Lancelot and the Wolf Read online

  LANCELOT AND THE WOLF

  THE KNIGHTS OF CAMELOT

  LANCELOT AND THE WOLF

  by

  SARAH LUDDINGTON

  Mirador Publishing

  www.miradorpublishing.com

  First Published in Great Britain 2011 by Mirador Publishing

  Copyright © 2011 by Sarah Luddington

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without permission of the publishers or author. Excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  First edition: 2011

  Any reference to real names and places are purely fictional and are constructs of the author. Any offence the references produce is unintentional and in no way reflects the reality of any locations or people involved.

  A copy of this work is available through the British Library.

  ISBN : 978-1-908200-31-0

  Mirador Publishing

  Mirador

  Wearne Lane

  Langport

  Somerset

  TA10 9HB

  To the story tellers, musicians and artists

  who inspire me.

  Also my own knight in shining armour.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lifting my shirt over my head caused me to wince. The muscles still sore and the skin still ravaged. If I dressed as I should, the gambeson then the hauberk would rip the scabs off my back.

  I sighed heavily pulling the flesh taut over my ribs. I had to leave today. The nuns protecting me healed all they could and if I stayed, I may endanger them. At least they managed to remove the worst of the blood from my clothing. I rolled the padded undergarment and mail up, moving slowly. The dull steel sucked in the early morning light. Arthur’s mail shone with the light of his soul, he seemed to glow from the inside out every time he went into battle or tourney.

  I forced the memory away. I forced Arthur away. I swallowed my need to weep and tried to relax my clenched jaw. A gentle knock at the door focused me on the present.

  “Come in,” my voice sounded the same even if I felt different. Deep, rough, heavy with unspoken emotions.

  The door opened and a nun stood in the entrance of the small cell. She looked at me and then at the small amount of things I owned and packed. “So, you are leaving us,” she said.

  “Yes, Sister Eliza,” I straightened. “I think it’s for the best.”

  “You are leaving too soon, those wounds will become infected,” she told me firmly, her hands sitting on her considerable hips. As the one to dress them, clean them and stitch them where necessary, I guess she felt a kind of perverse ownership.

  “I promise I will keep them clean and I promise not to do anything too stupid until they are healed,” I said, dredging up a smile for her.

  She blushed, her round face in the nun’s wimple all too obvious with no hair to hide behind. My smile can open doors for me in the most frigid of hearts.

  “Humph, I don’t believe that promise for one bloody moment,” she cursed, then crossed herself. I realised quickly that the world of a nun didn’t come naturally to Sister Eliza. “But if you are going to leave then at a least let me help you pack.”

  She hustled me out of the way and began organising my few possessions. She did a better job than I could have done. My pack and saddlebags were tidy in moments.

  When she finished she asked, “So, do you have a plan?”

  I laughed, a bitter, brittle sound making her flinch, “No, what is there to plan for? I am dishonoured. I am exiled. I have been thrown to the dogs by my King. I have no plan beyond the nearest tavern over the Channel.”

  She sighed, “This self pity doesn’t suit you, Lancelot.”

  I opened my mouth to snap back at her when I saw the deep well of compassion in her blue eyes. I dropped my gaze, “No, I know. I need God’s Grace but I don’t know how to ask.”

  She laid her hand on my bowed head. I stood almost as tall as she could reach, I felt her fingers nestle close to my scalp burrowing through my thick black hair, “You just have to ask, Sir Knight,” she said softly as way of benediction.

  “I cannot ask for God’s forgiveness when I cannot forgive myself,” I said to the stone floor.

  “And you won’t forgive yourself until you have your King’s forgiveness,” she said sadly. Over the last three days, she managed to prise my story from my reluctant lips. A farmer found me in his field, bleeding to death and carried me in his cart. I’d been lucky apparently. The wounds, though open, were treated when I’d been cut down from the flogging post. No infection, no fever, beyond the one in my heart.

  In those three days, I’d only really seen Sister Eliza and the Mother Superior of this small community near the monastery at Sherborne Abbey. I’d been deemed a dangerous influence on everyone else. They were probably right. Sister Eliza, after informing me confession would be good for my soul, proved a patient and sympathetic listener. I thought the only thing, which would be good for me, would be an arrow to the heart. I refrained from saying it aloud though; I didn’t want to shatter her illusions.

  “Arthur can never forgive me and I don’t blame him,” I said. “I earned every lash of that whip.”

  She opened her mouth to argue, realised how futile it would be and snapped her mouth shut. “Well,” she said more briskly, “you need something more positive to do than wallowing in a tavern for the rest of your life. I suggest you find a cause or a war to keep you entertained.”

  I smiled again and caught her fingers to my lips. I kissed them fondly, “Sister, I will do as you command. I shall find a war and fight until I’m done, then perhaps I shall have some peace.” I’d meant the words to be funny, but her eyes filled with sudden tears.

  “I wish you well, Lancelot du Lac, but I fear the darkness in your soul will never see you happy.” She turned away quite suddenly and left me alone, without as much as a backward glance. My last true friend in England.

  I took the horse Arthur left me for my ‘escape’, saddled him and walked from the small community heading toward the coast. I wanted to avoid notice at the nearby castle, so I rode through the back lanes until I’d travelled several leagues. It took a day of hard riding to reach the port of Keyhaven. I sold the horse and carried my things to the nearest cargo ship heading for the mainland. Arthur had his wish. I was leaving English shores for good. I stood at the stern as the ship left the harbour on the evening tide. I watched my home for the last twenty nine of my thirty six years, fade under the light of the moon. A washed out shoreline in shades of grey and black with torchlight flashing like fireflies.

  My throat tightened, “I will always love you, Arthur,” I whispered under my breath. I closed my eyes and turned my back on England.

  The crossing proved quick and easy, the wind kind in our sails and the swells gentle. I’d had some bad ones over the years when I’d been travelling to and from various courts and wars, but this voyage at least proved painless. We arrived late the following day. I stood on deck watching the sun descend behind the headland, the deckhands tying us to the shore.

  I disembarked quickly and breathed in the stink of le Havre. For the first time in weeks, I felt alive and grateful for the privilege. The shock of my time in England slipped into the sea to be borne away on the tide. Having been in this town many times, I quickly wove through the docks avoiding the fish guts, grubby children and the cheapest of whores, to find my favourite tavern.

  The recent rain meant the mud stank strongly of human waste, horses and rotting food. More than a little fastidious I tried to pick my way through the worst of the muck. The streets were busy, noisy and ignorant of my crimes. Although a man of my height is hard to miss, I felt anonymous. Le Rex, my favourite inn, stood
in the centre of the merchant’s quarter of the town, so it made good money. Most of it was built of stone, except for the upper level. Its tiled roof rose like a beacon of hope. The rooms had fresh sheets and the whores were clean. The door stood open as I approached. A welcoming noise and light burbled into the street.

  Hours later, I found myself with a beautiful woman in one hand and a bad hand in the other. “Well, play or fold you fool,” came the gruff voice of some sea captain. We’d been playing primo vista for hours and I held most of the coins.

  I squinted at the cards once more, they were slightly fuzzy, I then peered up at the woman on my knee. Her fine blond hair snagged me immediately, that and her beautiful smile. “What do you think?” I asked, “Play or fold?”

  She smiled back, “If you play and win this hand, as I know you will, I will earn more of your money. So, I say play,” she winked.

  I laughed, “The lady says play, so I will play. All in,” I said and she pushed everything I had left into the pot.

  She knew her own game well this one. If I won with her help, she knew I’d pay her more of my winnings and the pot had grown large. I looked forward to the challenge of burying myself in her body and fucking until the sun came up.

  The gruff sea captain studied us. He’d think I was too drunk to make a wise choice and he might be right. He looked at his own cards, looked at the pile of money in the pot and the pile beside his elbow. He weighed the risks and finally said, just as I’d grown bored and my fingers explored the whore’s cleavage, “Fold.”

  “Really?” I asked surprised. “Great.” Before he could do a damn thing about it, I folded my cards and hid them in the deck. The whore scooped up the horde and we left the table. The sea captain’s curses made us both giggle.

  I followed the woman. Her hips swayed and I watched her tight waist in the unforgiving bodice. We walked upstairs and she led us to a room off the main corridor.

  She dumped the winnings on the bed and lay back, the coin jingling as it and she landed, making a pleasing sound. I watched her, amused as she wriggled around in the money. I walked to a table. Wine sat warming by the fire and my belongings in a pile alongside. I poured myself a large glass and one for the woman. She’d told me her name but for the life of me I couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter, I need her warmth, not her heart.

  I heard her rise from the bed and come to join me. Soft lips brushed my neck and soft hands pulled my shirt from my sword belt and hose.

  “Hmm,” she murmured, “I don’t get to play with men as well built as you very often. The finest room, with the finest whore and you are fit enough to fuck into next week. I can’t wait,” she purred, kissing under my collar length tangled hair. “Those dark eyes of yours speak of promises you can do to women most men consider too terrifying to contemplate.”

  I turned in her arms and looked down into clear blue eyes, “You are a bad girl,” I told her firmly.

  “You need me to be very bad and very wicked so I wouldn’t complain,” she kissed my mouth.

  My desire exploded. I dropped the glass and spilled the wine pulling her hard against my body. She yelped in surprise but reacted as only a professional can and gave back as good as she got. I didn’t have to ask permission or fear rejection. I pushed her back against the bed and had her skirts up before she fell backward on the covers. The coins chimed cheerfully. Her deft fingers undid my hose with wonderful efficiency. I moved from her mouth to her neck. My hands wanted her full breasts but I didn’t have the patience to wait so I just licked and bit the parts I could reach easily. Once she freed me, she raised her hips and opened her knees as wide as they’d go.

  “You need a woman,” she gasped. “Take your fill. We’ll have time for games later.”

  I didn’t answer, I just grunted and held myself, pushing into her warm willing body. For a long moment, I held still. Many women need time to adjust to me and I always pause to enjoy their shock. She cried out, her fingers digging into my backside.

  “Oh, bloody hell, I knew you’d be worth the effort,” she grinned. “Fuck me.”

  I did, hard. I knew I pushed to hard for her complete enjoyment but I needed England out of me. I needed something simple and uncomplicated. I needed to rut like an animal. It didn’t take long, heartbeats before the final rush hit me, I pulled out of her and she deftly flicked herself over to take me in her mouth. I came hard, crying out loudly and trying not to choke the poor woman. When the hurricane ended, I looked into confident, happy blue eyes.

  “That’s was kind of you,” she said. “You didn’t have to pull out.”

  “I know the risks you girls take. I have no wish to add to your problems by getting you pregnant,” I told her, brushing tangled blond hair from her face.

  She kissed my lips, gently this time, a brief peep of the woman not the whore showing through, “It’s appreciated and whoever let you go to make you that desperate in my bed, was a fool of a woman.”

  I laughed, “Is there no way of hiding a broken heart from a professional?”

  She pulled my shirt over my head and kissed my chest, “No, no way, but with a body this fit I’ll take a broken heart and work hard to mend it.” She licked from my belly button over my tight stomach and up my chest. I climbed onto the bed and she turned to attend my back.

  “Oh, my God, what happened to you?” she gasped. I froze. For one blissful moment, I’d forgotten the healing scabs on my back.

  I found words, they were rough, “I paid for sex not a commentary on my body.”

  She recovered, “No, sorry, Sir, I had no right. We all carry scars, one way or another.”

  In that moment, I wanted to run. Every muscle tightened to flee this damned woman and her prying eyes. What the hell must she think of me for looking like this?

  Ever the professional and knowing she’d ruined the moment, the doxy rose from the bed and poured more wine. She smiled as she approached, “You look as though you are going to kill me,” she laughed. “Don’t be angry. It makes no difference to me what you’ve done or who you are. Just help me out of this damned dress and I’ll make you forget you ever had a life before this one.”

  I drank the wine in one and the dress seemed to melt of her soft body. I soon found myself enveloped by long legs, warm breasts and a firm arse.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The sounds of a scuffle drifted through muddled dreams of deep green woods and white stags with wolves running as a pack alongside.

  A small voice choked back a cry and a rough one snarled an order. I found myself unencumbered by my companion who snored softly on the edge of the bed. I rolled and came up on my feet. My head throbbed painfully at the sudden change of direction and my stomach rolled. My mouth felt like a leper’s armpit and I decided I didn’t need to know what happened outside.

  A whimper and squeal had me reaching for my clothes, even as I told myself this was not my job. I opened the shutters over the window and peered out. I groaned at what I saw. The dawn just brushed the sky. I couldn’t have slept more than two hours. A boy, almost man sized stood with his face pressed into the wall of the tavern’s stable while two men held him still. One of the men fumbled at his crotch.

  “Shit,” I cursed and pulled on my boots. I opened the window wide, not wishing to break any of the expensive small glass panes and peered down. A wagon full of old laundry sat below me.

  I turned, grabbed my sword and a knife before simply diving out the window. I didn’t even think, just twisted in the air and landed on my back in a woof of sheets. It protested madly. I grimaced and struggled out of the suffocating fabric. I fell to the floor and then scrambled upright.

  I saw the glimpse of a blade at the boy’s throat and the wide eyes of panic as the man finally freed himself so he could make use of his tiny dick. I needed to distract them.

  “Hey, is this a free ride or are you charging?” I asked in my friendliest tone.

  Both men turned to me and the knife dropped from the boy’s throat. All the invitation
I needed. I wanted them done quickly and quietly before they woke the town, so I used the hilt of my sword to smash one in the face while I cut the throat of the other. Blood washed from the large gash but the man dropped without a sound. The boy twisted away, his legs tangled in his torn clothes and he dropped, huddling over himself instantly. I took the potential rapist by the hair and simply ran the knife over his throat. Done in seconds without a sound. My heart beat a little fast. I swallowed my need for more death, coming back from the edge of the battle frenzy slowly.

  Arthur told me I killed too easily. He said I would go too far one day and lose myself to the death call. A small sound made me rush back to the real world.

  The boy crouched in a heap, staring up at me in fear. He’d managed to dress. He had short scruffy warm brown hair and terrified brown eyes. He looked older than I first thought but didn’t seem to be shaving. His face all angles and he was skinny.

  “You alright?” I asked.

  He blinked, “Yes,” although his right eye started to swell and I could see blood on his lips and down his chin. There were bruises colouring his neck and wrists.

  I held my hand out to help him up but he ducked away and scrambled upright alone. His eyes were averted from me and the bodies, “Thank you, Sir.”

  “You the stable boy?” I asked.

  “I was,” he did look at the bodies then. His expression grim, “I guess I won’t be now, they are the sheriff’s men. I’ve been avoiding them for weeks.” His eyes suddenly filled with tears and he folded in on himself. My heart melted.

  “Damn it,” I said softly. I knew, whatever the rights and wrongs of the matter, when they found these bodies, which they would, they’d find the boy and he’d give them me. He was alone and scared. As a stranger in the town carrying scars on my back, evidenced my bed warmer and looking like a fighter, I’d draw all the wrong attention.