Taming The Rose: An Erotic Fairytale

By Anya Howard

As the daughter of a forest woodsman, Roselyn’s life has always been simple and unadventurous. Compared frequently to her stunning younger sister, Rooselyn has never forgotten that she stands second place in their widowed mother’s heart. Everything changes for her family, however, after her sister accepts the marriage proposal of the once-cursed and handsome Prince Michael.

Enduring the dour courtiers at the prince’s castle is definitely not Roselyn’s idea of fun. Soon she becomes friends with a pair of lively young men who are equally bored with the court. When the three venture secretly to a Fair outside of Michael’s dominion, Roselyn witnesses sensuous sights that remind her of the frustrated desires she has always ignored. That night Roselyn is introduced to the Mummer King, a masked figure whose duty is to carry petitioners’ requests to the old pagan gods. In the presence of this forbidding stranger Roselyn dares to confess her secret and passionate needs.

Upon the return to Prince Michael’s castle Roselyn is confronted with an ancient evil that has been unleashed upon the court. Hope of defeating this monstrous force arrives in a most unexpected hero - one who will not only challenge Michael’s reign and but more so, Roselyn’s dubious beliefs about love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anya Howard
• Release date: Mar 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370971701

Anya Howard

Anya Howard is the pen name of a Tennessee born and bred author, columnist and screenwriter. Since childhood she has had an avid interest in the paranormal, and her stories and novels are often inspired by European folk tales and legends. Anya’s writing incorporates fantasy elements, and she describes her Romance work as “Erotic oriented, Alpha-male friendly and written with a positive emphasis on sensual M/F bondage & discipline fantasy.”   Anya makes her home in a small town in the Smokey Mountains region with her always-encouraging husband and their children. Visit her on the web at anyahoward.com.

Book preview

Taming the Rose

an erotic fairytale by

Anya Howard

This book was previously published under the title Tamed Petals, with the author writing as Desiree Erotique, copyright © 2006 by Desiree Erotique.

©2017 by Beth Perry writing as Anya Howard

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the author’s permission is illegal and punishable by law.

To Robert,

for the Once Upon a Time

that began with a kiss one special moonlit night

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

About the Author

That which is striking and beautiful

is not always good,

but that which is good is always beautiful. 

—Ninon de l’Enclos

Chapter 1

In time the Prince wed Snow White, and Rose Red married his brother prince. Together they shared the Prince’s treasure which the dwarf had stolen. The girls’ mother came to dwell in the castle of the home as well, and transplanted the arbor of roses before the entrance of the castle. And there they all lived happily ever after for many years . . .

So ends the timid story of popular recounting, whitewashed as it is of substance and fact. The real tale is mine to pass along to you, my children. You have asked often to hear it, but I had not thought to indulge you until I was too old to care about the blushes the truth will bring to your faces. Now I know I may never reach that age, not in this mortal shell at least. For sorrowfully the time has drawn when not even the fortifications built some years ago around our hardy realm can withstand the armies of our enemies. Those who ride now toward our fortifications are led by the new prince my sister has won over, and doubtlessly, he will show no mercy for our family. They would force you into slavery of conscience as they did my mother’s people and all the other peoples they have conquered. I fear our enemies shall succeed in these last free realms as they have military advances and are spurred, ever on, by the obsessive belief of everlasting damnation if they fail. But you have promised to leave with the coming sun and take sanctuary with my friend who guards that glen so pertinent to my story. This satisfies me, and I will join you there after this final meeting with my sister.

And yet, I cannot help but wonder about the particulars involved in this lucrative marriage Guineveve has secured. It was meant to be, I suppose. Just as good cannot exist without evil, happiness cannot be known without having experienced its counterpart, misery. Such is the existence the race of man has conjured up and stamped upon its universal conscience. I have met many other races over the years—the spirits of the woods and the elves of lightness and lust; the trolls and the dwarfs—and not a one of these are fatalistic like the race of man. Ours is truly the fallen. Fallen by deceit initiated by evil; fallen for the misconceptions we embrace and pass on from generation to generation. And Guineveve, despite her embrace of evil, is only as human as the rest of us.

It does strike me as great irony, however, that the abstemious crusaders against our people found their perfect proponent in one as desirable as my sister. Were it not for her famous beauty and that cunning disposition which enchanted the world, and likewise, her legendary prince, you would not even have been conceived. It is to my sister that my happiness and gratitude are indebted. It is true, my children, this home, comfortable and loving, and the peace I’ve known since coming here are owed completely to Guineveve. Were it not for her I surely would not have met your father. Yes, I am indebted to her for my heart’s satisfaction, and the knowledge that I will again embrace your father in that land beyond death. It is a strange thing but true; everything that makes me happy I owe to the sister who became my enemy.

As you’ve heard, there was indeed a time when enemy was the last thing I would have called her. A time before I cursed myself for having ever loved her.

But I had loved Guineveve since the day she had been born. That was only a few months after my papa’s death. And as Mother could not love me, my heart yearned for someone to shower my affections upon; someone to give in return all the affection I was denied. We dwelled alone in the forest cottage you have passed by whilst hunting. The same forest that even to this day the superstitious avoid. Our nearest neighbors lived in the village beyond the forest borders. I had helped the old village midwife deliver Guineveve into the world. I was not even yet four years of age when I had had to seek the woman in the wee hours before sunrise. But there was no one else to give aid in the birth, as it was some holy day for the Christians, and all the proper village ladies were fasting and praying. When one is that young you do not question a parent’s request for help. And to confess, I hoped my concern for Mama would entice her to love me. But after the little pink and crying infant was born and the midwife had placed her in Mama’s arms, I knew by the glow in Mama’s eyes that no, this would never be.

Guineveve was a lovely babe, with a head covered with blonde down. And despite my disappointment, my heart warmed to her the first moment I held her.

It was just days after Guineveve’s birth that Mama turned me out of my little room and consigned me to sleep on a pallet in the pantry. Some days later Mama had me fetch the village priest to come to the cottage. The faith of Mama’s father returned to her at that time, and she confessed her sins to the priest and had him christen my sister. At his fretful insistence, I was forced to kiss the iron cross he carried, and induced to speak my loyalty to his Christ. To this day I do not recall what it was I said—I’ve no patience with these fools now—but I know it contented my mother. Soon enough the ladies of the village came to visit and see little Guineveve. I could not fathom then the change of their dispositions, until I overheard Mama speak to them about her noble father and the sumptuous castle she’d been raised in. Beginning that day, a lucid comprehension began gradually to take shape in my view about the workings of the world.

Perhaps it was more that circumstances had rewarded me with a precocious proclivity. Our mother had never got along well with my father. I knew of her liaisons with other men long before an age that children should have to comprehend such facts. While Papa was working all day in the heart of the forest, these men would visit Mama. She was very cautious with me, hiding me in the closet shortly after they’d arrive. Faceless men all to me, with coarse manners and eyes I never trusted. But one in particular did not seem so coarse, and his fine features and regal manners I never forgot. Mama referred to him simply as the gentleman. He had flaxen hair and long hands and fingers as fragile as any courtly woman. And then those blue eyes, too light for comfort that I was to recognize later, in his daughter, Guineveve.

When I was older I remembered Mama’s liaisons with bitterness. Had Papa been steely with his affections or abusive I would have understood. Her misconduct I fully believe, however, arose from her inability to forgive Papa. He had his wealth and estates, and he had refused to be converted to the new religion. He’d been pressured by both reward and threat from our Frankish conquerors, but he had not yielded. But fearing retribution, Papa had moved us into the little cottage in the forest. It was abandoned and almost in ruins then, but soon he had refurbished the abode into a pretty home. He provided food and sustenance by cutting wood which he sold in the village. None of the villagers—grown superstitious with their conversion—dared to broach the forest which had been long ago consecrated to the old gods. I did not care if the forest was haunted by this god or that spirit; it was our home and I was happy most of the time. For it was cozy, and my papa had possessed a merry manner, and made me feel loved when he was home. Not even the train of men who came and went during the day diminished that certain happiness.

Then came a day that Papa arrived home early. It was unusual for him to arrive even before the first gleam of twilight broached the western sky. He found me locked in the pantry closet, and once he’d released me, found Mama and the flaxen-haired gentleman in his marriage bed. Wielding his axe, Papa ran the naked gentlemen from our house. He pursued the man for some distance, and I heard Papa shout angrily after him from the copses.

Never once did Papa reproach Mama about the gentleman, however. He only scolded her for locking me in the closet. From then on there was a solid coolness between my parents. It lasted until the day some time later. Mama ran into the house that evening, breathless and in tears. She had taken Papa some bread and a jug of ale, and found him dead beneath a fallen tree. At hearing her news I threw my arms about her swollen belly and wept.

It was some weeks afterward that she delivered Guineveve. And with the babe’s christening, my status as a daughter seemed to be on par with that of a servant. I was the little maid who slept in the pantry, and had to wear only dresses weaved of remnants from old garments. But I did not mind so much, for I was allowed to feed and bathe my sister. It was to me that she spoke her first words and, clasping to my hand, took her first steps. Mama pampered Guineveve and dressed her in gorgeous, costly gowns; but it was I who played with her. It was my shoulders that her sweet, fragile arms embraced, and my cheek that her petal-soft lips kissed most often. Mama soon took work as seamstress to the rich merchant ladies of the village. For a time she seemed contented, and spoke kindly to me whenever she had cause to address me. One spring she constructed an arbor over the door of our cottage, and rooted roses of different shades to either side of the arbor. During the summer these roses grew and rapidly vined out over the trellis of the arbor. She pruned them often, so that half the arbor stayed covered with white roses, while the other half bloomed red. And to my amazement she told me that the two shades represented her daughters.

Blooms for my Guineveve, you see, she told me, white, and untainted as the new snow. And scarlet there, for you, my husband’s little Rose Red.

For a time Mama even had a suitor; the son of the mayor of the village. But alas, the young man died in a hunting accident. Mama’s contented mood seemed to have died with him, and her sour manner toward me returned. Even so, I credit our mother her due; it was solely for the skillful labor of her nimble fingers that Guineveve and I did not starve or go without shelter or clothing.

What coins were left over after stocking the pantry shelves and purchasing necessities Mama would spend on Guineveve. Only the best cloth for gowns, and silk for chemises, was good enough. As she grew older, Mother provided her with milk lathers for her hair and honey creams for her skin. Only shoes of cobbled lambskin was allowed to grace Guineveve’s feet, and of course, there were jewels for her throat and rings for her dainty fingers. I need not say how envious I was of the favoritism our mother showed Guineveve; and Mama did not fail to remind me often that I could never hope to be as pretty or intelligent as Guineveve. She harshly compared us whenever she found fault with my housekeeping. I could not, however, feel animosity toward my sister. Despite the difference of our mother’s affections, Guineveve genuinely seemed to appreciate me. And at nights, after Mama had retired to her bedchamber, and I had crawled into the pallet in the dark pantry, I prayed in gratitude to my father’s gods for Guineveve.

All this changed during the winter of my eighteenth year. A brutal snowstorm descended one evening over the landscape, sweeping through the boughs of the forest trees with the ease and vitality of water through a sieve. The bitter wind brought a snow that piled up to the windowsills of our cottage. We were thankfully stocked with candles, wood and flint and enough food. But that evening, as the wind howled about the foundations, a scraping sounded upon the door. Our hearts raced with terror. No wise soul would have challenged that snowstorm. We were just done eating supper and Mama told us both to hush. She listened, we all did, and the scrape turned into a knock, heavy and urgent. I would have thought Mama content to let the stranger think the house was empty so he might go away. But when the knock continued, her newfound virtues concerned her. It was not charitable, she whispered, to ignore someone in need. So, positioning herself protectively in front of the trembling Guineveve, Mama ordered me to unbar the door.

I looked at Mama for a moment; all the hopes of ever gaining her love seemed suddenly as foolish as a stranger trekking through the icy forest. As the knock grew louder, she clenched the little silver cross at her breast and told me again to unbar the door. I was trembling as much as Guineveve, yet I obeyed. No sooner had I lifted the bar than did the tempest blow the door in. And there, beneath the pelting snow, stood a great bear.

If this creature had not spoken to us immediately, I believe I would have run straight to the shelter of the pantry. And at his utterances our Guineveve collapsed in a faint to the hard floor.

Do not be afraid, the bear spoke, his large brown eyes settling upon Mama. I will not harm you. Please, give me shelter and the warmth of your hearth, goodwife.

For several long, silent moments Mama just stared at the beast. Her face had turned pale, her mouth was agape. But there was intelligence in her eyes; it danced with deep contemplation and a glimmer of prospect. At length she told the bear that he was welcome to the hearth and food as well. She told me to shut the door and get a plate of victuals from our table for our guest. She ran to get a pillow then for Guineveve. The bear shuffled in, and at once his eyes fell upon my sister. My first thought was to get the broom and shoo him away. But for a single moment his beastly, shaggy features seemed somehow as insubstantial as a dream.

I blinked, and when I looked again, our guest was shuffling to the hearth. There, before the fire he laid down, and when Guineveve awoke and Mama had told her about our guest, she managed to introduce herself politely. I do not recall the words the bear spoke to her, I was still befuddled by his very presence. But Guineveve’s timidity soon vanished, and before long she was brushing his thick fur hide with her own comb. She bade me to make friends with our guest. I sat down beside them both, and reluctantly stroked his side. This brought a laugh from the beast, and a smile from Guineveve.

I do not know what overcame Mama that evening: a foolhardy sense of charitableness that blessed her with the precognition said to be rewarded to the virtuous, or something more akin to the augury Papa had once told me that Mama’s mother had possessed. But as I watched her rock in her chair near the hearth, and saw how she regarded the bear with that strange glow in her eyes, I saw that somehow my mother knew this creature was more than some anomaly of nature. It saddened me somehow, the look in her face. Like someone contemplating the past she seemed, and a smile, tender and sad, lilted the corners of her mouth. For the first time I felt compassion for Mama, and almost went to speak to her. But I knew that whatever thoughts passing through her mind would not be