Friday, December 19, 2008
Man on Man..Lord Craven-Moore and Wulfson!
An interview, taken from the notebook of Lord Craven-Moore...
I admit, I have been rather intrigued by the response from Charlotte and LIT readers alike in regards to these knights. What is all the fuss about, I wonder. Naturally, I had to know the man who has stolen a measure of Charlotte’s affection. So, me being a gentleman, I did the only thing I could, I offered to interview Wulfson and get inside his head.
I have never had the pleasure of knowing a knight, well, a knight in the true sense, one who actually fights on horseback, wears armor and the like. The knights I know have been knighted for keeping a nice shop, or being a good squire, not at all the same as a warrior knight. So, when I opened the door to Wulfson, I was rather agog, and a rarity for me, speechless. Bloody hell, he’s the size of an oak. He looks positively immovable and for a second, I’m feeling a touch…inferior. But then I remind myself that I am a LORD, and I do outrank him. However, I keep my thoughts to myself. I have no wish to have my head severed from my shoulders. Suddenly, I have the sinking feeling that he would do so, with a smile on his face.
As I peruse my guest (who has had the audacity to arrive at the unfashionable hour of nine when I was just rolling over and discovering a smooth expanse of warm, female flesh) I take in his tall form, his big shoulders, arms, thighs, and suddenly understand just what these ladies of mine see. If I were to ‘swing that way’ (forgive the modern vernacular) I would indeed find Wulfson a most impressive specimen of virility. However, I have the sense that we are going to butt heads somewhat, what with the size of his sword that is so evidently displayed. In a churlish, and most childish mood, I have the compulsion to tell the bloke that I own an impressive sword as well, and it’s just as big, and I can maneuver it as well, or better than he. (As an aside, Wulfson’s sword is shiny, mine is dulled—from excessive use, of course) But again, I look up into his narrowed green gaze and decide that self-preservation is the name of the game this morning. After all, I would not want to scrape and bloody my knuckles. Charlotte hates rough hands.
As I lead him into my rooms (not the damn parlor where the ladies are; Wulfson is a wolf, and I have no wish to have him eyeing up the LIT ladies) I am wondering what is going on in his head, but the man is difficult to read, no doubt a trait used in battle. I have no use for battles; unless of course it’s taking place on a feather mattress.
Once we enter the room, I wait for him to enter, but he’s looking at me in the most disconcerting way, that I stop and square off with him. It seems we are going through some sort of male ritual. Must be medieval, I think, for he is sizing me up, and I’m beginning to think that he’s wondering if I’m worthy or not. Arrogant beast! And that’s just me! I couldn’t possibly begin to write what I truly think of him!
~ ~ ~
Wulfson strode arrogantly into the appointed chamber, his sharp eyes taking in every aspect of it. The opulent draperies, the huge bed, the roaring fire, the richly dressed man who stood at his entrance. Immediately Wulf sized him up. Lord Craven-More. He was tall, muscular, handsome if he had to guess. Wulf’s eyes dropped to his host’s hands. Though big, he doubted they wielded anything more than a table knife. Nay, this man was all about the pleasures of the flesh. He could see it in the way he stood, the way he dressed, the way he surrounded himself with sumptuousness. Wulfson shrugged not caring either way. So long as Lord Craven-More stayed away from his lady, he had no quarrel with the man. Wulfson nodded his head and strode further into to the chamber. Now, to find out what he wanted.
“Take a seat,” I suggested, motioning to the leather wingback by the hearth. Brandy? Ale?” Wulfson shook his head, and I feel my lips curl sardonically, perhaps I should offer him a cup of my blood…
“Shall we begin, then?” I have a great desire to get this blasted interview over and done with and return to Charlotte’s bed where I shall make her pay dearly for this sacrifice I have made. I am already thinking of things, and when I smile, Wulfson narrows his gaze and stiffens his body.
“Why do you laugh?”
“I am thinking of a delightful interlude, one that I plan on indulging in once you have departed. Now, why are you smiling,” I asked, taken aback by the change in his demeanor.
“I think perhaps, we are thinking of the same interlude, but with different players.”
I raise my brandy snifter in salute to him. He is a worthy opponent, and if he would only find a decent tailor and cut his hair, I’d find him very enjoyable company on my escapades.
Settling into chairs, we face each other, each sizing up the other. At length, we study each other, then I begin, reaching for my notes….
“In Rohan’s book, it opened with the prison scene, your book didn’t discuss that part of your life in any detail. Do you discuss it?”
Oh, this is going brilliantly. What a scintillating conversationalist he is. I warm my brandy in my hands, holding the snifter as I look into the amber depths. I try again.
“What of your parents? Who were they?”
Laughs caustically. Eyes narrow, hand fists around the hilt of his sword. “My parents? Two people who should never have come together. But since you seem as nosey as a milk maid, I’ll tell you this: my sire, a Norman nobleman if he can be called noble, seduced a very young, very naïve Saxon maid. Rather than live with the shame of bearing a bastard, my dam took her life shortly after my birth. My sire can rot in hell.”
I have had my nose in a milk maid, but never have I been accused of resembling one. I’d call the bloke out, if he wasn’t fingering the hilt of his sword. I have no energy in the morning for sword fights…well, metal sword fights.
I do soften however; his life could not have been easy. Bastardy is a curse no matter the century. Grudgingly, I admire him and all he as attained. But I would never tell him so. We are, after all, having that most masculine of rituals—a pissing contest.
“Did you fight with the others while in the East, or did you meet in prison?”
A slow smile erupts twisting the crescent scar on his chin. “My brothers, the Blood Swords? No finer men can be found in all of Christendom. We met in Iberia fighting those devils from the Holy Land. Our fate was sealed in that hellhole of prison Jubb.”
I would like to ask about the Jubb, but I have the feeling Wulfson would vacate the premises. So, my crafty mind takes a different turn.
“Never one to let others take the lead; I would have balked at having someone arbitrarily picked as leader. How did you feel when Rohan was chosen? How was it decided amongst you?
Wulfson sneers and sits back in his chair fiddling with his leather vambrance. “You would balk, you lazy lout. Mayhap if you understood the brotherhood of the Blood Sword you would understand we are all equal, and share the power. Rohan lead us from the battlefields of Hastings. I lead from Rouen to Draceadon. Who knows who will ride point in the next chapter of our lives. But whomever it will be, we will all respect his authority and know he leads with a clear head and clear heart. We are one. Never forget that.”
Hmmm. He could use a bit of social polish, but who am I to suggest such a thing. And I take back anything nice I’ve said about him. The man is positively primeval. No wonder the ladies swoon over him!
“Who are you closest to in the Blood Swords?”
Slowly shakes head. “Do you intentionally mean to cause dissention amongst my brothers?” He leans forward and slowly says, “We are equal. For myself, I have no favorites. Each brother I love equally and trust with my life.”
Who do you get along with the least? Why?
Sits back in the chair. “Aye, you do try my patience. Leave this subject, you will get nothing from me on the matter.”
“And what a pity it would be see the back of you,” I say testily. “Have a brandy, it’ll do wonders for your humors.”
He gets up out of his chair, and I sigh. The things I do for women…
“All right. I’ll leave the topic. But do not go yet. My ladies…well, they won’t be pleased. I haven’t gotten enough out of you yet., you see, and I do like to please them. Something I feel you can relate to. You like to please your lady, do you not?”
I’ve hit a chord with him. I could not miss the flash in his eyes at the mention of his lady. For all his arrogance, he has a chink in his armor. I turn my attention there as he slowly but guardedly lowers himself back into the chair.
“Once you had decided to have Tarian for your own, did you fear William’s decision that her death might still stand?”
“My king is no fool.”
“But that being said, what would you have done if your king still wanted her dead?
“Exactly what I did.” Shakes head and curses. “Did you not read the book?”
“Oh, I did. But frankly, I could not imagine the ballocks required to snuff the lady out.” I see he’s going to make a rebuff, and I quickly head him off.
“After you saw that first tear trickle down Tarian’s cheek while she was in that dungeon can you honestly say you could have acted out your orders?” He takes a deep breath and slowly looks past my head.
“Had I acted upon my king’s orders at that moment in time, her tormented sea-colored eyes would haunt me to my grave. The fates were looking out for her that day, and I thank god for them.”
“When she came to you in the night, did you ever think that it wasn’t a dream?”
His face softens and a small smile twitches his lips. “That night she was what every man dreams of.” His hand grips the hilt of his sword and he readjusts himself in his chair. “As to my thoughts that eve?” Wulfson’s smile deepens. “I don’t know what I thought. I was, ah, I had my hands full.” Softly chuckles.
Hands full? I have the sudden desire to view the Lady Tarian. A most intriguing puzzle. As I flip through the notes, I notice the questions that the ladies have written down. Charlotte’s brain must be on permanent shut down if she believes for one second that I am going to ask this man what his favorite color is and what he wants for supper! Bloody hell, the man already thinks me a fop!
I turn the conversation to my domain…
Throwing the notepad onto the table, I meet Wulfson’s green, penetrating gaze. This is where I excel….
“Bosom or bottom?”
Narrows his eyes, then smiles. ‘Tis a most difficult choice. Ask me if I prefer a sweet ride as opposed to a wild ride. They both have their appeal.
“On top or on the bottom?”
Smile widens. Both.
I laugh. I would have answered the same way. Although, I do believe that a well endowed bosom might inch out over a bottom. There is just so much that can be done with a bosom….
“Favorite place on a woman’s body to kiss?”
Lady Tarian saunters into the chamber, and we both look up. Wulfson stands and bows, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips.
She looks past her husband to me, the rake lounging in his chair and cocks a lovely dark brow.
“What is this, milord? Do you share the secrets of our chamber with this stranger?”
Wulfson grins and sits, bringing her down onto his lap. He nuzzles his nose at the corner where her throat meets her shoulder. Gently he nibbles her there. She squirms and her cheeks flush pink.
“There,” Wulfson softly says, as his lips trail further down her throat to the high swell of her breasts. “And there.”
Bloody hell, I am reminded of what awaits me in the boudoir. I am most anxious to get this over with.
“Sexy love words or quiet?”
Lady Tarian gasps. Wulfson softly says against her sultry skin, “No words of love are required when the body speaks so eloquently.” His lips press to the lady’s in a wild passionate kiss.
Clearly, he has never seen the results of a well timed dirty innuendo. I must teach him. Or perhaps I shall teach the Lady Tarian, who may in turn, instruct her husband…
“I live it,” he murmurs against his wife’s lips.
How quaint. This is when I bellow for the ladies, who run into the room and surround me with a gluttony of lavish attention. Best that, Wulfson!
But then he reaches forward and shakes my hand, and I realize, he’s a good sort and all that. I just hope the next knight I’m forced to endure interviewing is slightly less intense. Intensity if never good first thing in the morning before breakfast, a bath, and a hearty tup.
“Who is the next Blood Sword to be written?” I ask.
“Ooh,” Charlotte purrs as she rakes her fingers through my hair, “Stefan.”
I groan. Perhaps Wulfson has that helmet contraption still about, for I will need it for Charlotte. She will be all over Stefan like lint on a black velvet smoking jacket.
“I’m going to interview him with you,” she proudly states.
“Like hell,” I grunt. “You will be exactly where you belong, up in my bedroom, tied to the bed with silk ribbons awaiting my return to you.”
I see Wulfson’s eyes flash. Grudging appreciation is in them. I believe we, what you modern people say, ‘are sharing a moment’.
“My lord,” Wulfson says with dry humor. “I believe I might know exactly where that helmet is.”
Ah…a friend and ally at last.
So there you have it. My interview with Wulfson. You may feel inclined to ask Wulfson some questions, however I cannot vouch for his answers, his humor, or his ability to type! Now I am off to find my ladies. I have a most impressive sword to show them.
Do not forget to return tonight at 8:00pm ET to discover the winners of the Masters contest. I do hope that Wulfson and I can agree. I believe I should pick the sexiest title, and Wulfson should do the funniest. Although, I don't believe the man would see humor if it hit him on the head! Ah well...we shall see. I'll ply him with brandy. Everyone is more agreeable when drinking brandy!
Adieu, Mon Anges,
Posted by Charlotte Featherstone at 9:28 AM