Knightly Tryst

"Ah, I saw you wince when the baron gave his toast. You were hit!"

Fulke's voice was full of the righteous gravitas that only complete confidence and a healthy serving of spirits could bestow. It was good that the private quarters they'd been granted were so far from other, more inhabited areas of the castle.

Branwyn, his sister-at-arms, gave him a look of utter indignation from across the small table. "Whatever you

think

you saw-"

"Think?" Fulke interrupted, now amusedly indignant himself. "Shall I go and ask the chirurgeon his opinion? I think I know what he will say!"

Branwyn narrowed her eyes at the man, and said "Yes, he would say that I did not see him. I did not see him because I have no desire to waste other people's time!"

Fulke snorted. "If that were true, I wouldn't need to badger you this way, would I?" She opened her mouth, but he continued, louder. "We both know you wouldn't see a chirurgeon if you were bleeding like a stuck pig!" His tone softened somewhat as he leaned forward placing a hand upon the table. "Let me check you. I'll never tell a soul if you got knocked."

She took a long draught from her cup, then poured more from the pitcher between them. All the while, she stared daggers at him. She didn't look happy. But, then again, she never looked happy.

"Fine."

She stood abruptly and walked around the table, coming to a stop in front of Fulke. He withdrew his hand from the table, looking up at her. The firelight played across her face, sharpening her features and making her expression look just a little more severe. She was pretty when she was serious, in a dangerous sort of way. She glowered down at him impatiently.

"Well, oh

grand surgeon

? Will you inspect me, or won't you?"

He made to stand, proclaiming "I shall!" As he left his chair, however, the room seemed to tilt and spin. He might've fallen, if Branwyn didn't catch him.

"You're drunk."

"I'm not! They gave me something, wormwood and willowbark or something of the like. Might've said something about moderation and drink."

She pushed him back into the chair, muttering "A fine inspection from a man who can't see straight. Unbelievable," as she turned to return to her own chair. Fulke grabbed her arm as she went, though, and pulled her back.

"Ah-ah, I can see fine! Only my balance has left me. Come, how about this-" he leaned back in his chair, and patted his leg. "-sit here. Much harder to take a tumble from a chair, eh?"

She stared again.

"This isn't one of your tricks, is it?"

He chuckled. "What trick? T. You need to relax. Now sit, and let me look you over."

A long moment passed. From the fireplace, the sound of a log tipping into the embers accompanied a flash of light. She was thinking, weighing and measuring chances in her mind. It was a great joy indeed to stump her calculations. At length she sighed, snatched her cup and drained it, and stepped toward him. He drained his as well, and poured himself another from the jug.

She sat herself down on his leg, her own both on one side, pointing inwards, and her arms folded awkwardly across her chest. Fulke snorted again.

"What?!"

"How very

ladylike

-" he jested "-I must've missed you leading that charge

side-saddle

."

"Then how would you prefer I sit?" She snapped.

"Astride, of course! I shall make sure your back is unharmed. And you may preserve some modesty,

my lady

."

Her face was red as she turned like he asked, and straddled his leg instead. Fulke shifted slightly to accommodate her, and put a hand on her back.

"When did you get this silk tunic? It's quite nice."

Her response was snippy. "Last year, after our encounter at Westborough."

"Rather unlike you to wear silk, isn't it? Folk might think you've gone

soft

."

She turned to look at him, saying "Is it a sin now to want to be comfortable? I like silk, everyone likes silk! And what does my tunic have to do with my injuries, anyway?"

The two looked at each other for a moment, before she turned back around with heated sigh.

"Right enough, I suppose. Take it off."

She sat, unmoving and silent for a while. A burning log popped in the fireplace. Then, slowly, she began to tug the tunic up. Her skin was pale, like the full moon.

"Didn't I suggest silk at Westborough? You were complaining about wool for dinning, as I recall."

"You might've." her voice was muffled for a moment before she pulled her head free. "I listen to you so rarely, I couldn't say. Now, do you see any wounds, or might I be allowed to redress?"

Fulke scoffed at the idea. "You know as well as I that many injuries refuse to show until sufficiently festered. I shall feel for them." At this, ran his fingers along her back, starting at the small and working up. His touch was light, only grazing the ridge of her spine with the very tips of his fingers. A smile crept onto his face when he saw a wave of goosebumps rise in his wake.

A shiver rocked Branwyn's shoulders. Before Fulke could comment, she turned her head. "Do you think I'm made of rose petals? If you're going to prod me then prod me! You're gleeful enough to do so when we spar! Or have you lost your

physician's eye

?"

"It is important to get a lay of the land, just as in battle."

"You've seen my back before," she replied, her tone somewhat softer.

His smile broadened as he said, "Indeed I have."

He laid his palms on her, and ran them along either side of her spine. "Tell me if anything hurts." She nodded, and he continued. No bruises presented themselves, nor did he feel lumps or welts. The muscles around her shoulder blades were tense, and despite her efforts to hide it, she winced just a bit when he pressed on them. He recognized the pain easily, these were some of the muscles for swinging a sword and raising a shield. He pressed her sword side, to which she winced again, but barely. Her shield side, however, flinched away from the pressure.

"You still block too rigidly. One day someone will break your arm through your board. Or you still keep the damn thing up too often."

"Are you satisfied now?" She sounded impatient. "Or do you wish to insult me by looking for wounds

on my back

? I'm not a coward."

"We can move to your front, if you like. Turn around."

A silent moment followed.

At the end of it, Fulke chuckled. "Or, if I may be allowed to be thorough, and ensure my friend is as healthy as she says-"

"Fine! Continue!" She snapped over her shoulder, and looked forward again.

Fulke did so, and found a few more sore areas about the shoulders, but nothing more serious than the soreness left over from battle. He pushed a thumb against her spine, circling each nub and watching for reaction. Branwyn's back straightened, perhaps involuntarily, and he watched her muscles tense. Nothing seemed amiss, and he moved on.

Next he sought her ribs, starting from her hips and tracing upwards. Branwyn went very still, and very silent as he did so.

"Any pain?"

"No."

She said nothing else, so he continued slowly. Eventually he came to the first floating rib, and traced his finger along it.

"I wasn't hit."

He reached the end of the rib and moved up to the next.

"I saw your armor after the charge. You got hit. Perhaps not

well

, but you

did

get hit. So I have to be thorough. Otherwise your pride might get you killed. And all that aside, if I noticed your flinch at the feast, someone else must've as well."

He moved up a rib, past the floating ones now. He traced its length, sliding his fingers up Branwyn's rib cage, slower now. Her chest rose and fell in steady time. Perhaps too steady to be coming naturally. She was measuring herself.

"Breathe in deeply."

"Do you even know what you're looking for?"

"I do. Now, breathe, please."

She obliged, taking in a deep breath through her nose, and a few moments later letting it out from her mouth. Some amount of tension seemed to be expelled with each exhale. Through her skin, so warm against his fingers, he could feel her heart beating almost distantly. His probing continued, and as he passed over her sternum the thumping of her heart grew more distinct. Not only that, but faster as well. His progress stalled, and he drifted from her sternum to the softer chest just below, where the beating was easy to feel against his fingers. Perhaps it was his imagination, but it seemed to quicken again as he stopped.

"You have a strong heart, in spite of your attempts to hide it. It betrays you."

She opened her mouth to speak, but her voice caught in her throat for a moment. She cleared it, and spoke again, breathily "Why are you taunting me?"

"Taunting?" Fulke feigned surprise, but his tone turned more earnest as he continued. "On the contrary, your heart is admirable. It sets your course with utter sincerity. Despite that cold mask you put on, I think there's bottomless passion within." He flattened his hand against her chest, feeling her heart beneath his palm. It was most definitely faster now, and more excited. Words couldn't quite describe the comfort its pulse brought him. His own heart seemed to quicken sympathetically.

"Mask? You would accuse me of deception?"

She sounded serious, but she couldn't fool him. Not with her very heart beneath his hand.

"Come now, we all have masks. Masks upon masks. I've seen behind a few of yours, and you behind a fair few of mine."

Branwyn didn't respond, but her breathing had become shallow. It would have been nearly imperceptible in any normal circumstance, but he could feel the slight risings and fallings of her chest. Muscles in her back tensed, shifting under her pale skin as she calculated, trying to keep herself cold. Even her legs were tense, as if to suggest she might leap up in a moment and round on him, to decry his behavior as inappropriate or insufferable. A knight, after all, should do so. But she couldn't solve the problem; she didn't

want

to.

The time had come to be somewhat bold. He kept one hand over Branwyn's heart, while the other fell lightly on her shoulder. With a gentle pull, he guided her back to lean on him. She resisted at first, but after a few moments of soft struggle he leaned forward himself and pressed his lips to her skin, just between her shoulder blades.

A noise, like a sigh but forceful and surprising most of all to Branwyn, escaped her mouth as seemingly in response her whole body clenched. Involuntarily, it seemed, her body tried to grasp him, hold him in place, keep him like that- for a time, at least.

Her surprise was enough, and saw her fall back against his chest. Her hair filled his face, and the warmth of her body diffused through his tunic in an instant. From here, they could look each other in the face again. Her gaze met his, and her expression was impossible to discern. Her mouth hung open, her eyes wide. There was something akin to indignance, but that particular mask was slipping more and more by the second. How much longer was Branwyn going to cling to it?

The redness in her cheeks and across her face flashed all at once as another log in the fireplace popped and tumbled over to be consumed by the flames.

A lick of hot air came from her mouth as she started to speak, but Fulke intercepted the words with another kiss. His lips touched Branwyn's, and for the briefest of moments, she kissed back like a thirsting woman might gulp from a cup.

He shifted again, moving his hand as smoothly as he could from her shoulder downward, whisking his touch across her skin like a spreading fever down, across her ribs, then around under the arm where his fingers found the softness of her bosom.

So positioned, he pulled away, and saw with some amusement Branwyn's eyes flutter. Her hand found his, and took it by the wrist as if to pry it away, but made no more effort to do so. Her chest heaved now, and she gasped for air as she made the effort to focus on his face again.

"You. . ." her voice was thinner now, and deeper, as something had caught in her throat. "How dare. . . " She coughed, and wriggled a bit in his lap but sank only deeper. "We shouldn't. . ." The taint of insincerity permeated every word, killing the sentence before it could even escape her fully. Her heart was too true to lie, even when she wanted to.

"Shouldn't? You would tell me what we shouldn't do?" His tone was, again, a mockery of indignance. "Many folk would tell you what you shouldn't do. About a woman's place in war." A hint of vulnerability showed in her eyes. She expected a jab, and to be hurt. Instead Fulke pulled her close, pressing his mouth close to her ear. "And they're damn fools. Every battle you fight is a victory. You're a knight! But not

just

a knight. Take that mask off, just for an evening. Did you regret our last little tryst? Say the word, and I'll retire back to my room, and never proposition you again."

Her breath was heavy on his face. As he spoke, the glimmer of fear subsided. A fresh wave of redness pulsed through her face and spread down her neck.

"I didn't. . ." Her words were being plucked carefully from the aether. ". . . wouldn't say that. I only wanted-" She was finding it difficult to speak through the breathlessness, and cast her gaze away, towards the fire. "It's all very

improper

."

Fulke chuckled at that. "It is, I suppose. But would you have me stop?"

He paused, waiting for an answer. At first it seemed like Branwyn would stay silent, staring into the faire in quiet contemplation.

Calculating

. How tiring it must be, he thought, to be so tangled in one's own thoughts. To be weighing and measuring forever. But there was something else, too. Her fingers on his wrist tightened as she thought. Eventually, she pressed his hand onto her breast with something like a grumble or a groan, so a mix of the two. Somewhere within, words were buried, though utterly indecipherable.

"What was that?" He tried, but was unable to keep all of the amusement out of his voice.

Branwyn let out a deep sigh, then repeated reluctantly, "I shall. . . consider my answer. You may-" she fidgeted in his lap as she spoke. "-

entertain yourself

as you see fit, in the meantime."

Fulke's smile was audible as he said "Oh, entertain myself, hmm? Very well, stand up, and I shall-"

Her grip on his wrist tightened, and she leaned back again, looking again into his eyes. "You've finished your examination, then? Am I fit to return to battle?"

"Ah! You shant distract me. Perhaps by the time I finish this inspection, you will have reached a decision. Now, if I may have my hand back. . .?"

A look flitted acrost her face so quickly that Fulke thought for a moment he might've imagined it; a wry grin. A moment later it was gone, Branwyn had seen him notice, seen his smile at hers, and quickly reasserted her usual austere expression.

Or as much of it that remained, anyways. She couldn't hide the corners of her mouth being tugged at, or the blush in her cheeks.

"You may have it, I suppose. For now."

With that, she let go. Fulke shook his wrist as if in pain, only half joking as he said "As always, there can be no complaint about your sword-arm's grasp."

He groped again at her chest, enjoying the feeling of something so soft. It nearly filled his palm, and his fingers sank satisfyingly in as he squeezed her gently. Before Branwyn had quite gotten used to the feeling, though, he changed his approach. His fingers brushed against her bosom's peak, and felt it stiffen in response. Goosebumps spread outward like a wave, and after a few moments more Branwyn let out a heavy breath. There was some irony, he thought, in her vulnerability to a gentler touch.

As all that went on, Fulke's other hand was not idle. He found her hip, and pulled her close. His own body was reacting sympathetically with hers, and he made no attempt to hide it. His prick pressed against her rear, and even through two layers of trousers he was certain she felt it. Indeed, she shifted ever-so-slightly, pushing against his groin herself. That hand soon drifted, wandering lazily across her skin. Her own hand fell atop his, and she gripped it weakly, seemingly more out of reflex than any desire to restrict or guide him. Thusly, it went with his touch as it found its way to her lower front and flattened against her belly.

"Bran?"

It felt like a long time before she responded, and when she did, it was only with a grunt.

"What did you think would happen when you sat down?"

"This." Her throat sounded dry. "Or something like it. You always try something v

-ulgar

."

Her voice hitched on her last word as he thrust his hand down, snaking beneath the waistline of her trousers. Branwyn hissed through her teeth as his fingers met with sensitive flesh, and one of her arms shot out as if she were reaching for something on which to catch herself. What exactly she intended to grab was anyone's guess, but as her arm wrapped around the back of Fulke's neck and she pulled herself closer, he rather liked the idea that he was, in fact, the target.

A steamy sigh seemed punctuated by another log collapsing into the fire. For a moment, both knights looked towards the fireplace. The log that had just fallen was the last.

"Perhaps we aught to hurry this along?" Fulke suggested with a level tone. "After all, you seem to be fairly unhar-"

His words were cut off as Branwyn pressed her lips against his. It was a clumsy kiss, without much tact or subtlety. For the thin shaving of a moment, Fulke thought of other kisses he'd received; from noble ladies and courtiers who minded every rule, were gentle and demure. But as Branwyn mashed her face into his while pulling him close, there was no question in his mind; this was the better kiss. As quickly as those blue-blooded embraces had come, they were gone, swept up the chimney as smoke and forgotten. A smile came again to his face, and he tried to pull away, another smarmy comment ready to loose, but Branwyn redoubled her assault, sealing their lip together so tightly he could hardly breathe. She wanted this,

needed

this, and her embrace was as strong as iron. If it were in his power, he would have liked to stay in that embrace forever.

Eventually, Branwyn let up. She didn't pull herself back, but she allowed Fulke to lean only an inch or two away to indulge in some fresher air. She gazed up intensely, however, and spoke in a husky, breathless tone, "If you hurry this-" each breath was a full body affair, and despite the dying of the fire she had started to sweat. "-you'll need another visit to the chirurgeon before morning. Is that understood?"

"And you say I'm the vulgar one?" The mirth in his voice cut through her threat with ease, and Branwyn went quiet again. "But you're right, I should think. It's been a long year since Westborough. God only knows when we'll see eachother again."

Beneath the fabric of her trousers, he put his fingers to work, poking and feeling at Branwyn's pelvic region. First he traced her hips, and, finding no signs of injury, moved on to the muscles. Branwyn's legs twitched as he found her inner thighs, and she flinched again as he gave the muscle a squeeze.

Fulke stopped.

"Saddle?"

"Saddle," she confirmed. "One of the straps came loose. I was squeezing the horse damn near the whole time. It wasn't so sore until tonight, though."

Fulke continued, gentler now, feeling around for lumps or swelling or wounds of any kind. Unsurprisingly, he found nothing. He did, however, leave one area neglected. And of course, in the interest of thoroughness, could not simply leave it unchecked.

Another wave of tenseness seemed to grip Branwyn's body as he moved towards her nethers, and she let out another shaky breath. "No one struck me there. My codpiece doesn't tend to attract much atten-

tion

."