My Lord's Long Black Lance

Just as the Serving Whence, Primeveire Rosthern, replaced the steel platter containing empty pewter ale mugs, which still were drizzling droplets of mead, back on the wooden bar, the owner of the Swan, Merrick Foreman, reach his hand beneath her linen apron, pressing it against her crack that lay beneath her meager garter. “The Black Lancer should be arriving from Reading very shortly. Why don’t you be a good lass and go make up his room.”

“What brings the Black Lancer to Mapledurham?” asked Primeveire. “Not that it is any of your concern, but he is jousting in King Benedict’s Battle of Champions on the morrow,” said Foreman. He reached out once again, this time slapping poor Primeveire firmly on the ass. “Now quit your dawdling. Get up to Room Three and turn down the bed for my lord, Black Lancer.”

“Right away, Master Barkeeper,” said Primeveire.

“That’s my best Serving Whence,” smiled Foreman. He reached out once again and slapped her on the alternate cheek this time.

Shortly after retrieving a set of laundered sheets from the courtyard behind the tavern, but not before the wind managed to catch her brown flaxen skirt and lifted it almost above her waist, Primeveire found herself in Room Three tiding up the mess left behind by the previous occupant and meticulously turning down the small mattress at the center of the room, placing the cotton sheet on top of the worn mattress.

As she leaned forward, she pressed down hard against the mattress’ corner to ensure that the bedsheet would not eject itself from beneath the mattress during the night and wind up wrapping itself around its temporary occupant. Primeveire found that this activity was making her quite energetic. She was hardly able to refrain from heavy panting and gasping as sweat ran down her brow, making its way in efficient fashion down her neck and onto the crack of her bosom.

Wiping the sweat from her brow, Primeveire absently placed her hand on her breast as she imagined for a moment all the adventures that a Knight in the service of the King must experience in their lives. Primeveire thought to herself that, given the opportunity, she’d trade places with a Knight in a heartbeat, more than willing to give up a life of serving drinks to drunken brutes and handsy would-be amorous suitors. She would give anything for a life of adventure than this tedious existence.

As she daydreamed about this life, reality suddenly came crashing down as she heard Foreman stomping up the steps, bellowing, “What are you doing up here, you worthless Whence? There are thirsty paying customers downstairs and no one about to serve them?”

“Foreman, you told me to come upstairs and make Room Three for the Black Lancer.”

“Since when do you think it is a good idea to talk back to me,” said Foreman.

Primeveire crouched backward on the bed as Foreman lifted his hand in the air. Looking down, Foreman saw his Serving Whence cowering on the bed, suddenly thinking to himself that she wasn’t worth the effort. “Nah. The customers won’t buy as many drinks from a whence with a shiner. But you make sure that you keep that tongue to yourself from now on.”

Primeveire slowly rose to her feet as Foreman turned and left the room, headed back downstairs. Halfway down, he called back, “You best be getting back down here if you know what’s good for you.”

As Primeveire climbed the down winding staircase to the ground floor, there was a flurry of activity among the congregated rabble as the sound of clomping hooves could be heard coming down the road. The tavern patrons rushed to the window to catch a glimpse of a slim male rider in his early twenties astride a midnight black horse headed towards the establishment of the Swan. The red-headed gentleman wore green tights, a vest of chainmail over his chest and an armored breast plate on top of the chainmail. Primeveire was instantly taken aback by the Knight’s porcelain skin, fiery strawberry locks and blue eyes that were so deep that she felt like she could take a midnight swim in them.

“That has to be the Black Lancer,” said a voice from behind Primeveire.

“He looks like a real contender,” said another patron.

“They say that he has never been defeated,” interjected a heavy-set man standing at the bar.

Finding herself lost in thought at the sight of the Black Lancer coming up the road, Primeveire didn’t notice Foreman coming up behind her as he whispered in her ear, “You, enjoying your little show, Lass?”

With a start, Primeveire turned around, “I am sorry, Foreman. My mind just drifted for a moment.”

“Well, I can understand that” said Foreman in a gentle tone before raising it to an almost bellow. “And you’ll have all the time you want to daydream when I toss your sorry excuse for a barmaid onto the county road.”

Just as Foreman extended his foot to kick Primeveire out the door, the Black Lancer walked through the entrance. “Excuse me, good sir, but I was told by the Lord Chamberlin of King Benedict’s court that I should speak to a Merrick Foreman, the proprietor of this establishment, regarding lodging for the night.”

Foreman dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “Ay, your Lordship. I be Merrick Foreman. Your room is all prepared and waiting for you.”

“That is wonderful to know, good sir. I have had a long journey from Reading and developed a powerful thirst,” said the Black Lancer.

Hearing that the Black Lancer was in need of refreshment, Primeveire turned and raced back to the bar to retrieve a glass. However, before she could pour some Meade from a nearby barrel, Foreman plucked the glass from her hand. “I’ll be satisfying the young gentleman’s thirst. You can tend to his steed. Make sure that it is washed and feed, Primeveire.”

“I really don’t want to impose upon the young woman. I can take care of my own horse.”

“That is most kind, your Lord,” said Primeveire.

Before she managed to tell him that it was no trouble at all, Foreman interjected. “My Lord, we can’t allow the common folk, such as this young thing, to forget their place. They are put on this Earth to serve their betters, not to have their betters take care of their work. Besides, what is the point of paying her if she doesn’t do her work.”

“Really, my steed, Gauntlet, has brought me much success in this life and I am more than happy to tend to him,” said the Black Lancer.

Before Primeveire could reiterate that she didn’t mind, Foreman raised his hand in the air above her head. “You see what you have done, you lousy cow. You made the good Lord think that he won’t be taken care of in our fine establishment.”

“I meant no disrespect, good Lord,” said Primeveire

Foreman pointed to the door, “Now get out there and take the horse to the barn.”

As she began to walk with her head down, the Black Lancer spun around and placed his hand on her cheek. “I am sorry about imposing on you, kind Lass,” as he slipped a gold coin in her apron. He turned back toward the bar, “I’ll believe that I’ll have that Meade, now good sir.”

Leading the horse to the barn, Primeveire found herself fixated on the young Knight’s touch. In her time, there had been a number of ‘gentlemen’ who had placed hands on her, including Foreman on several occasions. Thankfully, the most that Foreman had willing to venture in the intoxicated state was giving her bosom a good fondling. That said, there was something more gentle and smoother about the Black Lancer’s touch than any other man that she had ever felt.

Leading the horse to the barn, Primeveire was thankful that the stallion, Gauntlet, seemed to be a well-behaved animal who wasn’t giving her to much resistance. Once inside the barn, she tethered Gauntlet’s

harness to an available rail before retrieving a shovel from a hook to remove the manure from the previous occupant and place fresh hay into the stall.

By the time that she was done with this chore, Primeveire could see that the sun was getting low on the horizon as she made her way back to the front door of the Swan. Before she even managed to walk through the door, Primeveire heard Foreman yelling. “What have you been doing all this time, you lazy Cow. Don’t you realize I’ve had to tend bar and serve drinks while you were out in the barn dreaming about your happily ever after?”

“I am sorry, Foreman. It took a little longer than I expected.”

“Well, make yourself useful by going out to the smokehouse and finish cooking a side of mutton that I started for the Black Lancer’s supper.”

“Could I just get a glass of water before I go?”

“Why certainly, Sweetheart. Anything for you,” said Foreman.

Before Primeveire realized what was going on, Foreman had scooped a mug into a barrel of water and flung it into her face. “Now that you are all refreshed with your water, get out to the smokehouse and get the Black Lancer’s dinner. He must be starving by now.”

Primeveire couldn’t rightly say what circumstances led to what happened next. All she knew was that she was carrying, in one hand, a rather large shank of lamb and roasted potatoes on a plate, and a pitcher of ale in the other. Primeveire made her way upstairs to Room Three where she tapped against the door with her boot. One peculiarity about Room Three was that the bolt never truly slid completely into its’ holder so the door could never be truly locked tight. In addition, Primeveire’s tired ears must have heard the Black Lancer say, “Come right in,” when the Lancer actually stated emphatically, “Just give me a moment.” Regardless, when Primeveire opened the door to Room Three, she saw the last thing that she was expecting to find when encountering a Knight of the Realm.

The Black Lancer was sitting in a large, metal washing tub. Visible from the waist upwards, Primeveire saw that there were a scattering of soap bubbles running down the chest of the Black Lancer, taking the path between two subtle, but bountiful naked breasts. The hot water of the tub seemed to have changed the color of the Black Lancer’s areola from a dull pink to a dragon fire red, bringing the nipples to attention as well.

Primeveire stared at the naked Knight as she tried to produce the words, “You are a woman,” but all she felt was air passing out of her lungs and out through her mouth.”

As the Black Lancer gently stepped out of the washing tub, soapy water running down her torso, spirally in concentric circles down her legs before reaching the floor, “Hello, my dear. Allow me to properly introduce myself. My name is Frederique.”

Primeveire watched as the naked Knight stepped behind Primeveire, who had managed to lower the ale pitcher and the platter to the ground. “You must have read my mind, sweet Lass. I was growing very lonely and desired some company,” said the Black Lancer as she closed the door.

Primeveire finally found the words to express herself, “You are so beautiful. Why would you want to spend time with me?”

The Black Lancer moved in close enough that Primeveire could feel her breathe on her face. “Don’t sell yourself short, my dear. You, my dear Barmaid, have a kindness and a beauty that is sorely lacking in this world. Before Primeveire knew what was happening, the Black Lancer lifted Primeveire’s hand up to her naked breast and began guiding it into concentric circles. Primeveire pressed her soft lips against the strawberry blonde’s lips as she ran her hand along the contorts of her back. Before she realized it, the buxom blonde Primeveire found herself sitting side by side with the Black Lancer in the steel washing tub, having her hand guided by the young Knight along ever curve and contort of the Knight’s body, an action that the Black Lancer reciprocated much to the screams and delight of Primeveire.

The next morning, Primeveire found herself exuberant in a manner that she had almost never known. She rolled over to face Frederique — the Black Lancer — lying beside her on the flimsy mattress. Primeveire reached over and gently planted a kiss on Frederique’s lips. “Good morning, my Lady. I hope that I made your stay at the Swan, last eve, a pleasurable experience.”

“You are just incorrigible, aren’t you,” said Frederique as she laughed and moved closer to kiss Primeveire on the lips. “But I would tell all my fellow Lords to come stay here.”

“My Lady doth make me turn red in the face and make my holy of holies flow like the Thames.”

“But I wonder, why do you stay here?” asked Frederique.

“I am only source of monetary support for my father’s mother. I send her what I can every month to cover her taxes, and I send what food I can to keep her healthy.”

“Would it not be simpler if you had a royal patron to support you and your Grandmother?”

“I could not possibly take my Lady’s money for no reason.”

“I have the perfect reason to take you into my employ. Whilst thy was slaving in the smokehouse last eve, I went to check on Gauntlet in the stables. I have not seen him that clean and well-fed in a very long time. You would make a wonderful mistress of husbandry on my estate. I insist that you and your Grandmother come live with me.”

Before Primeveire could say anything, there was a voice at the door, “Oh, I believe that I will be taking up residency on the fake Lord’s estate, once I inform King Benedict that his Jousting Champion is a lying dirty whore,” said Foreman.

Primeveire leapt to her feet and wrapped the long drape around her bodice, as she grabbed at his feet. “Merrick, I beg of you. The Black Lancer is merely another Christian sole trying to make her way in the world.”

“There is nothing Christian about someone who uses the Devil’s art of deception to make a living. I will be informing the Court of King Benedict this very day of your deception.”

Frederique wrapped the linen around her torso, as she calmly said, “King Benedict should be here within the hour to personally escort me to the Battle of Champions. I pledge to you on my word as a Knight of the Realm that I will accept any judgement upon my life that you and King Benedict see fit to bestow upon me.”

A twinkly sprang into Foreman’s eye. “Yes. They shall write songs about how I unmasked the false knight. My business will go through the roof.”

"If I were you, I’d definitely put on something more presentable than a night-shirt if the King is coming to this establishment.”

“You are quite right, my Lady. If you’ll excuse me,” said Foreman as he closed the door behind him.

Primeveire turned to Frederique, “King Benedict is coming here?”

“Of course not. I needed to get Foreman out of here whilst we made our escape.”

“Even if we do, won’t he come after us?” asked Primeveire.

With a contemplative look, Frederique smiled, “I might actually need something from the smokehouse.”

Three hours later, Frederique — having once again assumed the personage of the Black Lancer, found himself charging towards his opponent, Griffin Grey, in the finally match of the Battle of Champions. As he galloped ever closer towards his opponent, the Black Lancer lowered his lance, knocking the older, grey-haired knight, to the ground. The Black Lancer jumped from his steed, Gauntlet, immediately removing his blade from the saddle bag. Griffin Grey responded in kind, pulling his sword out of his saddle bag. The two opponents locked swords for several parries before the Black Lancer brought his blade underneath and sliced off the hand of Griffin Grey.

Griffin Grey pulled his chain mail and breast plate from his chest, tossing it to the ground. “You have beaten me, good Knight. Now, provide me with the honor of a quick death.”

Much to Griffin’s surprise, “You have fought with honor, good Knight,” said the Black Lancer. “Everyone in the stadium is a witness. There is no need to take your life.”

Before Griffin could reply an overweight commoner came barreling onto the field. “The Black Lancer has not fought in an honorable fashion. He has no honor at all because he is an imposter,” said Foreman.

The Black Lancer looked back as King Benedict rose from his throne on his private bleachers. “What is the meaning of this blasphemy?” asked the King.

“King Benedict, your champion, the Black Lancer, is in fact a Lass rather than a Lord.”

Before the Black Lancer was aware of what was happening, Foreman reached over and ripped off the skirt of Lancer’s armor and yanked down his tights. “There is the proof of the Black Lancer’s deception,” said Foreman.

“From where I sit, Sir. The Black Lancer is quite uniquely endowed,” said King Benedict.

Foreman looked down to see a rather large sausage emitting from the Black Lancer’s private areas. Before Foreman could cry foul, the Black Lancer had already replaced the tights and metal skirt in their proper place as King Benedict yelled, “Off with his head” as Foreman was dragged away.

In the stands, Primeveire smiled to herself as she assured herself that once the Black Lancer had received the accolades of the King and supped upon fine meats, that she’d providing her Frederique with her own celebration of her accomplishment that day.”