The Princess and the Wart - Chapter 1

Chapter 1

On a day not long after the Blessed Saint Patrick banished all manner of snakes from the island of Eiru, two men fought for a woman. One wore the cloak of the Ui Neill clan, and wielded his sword with the ferocity of a pledged warrior fighting for the honor of his liege's daughter. The other wore homespun garments, stained brown from a life in the surrounding boglands. The maid's honor mattered little to him, he fought for her treasures so that he might feed his family.

About them lay the bodies of their fellows, the eternal enmity of guard and brigand finding a measure of peace in death. Only the two champions remained. The two spun and parried, iron blades clashing as they circled each other warily, too evenly matched for either to claim victory.

The object of their struggle lay on her chariot in a swoon. Bronwen Ó Conaill was the daughter of a Ui Neill lord, a descendent of Naill of Tara himself. She wore a linen robe bright with Saxon embroidery, one that barely contained the fullness of her womanly figure. Her hair was braided, pulled back from a comely round face.

Unnoticed by the two combatants, a second chariot crested the ridge above the battle. From his vantage point, Eoin Mac Céile regarded the scene as a lion might survey his territory before stooping to kill, and the blood of the Tuatha shone in the beauty and symmetry of his face. His fiery red mane glowed like the sun setting on the Western Ocean; his beard resembled the bristles of a tusked wild boar. A cloak of the finest dyed wool billowed out from shoulders as wide as an ox's. Underneath it, his chest was bare to the waist, revealing muscles that might have been carved out of marble by a sculptor in far away Greece, so perfectly were they outlined in his pale skin.

One hand held a shield, embossed with triskelions of bronze and the most powerful of runic enchantments. In the other was a spear longer than the tallest of men, topped by an iron leaf that glittered and flashed in the sunlight.

"Look yonder, Wart! A fair maiden lies in grave peril!" His voice rumbled with a majestic thunder.

Next to him crouched his charioteer, Wart, who was almost certainly human. There were those in his home village who maintained he was a changeling, left behind by goblins after they took a human baby, but they said it softly and behind closed doors, because his mother had a quick temper and a strong arm with the rolling pin. He did look the part, though, with a long, drooping nose, a gaunt frame all knobby with joints and sinews, and overly large feet. How, exactly, such a wretched creature came to serve a hero like Eoin Mac Céile is a fascinating tale, but one which must wait for another time.

"Onward, Wart!" Eoin roared, holding his spear aloft so it caught the noonday sun. Obedient to his master, Wart snapped the reins and sent the chariot plunging headlong down the rutted track.

Surprised by the clamor, both men turned to look. Hope must surely have blossomed in the guard's heart at the sight, for only a just man could wear such a lordly mien as did Eoin Mac Céile. As it is written, though, the gods raise mortals up only to dash them down again.

A beam of sunlight reflecting off of Eoin's spear crossed the brave guard's face, blinding him at the precise moment the brigand launched a final, desperate attack. Throwing up his hand to block the light, he stumbled back, but before he could take two steps the highwayman's blade found his unguarded heart. He fell back in the muddy grass, whispering a last prayer ere he died.

The blackguard's victory lasted no longer than his opponent's had. Deciding that the isolated copse nearby offered little escape, he turned and ran for the wet lowlands where the narrow iron-shod wheels of the chariot couldn't follow. He might have escaped a lesser man, but Eoin was upon him like a falcon. With one swift blow the brave hero drove his long spear through the man's back, skewering him like a rabbit.

"A good day for the ravens!" He laughed loud and long, looking over the carnage as Wart calmed the horses.

"I allow it is, Master." Wart lowered his voice. "A bad day for the widows, though."

"Let us wake the fair maiden!" He bounded from the chariot like a young gazelle and knelt beside Bronwen's prostate form.

Wart found the corpses more interesting. In his experience, living women were much more likely to object to his rifling their pockets for coins and whatnot than the dead were.

"Ohhhh," the maiden groaned as she roused from her swoon. Her eyes flashed open as she saw the form looming over her, taking in Eoin's beautiful countenance and lordly figure. "Oh, my."

"I am Eoin Mac Céile! I rescued you from those wicked villains!" He rumbled proudly, with a sweep of his hand at the corpses littering the muddy battlefield.

"Oh!" The maiden squeaked as he lifted her from the chariot and set her on the ground. Her bounteous chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath.

"I am Bronwen Ó Conaill, daughter of Murdeach of Ailech, and I give thanks for your timely rescue," she finally managed to speak, still supporting herself on Eoin's muscular arm.

"I rescued a princess!" He crowed to his charioteer.

"Wonderful, Master." Wart replied in a nonplussed voice, busy looting a particularly nice bracelet. That finished, he looked up, and at that moment, he decided that living women might be more interesting than corpses after all.

The princess had wide green eyes that sparkled as she watched Eoin, a cute upturned nose, and freckles that danced like mayflies over a rushing creek. What held his attention, though, was her alluring plushness. He couldn't help but admire how she swayed in all the right places when she moved. She was the kind of woman that a peasant like Wart could dream of his entire life and never come closer to than he was right then.

The princess told them of how she had been returning home from visiting her cousins when bandits had set upon her guards. Her father's fortress was only three days ride to the north, but in these uncertain times, even a great lord like him couldn't entirely suppress the low-born trouble makers that haunted the uninhabited forest and boglands between fiefs.

"We shall take her home!" Eoin proudly informed Wart, accompanied by an audible sigh of delight from Bronwen. The charioteer saw no reason to object. Bronwen's appearance would make the travel pleasant, and visiting her father's home would be a welcome relief from the drudgery of setting up camp and the monotony of grilled rabbit and dried bread. In his experience, there would also be pretty young maids who fancied a nighttime frolic with the brave warrior's companion.

The trio made their way north through the green valleys of Eiru towards her father's palisade at Ailech. Stands of purple heather nodded in the breeze, and the soft drone of bees lent a hypnotic quality to the steady clopping of the horses' feet. The hours passed with no more excitement than the occasional glimpse of a fox pouncing on its hidden prey or the slow wheeling of a hawk overhead.

A chorus of frogs announced the coming of evening, and Eoin announced they would be stopping for the night on a low rise of ground near the trail. Wart busied himself with gathering wood and laying out camp while the highborn pair chatted.

Bronwen's intent was all too obvious. Her ardent gaze never strayed from Eoin's face, except to slide along the grooves and ridges of his manly figure. Her hands never left him alone--tracing little circles along the arm and thigh to incite his interest. But most telling of all, Wart thought as he watched with sly sidelong glances, were the lewd displays that stretched her bodice dangerously close to breaking.

No matter how overt her flirtation, though, Eoin remained unmoved. He contributed little more monosyllabic responses to the conversation, coming alive only for occasional recounts of his victories. He had taken a stone from their gear, and no matter how obviously Bronwen displayed her prodigious charms, his attention stayed focused on the snick, snick of the sharpening.

With a sigh for the knowledge that a lady like Bronwen would never put on a show for one such as him, Wart took his sling and set out to find supper for the company. By the time he returned with a pair of rabbits for the fire, she had given up, and the two were sitting in silence.

After they finished eating, Eoin announced that he would scout the surrounding area for any signs of further bandits--the other two should sleep.

"My lord, you would leave me alone in a place like this?" Bronwen objected.

"No harm will come to you! Like an owl I will fall upon any villains in the night!" He reassured her in a deep, booming voice that carried far into the still night air. Refusing further protest, he took his spear and slipped into the night.

Bronwen watched his retreating back with a glum sigh. Then her eyebrows knit in thought, and she fastened her gaze on Wart. This, however, wasn't the eye-batting, swooning sort of look she gave Eoin; this was a purposeful, focused one that made the charioteer sweat.

Wart's suspicions grew as Bronwen made her way to where he was sitting by the fire. On the one hand, he had no objections to the presence of her womanly presence, especially when it threatened to spill from a partially unlaced bodice. On the other hand, in his experience highborn women meant nothing but extra work.

"Your ladyship." He bobbed his head as she approached and sat beside him.

Bronwen didn't speak immediately, and Wart began to fidget. Usually women like her only spoke to him in simple commands: fetch this, take that away. This one's hesitation meant something more complicated, and that almost surely meant trouble.

"How long have you served your master?" She finally asked.

"For six turns of the seasons, your ladyship." That seemed safe enough.

"Tell me, charioteer," she took a deep breath, then continued, "is he pledged to a woman? Some high lady of his home kingdom, perhaps?"

Ah. Bronwen was not the first lady to succumb to his master's handsome figure, and in his experience, they rarely found success. Normally it mattered little to him, but as she leaned closer he felt the sounds of the night recede ominously, like water draining away from the beach before a great wave.

"Not to my knowledge, your ladyship." He said with some trepidation.

"No? Then perhaps a favorite from home, a maiden of unsurpassed beauty waiting for him to come home from the hills?"

"No, m'lady. I don't think he does."

"A wench, then. Some dissolute farmer's daughter he deigns to visit."

"No, m'lady, no farmers' daughters."

"There must be a lover somewhere." Frustration crept into her voice.

"I'm terribly sorry, your ladyship, but no women that I know of."

"Well, then--" She broke off, mouth set in a firm line.

Wart waited patiently, like a proper servant.

"--then why won't he even look at me!" She finally finished, exasperated.

"He won't look at you, your ladyship?" Wart asked, still hoping that he might escape by pretending to be simple.

"Don't be dense." She scowled, having none of his excuses. Then she cupped her breasts in her hands and glared at Wart unashamedly. "He is a man, and I have yet to meet a man who would not sail his boat amongst these billows!"

Ah. Now Wart could see whitecaps atop the oncoming wave. The safe course would be to retreat up the sand to a place on the other side of the fire. The lady's bosom--no matter how longingly it pleaded to be freed from its linen prison--was no fit subject for a lowborn servant's thoughts.

The wave's fury promised danger for any not sage enough to flee. Wart saw visions of himself hung by his thumbs, whipped for impertinence. Even the hard-won experience that had kept him alive for years at Eoin's side in battle faltered, though, in the face of this succubean spirit. He felt a stirring in his loins like the kraken moving in the Deep, slow and sinuous.

Wart squinted at her sidelong, mouth crinkled in a clever grin.

"Perhaps I might be of service, your ladyship." He began, smoothing his features into a properly groveling expression.

"You?" The lady sneered. "And how could a pathetic creature like you help me?"

"As you have discovered, my master is a lordly warrior, and his thoughts are focused on battle and glory. When he is not fighting, he thinks only of his next fight." Wart explained. "He relies on me to deal with less important matters."

"Lesser?" She drew in breath to berate him and Wart quickly intervened, thumbscrews twisting at the edge of his vision.

"I mean no offense, m'lady. His life is battle. It is the pinnacle of his existence. Is that not an honorable life for someone of his noble visage?"

"He is magnificent, isn't he." Bronwen sighed, anger forgotten as she stared at Eoin in her inner eye.

"As are you, your ladyship, the very picture of womanly beauty."

"You really think so?" Bronwen asked, further mollified by his flattery.

"Upon my mother's soul, I say." Whether or not his biological progenitor actually had a soul was open to doubt, but he didn't see any reason to discuss that with the princess.

"I still haven't heard how you can help." No longer angry, she sounded curious.

"If you command me I would speak to him. I would praise your beauty in words that would spur a longing in his breast and lust in his heart."

"Oh, yes." A dreamy sigh escaped her soft lips. "Tell him of my beauty and womanly virtue."

Wart's mouth felt dry.

"If that be your command, then your ladyship should unlace your robe, so that I may make true report of your beauty." He held his breath.

"You ask to see me naked?" She looked at him sharply.

"Not for myself, your ladyship. For the sake of your communion with my master only." Wart quickly assuaged her. "It is no different than a tailor measuring the perfection of your form so that he might better accentuate your beauty with his craft."

Bronwen looked thoughtful.

"I suppose there is no harm in that."

"No, indeed." Wart agreed a bit too eagerly.

Since it was already half-unlaced in a futile quest for Eoin's attention, it took only the work of a moment for Bronwen to open her robe, but to Wart it seemed like a lifetime.

When his eyes could at last climb the slopes of her swelling mounds to the dark caps at the very top, he let out the breath he had been holding in a loud gust.

"Your ladyship--" He began, unable to look away.

Bronwen preened at the attention, cupping them in her hands for his inspection.

"Your ladyship spoke truly. What man would not set sail at once on that magnificent sea? The motion of your waves, what man could resist such a lullaby drawing him to bed? Truly, I tell you, m'lady, there is nothing more beautiful upon all the oceans than the sight of you."

"Well, I don't know if I would go that far." Bronwen had the grace to blush. "And the freckles--"

"Then you do not go far enough." Wart interrupted her at once, shaking his head. "Where you see freckles I see the Fair Ones, dancing on their enchanted hills in other-worldly beauty.

And the shapes! So round, so perfect, echoing the celestial spheres as if carved with the smooth stroke of an angel's wing."

Bronwen beamed, not at all displeased. Transported by his sweet words, she stood happily, allowing him to stare at her naked chest until he had his fill.

"And the rest, m'lady?" Wart asked slyly, interrupting her reverie.

"What do you mean?" Bronwen suddenly recalled her place--and his.

"The curves of your breasts are magnificent to be sure, but that is not the end of a man's desire. No matter how thrilling it may be to scale high mountains, it is in walking through narrow valleys that a man finds true happiness. There is no place he finds greater peace than on the damp rocks of a shaded brook."

Bronwen looked at Wart with a look of fresh appraisal.

"It seems strange to hear speech so fair from one so ugly."

"Begging your pardon, m'lady, but I've been told I'm full of surprises." Wart had a sly look as he volleyed back. "But even I have nothing to cause a feeling of wondering astonishment like the moment when your robe fell from your shoulders."

"You thought they would be ugly?" The flames reflecting in her eyes suddenly reminded Wart of thumbscrews reflecting in the dungeon torchlight.

"I meant, m'lady," he interjected smoothly, "that I thought they were only beautiful, not that they were globes of such exquisite lushness that a man might want to bury himself alive in their yielding flesh."

"You are quite the rogue, you wretched fellow." Bronwen replied, the blush on her cheek giving the lie to her words.

"I am only my master's faithful servant, your ladyship. And when I describe the magical beauty of a leafy glen and the dewy-petaled flowers that grace its heart, he will be irresistibly drawn to it."

Bronwen raised an eyebrow, still unconvinced.

"On the contrary, I think that the mystery of a shadowed garden consumes a man with curiosity that he might venture inside and explore." She riposted with the confidence of much experience.

"Ah, to be sure, m'lady." Wart thought quickly. "But my Master Eoin Mac Céile is not like other men. He lives for dancing with death, not kneeling in the dirt."

"He does wield a mighty spear." Bronwen softly, eyes focused on something only she could see. "How it must look to see his strong muscles drive it into soft flesh."

"It is quite a sight, your ladyship."

"Very well then. Baring myself to a creature like you is a price I will pay to arose the lecherous spirit in your master."

With business-like fingers she plucked at the waist of her robe. Gathering it in one hand so it didn't drop to the ground, she stepped out of it, and with a flip of her long red hair she turned away from Wart and bent over.

"Tell me, knave. Have you ever seen the like?"

Wart thought about the farm wife he'd last known, who sought solace in his penetrating embrace and told him of lonely nights while her husband drank with his brothers. Her arse had been thin and tight; it hardly jiggled at all as he mounted her in her marriage bed. Where was the pleasure in that? He asked himself. No, far better to enjoy the voluptuous flesh of Bronwen's womanly figure.

"I fear this was a mistake, m'lady." Wart crossed himself with seeming fear. "No less perfect than the moon's arc are your curves, and their creamy flesh gleams with such magnificence that Ceridwen herself must grow jealous and curse us for our impertinence."

"Your master will surely desire to see it himself." Bronwen murmured.

"Your ladyship, even the saintly Galahad would rue his vows of chastity at the sight."

Bronwen's teeth gleamed in a satisfied smile.

"I have seen a great many gardens, but no palace have I ever seen with one as beautiful as yours." Wart continued, stooping for a closer view. "At one moment the eye fairly leaps with the fiery glow of poppies and pimpernels, only to be soothed by the soft pinkness of a dog-rose. And is that a foxglove I see at the center, with its darkened hollow? Only the Creator himself could produce such a flowery abundance."

"I have never heard it described thus." Bronwen said in some amazement.

"Then you have asked only the blind, your ladyship, for the natural wonder your garden is plain to see."

Hearing such flattery, the princess thought little of her wantonness in showing the nakedness between her thighs to one such as he.

"Surely when I laud this night's wonders he will be drawn to you like the moths circling our fire this very moment." Wart reassured her as the two separated and made to sleep. That night, Bronwen's dreams were filled with images of Eoin's magnificent body at last pressed against her own.

Continued in Chapter 2

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