Bedding Camp Copyright © 2018 Catalina Grayson
All rights reserved.
**Disclaimer**
The complete book has been partially removed from Wattpad by the author (myself) because it is currently for sale on Amazon and my contract does not allow me to do so.
To buy and read the whole book, check out Bedding Camp on Amazon.com
(Link in my profile)
Available in digital and hard copy.
Meanwhile, enjoy this lengthy sample. :)
____________
"The awareness of our own strength makes us modest."
-Paul Cezanne
___________________
Soon,
Illyria thought.
Straightening, the Princess paused by the balcony, glancing down at the entrance hall below. She noted a few familiar faces in the high-societal crowd, and let out a breath.
After tonight my life will finally fall into place.
Pulling lightly at the hem of her traditional Rowland gown, Illyria adjusted her stance slightly so that her jewel-encrusted silver blade lay flat against her thigh, hidden and concealed away in its usual spot by the many layers of her modest, blue garb.
Her rich, crimson colored hair had been pinned and piled high atop her head for the celebration, it was a party in her honor, for tonight was the eve of her wedding.
"Here we go," she muttered to herself, rolling back her shoulders. Through the door, she heard the brief blare of coronets before her name was called out.
"Introducing Princess Illyria of Rowland!"
There was a smattering of polite applause as she glided through the open doors, everyone's eyes turned up to watch her emerge from the balcony. The staircase curved around the left wall, its plush red carpeting a stark contrast to the ballrooms white marble floor below. She entered the ballroom with little sound accompanying her, save the brisk steps of her sturdy heels.
Walking to her usual place beside her Uncle's throne, Illyria kept an unreadable expression on her face, hands folded behind her back, surveying the crowd with expert ability. A bodyguard hidden in plain sight.
"Ah, my dear niece, perfect timing, as usual.” King Hal greeted cheerfully.
"I'd like you to meet Baron Edward Dalphner." He motioned toward a stout man in his mid-30's, with a light brown hair and a short, weak brown beard.
"I am honored to meet the woman soon to become my wife," the Baron said, giving her a curt bow, which she returned with formal courtesy.
"The honor is all mine," Illyria responded politely.
"Would you care to join me for the next dance, your Highness?"
"Of course." she smiled, placing her hand into his smooth outstretched one and trying her best not to shudder when her strong, callused hand came in contact with his soft, limp, and slightly sweaty one. It was obvious he was no warrior and had probably never picked up a sword or even staff in his life, but he had money and power, and those were qualities enough to suit her purposes.
She followed her betrothed to the middle of the ballroom, keeping the customary space between them. They joined in with the stiff, formal dancing that was expected of Rowland royalty; hands remaining flat whenever they met, and never touching, keeping a proper distance to form the correct formations with the rest of the dancers.
The Baron didn't exactly cut a striking figure. He wasn't much to look at and wasn't very interesting to talk with. Edward was a dozen winters older than Illyria, but these things mattered not to her. In fact, they barely occurred to her. He was a good match politically, he was pliable, had much land, and also had strong genes seeing as his brothers had all borne healthy children.
Those were the only things that mattered to the women of Rowland. They were an aloof breed, infamously stale, with no concept of love or romance. It was a foreign idea to this prim and proper nation.
After the dance had ended, Illyria excused herself outside for some air, offering her apologies to the Baron. The high collared, long-sleeved dress she wore was not exactly the ideal wear for a hot summer night, but it was customary.
Stepping out onto the path that twisted its way through the exquisite castle gardens, Illyria admired the beautiful collections of multi-colored flowers that decorated the space.
She leaned forward and took a whiff of a nearby rose, but a moment later, a slight scuffle in the nearby palace gatehouse brought her thoughts away and to sudden, sensory attention.
Thinking it was a thief trying to break into the castle walls, she hitched up her skirt and unsheathed her knife. Taking a few tentative steps toward the stone buildings, she was surprised to find both the guard and the gatekeeper out cold, lying just a few feet from the doorway.
Thinking quickly, she snatched the sword from the belt of the unconscious guard, holding it aloft. Ready.
A figure in a black hood moved in her peripheral, his hand about to pull the lever to open the gate.
"Back away from that!" she ordered, the power in her commanding voice did not go unnoticed by the stranger.
"Nice legs." The figures voice chuckled.
"Nice place to hide a knife, too." He continued.
"Careful, you don't want to hurt yourself with it." the man laughed, his face hidden by the shadow.
"Silence!" she shouted, doing her best to hide her mortification at the fact that she'd unknowingly exposed so much of herself to this intruder.
"Or I'll... run you through!"
"With that little pig sticker?" The stranger questioned, motioning toward her thin, long blade.
"That is not a sword. This is a sword," He teased, pulling out a large broadsword and holding it up to a beam of moonlight. The blade looked old but well kept.
"This isn't a jest intruder," Illyria scowled.
"Surrender now and come quietly, or I will have no choice but to use force."
"Is that a promise?" chuckled the stranger, obviously amused at the sight of this well-dressed woman trying to hold him at bay. Angrily, she charged at him, raising her sword, but the battle-hardened soldier easily deflected it. They exchanged blows, fighting with skill and fluidity, but his sword was the heavier, and it threw her off.
She brought her sword to parry and metal clinked against metal. The force of it broadsided, causing her to stumble and fumble on the hem of her gown. He continued to gain ground, surging toward her.
The well-built, well-skilled intruder was much too good to be just a common, rotten thief. His strikes were quick and unceasing-taught, but as fate would have it, at some point during their fight, Illyria managed to twist to the side, swinging her sword high and slicing into his arm, tearing into the white fabric of his sleeve and into his flesh.
Blood seeped through the cotton material instantly, soaking it with a garish crimson color.
"Luck." the stranger scoffed, examining his flesh wound.
"Skill." Illyria retorted defensively. She had spent many years training under her Uncle's Master of Arms.
Using his distraction to her advantage, Illyria lunged for him again. Clearly expecting the move, he jumped backward, hurrying to remove his stomach from the path of her strange sword.
Meridian was surprised by this temptress' skill. Even in the darkness, he could still see the fire burning in her eyes. It was so unlike the tales he had heard about the woman of this land. If all were like her, even in just slightly similar, perhaps this upcoming Bedding Camp wouldn't be such a strenuous, complicated task, after all.
"You are such an odd woman," he mused mid-fight.
"Quite fair...but definitely different."
"I'll take that as a compliment," she said, striking low. Ingrained battle instincts helped him to hop out of the way.
"As it was intended," he replied with a smirk. They began a routine of thrust, parry, and retreat. Their fight carried on, all the way across the stone building.
I have to end this quickly.
He thought.
Before anyone else walks in on us and stops me from opening the gate. Perhaps with an opponent like this, my camp training will prove useful.
Locking the hilt of his sword against hers, he used the momentum to jerk her towards him and pull both of their swords and their arms over her head, thrusting his mouth upon hers with the same fervor as he had thrust his sword at her body just seconds before.
The blade clattered from her hand in surprise, the prim and proper maiden, despite her combat training, became too shocked to move. What on earth was he doing?
This strange exchange was not done in Rowland, willingly or unwillingly, but it undeniably caused her to tremble, and her body to grow hotter than before. Using her being overwhelmed to his gain, he reached over and pulled the gates lever.
Her eyes finally opened and the amber gems caught sight of the palace gates beginning to open, their metallic yawn rattling around her skull.
Oh, no...
She panicked internally.
As the gates lifted, she caught sight of what lay behind, formally ordered and at the ready. It was an army of foreign men at the gates!
Panicking, Illyria pushed the stranger off her roughly, punching him across the jaw for good measure and quickly retrieving her sword.
"You...!" she wagged her finger at him in anger.
"You are no thief. Or intruder, for that matter. You are an invader!" cried the beautiful girl with crimson hair in disbelief, before dashing off to alert the King.
By the time Illyria made it back to the ballroom, it was already too late. They were forcing their way into it already.
Sword in one hand, her skirts hitched into the other, she slipped through the servants' entrance and made a mad dash for her uncle. Warriors marched in perfect formation into the party while attendees scrambled for the exits, or lined themselves against the walls, frozen in terror.
She took her place amongst the multitude of guards and knights who had surrounded the king.
The invaders marched in perfect time, dressed in Impressive uniforms of red and gold, complete with light, well crafted, ornate leather armor and masks.
At the head of the militia stood, masked, someone who was unmistakably the leader.
"I am the Sovereign of Morwick," announced the leader in a gruff voice.
"I know who you are sir," replied her uncle through gritted teeth.
It was the fabled ruler of the Morwick Empire. Illyria had heard of him and his army. Rumors whispered throughout the ranks, but the tales were often so unbelievable. It was hard to differentiate between what was the truth and what was pure fiction, but on seeing the fact that an entire army had snuck upon the castle without notice, perhaps what she thought was fable could possibly not be entirely false.
"Be wary, I am ready and willing for war. I want your lands to the south, that which you conquered from my ancestors" stated King Hal. Unbeknownst to his common subjects, he had already been toying with the idea of making secret preparations to march on the now Morwick owned slice of land.
"Before you declare war, just a moment please," requested the Sovereign, as the lightweight gold crown atop the nefariously cunning leader of Morwick's head glinted in the candlelight of the castle ballroom.
"You, in a way, did that when you stormed into my castle," said the king, remaining diplomatically cool.
"What? This?" the Sovereign motioned back to the small squadron behind him.
"This is merely making an entrance. None of your men are dead, they are simply incapacitated." Illyria watched the foreign leader chuckle.
"I know that it is my land you want, my spies have informed me so, but before any blood is spilled for it, I came to make you an offer."
The king's eyes widened. He had heard rumors of this famous offer, but it seemed too ridiculous to be true.
"You could have merely written a letter."
"For something of this nature, I have found the direct approach to be the most effective. May I have a word?"
King Hal's eyes glanced back to the enemy troops. Sensing his uneasiness, the Sovereign quickly issued an order.
"Men, you are to wait for me outside the gates."
"Your grace..." a voice quietly began to object, a voice Illyria recognized. It was the man she had fought.
"You heard me, out!" The Sovereign growled, silencing the man. Illyria scanned the group of men, as they marched out, for the one whom she had fought, but he was lost in a sea of matching armor and helmets.
Once all the troops had dispersed out of the ballroom, the Sovereign turned back to face the king. Illyria gazed at the foreigner with a deductive intent, trying to decipher what sort of a man could be behind that mask. He stood eye to eye with her uncle and was a slim man with not much mass aside from his height, but obviously well-toned from battle.
"Yes, I suppose you could kill me right now," the foreigner began, crossing his arms.
"Cut me down here as I stand alone..." he pulled out his sword from its sheath and Illyria felt every man around her tense and her hand squeezed the handle of her blade, ready to protect her uncle. But to everyone's surprise, he set his blade down on the table beside him, a sign of good intent.
"I suppose you could do that, but I have been told that you are a king of honor, so I humbly request to speak to you alone. I ask that you show me the same courtesy I have just shown you."
King Hal lets out a reluctant exhale.
"Leave us," He ordered.
"But Sire!" Illyria argued.
"You too Illyria," The king snapped without turning back, keeping his eyes locked on the enemy.
The castle guards and the noblemen surrounding the king did as they had been ordered. Reluctantly, Illyria followed suit.
"Intrepid girl," noted the Sovereign, meaning it as a compliment.
"My niece. She always had trouble staying in her place," explained Hal.
"But then again, you did interrupt her weddings eve, so I imagine some degree of displeasure is warranted."
Once the door had been locked behind them, and it was just the two rulers facing each other.
"You have my attention." King Hal stated.
"It seems I was well informed." started the Sovereign, taking a step closer, his expression was unreadable behind the war mask. The only thing visible behind the mask was locks of short raven hair and a pair of intense blue eyes which appeared to be sizing Hal up.
"You strike me as a fair king, unlike some others who have had the misfortune of meeting their ends at the point of my blade." the masked figure said ever so casually.
"You appear earnest in your leadership, despite your cravings for war and your greed for my land."
"I want that land for my people. This nation has become crowded, and good farmland is becoming scarce, besides, from what I've heard, population growth for you has as of late become an almost impossibility." The King responded
"So you have heard of the plague?" the masked stranger questioned.
"Bad news does travel far."
nodded the King.
Several years ago, he had caught wind that a terrible plague had swept through the secluded country of Morwick. That the illness preyed upon women, and had wiped out nearly ninety percent of the nation's female population.
"My population problem is why I started this campaign." the Sovereign voiced.
"So those rumors are also true..." the king's eyes widened with surprise, what he had heard sounded like the ravings of a mad bard.
“You want to set up one of those unspeakable camps!" gasped Hal in disgust.
"Not want to. It has been created already, just over the ridge, less than a day’s ride, nestled safely at the very heart of my military encampment."
"Whatever your offer is, I shall not have it. Under no circumstances would I place any of my subjects into one of your barbaric facilities!" His hand went to the bejeweled blade at his side.
"Wait just a minute here. It is not as you think. I asked you to hear me out, and you agreed, so for the sake of your honor and my patience, please keep your word."
The king let out an irritated sigh, but slowly his hand released the hilt of his sword.
"I did say that."
"My offer is honorable and fair to both you and your subjects," promised the Sovereign.
"At dawn, you will turn over 100 unwed, young women to my camp."
"I will do nothing of such. I will not send my subjects to be forced upon," The king shook his head, firmly standing his ground. The lewdness of what he had heard that happened to these women was unspeakable, and for a man from a nation such as his, where fornication was an uncomfortable act, and copulation was carried out by a man and a woman solely to produce offspring, the idea of such a place was truly unfathomable.
"Oh please don't insult me," the other man held up a gloved hand.
"No women are bedded at my camp unless they explicitly, and vocally ask to be. Under penalty of torture, castration, and then death for any man who tries." This was a matter the Sovereign took extremely seriously.
This confused the king because why would any woman willingly ask for intercourse? His curiosity peaked.
"Each woman shall be galliaad to one of my men."
"Galliaad?" Hal interrupted, this word he did not understand.
"It is a form of marriage that is not valid until consummated."
He was answered.
"For 5 days these women will be wooed by my men and should any of your subjects willingly consummate this marriage of her’s by her will, then she will be marked. At the end of the period, you shall come to my camp to inspect, and should even one woman remain unmarked, I will return them all to you. As well, I will turn over half the lands my ancestors conquered to the south to you. After this, if you still want a war for the other half, I will give you one, and if not, I will take my armies home, and you shall never see us again," he swore.
"But if I succeed, I keep my lands and your women."
It was an incredulous offer and seemed almost too good to be true. The Sovereign must have no clue about the type of women that resided here. Not in a million years could this foreigner succeed in having any woman of Rowland bedded without using force.
"Very well," He agreed.
"I warn you that this is a mistake on your part, our women cannot be wooed." He said those words out loud for the first time in his life. He was a traveled man, he knew the meaning, but he knew his people better.
"They have not met my men," the Sovereign replied.
"One more thing..." the stranger paused, blue eyes glancing back towards the door.
“I want your niece among the hundred."
Once the quite unusual masked figure had left King Hal's castle walls, and the giant gates had been sealed, the King returned to his throne room and let out a heavy sigh. He sat down on his desk and quickly issued a decree. After he had signed and sealed it with an impression of his ring in royal purple wax, he summoned the head of messengers to send it off.
Afterward, he sent a servant to fetch his niece, before sitting back down onto his throne.
Illyria rushed through the doors.
"Uncle, are you hurt?" Concern filled her usually cool and collected demeanor as she hurriedly trotted towards him.
"No girl, I am not."
"I saw a troupe of messengers dispatching from my bedroom window. Are we to prepare for war?" She asked.
"No, what you saw was the issues I had sent to every royal family, as well as several well-off commoner families. It is for those whom I know are truly devoted to the crown." said the King.
"If I may inquire, why my King?" questioned his niece with all due respect.
"I have accepted the offer of that Morwick scum. He wishes to play a game, a test so to speak." He explained.
"The prize is land to the south." Her head bobbed in understanding, her uncle had been looking to expand his kingdom for quite some time now.
"This is a game in which the opponent gravely underestimates. Each house on my list is to provide as many unwed daughters as they can spare. At dawn, 100 ladies will leave for the enemy encampment, in which they will stay for a several days, those who fail the test will be marked."
"What does this test entail?" She asked as her curiosity peaked, to which the King let out a laugh.
"My dear, it is such an impudent thing, but I have sworn an oath of secrecy to that fact." He said.
"I cannot divulge the details of the test, but it is simple enough. All I can say is that anyone who fails shall be marked. This invader scoundrel made a foolish promise that should even one woman return unmarked, I could have half his land in the south without a fight."
"If it is such a simple task for such a great reward, then this man must be mad. What could he possibly hope to gain from this fruitless exercise?" Illyria shrugged.
"His land was indeed ravaged by that fabled plague, and it claimed the Morwick womenfolk. His goal is to replenish what was lost. I had to agree to the term that if all women were indeed marked, he could claim them for Morwick, and keep his lands." answered the man whose dark red beard matched the locks of his niece's hair.
Illyria shuddered, the idea of becoming a prisoner of war, forced to commit the joining of the flesh to produce offspring for the men of Morwick seemed a fate worse than death. The act itself was described as terrible already, but as a prisoner, it could only be worse.
"I suspect that he may try to bribe them while at this game, which is why I have selected unwed women from only my most loyal for this mission. Thus, I am ordering you, my niece, to go as the 100th Woman." He did not tell her that she had specifically been requested for, but this was a very calculated move on the King's part. He needed her to feel the weight of noble responsibility and favoritism to aid her success.
"But my King I feel I would be better suited here by your side, to protect the crown should further treachery arise." She countered.
"I will have his lands, and I won't stop at just those in the south, I want them all. War will indeed follow this week, and I need a trustworthy spy on the inside. During this event, I want you to learn all you can about this Sovereign, his army, and how it operates, I need to know everything I can."
"Of course." She answered dutifully.
"Illyria, succeed in this task for me, and I will reward you with what I know your heart truly desires."
Then he spoke the words that Illyria had always dreamed of hearing.
"I will make you a general in my army."