The Dastardly Duke: A Medieval Erotic Novella

Chapter 8:

Magda's POV:

"Lillian, why did you say Charles and Elias had to go to the Oxford Club? We leave for London at sunrise in five days! They need to hurry up!"

Lillian smiles, her red hair done up in a crown of braids. She watches Knutley play with a carved wooden knight, laces up her calfskin gloves, and smooths her petticoats. "What would we humble wives know of the mysteries of men? The Oxford Club is as old as Rome, they say."

I narrow my green eyes, perfecting a stitch in Prometheus bound to a rock, his guts torn out by the eagle of Jove. Like Prometheus, I too suffer for knowledge - revolting knowledge of court life from the harpy Countess Ruth! "Rome is particularly old, so unless Charles and Elias are immortal, I am sure they are simply drinking and eating too much of that boar they caught. I do not want my husband to be fat."

"Your Princess lessons start in London with me, Magda, when we arrive next week, so have patience," Lillian smiles. "I have trained all my life to be your lady in waiting, after all." She feeds Knutley the toddler some brie.

"Pah. Soap shavings! I'd rather pluck clover for lambs," I sigh, tossing my cross stitch aside and laying out in repose on the beautiful Turkish carpet. "Say, Lillian, do you think there is a chance on Herne's green woods I will be a half good Queen?"

Lillian laughs lightly, her plump, pleasing form quivering like a meadow.

"Gew gawh," Knutley warbles, toying with my long curls of cinnamon bark hair. He chews on some braided strands.

"That is right, Count Knutley Lauderdale, First of His Name. You should be Queen instead. Babies are pure, virginal, and could charm a unicorn. No unicorn will lay it's head in MY lap anymore, oh woe! Woe! Woe..."

"You are too harsh on yourself, my dear little sister," Lillian nearly sings, crawling down on the floor with us. We look like the domestic bliss of Hestia, a mosaic on a Byzantine church of Infant Christ. Two wives and a child, Elizabeth and Mary with Christ, while the men are out quenching their beer lust.

I hate to admit it, but because I am rutting like a wild broodmare, I might as well drink too! Hah! Take that, Harold Crossex the Cloistered. Trappist beer is good, as is the fruit of the vine, though Samael planted those grapes to curse God, and imbibe men into murder, idolatry, and evil.

Lord knows Samael exerted his Night Hag wives, the four demon queens, on Elias!

"I hope so, Lillian, that with your blessed help, I will measure up to Regina Hollesferns," I half-smile, hopeful.

But why is my heart beating so fast?

I open my book of poems, and scribble.

It comes out like chicken scratch.

Befuddled, I close it, then drift off to sleep, snoring.

Magda's POV:

I awake on Lillian's floor. It is twilight, the time of the Wild Hunt of hoary Wotan's ride, woe betide lost children!

I tuck Knutley into his cradle, out of Lillian's arm, and pace outside the door, starlight shining like a lute melody in an Irish tavern far over the barrow and mound. Will-o-the-wisps dance on the outskirts of Laidly Manor, and I follow the path of the fairies into the swaying tulip field and oak, dancing tarantism, enchanted like an Erl King's bride.

I lift my arms to the wind and release a bean sidhe cry. A wolf echoes back, and instead of fearing the great beast of the Wedgewood, I yop back, howling out my wulver melody of fresh bread loaves on a starving Welshman's windowsill. For wulvers are the fair kind of shifters, and give food to the poor.