A true knight always finishes a story...

...The next time your paths crossed, it was because you had decided to seek Ser Duncan out. His unasked for, but selfless act had profoundly affected you. For the better, of course, so that you'd known at once that heartfelt thanks were owed him. Yet afterwards, having seen you safely to the little grove you called home for this tourney and ascertaining that no unsavory fellows hung about the place, he had bowed his head courteously--as though you were an actual lady--and had humbly taken his leave.

Still, it remained that if not for his intervention, you would've lost your fiddle--leaving your very survival jeopardized. You hadn't been able to catch a wink of sleep until you lit upon the perfect way to thank him. After that, you slept quite well--and if your dreams were filled with the quiet, reassuring presence of a chivalrous protector, you had only your hay-stuffed pillow to share that secret with.

He could not have known, but you had only managed to feed yourself and obtain shelter in rough weather these past few years by your skill on your father's instrument and by the sweet, husky voice that had been your mother's gift to you. Your da, a minstrel by trade, had been killed with a single knife thrust to his throat while trying to make peace between two surly men arguing over a woman in a pub where he'd been contracted to perform; your mam passed not even six months later, from the heartbreak of his loss. With no family to take you in, the villages of the southern Reach offered little options for a lass your age. Servitude to a stranger as a scullery maid or serving girl; and with no one to see to your safety, there would be plenty of masters willing to take advantage of your innocence. You could marry, but with no dowry, those prospects were dismal; an old man in need of a house drudge and brood mare would've been your fate in that case. You had decided long ago, in light of the love your parents lived daily, that you would marry for love alone, and bear only children made from love shared with a lad your age and of equal appreciation for the adventure of life. Or, worst of all, you could trade your body for coin, making moon-tea a staple of your diet, while shame and misery would eventually shrivel your soul. The only viable course, then, was music.

The itinerant life was full of ups and downs, days or weeks at a time when your belly was often quite empty. But making music, sharing it with any audience you could, even composing your own pieces and poetry to go with it, gave you freedom and independence and the unshakable belief that, someday in your travels, you'd find a companion for your soul.

You'd left your encampment just after dawn, determined to discover the location of Ser Duncan's pavilion. That's when you learned he was a hedge knight, the closest manner of Knighthood that someone of the smallfolk could aspire to be. You hadn't really been surprised: though tall and straight backed, you had noted he had not carried himself pridefully as Knights seemed wont to do. His speech and dress were plain and uncluttered, and there was a sweet air of simplicity and guilelessness in his manner. Deference. Humility. All despite his obvious strength and massive stature. Admirable qualities all, which before he had rescued you had you feeling quite fond of Ser Duncan. And after last night? Rather smitten.

Thus, it was you learned that like you, he and his squire slept in the open and under the stars. The last of yesterday's coin had fallen short to pay for the items you wished to procure for your hero. The proprietor, an elderly gent, was perhaps a soft touch, or maybe you put him in mind of his own niece or granddaughter. Whatever the case, he offered to barter for one of your few prized possessions--though he promised that if you returned by days end with the full amount for your purchase in coin, he'd return it to you.

The path to Ser Duncan's camp was easy to follow, and you stopped along the way to pick a trio of sky-blue daisies and set the little bunch behind your ear. Not that you were doing so for the man to notice, of course; 'twas simply because it pleased you.

There appeared to be no one in sight when you stepped from the flattened grass path, and the circle of stones that marked where the evening fire must burn was only filled with ash. A brook babbled pleasantly somewhere out of sight, but evidence of its use hung upon a line strung from the lowest branch of a thick-trunked elm tree across to a tripod that must double to hold a cook pot above the flames. The clothes looked damp and were certainly Ser Duncan's, by the size of them. You smiled to imagine him kneeling on the banks edge to scrub his garments--but then realized that was likely his squire's job.

You were considering calling out to see if either the man himself or his squire were anywhere around, disappointed because you hadn't even considered coming upon an empty camp, when you heard a sonorous sort of hum coming from the far side of the tree. It sounded harmless; in fact, it sounded pleasant. And so your curiousity, combined with your honest desire to deliver your humble gift to the sweet man that had saved you, had you circle around to discover the source of that sound.

There he lay, sound asleep on the flat of his back, his bed the first soft, green grass of true spring. There was a softness and purity to his features in the relaxation of his slumber, that made him look like a mere lad, not a sword-wielding knight of the realm. His seemed a face an angel might be satisfied to chastely kiss. Such a sight did not surprise you, for it fit the image that had already imprinted itself upon your heart.

And yet, Ser Duncan's appearance of purity was not the sole image you would take with you when you left his campsite a while from now. For to your great surprise, he lay displayed for your widened eyes as you'd seen no man before. As naked as upon the day he had been born. Of course, you told yourself, his wash is clearly hanging up to dry. But still, to find him thus was a true shock. You had seen shirtless men before, and a couple even stripped down to only their smallclothes. But never one in such glory and in pure, illuminating sunlight. The truth was clear. Ser Duncan the Tall was very aptly named.

Everything about the man was tall. Arms, torso, legs. Fingers and toes even. But to your eyes-- as something like gravity drew you inexorably closer, slack-jawed and with your eyes glued to this fresh revelation--most spectacularly, his cock. Your first coherent thought was to question if all men were as...ample...as Ser Duncan clearly was. Your second, to wonder how by all the gods something that big could fit inside a woman's cunt without splitting her wide open. The last, well...that out of respect, you should turn and walk away, and never seek to gaze upon even his face again, lest it show upon yours this unintended invasion of his privacy.

But the sounds arising from his upper chest held you in place a few moments more. They were like half-moans, each one sounding more and more like the moans that came from the pleasure tents that somehow always found their way to the outskirts of any given tourney grounds. You knew exactly what those sounds meant. This beautiful, chivalrous man was dreaming something pleasant and sinful, and instead of finding it uncomfortable, you wished you could know exactly the sort of thing that would elicit such sounds from him. If you were capable of giving him reason to give forth such sounds. And what might it take for him to awaken such sounds from you.

Your whole body suddenly felt foreign, your blood too hot, your nipples become hard little pebbles like after a cold dousing, yet all you were was HEAT. Your smallclothes suddenly became too rough against the tenderness of what your mother had called your 'secret flower'. Don't fret, lassie. You'll know when the time comes that you're ready for your flower to be plucked, your mam had promised; handsome or not, wealthy or poor, a lad will come, and you'll be wanting and needing to give him his deepest desires. Trust when your body tells ya, lassie. Mine gave me your da, and I never looked back or needed any other.

Go...go...go now, your mind shouted, and still you lingered, caught between propriety and the flood of need coursing through your veins. Want to touch him, your baser brain countered; want him to touch me, to fill me. And even while those delicious sounds Duncan was making grew more insistent, you moaned yourself. Not wanting to. of course, but somehow compelled nonetheless. As if this summoned an equal need in him, you watched fascinated as his cock began to grow.

That's when you finally chose to flee. If he should awaken and find you witness, it would mean utter humiliation for you both. And no matter how confused and aching and filled with wanting you felt, you still housed immense respect in your heart for this knightly, kindly, honorable man. You'd simply have to find a better way to convey your gratitude, for the contents of your basket would be spoiled before you would see him safely awaken.

But moments later, Life itself proved to be a nimble, opportune trickster.

As you turned to speed away, your foot caught in one of the tree roots that was hidden by the freshly growing grass, sending you tumbling head first and crying out in surprise. Loud enough to wake up your sleeping hero.

"What, hey," he shouted from behind you, "Stranger, what do you seek to come upon me as I sleep, unarmed and unaware?" You had never thought to hear such anger in his voice and silently cursed yourself for giving him cause.

You flipped over to answer him, eyes downcast as you worked to free your foot wedged fast beneath the root. "Please, Ser Duncan, I meant no harm," you sputtered, afraid to see the ire in his voice upon his handsome face and directed at you. "I...I only came to thank you, Ser, for the good deed you done me..." You trailed off, biting you tongue to avoid giving into ridiculous tears.

"The singer lass," he said softly, an incredulity in his simple words that drew you to look up at him at last. "Why have you come to my camp?" You rose slowly, brushing the soil and old leaves from your dress, then tousling your hair and making sure the daisies had stayed in place.

He looked confused, and not angry at least. "Your eyes, I fear, have been too...too bold, lass," he managed defensively, gripping his shield tight to cover his swollen manhood. "I am sorry for my lack of hospitality, but you caught me..." He blinked slowly, perhaps gauging your reaction, then added, "...far from my best self." The sterness of his expression, surely meant to give you caution, was a reminder of the gruffness he had shown the thieves who'd tried to pinch your fiddle and coin purse last night. Of the strength restrained in his towering height and massive shoulders. Directed your way, it summoned an echo of the pleasant shiver you'd felt when he'd placed his body protectively between you and the wicked-looking dirks the rogues had brandished. "And it is never safe, let alone wise, to approach a knight laying in such...vulnerable...repose..."

"Forgive me, Ser," you said honestly, liking the hectic color that heated his cheeks, wondering if the warmth that now flooded your own was as evident. "I meant not to tread upon your privacy, but have only come with a small proof of my gratitude for the kindness you did me yesterday..." You raised the basket and pulled back the cloth covering your offering and the warm, enticing scent of the fresh baked, flaky crusts wafted unto the air between you. Nestled close within was a mix of minced pork pasties and sugar-dusted hand pies filled with a sweet berry compote. Your mouth watered at the tasty aroma, and by the look in the young knight's widened eyes, you knew the scent had hit it's mark as well. The gift meant to thank him had cost you dearly, but his courage on your behalf had been dearer still, and so well worth it. "I knew not if you preferred savory or sweet, good Ser..." You advanced several steps closer, your basket extended as a shield of your own and proffer of sincerity. "...but then I reckoned a man of your...strapping...size...would surely enjoy a fair taste of both."

Your tongue fell silent then, for your mouth had gone dry, struck again by the soft, hazy blue of his wide eyes in sunlight. A woman could easily get lost in such eyes, your mind whispered, so soft and sweet and seeming free of the covetousness too many men show an unguarded maid. But then you already trusted that this man was different from most. Trust being a rare, rare commodity in your little world, and thrice already, he had proven thus worthy. Aye, such a man he was...

The wariness upon his brow softened, allowing for a return of the gentle sweetness that had suffused his expression as he slept. A comely lad, this Ser Duncan was; a face and form meant to dream upon, you supposed, as his nature thus far seemed to match the pretty picture he made. Perhaps later, you'd compose a dreamy run of notes to remember him and his gallantry by. Along with a rhyme or such to fit the tune. But now you meant only to deliver the pastries warm and fresh and then go along your way. Relieved that he seemed unaware of the depth of your sin: the awkwardness of finding him bare and beautiful and in the full splendor of manhood, and allowing your own lust--awakened only this hour--to keep you from turning away the instant it had occurred.

Stepping those last few steps to set the basket handle in his open hand might have been the bravest act of your young life. For he was as beautiful as a young godling or like some hero out of ancient myth. As with such a legends, to gaze too long upon him might cause you a fatal fall to earth uncushioned. Or he might at last perceive your sudden, secret desire and send you from his sight.

"Wait..." A single word in a husky tone, from a red-cheeked lad. He was no godling, but flesh and blood just like you, though his eyes shone like they could be twin lodestars. "Stay a bit, lass. Sit with me beneath this tree and tell me how you became a musician and singer. And how it is you travel so boldly in a world that could be dangerous for a young woman to make her way alone."

His unexpected graciousness left you speechless, so you nodded and gave him a small, tentative smile. Then laughed softly as you pointed to his shield.

"Oh, right," he blushed furiously. "I'll need my breeches, won't I, for us to have a...civilized conversation?"

That made you grin, and before he even asked, you turned your back to allow him the moment he needed to dress. Your heart was hammering, and it felt as though a flock of butterflies were trapped in your ribcage, but somehow a man that seemed too good to be real was looking forward to sharing a meal with you...

(to be continued)