The Queen's Tale

  The Queen's Tale

  Grace D'Otare

  “Shall we have a story?” Devlin suggested, as another enormous clap of thunder rattled the rooftop. He traced the curve of his wife’s bare shoulder with the tip of his finger. “A bedtime story. Something distracting. Something to keep us warm on a wicked night.”

  “What sort of a story?” Maeve turned her head, hiding her eyes but not her smile. His wife knew exactly what he had in mind.

  “Oh, an erotic story, to be certain.” Dev’s finger traced her collarbone to the hollow in her throat. And then down. A thousand and one times he’d touched her, and still he felt the heat. “Those are the ones that warm and distract me best.”

  It was a challenge. It was a game—a game he and his lovely Maeve had played before. Never quite the same, but always exciting.

  Maeve plumped the pillow behind her and sat up. The candlelight caught the twinkle of her glass, half-full of sherry. Dev watched her take a long swallow and lick her lips. The storm whistled outside. She made a point of snuggling deeper under the bedclothes, tucking the sheet around her.

  “Tonight I’m Scheherazade?”

  “And I’m your king.” He tugged at the sheet, until it spilled around her waist. “Entertain me, madam, or suffer the consequences.”

  “Well, let me think…”

  Queen Philomena waited.

  Not patiently, and not without anxiety. As she came to the end of the rug, she turned on her heel, flipped her skirts behind her, and began to pace the opposite direction. She had chosen to wear a simple gown so that once the time came, it would not be necessary to summon an abigail for assistance.

  “A who?” Dev whispered, his hand creeping under the sheet.

  “A maid,” she explained. “Stop that.”

  “Stop that, your highness.”

  “Oh!” She caught her breath. “Your highness, that sort of thing will make it very hard to concentrate.”

  “‘Very hard’ seems fair to me. Go on then.”

  Queen Philomena waited… and wondered.

  Perhaps the gentleman would consider it an insult? He might think she did not value his…service, if she did not wear something appropriate to her status.

  She would have to address the situation directly. Frank discussion and a thoroughly negotiated agreement was her best hope of resolving any delicate issues that might arise.

  Or so the king, may he rest in peace, always said. Philomena touched her wedding band as she thought of him. It slipped easily around her finger; nerves always left her hands cold and dry.

  “Your Majesty,” her handmaid called. “They are here.”

  “Show him—them—in.” Philomena smoothed the front of her gown and assumed the face of the queen.

  Three soldiers entered the room.

  She suffered a moment of panic. What was she to do with three of them? Was she supposed to choose?

  One of the men seemed familiar—a freckled young man who’d served on the court guard the last year or two. The second man was very large, tanned and weathered, the sort whose military career had been served in the rough. His face was plain, but his eyes were kind and full of good humor.

  The third man was a shock.

  He was fair, in all manner of the word. Sunny hair and sky-blue eyes. Almost pretty, Philomena thought, except there was too much intelligence in the candor of his gaze. He was scant inches taller than she. Not quite as large in height or frame as either of the other two men, but somehow Philomena felt his presence more forcefully. He was certainly the soldier in charge.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” she said, as the queen ought.

  All of them bowed respectfully.

  “Thank you for…attending me,” Philomena began. “Has my lord chamberlain spoken with you?”

  The third man answered. “Yes, your Highness. May I introduce Joseph, my sergeant major.” He waved a hand at the rough-hewn man. “And you may already know Thomas, of your own house guard? The Lord Chamberlain suggested a small, personal guard might be best this evening. All others have been dismissed.”

  There was no smile on his lips, but Philomena saw it in his eyes and heard it in the tone of his voice. She turned to hide the coloring of her cheeks, and fiddled with the contents of her open lap desk.

  This would not do. She must be committed. She must hold to her resolve, or she would begin her next life with regrets.

  “Yes. That seems wise.” Closing the portfolio of documents she had vacantly reviewed for the last hour, she called, “Thank you all, gentlemen, for your discretion in this matter. That will be all.”

  She heard heels click, boots crossing the marble floor, and the thunk of the heavy oak door as it closed.

  Philomena peeked over her shoulder.

  This time, the smile teased the corner of his mouth. “Did you expect me to take my leave, also? Wouldn’t that have been counterproductive to Your Majesty’s desires?”

  Desires.

  The word slipped like steel from a scabbard. Philomena’s heart raced; her throat tightened.

  “Indeed.” Philomena inclined her head. “Your name, sir?”

  “I am Dante.”

  “Dante. Welcome. Before we begin…our business, I would like to come to an understanding on certain things.” She smoothed her gown and sat, very upright, on the chaise near the fire. The door between the sitting room and the boudoir was partway open and the sight of the bed made it hard to think. Waving him to a slipper chair across the rug, she managed, “Please. Be comfortable.”

  He sketched a bow, recognizing the honor of being asked to sit in the queen’s presence, and settled himself on the silk chair, legs wide, black boots gleaming all the way to the knee. Normally, she kept her gaze firmly fixed at eye level. What was normal about this situation? She stared. His thigh flexed. Her hands burned to feel that muscle flex and tighten again.

  In a soft voice, Dante repeated her words. “An understanding?”

  “Yes, yes. Forgive me. What was I saying?” She folded her hands in her lap. “I believe my lord chamberlain has explained the requirements of the situation?”

  “Your Majesty is to be married tomorrow and—” he paused to remove a speck of lint from his trousers “—seeks amusement before her vows are spoken.”

  Philomena coughed. “Amusement? Is that how he…no. No. That is not the message I asked to be relayed. I…well, let me see if I can…explain.”

  She rose and began to pace the length of the carpet, yellow silk slippers peeking out as she kicked her hem. This was no time for words. It was time for action. Reaching into her hair, she removed first one pin and then a second. A curl of dark hair fell over her shoulder.

  “I am to be married tomorrow, that much is true. For my country’s good, I will be married to King—” She wiggled her fingertips and tried to recall the man’s name.

  “Benvenuto?”

  “Yes! That’s him.” Philomena shook her head, her hair loosening. It felt…good. Free. Normally, she braided it again for sleep and went directly to bed. Tonight, would be different. Tonight, she would remove every restraint.

  “How ridiculous of me. I ought to remember the man’s name. I am marrying him tomorrow after all.” Repressing her giggles felt like being tickled on the inside.

  Philomena shivered. Squaring her shoulders, she toed off her slippers. Lifting her skirt to the knee, she set her foot on a little crewel-covered footstool. She unclipped her stockings, one by one, and rolled them down her legs.

  Dante did not answer. He watched her carefully, but his expression was somewhat colder than before.

  Philomena tried to explain. “There were several men in contention for the job, you see? The treaty was the important thing. The Lord Chamberlain and I alw
ays referred to them by their…advantages. King Trade Agreement. King Fishing Rights. Benvenuto was King Western Border.”

  “If you would permit a question,” her soldier asked, in a rather choked tone. “Why him? Why not one of the others?”

  “For the good of the country, of course. My marriage will cement an alliance protecting our most vulnerable border.” One, two, her stockings floated to the floor beside her slippers.

  Oh, my. She’d never walked barefoot on the sitting room rug. Her toes wiggled into the darkest reds of the pattern. So soft…for the first time that evening, she spoke without tightness in her throat. “It will give the mountain folk access to the sea and trade opportunities. This marriage will create a great good for my people.”

  “You care so much for your people, you’d marry a man whose name you barely recall?”

  She offered him a sympathetic smile. “You are a soldier, sir. You offer your body and your life every day. Could I do less?”

  Philomena sat down on the rug, crossing her legs like a girl. She removed the golden bracelets from her wrists, her ear bobs and the necklace at her throat, dropping each into a pile in her lap. Her rings were the last to go. She hesitated at her wedding band.

  “You are too young for such sacrifice,” he said.

  She tried not to laugh. “I am more than twenty, sir. And joined in holy matrimony to his majesty, the king, God rest his soul, at the age of thirteen.”

  “Good lord.” The man paused and she could almost hear the clicking of his mental calculations. “The man was close to ninety when he died.”

  With a clank, she dropped her wedding ring into the pile. Tomorrow, she would wear another. Tonight, she would wear none.

  “And well past seventy when he consummated our marriage.”

  “Thirteen,” Dante mumbled under his breath, his eyes on the pile of jewelry in her lap.

  “Do not think ill of the king. He was a good man—he waited until I was of an age to carry a child without danger before he…initiated marital activity. Then he became ill and such activities were no longer of great interest.” Philomena took hold of the lace at the front of her dress and pulled. There. Another tie undone.

  “We found other joys, other comforts.”

  “But, if you have no interest in—”

  “I did not say, I had no interest,” she interrupted, slightly flustered. “But tomorrow such choices will be taken from my hands. I will make vows and I will honor them, sir, make no mistake.”

  He studied her with those blue, blue eyes. “I believe you will.”

  Philomena took a deep breath. Something in her eased. “His majesty, God rest his soul, taught me much. How to understand my people. To be a good ruler. But there is one thing he was unable to teach me…”

  “Yes?”

  She stared down at the gap in her bodice. Without lacing, her breasts shifted freely. The brush of silk brought a nearly painful tightening of her nipples.

  In a voice too breathless for a queen she answered, “The ways of love. Physical love.”

  “How long?” Dante asked gruffly. He leaned forward, shifting as if his seat were suddenly uncomfortable. “How long since you enjoyed the marriage bed?”

  “Six years.”

  How could eyes so blue hold so much heat? “Forgive my casualness earlier, madam. You have every right to a night of…enjoyment, before you commit yourself again.”

  “I wish more than enjoyment, sir.” The longing in her voice pinched her pride. “I wish understanding. I wish to know what my people feel when they marry in the flush of youth.” With shaking hands she slipped her arms out of her dress and let it puddle around her on the floor. “When they chose a lover freely, when they enjoy all the pleasures of the body…for one night I would like to be a woman. No more. No less.”

  Was it her words or the sight of the queen in her shift that pushed him back against his seat?

  “And are you certain you do not wish to wait for your new husband to show you these pleasures?”

  She hid her face in both hands and laughed. “Oh, Dante, when you have attended as many state dinners as I…. Kings are old men who have battled long and hard. Most are stooped with woes. This is the way of the world. I hope to respect and, perhaps someday, care for my husband, but physical love is not a luxury a queen can expect.”

  “I see.”

  “You are a soldier. My lord chamberlain has asked you to…perform a duty for queen and country.” Philomena cleared her throat. “If it is a duty that seems distasteful to you—”

  “Distasteful?” It was his turn to laugh. “Not at all, madam. Not at all. We shall find our way tonight, together.” His whole body seemed to relax with his laugh. In a simple, fluid motion, he removed his jacket and hung it on the chair’s back and popped the studs of his starched collar and cuffs. He grabbed his shirt behind his neck and pulled it up and over his head, tousling his hair. “Consider me entirely at your disposal.”

  The man was bare to the waist and smiling. An unnerving sort of smile. The type of smile a queen rarely saw.

  Another swoop and tickle rolled up her spine.

  “Come here, Your Majesty.”

  Philomena rose from the carpet, leaving her gown and jewels where they lay. “Turn around,” he asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Turn around. I need to get these boots off.”

  Confused, but pleased by his respect for her modesty, Philomena did as he requested. From behind, he took hold of her hips. With a firm yank, he pulled her rear backward at the same time as he lifted a large, booted foot between her legs, hiking her shift nearly to her knees in the process.

  “What are you doing?!”

  “Grab that heel and pull,” he ordered, good-naturedly. “Good God, woman, have you never helped a man off with his boots, either?”

  “The king—God rest his soul,” she muttered, gingerly grasping his ankle, “did not wear boots.”

  She tugged once to no effect. Wanting this awkwardness finished, she grabbed him tightly and felt the long, hard muscle of his calf flex inside its leather casing. Her breath caught in her throat. “Sir, your boots are too tight.”

  “The fit is meant to be tight.”

  His hands splayed across the curve of her hips. Philomena felt the pressure of each fingertip distinct from his wide palm. There was a teasing quality to his voice that roused her nerves.

  “A tight fit feels best on a long ride.” With that, he set his second, still-booted foot against her backside. “Pull!” he ordered, and slapped her haunch with a loud smack.

  She jerked upright, the heel caught in her shocked grip.

  “That’s the way!” Dante congratulated with a hearty pinch to the same tingling spot. His empty boot thunked to the floor.

  Philomena tumbled forward, whirling around to face him. She clenched her hands, too embarrassed to actually rub the spot that stung.

  “I beg your pardon!”

  “My lady.” Dante’s head tipped forward, but there was no meekness to his bow. “You wished to know how a woman experiences ‘the pleasures of the body.’ A woman is meant to be…touched.”

  Philomena stared. What had he meant to say before he’d settled on the diplomatic use of the word “touched”?

  “I am your queen, sir. First. Last. And always.” She had never found the words so difficult to say. Without her dressings and jewels and coiffed hair, she felt oddly vulnerable—but a queen was more than clothes and jewels. “I will not be pawed like a common bar wench.”

  He looked straight into her eyes as few men ever did.

  Again, she felt that disconcerting ripple.

  With the voice that opened Parliament and welcomed enemies of the state to her dinner table, she added, “Make no mistake, Dante. I expect to surrender to a king tomorrow, but tonight, I shall rule here. Do you accept my terms?”

  He took her hand and bowed low to meet it. His breath warmed her knuckles. His thumb stroked the skin on the edge
of her hand. Turning her palm, he licked the plump curve at the base of her thumb.

  “What—”

  Before she could speak another word, he sucked that tender morsel between his teeth. Wet warmth melted into a sharp ache, which was suddenly soothed by the press of his lips. Once. Twice.

  “What was that?”

  “A kiss,” he whispered, hovering over her hand. “Only a kiss.”

  “That was not a kiss,” she argued in a girlish voice. “The old king kissed me many times.”

  That blue-eyed smile chased after her again. Warmth drizzled down her spine.

  “There are many kinds of kisses, Your Highness,” Dante said. “This is a kiss.”

  Courtly and charming, he bussed the back of her hand lightly.

  “And this is a kiss.”

  Cool and formal, he slid his hand up to clasp her elbow, then pulled her closer for a continental touch of cheeks.

  “And this.”

  Cupping her head with a gentle hand, he slowly, sweetly, pressed his lips to the center of her forehead.

  Philomena’s eyes drifted shut.

  “This is also a kiss.”

  His lips parted, barely brushing hers. Licking became tasting, tasting became toothy nibbles and a hungry growl for more. His fingers massaged restlessly though her hair.

  Philomena felt as though her nerves existed in an exaggerated state where he touched her, hand to head, lips to lips, breasts pressed against his chest. She could not pull back.

  “Enough,” she whispered. “Enough.”

  “More.” He opened wider, breathing his desire right into her, a warm liquid over her crystalline interior. His enormous, burning hand gripped the curve of her behind and hauled her closer.

  No petticoats, no corset, nothing but a thin silk chemise—she felt everything. Every seam, every button, every edge of his flesh.

  “Good heavens.” Her heart fluttered. “What is that?”

  “Your Highness?” he answered with a very unsubtle rock of his hips.

  Philomena pulled back. She waved in the general vicinity of his trouser buttons. “That.”

  He winked. “Evidence.”

  “Evidence?” She glanced down, then quickly up again. She took another step back. “Of what?”