The Tales of Sir Dwayne - The Lark
Dwayne, startled, felt the nick of a blade at his throat. He froze.
"What say you that we should relieve you of the whore?"
"What say you that I should relieve you of your balls!" Sir Dwayne snarled.
That brought a surprised look, then both men burst out laughing.
"And how will you accomplish this feat, good knight, with no sword? Will you chew them off?"
This set both of them to laughing again. It gave Dwayne the opening he needed. He rolled, sprung to his feet, and gained a bit of clearance.
The other swung his sword. The trickle of blood on Dwayne's throat and the grip and swing of the other told him he was dealing with someone who had been trained, but had no battle experience. The other's blade had never been used in combat, witness the trickle of blood running down Sir Dwayne's neck. A well-used blade would be ne'er that sharp.
Sir Dwayne feigned, feigned again. His assailant swung and swung twice. Sir Dwayne dodged the third blow, spun inside the swing of the blade, planted his elbow on the other's jaw, throwing all his weight behind it. There was the satisfying crunch of broken bone. The other collapsed in the dirt.
Sir Dwayne retrieved his sword, advanced on the second youth. He screamed.
The whore, nee Lady Birgit, had her teeth firmly clamped on the youth's hand.
Dwayne grabbed the second youth's hair, gave him a vicious head butt. The screaming stopped.
"Are you all right?"
"Aye, Sir Dwayne."
The whore looked at the two youths lying in the dirt.
"What? ..."
Sir Dwayne shrugged.
"I remember them from the inn last night, sitting off to the side. Very drunk, very loud."
"Aye, I, too, remember them now."
"Mm."
"They are but boys."
"Men enough to wield sword. Only a year or two younger than yourself."
The girl blushed and nodded.
"Aye."
It had been their third outing.
The first after the handmaid's abduction had been, well, not all that exciting. Things were quiet in the shire and there was not much to do for a knight errant. And the second even more boring than the first. This was their third lark.
Three days ago Lady Birgit entered the woods and emerged the whore. Her outer garment gaily colored green and yellow, but heavily soiled, her undergarment likewise soiled, but washed, soiled, and washed again to where it appeared filthy, but had been rendered soft as silk, fitting for a lady.
Sir Dwayne bound her wrists. She lowered her gaze. Her cheeks flushed. She was no longer Lady Birgit and he simply Dwayne. He was Sir Dwayne and she but a whore, something owned and used and rented out, not that he'd ever done that - although the thought had crossed his mind.
The sight of her dressed thusly, bound, trailing behind stirred him ... as it did her. He knew. Knew that in a few hours he would have his release ... and she hers.
They traveled for two days, heading north, deeper into the shire. She spent the first night chained in a stable. Sir Dwayne had fashioned a leg iron, a simple ring lined with soft leather attached to a length of chain that he locked to her ankle, the end of which easily locked to any convenient point.
He used her as a whore. He would throw her roughly into the straw, forcing his member into her mouth and her cunt and, yes, even her arse. Though force was the wrong word. She welcomed him. She fought him, yes, pounding his chest with half-hearted blows, only to be cuffed, driven to the ground and used, used as something a bit less than a whore, used as a chained thing, not even a girl, an animal. And she was an animal. When Sir Dwayne tired of her nails raking his back he would bind her wrists, flip her on her belly and take her from behind. In the dark, in the stable, her screeching sounds fit with the other animals.
This day they had come into the town at about dusk. Sir Dwayne procured lodgings for himself and a stall for the whore. Instead of locking her to a post in the stall, he fixed the ring to one of her ankles and locked the end of the chain around the other hobbling her.
The inn was dark, smoky. The fire blazed, though the night was fair. The whore knelt at his feet. He ate bits of meat, handing down the occasional piece to the whore. When his tankard was empty, she fetched more ale.
Later, unable to sleep in his hot, dusty room at the inn, he had gone to the stable, retrieved his horse ... and the whore. He led them both through the woods, down to the stream, where he lay back, dozing in the cool darkness.
"Open!"
Sir Dwayne kicked the door.
"Open I say!"
A small door within a door slid open. Sir Dwayne dealt the gate a thundering blow.
"Open!"
The little door shut. A minute later the gate swung open a notch.
"What is this?"
The man was neither old nor young. He held up a lantern.
"What is this?"
"Are these yours?"
The man peered into the darkness at the two youths sharing a saddle on the roan horse. The one in back slumped over the one in front.
"Aye. My sons. What is the meaning of this?"
"They attacked me and sought to steal my property."
"What? Attacked you say?"
"Aye."
"This ... this is not possible. There must be some mistake."
Sir Dwayne tapped the crusty, bloody drip on his neck.
"No mistake. Aye, there is no mistake. The set upon me in my sleep, held sword to my throat, and sought to steal the whore."
The man walked over to the roan, held up his lantern.
"What is this? Is this true?"
"It was his idea, Father, a lark he said, only a lark."
"A lark?" Sir Dwayne roared. "Put a blade to a man's throat while he sleeps? A lark?"
"We meant no harm. And ... and it was his idea!"
"Why does he not speak? You! Boy!"
Sir Dwayne chuckled.
"I was unarmed. I had only my fist. Sometimes it is the more effective weapon."
He shrugged.
"Had I been armed, he would be dead by now."
The father dragged the youths from the horse, kicked their arses, driving them into the yard. The whore slipped from the saddle, Sir Dwayne handed her up behind him. The old man with the lantern led the horses inside.
"I will report this to the sheriff, but I will not file a charge. Mark me, though, if I hear of either of them getting into any sort of mischief, I will execute the charge. Do you understand?"
"Yes. Yes. My apologies Sir. My apologies. There will be no more mischief."
Sir Dwayne eased the door open. The man at the table looked, brightened.
"Dwayne!"
He leapt around the table, taking the other in his grasp.
"James. You are well?"
"Aye. And you?"
"Bored, but well."
"Aye. Naught much to do, eh?"
"A bit of this and that."
They clapped each other on the back.
"So what brings you?"
"An incident. I was set upon by two youths."
Sir Dwayne described the boys.
"Aye. I know them. A bit rowdy, but you say they assaulted you?"
"Aye."
Sir Dwayne scratched the scab on his throat.
"None the worse for wear. I told the father that I was going to file a charge, but not execute it unless they caused some other trouble."
The other man barked out a laugh.
"I can almost guarantee that."
Sir Dwayne shrugged.
"My friend, I have a few things to attend to, but then we must drink. The inn across the way has good food and excellent wine. What say you?"
"Are they open? 'Tis late."
"I have money." He winked. "And I am Sheriff. They are open. A few minutes and I will join you."
The whore knelt at Sir Dwayne's feet. The sheriff tossed back the last of his wine. The whore poured more from the pitcher and scruffed over to the innkeeper, chains scratching along the floor. The sheriff watched the sway of her hips, smiled.
"So, my friend, I feel there is a story here. What say you?"
"Well, aye, she is a whore, but even a whore on some level is a lady, so you will forgive me if I do not offer all the details, but it goes like this ..."
03.11.11
story continues in The Tales of Sir Dwayne 3: The Offer
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