Author's Note: Unsure if this is a new take on an old story, or an ancient take on the new, and it's probably been done before, but I hope you enjoy reading it half as much as I'm enjoying writing it. Set in a fictional world that resembles Medieval Europe, I've taken liberties with geography, timelines, culture, customs, language and probably more. Still, I encourage you to come with me while I find out how the story ends. Thank you.

Rated M because that's usually where we end up, even when we begin in chivalry.

Chapter One

After two years of war, the last battle has been won without the loss of a single man, just as he'd hoped. Faced with an army three times larger than necessary, this final foe has yielded even before the siege machines were rolled into place. Despite his prowess on the battlefield, and love of competition, it's what he'd prefer. The countless dead, amongst his own men and his foes, weigh heavily on him, even though he'd agreed with his father that this sustained conflict was necessary.

Not your real father. This cruel and unnecessary snipe from the inner voice more likely to offer censure than advice. He doesn't actually hear the words. Unlike some of the inbred or just plain mad rulers that had kept this divided land from becoming strong enough to protect itself, he wasn't insane, despite having some cause to sink into madness. Still, he offers a silent and sarcastic reply.

Thank you, I hadn't forgotten. If I had, someone would soon remind me.

He'd been too young and held too close in Death's embrace to remember how he came to the attention of the couple who raised him since his fourth year. But the story has been told and retold for the quarter of a century since; he was born out of wedlock to a woman who eked out some semblance of a living with the basest of gifts God gave her. An especially pitiful existence in her case, as she was almost perpetually in a fugue state due to alcohol and somnolent tinctures supplied by the same man who'd beaten and tortured her son. The toddler had been found, unconscious, next to the lifeless body of the only person who'd ever shown him tenderness. He must have loved her at some point. But his earliest memory is of her heavily-lidded eyes looking on, emotionless, as he was punished yet again, for the crime of existing. Now, when he thinks of her at all, it is with anger.

Not anger. Perhaps it was because the seemingly endless war had reached its conclusion, that his inner voice has resorted to inanities.

All right; rage. And it's served me well. From fists to fauchard, no man can best m_

"I don't like the idea of you going in without me. We don't even know if it's really him inside, given they set up before dawn."

Oft by his side, this companion is the only person outside his family who would dare be so familiar with him. His gaze lingering on the nearby parlay pavilion, the pennant of his rival ruffling in the slight morning breeze, he replies, "The herald said alone. If King Raymond wants to maintain the last vestiges of his pride by surrendering in private, I'll oblige him. You can see his colours fly above, and we know him to be a man of honour. Would you have me insult him by doubting his word?"

He hears the creaking of armour that suggests a shrug, and then Claude presses, "Still."

Finally looking at his most trusted friend, perhaps his one true friend, he smiles at the Moor and jokes, "Or do you mean to insult me, by suggesting that I'm no match for one frail old man?"

Despite the friendly delivery, Claude proves his worth yet again by understanding that the matter is closed, and nods his submission as he concludes, "Then I shall be here when you return."

Not genuinely upset, and never wanting there to be bad blood between them, he claps his friend on the shoulder and vows "But a moment," before divesting himself of any visible weapons and striding towards the tent. Wholly unprepared for the sight that awaits him inside, he's rocked to a standstill at the threshold, but quickly recovers and enters, letting the fabric fall shut behind him.

The young woman curtsies as if coached from infancy—almost certainly true—and greets him, "My Lord."

Though they've never met, he knows her. In fact, his father's spies have ensured that he knows her quite well. They are essentially of equal rank, despite him being born a bastard, so this courteous display is a deep mark of respect. But all he can feel is outrage, and doesn't even bother to bow in return, instead snarling, "Has your father become so craven, that he'd hide behind his daughter's petticoats rather than face me?"

His jibe has hit the mark, because she wobbles slightly rising from the curtsy, though he cannot tell precisely what she's feeling. Accustomed to being able to read people, it's unnerving to meet someone whose motives are so well hidden from him. And she begins, "My father is_"

He cuts across her explanation with a slice of his hand through the air and, "I'm afraid your obvious charms are wasted on me, or have you not heard that I shun the company of men and women alike?"

She blushes a deep red, managing to unnerve him again when it increases her attractiveness tenfold. And she cannot meet his gaze to reply, "I've heard many things, My Lord, including that false rumour. And my father never feared you. He refused your offer because he feared for me."

Mildly amused that his most private of predilections are apparently known not only to a King, but the man's daughter, he's smiling as he makes a show of peering around the tent and asks, "If he's so unafraid, where is he?"

Something in her rises to his challenge, and her eyes meet his even as she stands taller, her delicate hands clasped tightly before her as she informs him. "My father is dead. For the moment, I rule here. And, if you promise not to harm my people, I will accept your original offer, in full."

In the space of a few minutes, she's managed to rattle him three times. He's trying to recall if that's ever happened before when he notices that she's blushing again. Of course, profound silence is hardly a polite response when someone accepts your marriage proposal. He'd cooperated with his father's plan in order to prevent more bloodshed. But, for the first time, he wonders if this might be a good idea for him. After all, she is exactly the type of woman he prefers. And she's almost certainly chaste; a thought that again threatens his equilibrium. The very idea of being the first to bed her, and then forge her into the perfect companion... Shaking his head to banish such thoughts before he disgraces himself, he asks, "How did he die?"

Her lips press together in a vain attempt to contain a few tears, and her face is suffused with pain as she reveals, "Suddenly, this past night. My father's heart had long troubled him, though not enough to prevent him performing his duties. But the recent strain..."

Realising that this conflict had a casualty after all, that the stress of facing inevitable defeat and the loss of a daughter he loved enough to risk all for had hastened the King's passing, he calls the old man's face to mind: deep lines from a hard life, kind eyes and a ready smile. He finally bows low and, for the first time in his life, says, "I'm sorry."

And he's managed to shock her; he hears it in her voice when she says only, "Thank you, My Lord." As he straightens, she asks, "Well?"

He can't help a slight smile at the mild outrage in her tone that he hasn't answered her offer. And he's looking forward to teaching her patience when he enquires, "What things have you heard?"

She tries and fails to hold his gaze as she stammers, "Uh, that you...that some women_"

Taking pity on her, he supplies, "That I don't actually shun the company of women, provided they cleave totally and solely to me until I tire of them?" When she colours yet again, and only manages a curt nod, he continues, "That I have had many women, of various ages, and from all walks of life?" He suspects that her rising colour is now at least partly anger, because her lips have practically disappeared, but she again merely nods, so he doesn't bother to keep the desire from his voice when he concludes, "That I bind them and whip them before I take them, often several times in one night? That their screams of pain or pleasure can occasionally be heard in the palace?"

Blessed Virgin, she's aroused by such talk. He knows enough about women to recognise the signs. But she maintains her rage at his impudence—rightly so—and her eyes are brilliant blue as she demands, "My Lord, why do you so compound my sorrow with insult?"

Idiot!

Granted.

It's been many years since he did so, but he doesn't hesitate to drop to his knees, head bowed low. Several seconds pass before she hesitantly asks, "My Lord?"

Hearing only confusion, not anger, he replies without lifting his head, "Apologies, My Lady, I meant no offence, to you or your exalted father. I began by needing to know that you accept my proposal with open eyes. But I took it too far, as I've a tendency to do. I can offer no excuse for such behaviour, except to say that the portrait I've seen of you did not do you justice." When she silently ponders this, he soon adds, "May I beg one more question on the topic?"

"You may."

This time she sounds merely curious, so he dares to lift his gaze, to see confirmation in her slightly puckered brow, and he asks, "Of those many things you heard about me, did you ever hear that a woman went unwillingly to my side, or willingly from it?"

It takes her a moment to process his longwinded inquiry, and then her beauty is increased even more when her face is lit by a wide smile and she laughs loud before conceding, "I did not. Quite the opposite, in fact." They're smiling at each other when she offers the hint of a curtsy and says, "Thank you, My Lord."

He's been an absolute ass. "For?"

Suddenly sober, she says, "Giving me cause to laugh on the worst day of my life."

Used to concealing any signs of pain or distress, he resists rubbing his chest, but wonders if the sudden fullness there might mean his own heart is about to fail. In the next moment, he dismisses the fear; after all, he has quite enough of them already. Instead, he vows, "It shall be as you say; I'll withdraw forthwith and, after a proper interval for bereavement, we will be wed and our countries will become one." She nods her resigned consent, but frowns when he suggests, "Or."

"My Lord?"

Suddenly curious what his name sounds like from her petal lips, he commands, "Christian. After all, we'll soon be man and wife."

She smiles and says, "But not yet, My Lord. What were you about to suggest?"

Struggling for a moment to think of words to express his need, he soon says, "You could kill me where I kneel, claim victory over the day, and perhaps ultimately triumph over my parents for control of these lands." At her stunned silence, he concludes, "You'd then be Queen in your own right."

Shaking her head and frowning, she asks, "Kill you? Do you jest?"

He removes the concealed dagger from his boot and offers it, hilt first, saying, "One quick slash across the throat. I won't resist. Mind you go deep though, as if clearing reeds. If you do it right, I'll try to call for my man, but won't be able. I'll expire at your feet in a matter of minutes." With a shrug he adds, "I'm afraid it will ruin your gown, but I imagine it's not the first time a queen has bought her crown with blood."

Her thoughts are again hidden, as she steps close enough to accept the dagger from him and turn it so that the blade catches the light—disconcerting—while saying, "You think I lack the courage."

Lest she doubt his conviction, he quickly replies, "Not at all. If you're anything like your father, your nerves will hold, if you deem it necessary. I'm merely hoping you'll have a use for me other than as a trophy."

He sees the light of comprehension in her eyes, and she guesses, "You're given me a choice. You want me to choose you."

He nods and confirms, "I want you willing. I have never wanted a woman otherwise."

She considers for a few harrowing seconds and then vows, "I won't submit to your will outside of the bedchamber. I'm not some strumpet dazzled by your countless medals or colourful history."

Smiling at this confirmation that she is a virgin—only an innocent would believe carnal acts confined to a bed—he assures her, "I would not make that mistake. It is widely known that your father valued your opinion. Even at such a tender age, you've proven yourself intelligent and capable. Today, you've also displayed great courage and poise. Rest assured, My Lady, we would rule as equals, just as my mother and father have always done."

She nods, saying, "And there would be peace."

"It's never guaranteed, but I believe so or I'd hardly have put myself through such an ordeal."

For the first time, she studies him as if he's just a man. He likes it. "They say you have many scars."

The King's spies have been very thorough. She must also know his origin story. "Not all from the battlefield, My Lady." Moved to uncharacteristic candour, he adds, "One of the reasons I bind the women is_"

He sees the moment she works it out, and her voice is kind when she presumes, "You don't like to be touched."

Somehow, it doesn't feel like a burden for her to know so much about him. "No, My Lady."

He's confident it won't be a problem for them when she grins and asks, "So, are you quite hideous under all that armour?"

He barks a laugh and jokes, "Grotesque, My Lady."

Her smile lingers as she jokes, "Good. If you're ugly, I won't mind not being able to touch you." As if suddenly deciding, she offers him the dagger, saying, "On those terms, I will marry you."

Slipping the dagger back into its hiding place even as he stands, he begs, "Christian."

For a moment, the battle between propriety and a strong will is written plain on her face, and then she consents, "Christian." It feels good.

As her reward, he takes her hand to place a chaste kiss on the back of it and breathe "Anastasia," and receives his own reward when she trembles slightly. In that moment, he makes a decision and, hoping it's not his cock that has inspired it, says, "My Lady, I have information, for your ears only."

With a pointed glance at the sparce interior around them, she points out, "Then now would be the time."

"I'll need your solemn word, My Lady."

There is again sorrow in her eyes when she replies, "The word of woman who just ceded her country and her title without a fight?"

It doesn't please him to hear her speak thus, despite it being technically correct, so he bows again and insists, "The word of a brave young noblewoman who will soon be my wife and Queen of a vast empire."

Understandably, she looks quite perplexed, and asks, "The King is unwell?"

"Your oath, My Lady?"

She nods and obliges, "Upon the Lord, any secrets you share with me will forever remain only between us, I swear it."

She is a woman of faith, and known for discretion, so he then reveals,"After we're wed, Father will step down in my favour, and then you and I will rule over half a continent."

Her thoughts are plain on her pretty face now; profound shock. She soon recovers enough to quietly beg, "Do you yet mock me?"

"No, My Lady." After a moment, she frowns and looks away, as if consulting some inner counsel, and he asks, "You're displeased?"

"No, I..." With a breath of a laugh, she apologises, "It's just a lot."

He smiles and agrees, "It is." When she again seems lost in thought—understandable—he asks, "But you remain willing?"

She smiles in a manner most inappropriate for a young maiden and confirms, "I do."

Another minute in her delightful company and he might forget himself entirely, so he bows, saying, "Then I bid you farewell, My Lady, for now." Reluctant to leave, feeling a powerful and unfamiliar—yet somehow also achingly familiar—connection to her, he forces his feet towards the exit and then thinks to ask, "I know you'll always miss him, but how long is the official mourning period?"

As if she senses his impatience, Anastasia offers the ghost of a smile and says, "For a beloved parent? Forty days."

He cannot stifle a groan of disappointment, which widens her smile, and then he salutes and leaves her, saying, "Forty days, Anastasia, not a moment more."

He's exiting to the sound of her soft laughter when she says his name. He really does like the sound of it from her mouth. When he turns back for an explanation, she asks, "What's the other reason?"

"For binding the women?" The pink is back in her cheeks, but she doesn't look away as she nods. He bows low and reveals, "Their pleasure, My Lady."