Devil of Nettlewood: Anarchy Tales, #1

By Louisa Trent

Anarchy Tales: Book One

Although tales of Lord Spur's cruelty are legendary and his justice is oft-times harsh, peasant Mitri chooses carnal servitude in the nobleman's solar over rotting in a dungeon as his prisoner. But, my, Lord Spur is as thorny as the vines surrounding his embattled keep. His prick stings her so. He toys with her mercilessly, all hours of the day and night, and not only in his bedchamber.

Subjected to all manner of carnality, her pleasured flesh rubbed raw from leather restraints, her throat screamed hoarse from the enjoyment he forces upon her, Mitri accepts the bounty of her Master's passion.

For, really, there is naught for her to do -- save trust beyond question, save believe beyond doubt, save know beyond all reason that she has found her one true love in the dominant overlord.

But -- has she? Has she found her one true love? Or has she only succumbed to the dark seduction of the Devil of Nettlewood?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trent Publishing
• Release date: Jan 17, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524246174

Louisa Trent

Louisa Trent has been published in ebook format since 2001. Her erotic romances have been with Ellora's Cave, Liquid Silver, Loose Id and Samhain. Refusing to be "branded" ( Louisa has a rebellious streak ) she writes across the genres -- contemporary, historical, paranormal, multi-cultural, and sci-fi. Basically, she writes whatever piques her interest, and she is a writer of many passionate interests. Readers can reach Louisa through her website: www.louisatrent.com .

Book preview

Chapter One

The year 1138. England, during the tumultuous reign of King Stephen.

Lord Spur reined in his galloping steed, raised the oliphant horn to his lips, and blew three short blasts. The thrice trumpeting would advise his hunting party to make haste lest the wild boar they tracked escape further into the reserve, an altogether forbidding place of gnarled oak and thorny briars, a cold and unwelcoming region that by all reckonings resembled its cruel overlord.

Spur smiled tightly. Cruel overlord…that would be him.

When behind his broad back, his populace said the uncivilized territory bore a striking similarity to their callous liege, how he equaled if not surpassed the land’s harsh and uncompromising nature, and so on and so forth, Spur could only nod his head in enthusiastic approval. The day he overheard himself referred to as the Devil of Nettlewood – the calumny committed behind a raised hand, naturally – he actually applauded the gossip’s astuteness.

He was not above such flattery, especially as this particular endearment had rather a nice sting to it. And a good thing he thought so too for the pet name had stuck. Now he fostered the innuendos, the insinuations…the outright lies…that circulated about him. Verily, he courted the falsehoods as he would a strumpet, his aim to pry her thighs apart until the rosebud showed.

He did so delight in rosebuds.

If tales of his kicking sweet puppy dogs and gobbling up cooing newborns and raping pious novices as they prayed in their cloistered nunneries saved his arse and the collective posteriors of the people he served, who was he to disagree? So what if he were not nearly as diabolical as he would have others believe. The truth was, no saint in the making was he, no wayward angel looking to find a way back to heaven, no penitent sinner seeking forgiveness on his knees. Any kneeing to be done in his realm fell to his toadies.

And to women, naturally. He had never been one to look a carnal overture in the mouth and refuse it. Christ’s prick, but he did have his manly urges. Dark urges no paramour had ever fully appeased.

Rather than try to change his debauched ways, he wallowed in his excesses. Celebrated his wickedness. Encouraged his people to think the worst of him…

Oh, how he suffered their derision. Maintaining his serfdom’s lowly estimation of him was damnably hard work.

Ah, well. Every man had his cross to bear. His was living down to his lowly reputation, one pair of teats at a time.

Hopefully more. He was not opposed to losing himself in a crowd.

Spur resettled himself on the saddle. Let those vassals who owed him their allegiance call him unyielding. Let those subjects he governed name him as inhospitable as the holdings he oversaw. Let those lovers he had once fucked, then scorned, vilify him. So long as, pray God, the tittle-tattle kept enemies away from his fortress gates, he would continue to substantiate the vilest of rumors about himself with suitable misbehavior.

Why would he not?

In the heat of battle, only a witless fool tampered with a winning military strategy.

And this was no ordinary skirmish. Keeping himself and his people alive under the reign of King Stephen amounted to outright war.

Golden sunlight strained through a sieve of heavy green foliage. Beneath a canopy of twisted vines, Spur returned the ivory tusk to his destrier’s saddle, swapping his horn for his spear. Narrowing his gaze on the rough terrain, he scanned the area for the wild boar’s presence.

No easy feat given the overgrowth of brambles. In this thicket, the bristled beast might attack any moment, felling him sight unseen.

Ha! Spur snickered. As if he would allow such a calamity to befall him. He intended to live well and long, despite the fondest wishes of his people. Silly idiots. Sniveling sheep, the lot of them. Without a son to succeed him, his demise would toll their death knell. But his subjects were too doltish to see it.

Done with waiting for his hunting party to arrive, Spur jumped to the ground, his spear in hand. Up ahead, his alaunt – the most powerful and muscular of all his hunting dogs – sniffed the ground.

The hound had picked up the boar’s scent. Cornered in a rocky canyon, his quarry would have but one way out.

Through him.

’Twas mating season, when the dominant male of the breed was at its most ferocious, and a boar on the prowl was not to be underestimated. In the pursuit of romance, a love-stricken pig could take down a horse, its rider, and then finish the bloody kill with a dog or two. Naught stood in the way of a rutting animal.

And Spur would know all about that, having as he did a rutting animal for an older brother.

Talon considered himself the finest wencher in the land.

Spur would beg to differ. Though he was a single-minded devotee of bed sport, Talon was no more than mediocre.

The ladies at court disagreed. To a one, they thought the sun rose and set in Talon. Then again, those same ladies would say Talon’s cock rose and set in them. They would be mistaken. No female had ever been Talon’s favorite.

Spur could only guess his brother’s charm accounted for his popularity with females, that and his perfect sense of timing no matter what the occasion. On the furs, for example, Talon would shout his satisfaction in unerring unison with his partner’s screech of bliss. Here, in keeping with this same opportunistic habit, his brother had finally arrived. Coming not a trice too soon nor a moment too late, he sidled to a stand beside Spur. Shoulder to shoulder, they eyed their peevish quarry.

A tremendously ugly creature you have there, Talon said by way of greeting. At least fifteen stone, with upper tusks as long and hard as our cocks.

Spur sent his brother a fraternal jeer. Speak for yourself. In comparison to the boar, my length measures more by half again, ’tis not nearly as curved and, when properly motivated, is twice as firm.

Talon scoffed. Braggart. Prone to gross exaggeration on top of it.

Which I always am – with the wenches.

Whose numbers are legion, you will no doubt boast next, Talon countered. At least, an amount greater than I might claim.

So Spur would have his brother believe. In truth, the shoe was most likely on the other foot there. Spur had only ever coupled whilst in the company of his brother. One woman…or more…shared between them.

"Spur, if you have lain with more females than myself, ‘tis because I discriminate in my choice of bed companions, whereas you will hump anything not fleet of hoof. Stragglers for the most part find themselves your victims, those poor feebleminded slatterns unable to escape. Considering these mates’ appearances, at times I question how well you do see."

Spur saw well enough to know the boar was ready to charge. The beast had lowered its massive head, stamped its short legs, and dug its hooves into the ground – by all indications, he and his brother lived on borrowed time.

Still, even as Spur prepared to die, he contested Talon’s snide remark. I will have you know, my vision rivals that of the hawk.

My very point. You do tend to aggrandize, much like a hawk. At a distance, a grain of sand appears the size of a boulder. Close up, that insignificant stub between your legs must take on unmerited proportions.

A pox on you, whoreson –

Talon clucked his tongue. Tut-tut. Our lady-mother was far too refined for whoring. If she is to be believed, she coupled but twice in all the years of her marriage. Once to conceive me, her finest accomplishment, followed soon after by an encore performance, an inferior production at best, that yielded you, Spare. Talon groaned in mock chagrin. Egad! Did I say ‘Spare’? Well, pardon my tongue slip. I meant Spur.

His brother, the heir, never missed an occasion to remind Spur that he was the extra…just in case. Though he held the title of earl, a position of esteem in England and the same rank as Talon, Spur knew himself to be an afterthought. The fact tended to color his perspective in life.

Gesturing to the boar racing in their direction, Spur hiked his spear high. At the ready, before yonder animal gores both our masculine prides.

At the prompt, Talon lazily raised his lance. 

Their weapons flew. Spur tagged their quarry’s side a blink after Talon pierced the beast’s heart.

The Devil of Nettlewood frowned at his opportunistic brother. Merde! Second place again.

Chapter Two

In the Great Hall that evening, the two brothers celebrated their successful hunt at a sumptuous banquet. Deep in his tankard of brew, Spur grew pensive. Despite their constant bickering, he valued Talon’s companionship over and above all others.

Take today, for instance. Talon and he had soaked away the grime of the hunt together in the communal bath, fed by hot springs that ran beneath the castle’s foundation. Afterwards, they had adjourned to their respective quarters only long enough to change their garb from filthy to clean before meeting up again.

That was how most of their visits with one another went. Whilst Spur enjoyed hosting his guests, noble-born lords from neighboring holdings for the most part, he was only completely at his ease with his brother. Proximity in age – less than a twelvemonth separated them in birth – made them highly competitive, but their robust good fellowship did much to mitigate their quarrelsome rivalry.

Talon was the only person Spur had ever allowed himself to trust. The reverse held equally true. Sharing the same bedmate – a habit acquired as young bucks – only strengthened their fraternal bond. Confident of the other’s unquestioning loyalty, they kept no secrets from one another. In warfare, they watched the other’s back. In politics, corrosive outside influences bounced off the protective wall they had erected around themselves. On the furs…well…what each other liked there came as no surprise. They knew one another’s strengths and shared most opinions too – without ever having to speak them.

And so Spur well understood Talon’s itch to leave the public celebration and begin their private festivities before his brother ever patted his rock-hard belly and said, Too much roasted wild boar and parsnips for me, I fear. And my bladder is fit to burst with ale. He climbed out of his seat. Off to the trough.

A righteous sentiment. I shall join you. Spur swung his leg over the wooden bench and tore off after his brother.

Rather than climb to the third-floor garderobe, located between the upstairs chambers, they stumbled drunkenly outside to the courtyard latrine to answer nature’s call.

As always, his brother went first. When Talon’s stream hit the side of the shallow receptacle and splashed up onto Spur’s leg, he yelped. Malicious sod! Tal, you did that intentionally. Now everyone will think I wet myself.

Always merry, Talon guffawed. You will not have to put up with my pissing on you much longer. On the morrow, I leave.

Finished relieving himself, Spur put his cock away. Why so soon, Tal?

His brother shook his rig dry, then stowed his most valuable possession inside his wool braies for safekeeping. Thus far, recent events have left my keep at Ironguard unscathed. Whilst others less fortunate starve on the streets, thankful for a bowl of stone pottage and a week-old crust of wormy rye bread, my peasants dine on hare stew and maslin, warm from my hearth. By Christ’s crucifix, I mean to keep it that way. And so I must return to my earldom.

You expect anarchy to reach your gates?

Trouble is afoot in this land. Talon shrugged. Why would it not encroach upon my fortress? A veritable cesspool of treason and backstabbing embroils King Stephen’s court at Winchester. Groundless imprisonment, needless torture, sentences to death without good cause…the list of injustices goes on and on at the royal castle. And do not get me started on the happenings in London.

Damn those two contentious cousins, Spur exploded. When will the Empress Matilda and King Stephen quit their battling over who has the greater right to wear the English crown?

Talon dropped his voice to a whisper. I have heard stories.

Spur stepped closer. What sorts of stories?

Rebelling royals who support Empress Matilda are said to have hired mercenaries to destroy the property of any nobles in favor of the present monarchy. If these stories are true, those of us who uphold His Majesty’s claim to the throne may soon have reprisal visited upon our heads. We may find ourselves attacked from within by those we once thought of as allies and friends.

Spur frowned. Thus far, strife has stayed away from Nettlewood.

Your Devil’s reputation has stood you in good stead in that respect.

Spur nodded. Word of mouth best tells the make of a man, and that same authorship most handily spreads the rumors around.

Talon threw back his head and roared. ’Twas you, yourself, who authored and spread those rumors.

The finest of testimonials. Who knows me better than I know myself?

Your outrageously handsome elder brother, of course, but I concede you the argument.

Weaving on his feet, Spur raised a finger skyward. He who seeks to unlawfully enter my fiefdom of thorns will exit with an arseful of pricks.

And here I thought you confined your depravity to the ladies. Buggering knights now too, are you?

Spur ignored the jest. Bloodletting keeps the thorns surrounding my fortress well fed. The vines here are as wide around as tree trunks, making these walls nearly impenetrable. As a second barrier of defense, my army swiftly dispenses with all those foolish enough to break through the nettles.

Without question you have a well-trained contingent here, brother.

Verily. My troops might not particularly like me, but they respect the far-reaching whip of my authority. To a man, my soldiers would surrender their lives for me. He smirked. ’Tis either that or be killed by my hand.

I shall keep that in mind should we ever have a falling out.

Tal – in all seriousness, you know I am here for you, now and always. Send a messenger posthaste if your keep goes under siege.

And you the same. Now, no more talk of warring or politics, Talon said listlessly. This is my last night here, and I suppose we might as well try to enjoy it. To that end, I propose we return to the Hall.

Talon’s defeated tone was not at all usual. He was never down at the mouth. This trouble with the embattled sovereignty had even dented the armor of his tenacious older brother. Fortunately, Spur knew the very thing to brighten Talon’s mood, and he would suggest it too.

In due course.

Aye, we should go back inside the Hall, Spur said, drawing out his brother’s agony. Who would wish to miss all those oft-repeated accounts of long-ago hunts told by reminiscing elders? Or the ribald tales of female conquests, as retold – and retold again, ad infinitum – by their long-winded sons?

Drinking stories more falsehood than true always thrill my pecker, Talon replied with uncharacteristic sourness. Unless…have you a better idea?

Spur did indeed.

He clapped his brother on the arm. How does a good hard coupling sound?

Talon grabbed his crotch. Pecker thrilling.

It gladdens me to hear. Go on, then. Name your preference.

A mouth that stays closed – save to take my thrusting cock inside. Add big breasts and welcoming thighs and my stay here at Devilwood will have been worth my while.

With their arms slung over each other’s broad shoulders, the brothers reentered the Hall.

Talon nodded to the next trestle board over from theirs, the oak bench filled with females of very make and description. What of her?

Spur squinted. In a brood of hens, ’tis difficult to make out only one chicken. Who? Which one, brother?

Talon indelicately used his middle finger to point out the one he meant. "The serving wench whose breasts rise over the top of her kirtle like two loaves of leavened bread

Spur snorted. Leave it to you to mention those identifying traits above all else. She could be a saint ascending to heaven encircled by a host of harp-playing angels, and the size of her bosom would catch your attention first.

And your fraternal opinion of her? Talon prompted.

A plump hen awaiting the plucking if ever I did see one, with ample buttocks ripe for the goosing.

Have you a taste of either? Talon asked.

I do.

Talon loosened his hold on Spur. Off we go, then, to flash our white teeth.

Be that our only lure, we best offer her coin, Spur said drily.

Sound advice. Rattling his money pouch, Talon took a step toward his choice.

Spur clamped a hand on the back of his brother’s belt. Not her.

Talon turned back and winked an eye, the indeterminate hue of which changed like the seas, going from stormy gray to placid blue oft-times in the space of one conversation. Selfish lout. Keeping her all for yourself, eh?

Spur shook his head. If you were not so inebriated, you would recall I never interfere with female serfs.

Gossip says otherwise.

"Gossip has me coupling with flocks of ewes as well. Do not believe everything you hear. In truth, I seduce neither virgins nor commoners nor anything that goes bah, bah. He rolled his eyes. Bad blood in it. No half-peasant whelps of mine will overrun this domain. When I couple, only royal loins do me."

Balls, Talon said under his breath.

No balls. A delicious honeypot. Lady Margret, the dowager of Lord Ubert the Magnificent, awaits our carnal pleasure upstairs in my solar.

Talon’s spirits rallied. His expression went from uncharacteristically morose to its typical merry cast. Then why linger here?

My thoughts exactly.

Upstairs in Spur’s solar, Margret met them with open arms. Lavish in her nakedness, with a height of nearly equal proportion to her girth, she hugged them to her full breasts.

Spur winced, his backbone shuddering at the widow’s embrace.

Margret kissed them – Talon first, then Spur. Ye gods! I have been alone far too long. At the sight of you two bonny lads, my cunny fair gushes for joy.

A downward glance told Spur the lady told no