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Elfthryth
'...Aelfthryth, wife of King Edgar, whom she married in 965. She was said to be very beautiful, which beauty caused the death of her first husband. Her lasciviousness caused the death of an abbot and her ambition that of her son-in-law, King Edward the Martyr... Stefan shifted about in the saddle for possibly the hundredth time that morning, finding it no more comfortable than before. Despite his soft linen undergarments (a distinct contrast to his rough hessian abbot's robe), his crotch itched abominably. Perhaps it was time to submerge his body in the river, again, to drown the fleas. After all, it had been almost two months since his last bath. He dug his heels into the sides of the horse, a large roan percheron stallion who had once belonged to one of the King's favourites; the horse knew his passenger, however, and refused to move any faster than absolutely necessary, proceeding along the overshadowed forest road at just over walking pace. He idly, automatically repeated his rosary in his mind; his body signalled its thirst and his hand went down to the wineskin which lay almost flat against his right leg. He tilted his head back, swilled the thin, bitter liquid and let the empty skin fall. It bounced on the end of its leather thong. A few minutes later, almost rocked to sleep by a combination of the minute amount of alcohol in the wine, the rocking motion of the horse and the morning's warmth, his bladder signalled that it was full. Ignoring it, he went to sleep, still murmuring his rosary. It was late afternoon before he awoke, his neck sore from sleeping at an odd angle, his throat dry from snoring and his bladder swollen to what felt like three times its normal size. He groaned, felt for the reins and stopped the horse. Muscles creaking, he lifted one leg over the saddle and slid to the ground, autumn leaves kicking up around him. He looked around. Still within the forest, more or less, but to the left were fallow fields; to the right, more of the same but wilder, obviously no longer tended. The once-forest, once-pasture had almost been reclaimed, and only the relatively straight lines of trees which bordered the field differentiated it from the wild forest through which he'd been travelling since yesterday. He stepped over the border of tall grass which grew alongside the rough road and through the trees into the semi-forest. The only sounds he heard were birdsong and the wind through the leaves; no-one (at least, that he knew of) lived around here. The city was less than a day's ride from here, however, so he made a cursory search of the surrounding area before hitching up his robe, untying his loincloth and freeing his itching, sweaty genitalia. Not subscribing to the tenets of St. Augustine the Misogynist, he freely scratched and fondled his waking erection and as his bladder emptied, waved his penis about, watering the bushes with his urine and only taking care not to splash his own feet. He'd finished, and was standing there idly rubbing the foreskin back and forth over the head of what was left of his erection when he heard a voice, coming from deeper in the forest. Startled, he let his cassock drop and, foul-smelling loincloth in one hand, he carefully investigated. The voice was sounding only intermittently, so it took a while to locate it source; when he did so, he was greatly surprised, for it was the Queen, Aelfthryth -he'd've recognised that waist-length silver hair (and that cleavage) anywhere. Many were the times he'd glanced down through half-closed eyes while delivering a benediction, his gaze lingering on the soft curves hidden beneath her robes. He'd never dared approach her, given his position, but he'd heard that she was free with her favours (in fact, a monumental understatement), and if he didn't find this for himself this afternoon, perhaps he'd learn something with which he could convince her to do so at a later date. The Queen appeared to be marking out a circle with small rocks, about five paces across; at the centre sat a bowl full of flowers. Stefan recalled that she'd been associated with the Old Gods and the Little People; he held his breath, wondering if he should quietly stalk away and thus remove himself from any danger, or if he should stay and possibly be treated to a display of the Queen's wanton reputation. The voyeur in him won out, and crouched behind a huge oak, he watched silently as she invoked the quarters and knelt down before the bowl, her incantations reduced in volume to a murmur. He was almost tempted to crawl closer and try to catch what she was saying when his attention was caught by motion in the trees on the far side of the small clearing in which the circle had been laid. A horse, possibly one of a herd allowed to roam these woods by the nearest land-owners, had emerged from the forest and was watching the Queen intently. It was joined by at least a dozen others, almost equally spaced around the clearing. One of them, a grey stallion larger even than his own mount, stood not more than five paces away from him. His eyes widened and he almost made the sign of the cross when he noticed the furtively moving appendage which dangled from between the horse's rear legs, almost to the ground. He was aware such animals' endowments, but it wasn't something he was given to dwelling on; yet, typical phallocrat that he was, he associated size with potency, and in his view this was an animal to be feared. He crouched silently and watched as the horses moved with an uncanny calmness and intent into the clearing, forming a circle around the Queen. Infrequently, one of their number would paw the ground as if impatient. She stood at the centre, looking proudly from one beast to the next before stripping her robe and tossing it carelessly to the ground behind her, breasts quivering as she straightened and threw her arms up in a beseeching gesture to the heavens. There was a cracking sound, as if of thunder - but the skies were clear - and the air in the clearing hazed over as if he were looking over a fire. What he saw next threatened his very sanity: The air around the Queen was thickening, almost like fog; as if she were surrounded by a swarm of bees. She stood with her arms pointing skyward, her head thrown back, her long silver hair trailing down to brush against her behind; the haze grew even thicker for a moment and suddenly the Queen was gone. In her place stood a horse, a pure white filly with a silver mane and tail which twitched over the quivering divide between her hind legs. She tossed her mane, snorted; her consorts gathered around her stamped the ground restlessly. Stefan didn't doubt for a minute that this was the Queen, magically transformed; logic would dictate that she must have darted behind a tree and this animal had taken her place, but logic wasn't Stefan's strong suit. She cantered twice around the circle, occasionally dancing around one or another of the stallions gathered here to worship her; as she examined each one and somehow found him wanting, she would chase him out of the circle, darting at the hindquarters and driving him back with a snap of her teeth. Eventually, there was only one stallion left: a large roan stallion, obviously impatient, his erection slapping against his belly as he danced around the Queen. She whinnied and backed towards him, tail twitching aside, her front legs slightly bent, hind legs straight, presenting her behind at an inviting angle. The roan needed no further encouragement; he pushed off with his forelegs and draped them over her back, arching his back and pushing the end of his swollen, glistening black shaft into her. When the head had been forced in, the filly gave an almost human cry of pleasure, and it wasn't until they were both vigourously fucking that Stefan realised: "That's my horse!" Awed by what he'd witnessed, he could do no more than crouch behind the bush and watch as they cavorted, celebrating their climax with a shrill scream before running off wildly. He stood up, scratched his head and reflected that he'd have plenty of time to think of what he was going to tell the Seneschal during the long walk home. |
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