The Virgin and the Unicorn

By Jay Mountney

"I knew you needed a unicorn and I knew I was a virgin and...”
A same-sex marriage is arranged in a Regency-style alternate universe. Can a hard working prince find wedded bliss despite his duties? Does his sister really need a unicorn horn as her dowry and if so how can she get one? Will a young foreigner ever settle in his new country and accept his own family's attitudes? Find out how Alair and Kian cope in this tale of discovery and romance. There's only one explicit sex scene (the wedding night) but the discussions of sex and emotion are probably only suitable for adult readers. A full length novel that explores culture clash, social expectations, the problems that beset any young couple and a new slant on some mythical creatures which turn out to be very real.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jay Mountney
• Release date: Aug 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005209254

Jay Mountney

Jay is a writer who enjoys exploring themes including m/m romance, culture clash and coming of age, often through fantasy. She reads voraciously and her website/blog contains regular reviews. She lives in the north west of England in a seventeenth century cottage with erratic access to phone signals and internet.

Book preview

The Virgin and the Unicorn

by

Jay Mountney

Text and cover art copyright by Jay Mountney 2021

Smashwords Edition

Part 1: The Hunt.

Chapter 1: Harvest in full sun

Kian stretched, repositioning his legs to reduce the strain on his back muscles. He tossed his hair out of his eyes and cursed the breeze that whipped it around his head, and his own lack of foresight. He could have had it cut before harvesting. Most people did, and he had imagined their sacrifice as some kind of rite, cropping the hair before cropping the wheat. Apparently it was more practical than that; he should have known.

He cursed the breeze again for the chaff that it plastered on his skin, and licked his lips to remove some of the prickling dust. Or rather, he thought ruefully, just to move it around. The hot dry taste of the dust was everywhere and his sweat slid it into every crease of his body. He would be sore tonight. So would everyone.

He raised his sickle again, wondering whether it was time to take it to the blade grinder who sharpened blunt edges by the edge of the field. Maybe it was just his own tiredness that put less into each stroke and reduced the cutting power. He glanced at Born, working beside him. Born had helped with the harvest every year since he was old enough to use a sickle safely. He looked just as hot and dusty, but somehow less flustered, and the stalks were falling obediently to his rhythmical swing.

It was all very well for Strevan, Kian’s father, to have decreed that it was time for the heir to join the workers in the harvest; all very well for Kian himself to have agreed eagerly. He had wanted to know how it felt, and to show his solidarity with these men who would be his to command some day. But although he considered himself fit, and could out-hunt, out-shoot and out-fence any of them, he had never participated in farm work and he was using muscles that protested violently at the unaccustomed strain. And of course if it was too hot to hunt or fight he would usually just lie dreaming on the battlements. Ripe wheat didn’t wait for men to find the weather to their liking. He thought for a moment about swimming in the moat. His grandfather had had it dredged and made into both a decoration and a swimming pool. In hot weather like this it was perfect. Then he sighed. He had never invited any of the workers to join him and now he felt guilty both for that oversight and for his father’s current wishes that precluded swimming. By the time the harvest was in no doubt the weather would have turned.

Did the men admire him for joining them? Or did they despise him for being a less efficient harvester? Did they snigger at the young lordling’s efforts to be one of the ordinary folk? He didn’t know. Born didn’t snigger, or not to his face. He had known Born all his life and they had played together as youngsters, even following the harvesters with cups of ale to wash the dust from their throats. They had swum together and still did when Born had no chores and Kian had no classes to attend. Born came to the moat but then he was the son of one of the richer farmers, not a mere workman. Born never came to the battlements now but sometimes he attended a class in archery or falconry; a farmer needed to be able to shoot and could use more understanding of birds. He was a regular observer in the stables and kennels, sometimes looking wistfully at the hound pups or the colts as Kian learnt to train them. Kian thought and hoped they were still friends.

Friends, for the son of the Lord, were a problem. Young men crowded him, wanting his favour, needing positions at his father’s small court or just desirous of some reflected glory. And of course wanting a place on the upper platform in the supper hall with a chance to grab the juiciest chicken legs, the tastiest apples, the strongest wines. Perhaps the juiciest, tastiest serving maids, too. Most of them were from far flung manors, come to try their luck at the Lord’s castle. Only Born was his childhood friend, and Born’s father couldn’t spare him for much social life. Their farm was too small, and workmen were an expensive luxury when there was a son to use. Born’s father might be comparatively wealthy but he was also miserly. Born didn’t ask any favours and still spent time with Kian when he could.

When he eventually came into his inheritance, though God forbid his father should not live to a ripe old age, he would, Kian thought, do something for Born. Maybe he could enlarge his farm from castle holdings. The farm was a castle tenancy but extra land might make all the difference to the living it provided. But by then, with luck, Born would be middle-aged and comfortable in his farming, loath to take on added responsibility or change his ways. And his hard labour was a product of his father’s ideas rather than actual need. Kian had asked his father to gift land to Born’s family but his father had refused, impatiently.

If I do, what will others say? How will they treat such a display of favouritism? And what happens when your next friend catches your eye? Don’t ask again. And he hadn’t, understanding his father’s point of view even while he ached for Born, working while he frittered his time on lordly pursuits.

Frittering? Father had been angry. We’ve been at peace, I grant you, for generations, but never forget your duty to protect your people. We could be attacked here and you would need to know how to arrange your troops. This is border territory. And yes, Daragil and Hieronia are at peace but that could change. Besides, there are other countries that look jealously at Hieronia and would topple Rustav if they could. We could have a demand from the throne and you would need to go to serve, and not shame me. Of course we hope neither will happen. But to prepare yourself is not to fritter time away. Spend an extra hour at the archery butts each day this week and think about my words while you practise

Kian knew his father’s favourite saying by heart. ‘Practice makes perfect’. Useless to say his archery was already perfect, that he hit the bull’s eye nine times out of ten. Nor that his other knightly skills matched his shooting. Kian was quick and graceful, a well-trained lordling. But not, it seemed, a very good harvester yet.

He winced as he saw Jule, one of the castle servants, catch his own ankle with his sickle and send red drops spraying to join the yellow haze. That could be him if he didn’t stop wool-gathering. He bent all his will to the task at hand. The tenant farmers had come to help harvest the castle fields first, bringing labourers with them. Then the castle men would go out to the farms and each crop in turn would be subjected to scores of sickles. Kian would help for the entire harvest. Maybe by the end his back would have learnt to sway like the wheat and his hands would find a sickle as familiar as a bow or sword.

Kian, it’s time to stop. Born was standing upright, and Kian took a kind of pleasure in seeing him knuckle his lower back. The men were leaving the field. He had reached the end of his row but had not noticed that all the rows were ended, that the wheat was gone, leaving stooks like strange solid tents standing at intervals in a sea of spiked, short stubble which oddly mirrored the shaved heads of the men. He stood gratefully and followed his friend to the gate.

You’re doing well, Born said. Not brilliantly yet. He grinned to take the sting from his words. You won’t make champion harvester this year, or even next. But some of the others were wagering you wouldn’t last a day, and this is the third day. I’ve heard no complaint from you, either. All that training must be good for something.

Kian smiled and just walked with Born to the stable troughs where the workers were sluicing the sweat and dust with boisterous mock fights and teasing, despite their tiredness. The friends stripped and joined the horseplay. A few threw buckets of the cool water over Kian and one daring lad tried to duck him into the trough. Kian’s wrestling skills were more than a match for him despite an aching back. The boy looked scared for a moment but Kian just laughed and treated him to the ducking he’d intended for his lord’s son. He came up spluttering and managed a grin.

This was all part of it, part of getting to know the workers and their tasks, gaining their trust and hopefully their respect. A ducking wouldn’t hurt, but to turn the tables on his attacker after a day in the fields was something that the workmen would admire, more, perhaps, than a perfect score at archery. One day he would be in charge here, in peace, and possibly in conflict. He needed to hold these men in the palm of his hand. Judging by the look on the soaked boy’s face and the muted cheers in the background, he was starting to get them there.

He dressed and went back into the castle, sighing as he realised he had a fencing session scheduled before he could eat. He couldn’t afford to let his skills gain even a day of rust for the sake of the crops.

**********

The next few days were similar, though Kian’s back began to settle into the rhythm of the work and his skin began to take on the colour of the wheat, deep gold around pale green eyes, and almost brown on slim arms and back. Born was fairer, blond where he was dark, and prone to burn in the sunshine. Kian brought him cream to rub on the sore redness and saw a smile of gratitude flashed in his direction. The redness turned slowly to brown and in the end Born was the darker-hued. Kian didn’t burn, but tanned slowly, ripening like the crops, a few freckles dusting his nose and cheeks. He got his manservant to cut his hair short, but not to shave it. He didn’t want to look strange among the group of aristocrats who shared his castle life. They understood his need to join the harvesting, but few of them would have understood a need to bare his scalp. Freed of its shoulder length weight, his hair curled around his head, tousling in the breeze but no longer flicking his eyes. It was easier to wash, too.

There were some admiring comments at the horse troughs, especially once they had finished in the castle fields and moved to Born’s farm. None of the men had expected him to last this long at the job.

You’ve more stamina than your father, Born’s father told him approvingly. I remember he left us once the castle fields were dealt with.

Surely you knew I’d help Born? But I intend to carry on till the Harvest Home, in any case. After all, you have to.

We appreciate it. But don’t wear yourself out. Born tells me you still keep up with all your fighting and training.

That’s essential. Every day for the rest of my life. I don’t even think about it any more.

As we don’t about farm tasks. But combining the two might make any man falter.

I won’t falter. As well as sharing the harvesting I hope all this work will make me fitter. The older man gave him a strange look as if he thought that was unlikely. Did he think Kian was already at a pinnacle of fitness? Did he think farm work was too ordinary, too common, to do anything for a lord? Did fitness have different meanings in their different lives? Kian wasn’t sure and before he could continue someone else shouted to him and the moment was lost.

Then Born’s sisters and a dairymaid came into the yard, each carrying long trays of mugs, filled, Kian hoped, with ale. Sancie, Born’s older sister, gave him a flirtatious look and Mara, one of the maids, fluttered her eyelashes at him. He felt himself reddening under the tan. Girls at the castle sometimes flirted but there he had his position to fall back on. They didn't expect any reaction from him. He thought. He hoped. But here, he couldn’t play the aristocrat without giving offence. He ended up just grinning at them, and then buried his face in the welcome mug of ale.

That’s good, he heard Born say. Good, that you don’t take advantage. Many a lordling would think they were issuing a true invitation and not just playing. My sister is practising on you. But Mara maybe means it, and doesn’t know enough not to, if you take my meaning. Born was ware that Kian would be destined for an arranged marriage to the child of one of the other great families in the land and that any dalliance with serving maids or even farmers’ daughters would be just for amusement. Kian was glad his friend approved of his reactions; he couldn’t really take any credit for them. He felt embarrassed, shy, and yet somehow wistful.

Of course, you could probably have any of them if you really wanted, Born said, and Callun, the son of a neighbouring farmer joined in.

They were all jealous of Alis after the spring rites, he said, winking as he spoke and making Kian flush even redder. But when she didn’t fall pregnant they probably all hope to be the one. Next year.

Despite the strictness of the religion they practised and the formality of marriage, there was still the ancient custom of first bedding. It was only officially permitted at the spring festival, young men and women pairing off into the darkness while their elders continued to drink and dance. Any children born of that night had a kind of legitimacy and a child sired by Kian could expect a fortunate life, with gifts from the castle, preferential treatment for jobs and an annual payment to the mother. None of the young men could claim to father more than one ‘child of spring’ although despite the rules there was plenty of unsanctioned sex. Most of the girls knew how to stop a babe resulting. The priests were forever preaching about the matter but the sermons did no good. There was still hope, it appeared, in the local beauties’ breasts, that someone would have Kian’s ‘child of spring’.

Kian was glad Alis hadn’t told; hadn’t admitted that nothing had happened between them. Nothing except a kiss and a hug. Perhaps she was ashamed, thought it was her fault. He hoped not. She was a pretty girl and he had intended to couple with her, but he had had too much to drink and had fallen asleep in the bushes where they had hidden themselves. When he woke up, she was gone. He had never dared speak to her again but he had smiled when their paths crossed, which wasn’t often. She was a milkmaid at an outlying farm.

He had told his father who had laughed. And who had then sent Carenna, one of his cast-off mistresses, to Kian’s rooms one night. Carenna had embarrassed him and he had been unable to perform, but in the end he had caressed her to a climax and she had kissed him, calling him a sweet boy. Faint praise, and perhaps he was still a boy, despite his prowess in all martial arts and his muscles gained from harvesting. He was, at any rate, technically a virgin, though he had climaxed often enough at the urging of his own hands, vague fantasies fuelling his efforts. Somehow, he had remained aloof from the castle girls, but he had no idea what he wanted.

Occasionally he wondered whether he would have reacted differently if Born had taken Carenna’s place. Not for long, because he knew the idea was illegal. But it made a delicious secret fantasy, one that he kept vague, even in the depths of his mind.

Next year, he agreed, winking back and pretending to admire some of the maids who were hanging around the yard, ostensibly to take back the mugs but meanwhile to ogle the shoulders and whatever else could be seen of the bronzed young