be careful. So far I had been lucky. I should already be defeated, but somehow I was still on my feet.
For over half an hour, we parried each other, probing the other's defenses, trying to find a weakness that either of us could expose. Both of us were of fairly equal skill. I was the more powerful, but my opponent was quicker. The question of who would win might certainly come down to who would tire first. Of that possibility I was quite unconcerned. I was renown for my endurance. Of course each of my massive strokes did consume more energy than his quick ones, jabbing, slicing, stabbing.
But the end never was a result of any of these possibilities. Like many aspects of life, the conclusion to our affair was decided by chance.