The Wolf and the Lamb
Warnings: this fic contains biting, gruffness, and dark vibes. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is the next June fic! (It’s late. Sorry)
Frank Castle + “Stop playing with me.” (Medieval AU)
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Anticipation blooms to exaltation. The day has come. The tournament that lady and lord alike have been whispering and waiting for all season. It is your first ever, just as it is your first year at court.
The ladies wear their best brocade and silks. Your own dress is a delicate faded teal with simple ivory embroidery. Your mother is not fond of the courtly styles and their risque trims exposing the top of soft shoulders. She sewed you a round collar with a length of lace woven through for effect.
As the competitors ride out, the courtly audience calls to them and throws flowers. Marcella and Audrey cry out to the valiant William Russo in his dark black armour trimmed in silver and he catches their woven wreaths of roses and lilies on his jousting staff. The princes, twins, preen in the cheers as they’re rained with petals and ribbons, and a few kerchiefs, as the king, Wilson I, sits proudly on his balcony in the stands and smirks.
You look down at your handful of daisies and daffodils. You don’t know which knight to rain down your favour. You don’t know many of them. Not many see you for the boldness of the other ladies.
Nervously, you stop yourself from twisting the stems to nothing. You notice one knight, stiff and staunch in his saddle. He wears beaten iron armour without decoration. The other competitors sport golden roses or etched doves and lions in their chestplates. He stares ahead from beneath his open helm, his staff pointed at the sky as his horse remains as still as he is.
You think you recognise him though you can’t place a name. You look up and down the row of fawning ladies. You heave up your armful and watch them scatter over the plain knight in his grey armour.
He doesn’t react. Doesn’t even flinch. Oh…
Bridget cackles and chuckles a headless stem your way. “Silly girl, why bother with him?”
You look at her, confusion furrowed above your eyes.
“She’s always been an odd one,” Lora teases. “Her and her nun’s habit!”
You pout. “I was only…” You shake your head and shrug. “They’re my flowers, I will do with them as I will.”
“Weeds.” Lora rebukes. “Don’t you know who that knight is?”
“If you would call him a knight!” Bridget scolds.
You stare and scrunch up your nose. “But he… is in the tournament. He must be–”
“A mercenary. So he was. Won his title in a battle. Just a soldier who found fortune.” Lora sniffs.
“But… don’t most knights win their honour?”
“Most knights are already titled before they do so.” Bridget sneers. “As it were, title or not, that man has no interest. Lord Castle is as stony as the fortress he’s named for.”
“I swear, he’d break a lady’s fingers as quickly as a lord’s.” Lora tuts. “Those kind, they can’t do more than wear the title. It can’t hide what they really are.”
Your mouth slants. You don’t think there’s anything wrong with being quiet or unsociable. You’d prefer it yourself if the other ladies weren’t so incessant. You peek over at the iron knight. Castle, they call him. He grips his staff tight and stays rigid, unbothered by the sudden blast of horns announcing the tournament’s start.
You suppose he’s faced worse than a shower of petals. You won’t worry for the misstep. He likely won’t either.
⚔️
The tournament unfolds in a series of contests. You’ve never seen anything like it. You gasp as the knights battle in a test of dagger throwing, archery, and most clamourously, the joust. Shattered lances and dented armour bring your heart to your throat, especially as you watch a younger earl-to-be carried off unmoving. How dreadful.
Sir Russo, a duke, wins at the feat of aiming daggers at a target; the king’s son is victor in the arrow, and in the joust, to a rather silent crowd, Sir, Castle claims triumph though he hardly seems to notice that himself. Where petals and scarves rained down on the others, he is met with a murmur and whispers, riding off without acknowledgement of any of it.
On the final day, a challenge of sword and spear against a dummy stuffed with straw. The king’s son once more is crowned for his skill. His father proudly cheers and congratulates his son with a mantle of ermine.
The next, ring-tilting. Another event on horseback though much less brutal than the joust. The challenge, to aim the launch through a series of golden rings, each progressively smaller than the last. Riders come forth to make their best attempt to hook all seven.
Russo counts five, the prince the same, and another earl meets that number; each presents their rings to their chosen maiden in the crowd. Bridget accepts Duke Russo’s lot and a leer from beneath his visor, the prince gives his to his betrothed, sat in the balcony with his father, and the lesser earl gifts his new wife as she rubs her growing stomach.
The final contender, Castle, takes his mark. The crowd is silent again. You notice how Lora makes a gesture to Bridget and they grin. The grey knight tilts his head as he lowers his staff. He rides, sure and steady. One, two, three, four, five… six! Six rings, the sixth in order missed but the last hooked.
He raises the tip of his lance and rides around. He ignores the audience and dumps the rings on the ground. He hands off the staff to his attendants as they approach and rides back to the stalls to dismount.
“Even he knows no maiden would have him,” Bridget snickers. Lora joins in. You frown.
You lean over the wall of the stands and watch the knight as he removes his helmet. You can see him just past the banners hung around the horses’ stabling. For a moment, you feel as if he’s looking back at you but he promptly stalks off, tugging at his shanks of black hair.
You stand back as Bridget spins her ring. “Do you think Lord Russo will dance with me at the feast?”
“You might get a canter after his other ladies.” Lora retorts.
“Careful, Bri,” Lady Maureen intercedes. “You will not like to be one of his conquests. Women are not so valiant as battlefields.”
“You are detestable!” Bridget retorts. “I have virtue!”
“No one would guess it at a glance.”
You tune out their banter. There is still one contest to be had. The last; the decider of the champion. The foot combat. The will come on the final day of four that have stretched out this event.
⚔️
The last day, the last contest. Bridget fans herself in the stolid sunlight as Lora droops in her sleeves. Your fast is slick and sticky with sweat. You can only imagine what the contenders must feel.
There are several rounds. A melee to begin, to pluck out those who will go face to face. A second round with spears to choose who might test their skill with sword.
The prince is to face Lord Russo the final round; Poindexter to compete with Lord Castle. The first match is a narrow defeat for the prince. He gracefully holds up his opponent's hand to the crowd, bowing out before the finale. The latter is long and contemptuous; neither sports a shield and meet each other with a furor that makes you gasp. Castle prevails but not without blood under his visor.
In the last, Russo and Castle meet. Their battle is lively despite the day’s dimming. They push back and forth, ducking under blows only to take others. Where Russo is swift, Castle is strong. A falcon against the bull. It is the bull that finds triumph.
Castle’s hand is raised as he favours his other shoulder. He tears his gauntlet away from the arbiter and stomps away from the stunned crowd. Only the king voices his delight at the surprise, his subjects reluctantly following.
You join in with a bit more glee as the knight in grey nears, rubbing his helm. You feel bad for his dejection though it seems to affect him little. His head turns slightly as he passes. You wince and pause in place. He continues on.
“Ugh, how dreary!” Bridget clucks. “What an upstart dog he is!”
“But he won.” You counter.
“He should not have. He was underhanded.” Lora argues.
“How so?” You wonder.
“How little you do know.” Bridget snorts. “So young, so droll. So… you.”
You frown. She’s right. You don’t understand this court and all its rules. They hardly make any sense.
⚔️
The feast is a great relief from the sunny stands. The castle walls are cool, the jugs are flowing with honeywine and ale, and trays glisten with roasted vegetables and venison. The warmth is not so intense as that of the naked sky. It thrums and clouds, but does not sear.
There is an eagerness, an anticipation that unfurls around you. Skirts flood onto the boards as partners claim each other. You remain at the table and pick at a plate of sugared apples.
More cryptic than the ladies and their manners and unsaid rules, are the lords and their stoic veneers. Their eyes don’t fall on you. They do not say the same sweet things they do to Bridget or Lora.
There is a lull in the dancing as the king stands and clanks on his cup with a knife. All go silent and watch him as he gestures for attention. You wipe your fingers on the table cloth.
“I must take this occasion to give praise to all those combatants that fought so gloriously these past days. Most notably my own son who showed himself to be a mighty warrior!” King Wilson proclaims.
There is an uproar of cheers as the Prince steps out from among the crowd of dancers and bows.
“And I cannot be shamed at the victor. Sir Castle is the only I would see prevail over my own blood.” The king’s voice sharpens. “A seasoned soldier and honourable earl.”
Castle remains seated. You’d not noticed him before that. He nods but nothing more. His eyes stare straight ahead as if no one else exists.
“So let us be merry and drink and dance!” The king exclaims with a shake of his large fists. “Go forth and rejoice!”
The music plucks up again. The king stands and offers his hand to his wife, a tall and skinny woman who contrasts his rounder figure. You tap your fingers on the trestle’s edge and your eyes skim the large hall.
They fall on Castle. Is he looking at you? You can’t help but stare back. It is the first you’ve seen him clearly. Black hair, black beard, dark eyes, and thick bent nose. His attire is black and unadorned.
You slowly lift your hand and tilt your palm at him in recognition. He looks down and his hands turn to fists on the table. He grabs his goblet and drains it before he stands and marches out. Oh…
You sigh and look back to the dancers. They look happy. They are swept up in the excess. You are bored of it.
As the candles burn lower and the dancers slow, you rise to retire. No one would know whether you were there until the dawn. As they never care for your presence or not.
You enter the corridor and bask in the coolness. There are lanterns lit along the walls, though shadows crawl over the corners and edges. You near the first turn and cry out as suddenly you’re seized. Or try to.
A callused palm smothers your fright. A dark figure shrouds you in his silhouette. You bat your lashes up at the outline of Sir Castle.
“Stop playing with me.” He snarls.
You quiver as he keeps you pinned to the wall, one hand over your mouth and chin, the other on your waist. You squirm and shiver. He leans in and burrows his nose in your hair, brushing along the trim of your cap.
“Why are you looking at me?” He growls.
You whine into his roughened hand and touch his wrist. He squeezes your jaw tighter.
“What do you want with me, lamb?”
He exhales over you as he drags his nose down your temple and cheek.
You brush your hand up his sleeve and tug on the black wool. He inhales, his breath gritting like that of a hungry wolf. He bends and nuzzles into your neck, then nips with his teeth.
“Do you know what beasts do with lambs like you?” He rasps.
You quake and writhe, unable to escape his grasp. You latch onto the seam along his shoulder and try to turn your head. His hand slips down and his wide fingertips graze the other side of your throat.
He presses his thumb behind your ear as his fingers wrap around your nape. He bites down harder and sucks until your flesh throbs. You whimper and dig your nails into his overcoat.
“Please, I’m sorry, Sir.” You grovel. “I was only–”
He hushes you as his other hand creeps around to the small of your back and he crushes you into the stone. He bites again, harder than before. Your eyes prick with tears. You push on his chest and wriggle.
He lifts his head slowly, his breath tickling you until it plumes in your ear. “You don’t look a wolf in the eye unless you wanna get bit, little lamb.”
He shudders and trails his hand up your side. His other slaps on the stone and he pushes away from you. He leers at you as he breathes slowly, heavily. He tilts his head until his neck cracks.
“I’ll be watching,” he whispers and turns on his heel.
You shake against the stone as he struts off. You sink down until you’re on the cold floor and feel the moisture along your throat and the indents of his teeth. The promise he left in your flesh is raw and pulsing.
For once, Bridget and Lora might’ve been right.
