Lady Gwen

She threw a table at him. It only went a few feet. The furniture in the inn was heavy and well-built, to her obvious frustration. Never-the-less, he backed up a couple of steps, a global sign of retreat. "I just meant that a beautiful woman like you shouldn't have to sleep alone."

Her hands flew to her hips. "Oh, and if I was an ugly old hag, I should sleep alone?"

One of the patrons from earlier in the night appeared in the doorway, a make-shift club in his hand, taking in the scene. Under other circumstances, Grayfell would have laughed at the puny threat, but he was duly impressed that the man was willing to face down a warrior in defense of the woman. He shook his head slightly and spread his empty hands, moving away from his sword where it hung over a chair. The man narrowed his eyes, but looked over to the woman. "Lady Gwen?" he questioned.

Grayfell swung his eyes across the room to the woman, his senses still on high alert. She had sagged, all fight gone out of her. She waved at the newcomer dismissively. "It's all right, Arwen. I am fine and our friend here was just going to his own room." The man looked skeptical, but she waved again and he turned reluctantly. Grayfell could hear him climbing back to the second floor.

Sobriety was returning fast. "Do you want me to leave?" he asked.

"I'd be a pretty poor hostess if I sent you out into this weather," she replied so quietly he had to strain to hear her. She turned and headed back around the end of the bar.

Grayfell moved to the other side and leaned slightly toward her. She didn't look up or meet his eyes as she found another rag and wiped at a mug. "It was never my intent to offend you," he offered.

She rested her hands on the dark wood wearily. "Just go to your room, stranger."

"My name is Grayfell." She paused without lifting her head, but he could tell she had recognized the origins of the name, how far he had travelled from his homeland. How could this woman, here in the middle of nowhere, know so much about southern mythology and letters and a land across the Northern sea? "I do believe we both have dark secrets," he suggested, "but of the human kind, not the magical."

She still didn't look up, but there was the briefest flash of that wry smile again and he felt that his vague attempt at an apology had been accepted. "I will see you in the morning, Lady Gwen."

"Take a lamp," she murmured, already distracted again.

He hefted the nearest remaining lantern, retrieved his sword, and proceeded to the assigned room, pleased to find a comfortable, if simple bed, rather than a hay mattress. A brief search led him to the latrine just off his end of the building. When he returned, he caught the briefest glimpse of the woman disappearing into a room at the opposite end of the building. He sighed again and locked himself in his room, beginning the tedious task of removing his armor.

****

Grayfell wasn't one for dreaming, save occasions where he'd been sorely wounded and had to fight fevers. Yet this night it seemed he'd been lost in them all night. It had begun with him playfully chasing a white-haired woman, through meadows and forests of dappled sunlight. He took her to be a half-elf he had known for some months a few years back, mostly by her slender frame and diaphanously revealing clothes. He never managed to get close enough in the dream to see her face, but her teasing laughter floated back to him and her lithe movements betrayed her elven blood. Try as he might, though, he was beleaguered by his heavy armor, and in the end, she ran into the arms of another man, much as she had in real life. He hadn't expected any different, really. He had convinced himself that she was much more enamored of herself than any man, but she'd always been good for a wild night -- followed by an even wilder day -- of sex. He'd called her indefatigable once and she'd slapped him, thinking it was a slur against her. The slap had made his blood boil, even knowing it was from a misunderstanding, and he'd given her such a hard ride the rest of that night, he'd succeeded for the first and only time in exhausting her at least for a few hours.

He had awakened after that dream, bemused and assuming his meeting Gwenafhyr had inspired the dream. His cock twitched at the memory as if with a mind of its own and he caressed it absent-mindedly, promising it a warm snatch to snuggle into soon. He secretly credited the half-elf with teaching him so many, maybe even all he knew about sex. He'd been so young and full of himself and his cock had seemed utterly insatiable, until he met her. He would throw her down and plunge into her depths until his balls would explode with their need and she would only laugh and demand to know if that was the best he had. He realized later years that her taunts had been meant as a challenge, just like his sword master would wait him out until he'd exhausted himself, then knock him on his ass, demanding that he start showing some skill and not just muscle. He would lay on his back, exhausted, and she would straddle his face, demanding he eat her out until his cock came back to life. She actually threatened to smother him if he didn't make her come before he needed to breathe freely again. It never occurred to him to simply lift her off his face. The scent of an aroused elf was beyond intoxicating. Even one dripping with his own cum. When she tired of teaching him finer arts of fucking, she would play hard-to-get, dropping hints of the arcane arts of seduction. It wasn't until she realized that, no matter how good he got at fucking, or even at evincing desire through seduction, he never learned to care more about her pleasure than his own. Or wanted to. She had made him into an excellent fucker, he had no desire to be an excellent lover. So she had left him. He didn't really mind. He was eager to try out his new skills on other women.

He'd drifted back to sleep, frustrated that he was alone this night. He fell into another dream, about yet another woman. This woman he could clearly see, standing on an ancient fortification wall, staring out to sea. And he knew beyond a doubt she was watching for him to return.

There had been a time, when he'd first abandoned the King's service for the adventurous life of the mercenary, when he'd been young and brash and too skilled a warrior for his own good. He'd fallen in with a band of mercenaries that made regular and profitable work of rescuing hostages taken by various groups on the Southern Continent. Government on the continent was little more than isolated city-states beset by aggressive but disorganized tribes with radically unpredictable alliances who seemed to think that their best way to acquire resources -- other than theft -- was to help themselves to individuals from well-heeled families, especially from the less well-fortified northern islands, and then demand ransom for them. The King refused to pay ransoms nor to take his fighters into the hardscrabble, anarchic lands to the south, leaving families desperate for help. It helped that it was no secret that ransoms paid didn't always produce the release of the hostage. It became common practice to hire a band of mercenaries to rescue the hostage, paying them well for success.

On one of those early trips, Grayfell met and seduced the youngest daughter of the governor of one of the city-states. The band of mercenaries had developed a reputation and they had been invited to the palace to discuss working for the local governor to fight the attacking hordes. They had feigned interest long enough to enjoy the sumptuous meal provided, but they had no interest in the politics of anarchy, nor in being one of the troops again. They, to a man, had left that kind of life behind. But that didn't change the fact that they were pale-skinned, light-haired, exotic-looking and highly capable Northerners. There wasn't a man in the group that didn't find his way into a woman's rooms that night. Grayfell had set his sights on the maiden Singh early on. There was something about the combination of her innocence, naivete, and worldly education that intrigued him. For her part, she yearned to experience some of the pleasures she'd only read about. Grayfell gently took her virginity and then took her to heights of ecstasy far beyond what she could possibly have imagined from words on papyrus. In return, she would share wondrous books and artwork with him. They spent long, hot nights trying to mimic positions illustrated in books from distant lands, twisting into impossible knots only to find centers deep inside, never touched before, that swept them to levels of intensity beyond imagining.

When it was time to leave, Grayfell promised to return. It was a promise lightly made, but he did return from time to time, on yet more missions of rescue, and each time, he made the same promise. When their band eventually broke up, he didn't return; didn't send her a letter explaining, didn't even really think about her after. But in his dream, she was forlornly staring out at sea, and there was a fair-haired child by her side, clinging to the skirt of her gown, looking out across the waves for something, someone, he couldn't even, would never be able to recognize. Grayfell climbed the ancient bricks, up from the sea, slipping and sliding, and climbing again, finally reaching out for her, but his foot skidded on the loose rubble of the decaying wall. He was falling, down to the sea below where it crashed against wall and rocks. Grayfell startled awake.

It was some moments before his heart rate returned to normal, but even before that could happen, sleep was pulling him under yet again. And then another dream beset him. A woman he had known for a matter of weeks some years ago. She was beautiful, married to a rich landowner, and deeply dissatisfied with her lonely life. None of that mattered to Grayfell. He had set his sights on her only because he sought revenge against the man she had married; for some slight he couldn't even remember. The man had many possessions that Grayfell might have helped himself to, but it had to be his most prized possession. And that happened to be his wife. He would not even consent to have children with her, not willing to share her with anyone else.

It hadn't been particularly hard to win her ardor. She was withering from the lack of attention by her husband. Grayfell wooed her with kindness, listening endlessly to her words, gifting her with devotion, coming to her each day as the man rode his lands and admired his wealth. Scant days later, when she wept in his arms for her bitter loneliness, Grayfell carried her to her husband's chamber and stood her to look down at the empty bed. "This is where you belong," he had whispered in her ear as his hands slowly brushed her gown from her shoulders and let it drift to the floor. "This is where your ecstasy and your completion reside. I will give it to you. I will give you what he denies you." He lifted her again and laid her on the bed. She had trembled then, but he had soothed her and spoke to her and calmed her with more patience than he had ever shown before or since. And then he set about pleasuring her with his tongue and his fingers and his cock. He found every erotic spot on her body and worked his magic on it until she was writhing and begging him to stop and never stop. He wanted, hoped, that she would tell her husband every detail of their love-making, how many times he fucked her pussy and her ass. How many times she'd eagerly swallowed his cum and begged for more. He proceeded to bring the bloom back to her withered soul. When she became hopelessly entranced with the wondrous sex he offered, in her husband's own bed, no less, he convinced her to tell her husband everything and leave him.

Grayfell rode out that night before the husband returned from riding his lands, much as he wanted to enjoy the moment of his nemesis' utter destruction. In an uncharacteristic fit of remorse, he had ridden back to meet the woman where he had promised, knowing the husband would eject her with nothing. He eventually found her, wandering along the road and pulled her up into the saddle before him. He listened with barely disguised joy to the story she related of her husband's wrath when she had told him what had occurred. Grayfell barely noticed her confusion and recognition of his betrayal when he dropped her at an inn in a seaside village. He was too busy savoring his sweet revenge.

In his dream, he had entered a bar on the waterfront in a busy harbor. A haggard, well-used woman was serving drinks and swabbing down after drunken sailors and fishermen. Grayfell took a seat at a filthy table and waited. When she didn't notice him immediately, he slammed his hand down on the table. "Whiskey!" he yelled across the room, so that even some of the men in the bar cringed. The woman only straightened slowly and walked behind the bar to fetch his drink. He was about to yell at her to hurry, she moved so slow, even painfully, but she was at least approaching with a generous glassful. She stopped at the opposite side of his table. Then she threw the drink in his face.

Grayfell sprang to his feet, throwing the table aside. "Bitch!" he screamed at her. She only stood and glared at him, and he found himself staring into eyes of midnight blue seas, darker blue than any he had ever seen, save for one woman from his past. "I'm going to..." he growled, not sure how he meant to finish the sentence.

"What can you do to me that you haven't done already?" she asked softly, then turned to walk back to the bar. He awoke in a sweat.

****

Grayfell tossed and turned the remainder of the night, convincing himself that the white-haired woman was somehow responsible for his dreams. As soon as the first hint of the coming dawn peeked around the edges of the oil cloth covering the small window, he became determined to confront her. He felt around on the floor till he found his trousers and struggled into them. Then he yanked angrily at his riding boots, cursing his still slightly damp trousers. He threw his undertunic on, tucking only the front of it into his trousers and not bothering to lace up the neck. He glanced at his sword belt, then cast that thought away. He didn't want a fight, he just wanted an explanation, and a damn good one.

He strode out into the great room and glared at the handful of occupants. There were a couple of messengers, with bags already thrown over their shoulders, nursing a last cup of strong tea before heading out. There was another man, older, in king's livery, probably headed to deliver orders to a garrison somewhere. They all looked at Grayfell with mild curiosity as he strode behind the bar and into the kitchen. Two steps into the steamy room told him all he needed to know. He strode back out to face the patrons at the bar. "Where the hell is she?" he demanded.

"Patience, good sir," the liveried man said, gracing him with an undeserved honorific. "She'll be back in a moment. She just stepped out to oversee the work."

"Work?" Grayfell asked, caught off guard from the rant he had prepared to deliver.

"A wolf got into the chicken coop last night. She chased it off, then she and the boy spent all night on watch. At first light, the boy ran to a farmer's place up on the high road to ask one of his sons for help to fix the fencing. They just returned back a few moments ago and she went out to see they had what they needed for the repairs."

"All night?" Grayfell asked in confusion.

"Didn't you hear it?" one of the messengers asked. "Terrible ruckus."

"He was at the back of the inn," the other messenger pointed out.

Grayfell ran his hands through his hair and helped himself to a mug of tea from the pot. "Did someone go out to help her, at least."

The king's man snorted. "When the Lady Gwen says she doesn't need any help, and she's got a cocked and bolted crossbow in her hands, you don't argue. And the stable boy's good. Stronger and faster than he looks. I've told him to look for me when he comes of age. The King always needs good men." He didn't meet Grayfell's eyes with that last comment, but Grayfell knew it was aimed at him. The man either assumed he'd been with the King's men and left, or he'd been with the King's enemies. A betrayal either way. Grayfell didn't bother to point out that he'd been doing what the king should have been seeing to and refused.

"The stable boy. Is he hers?"

"Story is he was an orphan she took in and raised," the king's man shrugged. "Never heard different."

Grayfell set the cup down on the bar and headed for the door. When he saw that the rain had been replaced with a heavy, dreary drizzle, he thought better of it and retrieved his cloak from the fireplace before heading out.

The coop was a short way down the gentle slope in front of the inn, at the edge of a kitchen garden. The stable boy and a teenager were wrestling with a timber that had rotted away and broken off at the ground level, apparently with a little encouragement from the wolf. The woman was gesturing, and arguing or pleading with the teenager. Her words were carried away by the wind, or drowned out by the clucking of the excited chickens whenever the wind died down. Grayfell could see more repairs needed where the wolf had forced its way into the coup. As he strode up behind the woman, the teenager looked up with wide eyes.

Gwenafhyr spun around. "You shouldn't be out here," she scolded. "It's raining."

Grayfell looked at her with bemusement. She appeared every bit as wet and bedraggled and miserable as he must have last night. "And you should be?" He surveyed the damage. "This wire is not strong enough to span this distance. Not strong enough to stop a wolf."

"It's what I could afford," she snapped, turning her back on him.

"I'm just saying you need more uprights to support it." He saw the teenager roll his eyes and guessed his father was a supplier for the woman's inn and he had been sent against his will to help out and maintain good relations. On the other hand, it was obvious the stable boy venerated the older youth. Grayfell scanned the sky and his experienced eye told him heavier rain was moving in and soon. He turned to the woman. "Tend to your patrons. I'll work on this."

She stubbornly put her hands on her hips and stared at him. "I'm sure you have places to be."

He just shrugged. "I can spend half a day fixing this for you with a warm fire nearby, or a whole day slogging through mud to reach the depressing, filthy wayside of Downcastle."

"I can't pay you," she said more softly. "The high season is weeks off, if ever," she added, scowling at the grey sky.

"Did I ask?"

"I'll not be beholden to any man," she stated flatly. Grayfell simply crossed his arms and cocked his head toward the teenager.

The woman threw her arms in the air. "Men," she yelled in exasperation before stomping off toward the inn. Before she reached the protection of the building, though, Grayfell clearly saw her pull her cloak tight and shiver against the wet and cold.

****

It was midafternoon, but the rain-drenched sky was as dark as a summer night. Grayfell sat at the bar, nursing a mug of ale. The woman had lit only a few lamps, probably conserving oil. She'd gone off for a while to tidy rooms and returned with a handful of lanterns that she spread to tables around the room, but she didn't light any. Only one new guest had arrived, coughing as if from consumption, and Gwenafhyr had dosed him with something and sent him off to one of the upper rooms with a fireplace. The stable boy had come and gone, hauling water and bringing in food from a root cellar. When the woman wasn't looking, Grayfell paid him another silver to treat his stallion to oats and apples.

As the afternoon wore on, a few more men arrived, including a shepherd bringing her lamb and mutton. Throughout the afternoon, though, it seemed that she was avoiding him, either busy in the kitchen or elsewhere in the inn, usually behind the bar only long enough to fetch an ale for someone. It wasn't until after she'd dished up soup for the handful of patrons that she paused long enough behind the bar for him to venture awkwardly into a conversation.