The Quest of Sir Galahad the Pure
The story so far. I set my novels in a parallel or alternate universe. I’ve found out the characters in that alternate universe are real. I’ve also discovered the Knights of the Round Table are on a quest to find me and hold me at sword point until I write another story in which all the knights get filthy rich. This then is the quest of Sir Galahad the Pure.
Sir Galahad planned to search for the author up north. He’d go as far as Eboracum, but no further. Not far beyond the city was the land of the Scots and only a fool went there unless surrounded by an army. Even then, one’s safety wasn’t guaranteed.
A few days out of Camelot, Galahad stopped in Lincolnium for the night. So far, he hadn’t any success in tracking down the author. Most folk never heard of him, let alone know where he lived or indeed what an author was.
Galahad had pale blonde — almost white — shoulder length hair, bleached blue eyes and rugged features. To Galahad’s horror, women fell in love with him as soon as he entered a room.
Wearing a soiled white tunic, tan trews and black boots, he booked a room at an inn and visited the main room to get a meal while his squire remained in the room to guard the armor and weapons. The inn was crowded but he managed to snag a small table far way from the fireplace where a brace of logs burned merrily. The room had a fetid odor of stale ale, smoke and sweat. The locals sang ribald songs and shouted over the noise to be heard.
A young, buxom maid in a low cut blouse came to his table. “Wot can I get ya, handsome?” The maid leaned over, put her elbows on the table and looked Galahad in the eye. “See anythin’ ya like?”
Galahad blushed red and felt hot. He was looking at almost all of a pair of plump breasts and could see all the way down the maid’s belly button. “J . . . Just an ale and some cheese.” He looked away from the maid.
“Aww, a shy one. Don’t get many like ye in here. I’ll try again after ya have a few ales.” She moved away, slapping at groping hands as she went.
Galahad wiped sweat from his forehead despite the chill in the room. He had barely restrained himself from sinning. The vision of the maid’s wares had caused a stir in his groin and he had trouble yanking his eyes away. Once he went back upstairs, he would have to spend the night on his knees praying in order to force his mind off the maid. When she first came to the table, he had intended to ask her about the author, but that idea fled his mind once she leaned over.
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A few more days on the road brought Galahad and his squire to Eboracum. The city sat on a broad river and was protected by a wood palisade atop a dirt wall. Spearman paced the walls. Once inside the city, he found a semi-clean looking inn and engaged a room. Leaving his squire there, Galahad left to search for the author.
In the main room, he asked the man behind the bar about the author.
“Hank Quense? Don’t recall meetin’ anyone wid that name. Wot’s he look like?”
“He’s a writer so he must look a bit odd.”
“Why don’tcha ask Hild across the street? She knows just about every guy who ever passed though the city gates. Look for the house wid pink shutters.”
Galahad thanked the man, left the inn and spotted Hild’s house a few doors up and across a muddy road filled with mule- and oxen-drawn carts with shouting drivers. He slipped thorough an opening in traffic and knocked on Hild’s door.
A plump, middle-aged women in a red wig and extremely low-cut blouse opened the door and appraised Galahad who stared at her blouse. “Well, looky here,” she said. “Come in. The girls are gonna love seein’ ya.” She grabbed Galahad’s arm, yanked him through the doorway and kicked the door shut with her foot.
“Are you Hild?” an alarmed Galahad asked.
“Yep.” She pushed him into a chair and yelled to someone out of sight, “A mug of ale fer our handsome guest. Wot’s yer name?”
“Sir Galahad from Camelot.”
“A knight! And all the way from Camelot. Wait ’til I tell people. It’ll be good fer business. Maybe I’ll have a sign made up. Something’ like, ‘Preferred by knights from Camelot’.”
“Do you know an author named Hank Quense?”
“Lookin’ for him, are ye? Don’t recall the name, but let’s not worry about that for now.”
A young lady carried a mug into the room.
“Here’s Sally wid yer ale.” Hild took the mug and handed it to Galahad. “Ain’t she pretty?”
Galahad had trouble breathing. Sally wore a diaphanous gown so sheer he could see her nipples.
“Oh, my,” Sally said. “What a ‘andsome lad. Can I ‘ave ‘im?”
“To business,” Hild said. “Sally’s specialty is on the gentle side. Iffen ya like rough stuff, I gotta gal who will arm wrestle ya to see who’s on top.”
Two more half-naked young women entered the room and stared at Galahad who stared back while sweat trickled down his armpits and the back of his neck.
A strongly built man entered wearing only a kilt. He gawked at Galahad, grabbed his tunic and pulled him out of the chair. “Kiss me!” the man ordered.
Galahad broke the man’s grip, backed up and fell into the chair.
“You gotta make up yer mind, ya know,” Hild said. “Ya ain’t shown any interest in me gals and ya don’t like Sam. So wot am I supposed to offer ye?”
“Oh, I know,” Sally said. “Mayhap our Galahad is a shy one. Let’s have a party to get ‘im warmed up.”
The other girls and Sam clapped their hands and grinned.
Galahad wished Sally wouldn’t move around so much. Her bouncing nipples were distracting and they raised impure thoughts in his mind.
“All right,” Hild said. “We’ll have a party in the big room inna back.” She looked around the room, went to a corner and picked up a large paddle. She handed it to Galahad. “Here ya go. I”m sure ya know how to use it.”
“Why do I need this?” Galahad’s breath was ragged and trews felt too tight.
“Because it’s party time,” Hild said as she steered him into a different room. “It’ll be spankin’s all around followed by oral sex. What fun!”
Galahad pushed Hild away and ran from the building. Out on the street, he leaned over a hitching post and gulped air. Once his mind cleared he made a decision. Bugger the quest for the author! He had to leave immediately for Camelot. Once there he’d beg the bishop for forgiveness then spend a week in church cleansing his soul.
On the plus side, he learned a valuable lesson that would protect his immortal soul. Never again would he enter a strange house until he knew what went on behind closed doors.
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