Fierce Enchantments Read online

  And that is the point at which Alonso and Ferdinand and Antonio made their entrance.

  Ah, you’ve been waiting for them to appear, haven’t you? The melancholy King of Naples and his romance-addled son. The usurping Duke of Milan, Prospero’s own treacherous brother. This is Prospero’s moment; his big chance to change everything. The stage is set for confrontation and trickery and revenge!—and then the happy-ever-after of forgiveness and love. That’s what you’ve learned from this play script, isn’t it?

  It wasn’t quite like that in reality.

  I don’t remember the comic relief either. Certainly, there were other courtiers and servants wandering the Isle after their royal shipwreck … Caliban did meet a few, to be sure, but the encounters were brief, bloody, and short in witty conversation. Perhaps Trinculo and his like were there, perhaps not—they never did anything worthy of much note is all I can say, little man. Such clownish passages in the play I suspect of being naught but low amusement for the cheap seats.

  Ferdinand though—his is a face I can still recall. A pretty youth with green eyes. And this verbose scribbler got it right that he washed up on shore alone, though I don’t believe it had anything to do with Prospero’s wiles. Our kindly magician was too busy directing Caliban to harry his brother across the Isle, picking off the foot-soldiers one by one.

  No, Ferdinand came across Miranda by chance. The princely castaway, finding himself, as he thought, the sole survivor on a barren shore, showed a marked lack of wisdom—unlike the common sailors who had the sense to stay on the shore where there was fresh water from a river mouth, and fish to be caught from the rocks—and struck inland to look for food and water. Three hours later he was lucky enough to blunder across a shallow stream and slake his salt-parched mouth. It was as he knelt there, filling his empty belly, that he heard a low cry through the reeds, and managed to creep upstream and spy upon Miranda unseen.

  Like all good nymphs of legend, she was discovered naked and bathing alone. Well … I say alone: Ariel was fucking her, but he was not visible to anyone’s eyes but hers. What Ferdinand saw was a naked girl on hands and knees in the sandy shallows of the stream, her brown-tipped breasts underlit by the shimmer of the water, an expression of ecstasy upon her face as her hips jerked and quivered. It must have been quite an arresting vision, and I am not sure what he made of it. Certainly Ferdinand did not rush in to destroy the charming tableau—not until the participants (both seen and unseen) were done. Ariel took wing and flitted away. Miranda did not exit the scene but lay upon her belly in the shallow water to cool herself, a smile of satisfaction upon her plump lips.

  I think Ferdinand suffered from too classical an education. He rose from behind his screen of reeds, his trousers tented by youthful enthusiasm, and waded toward the daydreaming girl. “What are you?” he asked as she opened her eyes. “A naiad? A goddess? Or some maiden of savage race?”

  Miranda sat upright, water streaming down her breasts and belly into the wash about her loins. She made no attempt to cover herself, but stared him up and down. “I am Miranda,” she said, laughing. “And what strange beast are you? I’ve never seen your like upon this Isle.”

  The young prince was not used to such bold looks or rude words, I fear. He flushed. “A savage wench, then, though you have been gifted with the tongue of civilization.”

  “Tongue of civilization?” Miranda asked, mocking his courtly turn of speech. She stuck her tongue out, looked down at it cross-eyed, then wiggled it at him. “Is this the one you mean?”

  Ferdinand, alas, was not accustomed to such provocation. He stepped forward and made a clumsy grab for her, missing by some margin as she jerked backward. She splashed water directly in his face, causing him to stumble at the apex of his lunge and slip to his knees in the stream. “Missed,” she announced happily, wriggling to her feet.

  Ferdinand rose, aghast, held out his hands and made another grab for her, meaning no doubt to make her rue her impudence. Miranda skipped backwards up the stream-bed, laughing at the suddenly novelty. This strange man had come out of nowhere and now he was chasing her. She liked this game very much; it did not occur to her that his intent might be serious. As he staggered after her through the shallows, kicking water everywhere, she kept just beyond his reach, leaping far more sure-footedly than he. When she left the water and took to the river-bank he did a little better, twice managing to get a hand briefly on her bare flank, but she slipped from his grasp. Battered as he was by the shipwreck, his strength was at a low ebb, and at last he stood still, winded.

  “Giving up already?” she mocked him.

  “Come here!” he ordered her, angry and confused. As the heir to Naples, he had never in his life met a woman who did not treat him with respect. From the shyly blushing ingénues presented to him at court, to their ambitious and ingratiating mothers—and even more so the servants and the whores he’d encountered—not one had ever dared forget their inferiority in his presence. No one had ever treated him with the derision this naked wildwoman did now.

  Miranda laughed. “Shall we play hide-and-seek next?” she asked, putting her fingers over her eyes. “Shall I count to a hundred and come look for you?”

  He took advantage of her momentary carelessness and lunged, without a word, catching her about the waist and pulling her to him. Miranda shrieked with excitement and fought to wriggle free—but all her rough wrestling with Caliban had never taught her any caution, so impervious was the monster to any pain she could inflict. Her elbow smacked Ferdinand across the temple and he, poor youth, went flat upon the ground, stunned. When he opened his eyes the girl was straddling him.

  “Harpy!” he gasped, but even as he reached to grab her shoulders she was yanking hard at the laces of his trousers, and all Ferdinand’s righteous anger vanished in confusion as she bared his cock. His manhood had drooped with his tumble, but she fell upon it with her mouth and restored its wounded pride in seconds. The world, so far as Ferdinand was concerned, turned upside down. Then, as soon as she had him stiff, she rose and mounted him, staking her slick cunt upon his length with a whimper of pleasure. Her smooth hard thighs lifted her up and down with strong stokes, sending waves of delight through both of them at once. Her nails bit in to his ribs.

  Ferdinand forgot to be angry. He thrust up into her as she thrust down upon him, and soon they were both glassy-eyed with lust and rigid with tension. She came to climax before he did—shocking him with her abandoned shrieks and pulled faces, but exciting him beyond measure too. He fucked and fucked, driving deeper into her, until he lost all control himself and let fly a plume of liquid fire into her belly.

  He’d never known anything like it. Or like her.

  Do you need to know more, little man? Prospero impressed his power upon Alonso King of Naples, through Ariel’s tricks and torments (for once more-or-less accurately described in that play-script there). Enough to regain his title as Duke of Milan, and passage in the repaired vessel back to Italy. Ferdinand, besotted, begged Miranda to go with him. No, not as his bride: as his most privileged royal mistress. Such a come-down for his bloodline did not please Prospero, but he never could win an argument with his daughter, and the girl—being no virgin—was not suitable for marriage. Miranda was more than happy with her change in station. She could not wait to join human society in all its multiplicity and excitement. You’ve read what she said when she first laid eyes upon the motley gathering of men held captive in her father’s cell, haven’t you?

  Oh wonder!

  How many goodly creatures are there here!

  How beauteous mankind is! Oh brave new world

  That has such people in’t!

  That at least was reported truthfully … more or less. Nobles and commoners, old and young: such things did not matter to her. After her apprenticeship with the spirits of the Isle, fair Miranda was eager to spread her wings and partake of a little variety.

  The wicked
, usurping Duke Antonio … Did Prospero forgive him as this scribbler said? Of course not. Do you think the man such a fool? He didn’t drown his books or break his staff either—what would have been the point of that? The magician had a reputation to keep up! No: he left his younger brother here upon the Isle when the ship rode away on the dawn, along with any members of the Milanese court who’d countenanced the coup all those years ago. Caliban, released from slavery at last, ate them all, eventually … one by one.

  As for Ariel: Prospero freed him as promised. He was too nervous to do otherwise. But my husband left this place too. That was a surprise to me, I admit. Ariel chose to go with Miranda, and she was pleased enough to have him as her familiar spirit, though I do not know what her new lord thought of the arrangement.

  No. I don’t wholly understand that, I confess. But I’m sure she did well for herself thereafter.

  And me? Caliban, grown to full strength, tore open the tree and released me from my prison. He was bitterly lonely without his wanton, you understand, and feeling contrite. I did not hold his part in my captivity against him. See—there is forgiveness in this story, even if it was bestowed by a witch upon a monster.

  And now, it is told. That’s the truth of it, sweetling.

  The question is now, what to do with you? I’d not advise you to leave the firelight’s reach. Caliban is prowling out there in the dark, and he has a taste for human flesh.

  I’d suggest, little man, that you stay here and keep me company. There is an ache in my loins and a gape that needs filling. You may not have a sailor’s strength of arms, but I’m sure you can apply that actor’s imagination. Imagine that I am young and beautiful. Recall to your mind the emotions and urges of desire. Put them to use. Imagine I am Miranda, if you like. Are we not all but players, after all—pretending our parts?

  Good.

  I will look after you, sweetling.

  Knight Takes Queen

  The great wyrm had been dead a week by the time Lancelot returned to Camelot, dragging its severed head in a litter behind his horse, and more than a week before the occasion of his triumphal feast.

  By the time the fifth remove was served, the reek from the head—which was displayed on a platter more usually reserved for serving up whole boars, in the center of the Great Hall—had crept up as far as the high table. The smell, reminiscent of rotting shellfish, turned the Queen’s stomach, though she guessed that the quantities of wine and ale consumed had dulled the olfactory sensitivities of most of the Court.

  “My lord,” Guinevere begged, when she could stand it no longer. “Please, command the beast’s head to be taken out into the courtyard.”

  Arthur raised an eyebrow at her over the top of his cup. “Is the sight too awful for your sensibilities, my Queen?” he asked.

  It was the smell that bothered her—not the blood, or the head’s fixed snarl of angled fangs, nor the sunken, cloudy eyes as big as rams’ testicles—but Guinevere nodded. All Camelot loved her to play the role of tender-hearted queen, a Mother Mary upon Earth, interceding with her sterner King—compassionate where he must be just, and gentle where he was strong. That Arthur, moved by his love for her, gave way so often to her whims, offered them a picture of hope not just in this life but the next.

  It was something Arthur had explained to her, soon after their marriage. “There must be justice,” he’d said, “but also mercy. We are not barbarians, not any longer. And I must be seen to honor you, so that all men may honor their wives.” Guinevere, who had come to him from a kingdom where older, rougher mores shaped men’s lives, had been perplexed but obedient.

  “Please,” she repeated that night, laying her hand upon his. “Of your kindness, my King.”

  “Lancelot,” said Arthur, turning to his right: “You are the hero of the hour and this trophy is yours, right bravely won. Will you suffer it to be taken from here, at my Queen’s request?”

  Lancelot stood to his feet. He was taller than the King—taller than most of the Knights of Camelot, except for oak-thewed Gawain—and the dark curls of his hair hung against skin tanned by a summer spent questing. Now that he was back at Court, every woman there looked upon his handsome features with desire. But the Queen’s Champion had not publicly taken any leman at Court, and didn’t even dally with the serving girls. His dark blue eyes were steady as they rested upon her, and she kept her expression serene, trusting to the candlelight to disguise the blush in her cheeks. “Whatever my Queen commands, that I will do,” said he, lifting his cup to Guinevere. “My service is pledged to her.”

  Arthur nodded, visibly pleased. He signaled to the serving men. “Take it forth, and see that the skull is cleaned and mounted on the wall over Camelot’s gate. For that is the greatest and foulest of dragon-kind that ever one of my knights slew single-handed, and all must remember.”

  Guinevere dipped her head to Lancelot, smiling a little. While the men bustled about with poles, preparing to hoist the stinking platter upon their shoulders, she excused herself momentarily from the table.

  There was a private chapel upstairs, above the Great Hall, which was reserved for the King and Queen. It was a small chamber, but the window was of fine stained glass and the altarpiece was gilded and beautiful. It had the advantage that it was one of the very few places in Camelot that was not overlooked and where servants did not pass casually through. Guinevere made her way there from the garderobe. Habit made her dip a curtsey to the central statue of the Holy Mother and Child, even though she was unobserved and in dire need of shriving of her sinful thoughts. She knelt upon the hassock as if in prayer, and ran her fingers across the thick embroidery. Her hands were clammy with eagerness and anxiety.

  What if he didn’t come?

  She was so overwrought that when the door creaked open behind her, she jumped in her skin. Turning, she saw Lancelot push the door to and lean back against it. Suddenly her heart was racing so fast that she felt that her clothes were suffocating her. She wanted to tear open her bodice and let her burning body stand before him naked.

  Guinevere rose to her feet. She should let him come to her, she knew—she should make him kneel—but she couldn’t restrain herself, and she closed the distance between them in a breath. The eager light in his eyes allayed every one of her fears. He reached out and caught her waist, pulling her into his embrace. His mouth was honey and wine, his kisses hot. Suddenly there was no breath in her lungs. She felt her whole body arch and mold into the hard press of his, her slender frame as fragile in his grasp as a bird caught in a mailed fist—but she was no innocent white dove; she was a bird of fire: burning, aching, blazing against him.

  “Why did you not come to me yesterday?” she whispered, gasping, as they broke at last.

  “I could not find time alone.” He grinned, adding, “And it does you good to wait, my love.”

  She seized his face between her hands and kissed his lips bruisingly hard. He responded by catching her lower lip in his teeth and biting until she groaned, only then releasing her.

  “Haven’t I waited all summer for your return?” she gasped as he nuzzled her throat. Just the scent of his body made her brim with juices. “I thought I would die for longing!”

  His voice was a growl in her ear. “What is closest to death tastes sweetest of all. Now you’re as moist and ripe as bletted chequers, for me. And I have a great hunger to pluck that fruit.”

  She pulled back, holding his eye, trying to convey her rage. “I was afraid you were dead! You fought a wyrm! Alone!”

  He lifted an eyebrow, his eyes shining. “Isn’t that what a Knight of the Round Table must do? Slay dragons and rescue virgins?”

  She’d heard the story he’d recounted to the whole court, and the mention of the girl made her bridle. “Was it as you said? Tied to a pillar, naked, to await her doom?”

  He swooped to brush her lips again, but pulled away provokingly at the last moment.
“Just so.”

  “She was a maiden, then?” she sneered.

  His grin broadened. “Not by the time I’d finished with her.”

  “What?”

  “But most grateful to be saved from both sources of her torment—the wyrm and her maidenhead.”

  Guinevere flushed scarlet. “You tumbled her, then!”

  “You were many days away, my love, and my ball-sack bulged nigh unto bursting.” His voice was light, but his heavy hands on the swell of her rump crushed her hard to his groin, and she could feel there the force of his argument. “Besides,” he added teasingly, “she had the sweetest little freckled bubbies, and her nether hair was the color of new-cast copper. I could not resist plowing that field. Oh Jesu, but she was tight!”

  “Shameless!” she snapped. “You boast to me of your whorings with peasant sluts!”

  “She was no slut,” he answered, with a delicate emphasis on the word “she.”

  Guinevere pushed herself away. “I am your Queen, and you should show me respect!” she hissed, and slapped him across the face with her open hand.

  He didn’t hesitate—he slapped her back. He put a lot less effort into it than she had, but his hand was heavy enough to stagger her. She clutched at her cheek, staring at him, and then he grabbed her throat and pulled her up so that they were nose to nose.

  “You want me,” he growled, “precisely because I do not treat you as a queen. Because I’m the only one who satisfies that base and sinful itch between your legs, my love. Your husband treats you with respect—so when have you cried for joy upon the thrust of his great weapon? When have you begged him to despoil you one more time?”

  She couldn’t speak, could barely breathe. His words, rough and intimate, made the wet run down the insides of her thighs.

  “I treat you as my doxy, and that is why you will do anything for the feel and the taste of my cock. Anything I desire. I know. You would get down on hands and knees in the filth of a pigsty for me, wouldn’t you, my Queen?” He watched as she lowered her lids in acknowledgment. Then he nodded. “Which is what makes my prick so hard for you, Guinevere. Day and night. Touch it now.”