King Thrushbeard: An Erotic Fairy Tale

KING THRUSHBEARD

AN EROTIC FAIRYTALE

SHELBY CROSS

King Thrushbeard: An Erotic Fairytale

Copyright © 2015 by Shelby Cross. All rights reserved.

First Smashwords Edition: 2015

Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

Dedicated to Maribellem

And as always, to Husband

CHAPTER ONE

Malmesbury, Wessex, 885

The sun came up slowly over the abbey. Through the dark clouds, rays of gray and vibrant purple cast pale light across the muddy ground. Shadows still lurked where the light could not reach, but the abbey was beginning to wake up with the sun.

She held the shawl tightly around her body, careful to keep her head low and her face covered as she looked this way and that. As she walked, the hem of her skirt grew heavy with wet mud.

The blacksmith was busy at work, and the butcher was setting up his cart, hanging his meat from hooks. Servants and squires hurried along, already busy at work for their Lords and masters.

Nobody looked at her as she passed by.

As she approached the barn, she slowed. The smell coming from the barn was rustic, but not unpleasant: musty blankets and fresh hay. She turned the corner of the building, and saw the closed barn door.

And there was Maccus, keeping watch outside.

Maccus recognized her immediately. As soon as he saw her, he pulled away from the wall and stood up straight, looking shocked and scared.

My Lady, what are you doing here? He said. This is no place—

She put a finger to her lips and shook her head. You know why I am here, she whispered. He is within, yea?

Yea, my Lady, Maccus answered. I shall tell him you are here—

’Twill not be necessary.

She took a step forward, but Maccus moved to block her path. My Lady, please, do not go inside. Lord Noth is….

Is what?

He is not alone. A blush began to creep up his neck.

She smiled. I understand he is not alone, Maccus, she said. ’Tis precisely why I must see him. Pray let me through. She put her hand out, motioning him to move away. Maccus scowled, but did as ordered. He could not defy a command from this woman.

Giving a last glance around, she slipped between the doors of the barn.

Once inside, she pulled the shawl away from her head. A few wisps of her light blonde hair came loose, and she smoothed them away as she took a good look around.

The sheep ignored her, and she ignored them. A rooster ran across her path, but she paid it no mind. She tilted her head to the side, stood still, and listened.

It only took a few moments to hear the soft cries coming from the last stall.

She moved toward her target with quick strides now. Her face mirrored her exasperation.

She rounded the stall, stopped, and took in the sight before her.

A man knelt with his back to her, facing the opposite wall, completely naked. In front of him was a woman on her hands and knees, likewise naked. The man was pumping his hips in a lewd and obvious manner, his buttocks hollowing with each thrust, soft moans coming from his throat. The woman before him was also grinding back and forth, moving in tandem with the man, and making rhythmic, mournful cries.

For a moment, the lady watched the man and woman moving as one, fucking each other with languid desperation.

As the minutes passed, the woman’s toes began to curl, and her legs trembled. Their speed increased, their cries grew louder, and the lady knew the rutting couple was almost done.

She waited.

To her surprise, the man slowed the pace of his hips, and began to slap the haunches of the woman before him with each powerful thrust. This did not seem to throw off the woman; in fact, her sorrowful wails became more needy, more insistent, and she pushed her ass back into his slaps, clearly wanting more.

The man obliged.

In their last second, his slaps were so loud, they echoed across the barn, drowning out the crescendo of his grunts and her wails as they both came to a shuddering climax.

The man draped himself over the woman like a dead weight. The woman’s elbows buckled, and she fell with her chest onto the floor.

Good morning, Lord Noth, the lady said loudly.

The man startled up, but quickly recovered. Turning his head around, he offered the woman a wide smile and said, Good morning, Lady Aethelflaed. To what do I owe this pleasure?

The hour grows late, she said. My father’s men prepare to leave—as do yours.

I see, Lord Noth sighed. He shook his head, but did not move away from the woman in front of him, who was now burying her face in her hands and remaining completely still. Your father is impatient.

Yea, he is, Aethelflaed replied. And he will not allow me to leave without your men.

And you are just as impatient as your father.

Any other man would have faced a severe reprimand for abrading the Lady Aethelflaed the way Lord Noth just had—but not Lord Noth. Lord Noth was a dear friend of both the Lady Aethelflaed, and her father King Alfred of Wessex.

If you do not mind, my Lady? Noth beseeched. He pointed over to a blanket in the corner, and Aethelflaed retrieved it for him.

Throwing it toward his head, she said, You have one minute. Then she left the stall, but stayed within earshot.

She could hear Noth whispering flowery words and soft reassurances to the woman in front of him. Aethelflaed wondered what else he had done to the girl—besides the spanking and fucking, of course. Noth liked a variety of perversions, only a handful of which Aethelflaed knew about.

He came out of the stall first, slipping his sheathed sword through his belt as he walked. As he passed Aethelflaed, he gave her a boyish grin.

Not for the first time, she thought what a fine specimen of a man he was: thick muscle, chiseled bones, and brooding features. His hair was a soft brown, with red streaks running through it like flame. His eyes were the color of soft grey skies, but depending upon his mood, they could turn cold as steel. He wore his beard long, but in a square cut, which accentuated his square jaw and wide lips.

’Twas no wonder so many ladies found him so devastatingly attractive, Aethelflaed thought.

Of course, the Lady Aethelflaed did not count herself among them. She felt no shame in admiring Lord Noth’s body, but felt no attraction toward it.

The woman still hiding inside the stall, quiet and still: now that body Aethelflaed found far more intriguing. She tried to look back into the stall, hoping the woman inside would not be done dressing quite yet. Lord Noth, seeing where her gaze was headed, gave her a knowing smile. Lady Aethelflaed shook her head and sighed, unable to stifle her own grin. He knew what she was thinking—and he was letting her know he knew.

He strutted out of the barn like a prized stud horse, Aethelflaed had to chuckle. Lord Noth had every reason to feel assured of himself. He was one of the most wealthy and powerful men in Wessex. He had earned that right.

His name was Lord Roewulf Aethelnoth of Somerset, but everyone called him Noth. His mother had named him Roewulf because of his copper red hair, and Aethelnoth after his uncle. His mother had predicted upon his birth that her son was destined for great things.

She had been right. Noth was now the eolderman of Somerset, one of the richest and most powerful men in the realm. Not only was he the youngest member of the Witenagemot, King Alfred’s council of advisors, he was also a personal close friend to the king. Fearless in battle, brilliant in war, his reputation with the sword was legendary. Lord Noth made for a dangerous enemy.

But nothing compared to his reputation with women.

He and King Alfred had fought side by side for years against King Guthrum and the Danish Heathen Army. When the savage Vikings had been at their most ruthless, they had attacked King Alfred at his court in Chippenham. It had been Lord Noth and his small group of men who had held the Vikings back long enough to give King Alfred a chance to escape.

Noth had then hid King Alfred deep in the marshes of Athelney. Over the course of that winter, while other lords had abandoned King Alfred, Lord Noth’s loyalty had never wavered. He had remained by Alfred’s side, helping to renew the ranks, and had even trained many of the men himself. By the following May, when King Alfred was ready to launch his counter-attack against Guthrum, Alfred’s victory had been swift and assured, due in no small part to Lord Noth.

Noth had killed many Danes in those battles. So had Lady Aethelflaed.

In their land, every able person down to the lowliest serf learned skill with the Saxon sword, the scramaseax. Aethelflaed prayed for the day when the Danes would no longer be a threat to their land, and they would no longer have to teach their children how to wield the scramaseax before they could walk.

Lady Aethelflaed’s father was working hard toward that goal, as was she. She was now on her way to Mercia, the vast, ravaged land to the North.

Lady Aethelflaed was to marry the Mercian ruler, King Ethelred, and become the Queen of Mercia. Through marriage, she would unite their two kingdoms, Mercia and Wessex, once and for all.

She might well never see Wessex again. The knowledge filled her with overwhelming sadness, but she would never show it. She would remain strong and stoic before her new people.

She would be expected to produce an heir.

The idea filled her with revulsion.

She didn’t mind children—she enjoyed them, in fact—but the thought of what she would have to endure to create one filled her with disgust.

She hoped Ethelred did not expect her to visit his bed very often. Her father had promised her that Ethelred was not that kind of man—that he would, for the most part, leave her alone. But Aethelflaed had never met the man herself. She would meet him and marry him within the course of the coming days.

There was no point worrying about any of that now. Aethelflaed had more imminent problems to deal with, like getting to Mercia alive. Danes still roamed the land, plundering and viking when and where they could.

More troublesome was the fact that King Alfred had heard rumors there were those in Mercia who did not accept Ethelred as their king; they accused Ethelred of being nothing but a puppet of King Alfred.

They were right, of course. Ethelred was Alfred’s man, and always would be. That fact changed nothing; Ethelred was their king, even if in name only, and Aethelflaed, daughter of King Alfred, ruler of Wessex, would be their queen. The people of Mercia didn’t have much choice in the matter. The legendary Kings and Queens of Mercia of old were long gone.

Lady Aethelflaed would win the love and loyalty of her new people eventually, of that she was certain. Those who opposed her would be squashed. But she would need time—time to both secure her position, and to gain her standing. Until she did, she would need protection. That was one big reason why Lord Noth and his men were travelling with her.

Of course, there was another reason why Noth was chosen as her escort: to escape the scandal he had created in King Alfred’s court. He didn’t like to talk about that.

Aethelflaed felt bad for Noth. She had no doubt the accusations being levied against him were untrue. Aethelflaed had met the woman accusing him, Lady Alodia, only a handful of times; in those brief meetings, Aethelflaed had taken Alodia to be a haughty, self-centered, and immature young girl.

Unfortunately, Aethelflaed’s opinion did not matter. Lady Alodia had pleaded her case to her brother, Lord Eldric, who had immediately made formal complaint to King Alfred on behalf of his sister. The dance of honor men engaged in was one Aethelflaed did not understand, nor did she care to.

Lord Noth was now leading them straight into the heart of Mercia, toward Lichfield, where Aethelflaed’s wedding was to take place. Today would see them across the border, into Mercia…if Noth could get his backside where it needed to be, on his saddle, instead of inside this stall, rutting a fair wench’s cunt.

Noth was taking full advantage of the privileges travelling with the king afforded him. At every stop, be it village, abbey, or keep, Noth would secret away with any woman who made herself available to his needs. He had no shortage of willing females: they all melted under his charming swagger and devilish good looks. Peasant or noble, he didn’t care—if they succumbed to his seduction, they soon found themselves at his mercy.

He was a good lover, Aethelflaed knew. Not personally—Aethelflaed had never been touched that way by any man in her life—but she had been told stories from her ladies. Noth could be a little extreme in his tastes…well, very extreme, actually, if the rumors held true. But he had never been accused of taking advantage of a woman…at least, not until the scandal with Lady Alodia.

Aethelflaed waited for the girl inside the stall to emerge. When she did not, Aethelflaed realized the poor thing was probably too afraid. Aethelflaed sighed and tsked; she would have enjoyed a more private moment to admire that sleek form and its feminine contours.

Aethelflaed enjoyed her ladies, but she was not against a casual dalliance or two herself once in a while. It seemed, once again, Noth would be getting away with all the fun.

***

She joined Lord Noth at the gates of the Abbey, where he and his men stood ready with the carriage. Lord Noth held out the reins to Aethelflaed’s horse.

As she mounted her mare, she asked Noth, My father?

Gone ahead, Noth answered. We can catch up to him quickly.

Good. She studied his face and gave him a stern look. You have hay in your hair, she said.

He shook his head and ran his fingers through his beard. Better?

Somewhat. She still looked unhappy.

Do not worry, Lady Aethelflaed, he said with his boyish smile. I will make myself presentable for you ’afore your wedding.

The Mercian men do not sport beards, you know, she said. ’Tis not their style.

You are not suggesting I shave it, are you? He pulled intuitively at his beard. I wager the Mercian women we come across will enjoy the novelty of it.

Aethelflaed frowned. No more dallying with the wenches at every stop, Noth, she said. I do not need you leaving a trail of love-struck women behind us.

Ah, but ’twill be easier to find my way back if I do.

I mean it. We are entering Mercia now, and you shall behave.

Yea, my Lady, Noth said with a sigh.

He dug his heels into his horse, pushed it into a gallop, and led the group through the gates.

Aethelflaed could only hope Noth had taken her warning seriously.

CHAPTER TWO

Evesham, Mercia

Y ou expect me to WHAT?

Lord Brom winced from his sister’s tone and scowled at her outburst. ’Twas likely her voice had carried all the way down in the kitchens.

So be it. He had known this would not be easy.

I expect you to accompany me to Lichfield for King Ethelred’s wedding, he repeated. Where upon, we shall find you a husband.

Have you gone daft, brother? Merewyn said in a whisper. I have no plans to get married!

I know, Brom said through clenched teeth. Tis precisely why you are coming with me to Lichfield. You will have your pick there of noblemen to choose from.

Merewyn stared at her brother like he had addled his wits. Are you not listening? She shouted. I do not want to pick anyone! I do not want to get married!

Merewyn rose from her seat and began to pace the room, crossing her arms in front of her. Her long brown hair fell in thick waves down her back, past her shoulders and waist; she had not braided it yet for the day. Her almond-shaped eyes, framed by their thick lashes, were sharp and clear. They were usually a soft brown, but in her anger, the glints of hazel shined through.

It was painful sometimes to Brom how much she reminded him of their mother. She had been a descendant of one of the oldest and most noble families in Mercia, stemming from King Creoda himself.

Merewyn had gotten all of their mother’s good looks—and all of their father’s stubborn temper.

If only his sister knew how beautiful she was, Brom thought. If only she cared about such things.

You knew the time would come eventually, Merewyn, he said. Frankly, I have let this situation go on for far too long.

"This situation? Merewyn spat. What situation?"

You, acting like you are mistress of the keep, Brom said. You know you are not.

Ayleth put you up to this, Merewyn said, rounding on him with a hiss. She wants me out of the keep, and out of Evesham!

Do not bring Ayleth into this, Merewyn, Brom threatened. He was willing to put up with a lot from his sister, but not this derision she showed his wife.

He and Lady Ayleth had been married less than a year, yet she was already carrying his child. Theirs had been an arranged marriage, one planned between their two fathers years ago—before the Danish attack that had taken both of Brom’s parents.

Brom had honored his father’s agreement with Ayleth’s father, because to do otherwise would have brought disgrace upon their family. He had quickly fallen in love with his new wife, and was glad now things had turned out the way they had. He felt certain Merewyn would come to feel the same way too, once she was married.

The truth was, it had been Ayleth who had pushed him toward making this decision. Ayleth was his wife, the mistress of Evesham. By rights, she should have been treated as such. But Merewyn was the real mistress of the keep, and had been since the day their mother died. The servants still treated her that way, and looked to her for their orders—not Ayleth.

She should have been married off long ago. Their father would have seen it done by now had he lived. Brom had been too selfish of his sister’s skills, and too content to let her stay.

He would correct his mistake forthwith.

"Ayleth agrees with my decision, but ’tis my decision, he said. I have put it off long enough."

You say it like you cannot wait to be rid of me, Merewyn said with scorn. I have heard you speak of me to the other nobles, the way you boast of my finesse and expertise with the sword. Do I not bring honor to this family, this keep?

Yea, you do, Brom said. You know very well your name is well respected throughout Mercia.

Well?

"’Tis respected for the wrong reasons, Merewyn. You spend all your time on the practice field, training with the men—you are better at the sword than many noblemen—"

You say this like ’tis a bad thing!

’Twas not, at one time, Brom said, weighing his words carefully. But ’tis not necessary for you to fight anymore. With Mercia’s alliance with Wessex established, the threat of King Guthrum and his Heathen Army is over.

Yea, we no longer have to fear the Danes taking over our land. Instead we are handing it over to King Alfred, Merewyn scoffed.

We are handing naught away, Brom replied angrily. We are uniting two kingdoms. Such things are done all the time.

Do not take me for a fool, Brom, Merewyn said bitterly. I know the true nature of what is going on. Mercia is already lost; ’tis how King Alfred was able to place his puppet on our throne.

’Tis dangerous for you to say such things, Merewyn, Brom whispered.

’Tis still true, Merewyn replied. She turned around and gazed out the window, to the fields below and mountains beyond. I have helped defend this keep against Viking attack countless times, she said. "Never have I refused the call to battle. ’Tis more than what can be said for many of your men, Brom.