Suffering in his loveless marriage to his wife of four months, a King is left scorned and lonesome. Desperate for companionship, he makes the decision to bed a whore, but she proves to be not at all what he had expected.
*****
The marble balcony was warm to Ulric's touch, heated by the setting sun, and a gentle wind whisked the curled locks of his earthy-brown hair. Though the West Sea was behind him and his keep, he could still smell its salted breezes as they drifted past. The city proper stood hundreds of feet below him, and its busy streets fell under cloaks of long, sleepy shadows as the sun fell behind the city's stone skyline. Weswyn was a great city, its walls strong and durable, and its people no less so. War, fever, and famine all lashed out at Weswyn as the years passed, but all failed to bury it. The city was the greatest the land had ever seen or would see, and it was Ulric's. The city was his, the land was his, just as it all was his father's before him.
Twenty-five years Ulric had watched that sun set across Weswyn. He'd watched it a thousand times, first with his late father, as the Prince, and now alone, as the King. Ulric had seen it more times than he could count, and still it had an effect on him. The quarrels of his court and cousins, the barbs he suffered from his hateful wife he had been chained to, it all took a toll on Ulric, wore on him—the ever-growing shadows under his blue-gray eyes told as much. But when he came to this balcony, when he watched his city drift to sleep, he was better. Calmer.
Ulric sighed deeply, turning his back to the sunset. He strode through the silk curtains to his chambers, the smooth fabric brushing pleasingly against the rough stubble of his face. He swung open the heavy door to his chambers, a vast bedroom, with a lush carpet across its floor that hugged the soles of one's feet, and walls adorned with lavish tapestries that served well to trap errant ocean breezes against the wall. Ulric's chambers often suffered from a damp coolness, as any room in a seaside keep often did, but, God willing, it was warm that night.
Beside Ulric was a wide dining table, fashioned from the finest maple wood, sporting a shining, polished finish. An ornate glass pitcher full of a dark red wine rested on it, with a gold-cast goblet beside it. In the far corner of the room sat his wooden desk, with a quill, inkwell, and several lit wax candles across its upper shelf. In a third corner sat a vast bed, with a finely-woven duvet and down pillows. A nightstand with a dark, unlit lantern stood at the bed's side.
Ulric took the pitcher of wine from the near table and poured full his goblet. He was a man of healthy thirst, but that was no different than his father. Did Ulric drink a bit more these days in particular? Maybe—but he wasn't ashamed of it, no, far from it. It was as his father had always mused, laughing merrily as he said it: '
a King needs two things to rule well, little Ully: a fine wife and a finer wine.'
He was a man of many faces, Ulric's father. He could laugh and sing one moment, raising high mugs of thick mead or glasses of dark wine, and he could glare daggers the next, striking fear into any who failed or angered him, nobles and commonfolk alike. He was a man who had loved his business almost as much as he had loved his pleasure.
Ulric raised the gold goblet to his lips and took a thick swig. The wine tasted as it smelled: potent, hearty, with a faintly spiced edge to it, a true pleasure to the tongue. '
A fine wife and a finer wine'—
the thought had Ulric smiling somberly. He had never before thought that one of those two could send him clambering for the other.
The iron knocker rapping against his chamber door roused Ulric from his thoughts. He sighed at the sound of it, as it perhaps was Elise, his wife and his Queen. Ulric had been certain she had retired for the evening, after their early dinner—she had certainly announced it loudly and arrogantly enough. By Elise's own request they did not share bedchambers, a hallmark of a Lord and Lady engaged in a loveless union. That request had once hurt Ulric, wounded him deeply, but now, four months after their wedding, he had come to be thankful for it. Seeing Elise as often as he did was unpleasant enough.
"Your Grace?" The voice was not of Ulric's wife, but rather the stagy, expressive voice of his steward, Edwin Pollard, a man who had long served Ulric's family. "I've something for you," He said through the door.
Having lost himself in his thoughts, Ulric had almost forgotten. Not three hours ago he had sent Edwin in secret to fetch him a whore, the prettiest he could find, with the biggest tits and fattest arse. It had been weeks since Elise had
'graced'
Ulric, as she loved to call it, and Ulric was far past letting that hateful woman dictate the sating of his basest of needs. And Ulric was of course no stranger to whores. After all, for seven years of his adult life he had been unwed, and in those years—and even a couple years before—he had been a young man with the same needs as any other. Again, like his father before him—whom he had spoken to at length with matters of the flesh, unashamed—Ulric was a lustful man. He needed to sate himself often, and he would do it tonight.
Ulric set down his goblet and made his way to the chamber door, swinging it open. There, in the hall, was his steward Edwin, a wiry, gangly man garbed in a well-worn linen tunic. And before Edwin stood a teenaged girl, clad in a silk, warmly pink whorehouse robe that hugged her curved figure of full breasts and wide, flaring hips. She was fair-skinned, with long hair of a sunny golden blonde that fell to her breasts, brushed free of any tangles or knots. The girl was a gorgeous young thing, with a soft, angular face, high bones of the cheek, a sloped nose and arched, golden brows. The girl was quite a bit shorter than the tall-standing Ulric, by a good foot or so. A rosy red had bloomed across her pale cheeks when she saw her King, looking to him with wide, sky-blue eyes, starstruck by him. She smiled to him warmly, her hands clasped together at her waist, nervy with excitement.
"Your Grace," She greeted Ulric breathlessly, bowing low before him.
"I trust she's to your liking?" Edwin asked, a cheeky grin crooking around his gaunt lips.
Ulric nodded to him. "Leave us," He said.
"Of course," Edwin bowed dutifully and exited down the hall.
"Come in," Ulric said to the girl, gesturing into his chambers.
She did as he asked and strode past him, with the clean scent of rosewater and lavender following her in the air. Ulric swung shut the heavy door behind her, fastening its iron lock. It was a wise precaution, though in truth Ulric wasn't sure how Elise would react to his infidelity, or even if she would react at all.
The girl stood in the room's center, admiring the tapestry on the wall before her, tracing with her eyes its blue inlets across its intricate, red-patterned backdrop. She was one of the few commoners to ever have seen these chambers, and one of the very few to see it that were not live-in servants of the keep.
Still not quite feeling loose enough or light enough on his feet, Ulric once again took to the wine pitcher, filling his goblet. "What's your name, lass?" He asked curiously as he raised his drink to his lips.
She spun 'round to meet his gaze. "Vivian, Your Grace," She quickly answered, her voice light and high, like that of a songbird. "Vivian Caldwell—but my brother calls me Vivi."
"
'Vivi?'
" Ulric scoffed after draining his goblet. "Sounds more befitting of a dog." He then paused, taken aback by his own sudden cruelty. He looked to Vivian and saw her frowning weakly. "I'm sorry," He sighed. "That was cruel of me. It's been a busy week. Busy
month
, really."
"I'd bet," Vivian said sweetly, a cutesy smile returning to her full lips. She seated herself on the edge of Ulric's bed, watching him patiently.
"How old're you, Vivian?"
"Eighteen, Your Grace."
Again Ulric filled his goblet and drank. The pitcher was nearing half-empty now.
