The Dastardly Duke: A Medieval Erotic Novella

Chapter 2:

Magda's POV:

His eyes glaze over, then dart to Queen Regina and my father, who are whispering in pleased, hushed tones at our arranged marriage. Elias twists the wooden practice ring.

I make sure to step on his toes. "Pay attention, Eli. I'll feed the fairies for you if you go easy on me at the marriage bed."

"What? You wanted something?" A tear spackles his eye eggshell blue. "I just wish we had more time. I can see the Ankou's bier, coming with rotten frankincense to drag me under mound. Can you save me, Magda, with a kiss?" He squeezes my hand.

"Quit brooding! You are not dying, just under the barrow! Think of the elf lock I found in your hair just last weekend. The May Queen and Callieach are making bushels in your curls, and yet, you moan on and on about Lilith-

"She sucks me dry. She possesses... my hand! I know not what sins I commit."

"I am the bride! Should not your eyes be only upon me? Not some imagined Night Hag?"

His lip quirks, and his ears perk up. "Yes, I paid a lot for you, quite a handsome penny. I will take it all back if you cannot give me a son to carry on once I am gone all too soon. I suppose we will just have to try every night to be blessed with a strong heir, eh, my pretty Magdalena Crossex?"

"I will bow to no man that puts a demoness above me."

"Then I shall part your legs, with my tongue. Like I did at your debut ball under the table at your behest. How would you like that, worm pie?"

I blush flaming red. "That is a sin. Your rapscallion friend Charles dared me!"

We are whispering, but no one is paying attention. This is a political marriage to unite the Merchant King of Bath with Queen Regina Hollesfern the Fablehearted. All the courtiers' eyes are on our parents, the Queen Regent in particular, whose husband died in a Crusade in Palestine after she birthed their only son. Somehow, Regina has managed to dominate the throne all these years, though Elias is 23. More like a perverted 35-year-old tall, dark, devilish, dastardly duke. He must lock the whores in his basement, alongside his stinking caskets of beer and wine, and the sinful swords. Well, the basements only contain his armor and antiquities. But perhaps...

Christ preached peace, charity, and poverty, after all. The fairies I doctor tell me nothing is of value but our own two thumbs, and that Thomas the Rhymer's crown was of sweetgrass and lilac. I will abhor my crown as future Queen of England! I shall make the entire palace wear rags!

"Say the vow."

I surface from my righteous tirade against the corruption of our kingdom: "Uh, what?"

"Practice the vow."

I clear my throat loudly. "I suppose I shall marry this 'dying' brute to carry on the Hollesfern line," I pipe up loudly, drowning out the hubbub, pigeons, bells, and chatter of this stuffy, full country church.

My father grimaces. He puts his plum-bruised face in his hands.

I have gone too far.

Queen Regina laughs, clapping in joy.

"Hear that, kingdom? My son will be a brute on his nuptial's night!"

Elias hollers, near swooning: "Mother, to speak ill of the almost dead. I am nearly gone from God's green earth. Let us be stoic and glad that I get but this fleeting moment with my love before I perish on Hekate's altar of midnight sorrow."

"You are not dying, son," Queen Regina sings. "You are a feigned hypochondriac."

He spitefully withdraws his handkerchief, then forces himself to cough under his red cloak and gold armor. "See, mother – hack! – blood. Consumption."