The Warrior's Queen - Tales
She
looked nothing like her, and after the ordeal he was put through the
past weeks this was the worst part for sure.
Not
of a noble or wealthy descent, no apprentice of a renowned master,
and born to a name that should never earn honours worth mentioning,
not by him and not by any other of his kin, he had little use for
fancy titles or land, much less so for power. He felt no need for
people treating him like he were a noble lord, or putting up an
obscene show to ensure him of an absolute power he were to hold over
them. He knew well that his power reached as far as the span of his
sword's blade. It also happened to be as much power as as he could
handle comfortably and with confidence. So it happened that he had no
desire for establishments with women seeing to his every whim making
absurd efforts for him to believe he was worth more than the coins he
was laying off.
It
was no wonder then that his pick of whorehouses made him get wind of
the latest craze, with no other high ranking officer frequenting
commonplace brothels like the one mentioned in the rumours. The word
was that one could pleasure the queen regent in a certain house , and
– for the right sum – be served by her personal handmaid while
giving it to her royal majesty. Despite the popularity the business
idea had been received with the “Golden Wench” fortunately did
not have many visitors who could afford the “royal suit”, making
it easier for him to track down every last fucker who had asked for
the queen-whore in the matter of a fortnight.
After
that was taken care of it was her turn. He had insisted on privacy
with the queen, since he had
no business with a whore impersonating a maid anyway. His nocturnal
ventures of late about the whorehouse had left him little time to
spend on women and ale, leaving enough coins in his pouch to book the
royal suit for the whole night, despite
the little chance of another
paying costumer showing up.
After
he had sat wordlessly comparing her to the queen for a while, the
queen of Golden Wench made a smug comment on how he was all
bewildered and struck speechless at the royal sight of hers.
Her fingers, though, stroked hastily over her robes with the
uncertainty of not knowing if she was expected to undress herself or
wait for him to make a move, and
the beautiful pair of eyes trying to seduce him definitely belonged
in a peasant's face, with a
stare of an ordinary woman's who knew a few more tricks in bed than
the average good wife, and with
the – financial – need
never to show reluctance at a paying man's approaches. It was not the
cheap clothing, nor the shabby imitation of a royal residence, and
not the fake jewelry. It was not even the calloused hands, the flashy
colours of exaggerated make-up, or how her hair – clearly not have
been washed in the last span of days – was help up by a decoration
of fake flowers. Her skin –
beautiful but not fair –, her eyes, and her hair had the same
colours as the queen's, and the nose did not look too different, but
that was the extent of it. There was no actual resemblance between
her and the queen. It ticked him off the worst.
Considering
the usual clientele of brothels like Golden Wench it was not
incomprehensible that the queen-whore was not facing a challenge in
the name of authenticity. This sort of folk seldom ever sought an
audience in the royal court, and were never granted one with the
their regent. Some might have
gotten a glimpse of her during parades, festivities, hunts etc.,
always surrounded by guards, retainers, and a number of other titles
down the nobility line. So the poor imitation the royal suit and its
queen offered was more than enough to flicker their imagination.
The
restless prostitute poured herself wine and sat down on an armchair
covered with a cloth in colours of the royal crest: green, blue, and
black. Crossing one leg over the other then she demanded that he
stated his business without wasting any more of her precious time.
Yet her efforts to make it sound condescendingly forceful was wasted
on him. He could still hear a whore asking for how he wanted it
between her words. “Wash your face clean”, he demanded.
He had ordered enough
soldiers and whores for the past years to know how to make each know
he meant it. “You impertinent...” she tried to keep up the act
despite the docile look in her eyes. “Wash your face clean”, he
repeated himself out
of pity for the poor whore who had to play a queen.
Still
keen on keeping up appearances she went to the door to ask for her
maid. “I ain't
paying a second whore tonight”, he reminded her with an
imperturbable simpleness in his voice, assuring her of how he saw her
as a whore, too, no more and no less. Reluctantly
she took out a basin well hidden in a cabinet with golden roses drawn
on the doors, and took her time washing off layers of make-up. It
felt somewhat satisfying how she washed like every other whore he had
seen. He found that it made him gentler towards
her. It somehow redirected his anger. “Any funny business, and...”
she even started threating him. “None”, he cut her off, “In
fact, no business at all. We're both hardworking folk and in need of
a good night's sleep.”
she
turn around to look at him mid-wash, her face dripping and make-up
running down her cheeks. “Don't tell me you're one of them saviours
of wretched souls with unfortunate fate.” The mocking tone to her
voice and the disgust in her eyes soothed his anger even further. He
shook his head. “I whore as much as the next man, with no interest
for knowing your fate. 'S whores' business what they make of it. I
pay and I keep tidy, so if any whore's fate's unfortunate 's not on
my account. ”
Having
dried her face she went to the armchair, sat down, and picked up her
wine again. “What's your story then? Not getting it up lately? In
need of the company? Wanna talk my ears off?” A hint of amusement
rose in her voice.
“Tonight
I came to see, not to fuck.”
“See
what? Never been to a whorehouse?”
“See
what men want to see in a queen.”
“And
yourself? Aren't you a man?”
“Exactly:
a man, not men.”
“What
do you care about men?”
“That's
my wretched fate, my business.”
Although
clearly insulted by his
rejection of her services, she decided not to press any further.
“You'll fuck another night then?” she asked after a short
silence. “Do not fancy other men's queen”, he said, needing no
time to think. Obviously
having misunderstood him, she laughed out
loud in amusement. “Got one
for yourself then?” she mused, not totally uninterested though.
“Highborns and princes have queens. I am a sellsword”, he
replied.
Having
taken note of the conviction in his words, she said “You make it
sound like a death sentence.”
“Depends
on whether or not you fancy highborns and princes while fucking
commoners.” Taken aback by his accusation, she gulped down a
generous amount of wine, watching him sit in front of her like solid
furniture, with the sword he apparently sold hanging from his belt.
“A good night's sleep, ey?” she said more to herself, pouring
more wine. “Don't know if this bed's any good for that.”
He dismissed her thought by half raising his fingers from the chair's
arms. “If I can sleep on stone and twigs I will manage on your
canopy bed, too.” She nodded “Want me to
help you get out of your clothes? Or are you hitting the bed with
boots and all still on you?” she protested. He
stood up, motioned her closer with his head, and rose his arms to the
sides to make it easier for her. “Sellsword”, she muttered under
her breath as she undressed him.
* *
*
Used
to a much different daily routine, he had been up and about, left the
brothel, and had tended to most of his work by the time she left
Golden Wench next day. It sparked no one's interest if he had stayed
at this whorehouse or another for the night, or if he had slept in
his own bed. He had made no secret of the mediocre whores from
commonplace brothels he picked over the fancy ones. Try to hide
something and it would come back to bite you in the balls, he
believed, hence he neither boasted proudly about the sort of women he
fucked nor tried to keep it quiet. Were
there any chance of him being needed back in the castle, he would
tell his squire where he could
be found during the night, and that was the extent of people's
business with
what he did and where he went.
Abducting
a whore from a street corner was like cutting open a juicy melon with
a sharp sword for a man of his line of work, a swing was all it took
as long as it did not
hit with the flat side. It
was not until they had stopped in a cottage on
the mountainside that she found out what had happened to her. The
same as how most of the clients at places like Golden Wench were not
worth peering into, they were also used to whores coming and going,
specially when the number of paying customers died down, and he had
made sure exactly of her visitors dying down
for the past fortnight. The
men picturing a sweaty night
pounding her majesty on a cracking canopy bed while another whore
served them a fruit wine sweet enough to make up for the poor taste,
helping them imagine a majestic brew, had all died by his sword.
“You
killed them all?” cried the terrified queen-whore in disbelief.
Men
deemed worthy of standing before the queen found no entertainment in
down-trodden brothels; they
were certainly not men such
as himself and held
office or positions that were nothing like his. Yet he officially
ranked among them, spending hours in her presence, engraving the
queen's every expression into his mind. It
made the thought of sweaty
drunk common folk fantasizing her privacy while fucking a whore with
fake moans unbearable. Not even in their fantasy did they deserve
being with the queen. The fact that unlike him they did not know the
queen changed nothing. The
whore's face went from bright red to pale as he reassured her how
every single man who had paid for the royal suit at Golden Wench had
died at his hand.
She
grabbed hold of a chair when she realized her shaking knees were not
going to keep her body upright. Having sat down she took a drink of
the water he had offered her earlier and looked frantically around
the cottage, clearly in search of anything she could use later as a
weapon to defend her own life. “Even if I gave you my sword it'd do
you no good”, he said, no sign of reprimand in his voice. “And
dying out here quietly will do you good, not me”, she said, her
voice trembling. Untroubled by her panic he continued “No one has
to die here.”
She
felt that talking right now was the only thing keeping hysteria at
bay. “You're a nut job!” she almost cried out “You come to a
brothel and sleep instead of fucking, and then kill everyone else
who's fucked there!” “Not everyone”, he corrected. “What is
your problem?” Her question sounded like a demanding plea. “What
do you want? If you have some sick fantasy you only had to pay the
right price... or does killing people and spilling out guts turn you
on? Is that it? Can't you get it up for just naked women?”
He
noticed in her voice her throat drying up and poured her more water.
“I'm a mercenary. I kill for the right price just like you fuck for
it.” She wasted no time in taking a huge gulp. “You're saying
someone paid you to ruin a cheap whorehouse's business?! I've seen
the sheath of that sword you carry. Don't shit me with claiming that
anyone who would mind Golden Wench could afford to buy you.” “I
agreed to kill for her sake”, he answered in a firm tone that said
this was the answer to all of her questions. “Her sake? Is this
some jealous wife's...” and then it struck her, “You want me to
believe that the Queen actually gives shit about whom and how
men fuck at Golden Wench and alike?” His silence bounced her a
little to the mischievous side which had helped her deal with men.
Her smirk, though, was hard to recognize as one since the traces of
fear had yet to disappear from her face. “She has no idea, does
she? She'll not even bother with it, will she?” “She does not
need to”, he said, his indifferent expression unchanged. She burst
out laughing hysterically. “Because you go on and kill people
behind her back, pretending she'd wished for it? For something she
could not care less about.”
“I'd
be more concerned about myself now if I were you.”
The
laughter stopped abruptly and turned to a grotesque grimace of dread
and disbelief on her face as she realized this time she should not
play it out to her will, regardless of how she tormented or toyed
with the man. Compared to what he had in mind for her, reminding him
of how little the queen cared for his troubles was a tiny revenge.
“What do you want? Want me to double her only for you, never again
being »another man's queen«? Learn to act and talk like her? Maybe
refuse you and then let you pretend rape me?” He had to smile at
her last offer. “Is that it?” she pressed, her voice raising with
tension. Remembering how easy men were, how easy he himself could be,
his smile grew wider. In order to stop the desperate woman from
guessing on then he rose a hand.
“You
can not bed men with a face they picture as hers. They can fancy
their queen all they want to, but no one lacking the guts to stand
face to face with her and seduce her shall play fuck-the-queen. As
you are now I can't let you run off to another town and restart
spreading your legs for men lusting over her”, he explained with
fastidious patience of a mentor. “The problem is your face. It
makes it easy for people to believe you look like her. Without it you
can go about your business like any other whore.” “That's
bullshit!” she cried out. “Then bullshit's how it is”, he
carried on, “I could of course report you. True that what goes on
at your place finds little importance in the castle but that is until
it is brought to the right people's attention at the right time and
place, and then ignoring it would measure up to betraying her
majesty.” The matter-of-factly tone of his voice did not change as
he explained how he could involve others in what he had taken upon
himself, with severer consequences for her and her fellows at the
brothel.
She
stared at the clay mug in her hand for long minutes. He stood there
without moving a visible muscle. “Are you going to mutilate my
face?” It was obvious she was fighting against tears welling up in
her beautiful eyes. “There are cuts and burns, and then there's
what I personally find more tasteful. It'll even give you and exotic
flare.” She looked up at him, horrified by what was going to come.
“My gift to you for your troubles: a free tattoo, on the face of
course, and big enough to make you resemble no one else.” “A
tattoo?!” she shrieked, “If I'm lucky not to be shunned and
mistaken for a cursed savage I can kiss a normal life out of brothels
goodbye!”
“You
did not look keen for a life out of the brothel to me”, he said,
untouched by her objection, “Besides, that's all could-have's and
would-have's now. I can also kill you if you prefer. Will make it
quick and painless too, nice and clean, since I've got no grudge
against you... If you have family somewhere I can even let some small
compensation slip into their possession, cause they're not at fault,
either.”
The
more she listened to him the less real it all sounded. He talked like
he were selling vegetables at the market, telling her how to best
cook up the stew. She knew then she had not taken him seriously
enough back when he had called himself a sellsword, and neither when
he had confessed to having killed her customers. She looked down at
her hands, unable to remember when tears had started falling off her
eyes and onto her fingers clutching the mug. All of a sudden his
voice sounded gentle, almost as if caring. “See? You're frightened.
You don't want to be killed. 'S only natural, means you're normal.”
Even his smile offered her warmth as her efforts to say something,
anything, pushed her into a full sob. “That's right”, were the
only words of encouragement – but what for, she was too scared to
think about – he said. There was no embrace, no wiping off her
tears, no hand on her shoulder, only a solid approval of her giving
up and in to the fate he had chosen for her.
* *
*
He had agreed to kill for the queen, and never to earn honours
and title. He was not born into nobility and was not about to start a
make-belief just because he spoke with too many of them every day. He
was no fucking lord just as the whore was no fucking queen. Now that
he had seen her act he knew exactly how revolting his own would look
like if he played at being high and noble. The comfort of his
chambers, meals to fill his stomach and delight his mouth, well bred
horses, and even a personal squire were all thanks to his way with
the sword and the queen's keen eyes for spotting a crafty killer.
They should not make him believe he had become something he was not.
“Say
what you will, but you've sold out your heart along with your sword
this time”, was the last of the whore's poison, the last with her
pretty face which had played queen still intact. Her glare burned
like a curse before she closed her eyes to brace herself against the
coming pain.
He
paid her no mind.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home