Tales from the Golden Feather VIII (m/f)

TALES FROM THE GOLDEN FEATHER, VIII
The Forester's Tale, or The Masquerade
another one of those stories

IF YOU ARE UNDER 18 AND READ THIS, I WILL FIND YOU AND GET MEDIEVAL ON YOUR ASS.

When I came down the next day, the summoner approached me. "Have you any idea what is going on in this inn? By the Lord, I could not sleep last night for all the laughing!"

"I find it a restful sound," I said quietly, but he would not be deterred.

"The soldier and I have been making some investigations. We know the harper was with the forester, and with my own eyes I saw the webster enter the physician's room last night. And yet there must have been more tickling going on, for two couples could not possibly account for all the laughter I heard -- "

"Perhaps you also heard our hostess and myself," I said, and had the pleasure of having him fall absolutely silent as I went around him to get my breakfast.

The forester, with his usual directness, did not waste much time in setting forth his tale. "Since she"--he indicated the maid--"told a story of the woods last time, I will balance it by telling a story of the city."

It was a dark and stormy night. But that did not hinder the King of ------, for he had declared that a masquerade ball would be held at his palace that evening, and the dictates of kings are greater than the dictates of the weather. So it was that even as thunder rattled the windowpanes and flashes of lightning illuminated the heavens, that a wild and motley band of revelers filled the great hall of Castle ------, the high torches casting their strange shadows across the shining marble floor as they danced, drank, ate, and sang. From his high seat, the King, garbed richly if somewhat unimaginatively as a king, watched the joyful chaos through his mask, smiling to himself at the many little dramas of mistaken identity and confusion that unfolded below his gaze, for so cleverly were the costumes made that no one with less discernment than he could identify their wearers. Indeed, even the King himself was not certain in some instances who exactly in his court was what. Most of the partygoers had long ago abandoned any attempt at guessing who was beneath the masks and given themselves up to the glorious indeterminacy in which all were equally mysterious.

So it was that when the doors were banged open and a lean, shaggy-haired figure strode into the hall, flanked by grim men-at-arms, few took fright at first, thinking it only to be part of the festivities. Only the King sat up, his eyes narrowing behind his mask, for he knew the man wore no disguise, and he knew his face all too well: the Prince of -----, whose upstart army had given him so much trouble in the field in years past.

With his men-at-arms trailing, the Prince cut a path through the brightly costumed revelers, who fell silent as he passed, until he stood before the throne. "Well, old man," the Prince began insolently, "you sent General Arkandale to destroy me, and he fell into my trap instead. Now nothing stands between my men and your capital. If I desire it, I can be pulling this heap of rubble down around your ears by morning." Gasps resounded through the crowd at this bold statement, and a few women swooned. The King's mouth tightened under his mask. "But I have no desire to bring ruin to the city where I plan to rule. So I've come to offer you terms: marry your daughter to me and I'll hold off."

A few of the King's advisors tried to run to the throne to offer their suggestions, but the Prince's warriors blocked them expertly. The King pulled at his beard, thinking rapidly but finding no solace in any of his thoughts. The Princess was the most precious thing in his life; he guarded her virtue more jealously than any part of his wealth, and though of grown age she had never yet known the touch of man -- or woman, for that matter. To see her married to his hated enemy was a thought that galled him, but seeing his capital in ruins was an even worse thought. His eyes scanned the crowd, looking for some sight of the Princess, but he could not see her. And then a thought struck him, and slowly he began to smile.

"I shall make a wager with you," he said. "If you wish my daughter, then you may have her -- if you can find her among all these ladies!" A few outcries of protest sounded in the hall, but the King silenced them with a wave of his hand. "But I want you to swear, on the honor of your family, if you choose wrongly, you will take your army and withdraw from my kingdom for a year and a day."

The Prince considered these words. He did not need to make any sort of deal, it was true, but he knew things were uncertain in war, and the idea of winning his goal at a single painless stroke appealed to him. And how difficult, really, could it be to separate the Princess, whose beauty and grace were legendary, out of this crowd of lesser ladies? "Very well. I so swear," he said, loudly enough to be heard by all.

"Good!" the King exclaimed. "Then let the challenge begin!"

With some confusion and milling about, the women and men were separated onto different sides of the hall, and under the King's gaze, the Prince walked up and down the line of ladies, studying them closely. At first it was easy to eliminate women from the gathering, no matter how elaborate their costumes -- that one too short, that one too tall, that one far too stout, that one with a voice coarse as a fishwife's when she spoke, that one with fair hair where all knew the Princess was dark. But too, as the number of women remaining shrank, the difficulty of the task grew, and the Prince's strides grew slower, the furrows between his brows grew deeper. At last, only four women still stood before the Prince, gazing at him with their heads high and their gazes bearing the solemn and unafraid stamp of true nobility.

One was dressed as a sea-nymph, all wisps of green and silver that swirled as she moved. Another had donned the guise of a bird of paradise, a cunningly designed cloak, mask, and tunic of red and yellow feathers giving her the look of a woman-sized bird indeed. Her colorful costume contrasted with that of the third, who was garbed as a nightgaunt, all stark black with tiny embellishments of white and silver, her mask horned and leather wings drooping behind her. The last woman was costumed in the motley of a fool, artfully ragged and patched and with her face concealed behind the blank smile of a whitefaced mask.

With the wave of a hand, the Prince directed his men-at-arms to seat the four women while he studied them. but no further clues offered themselves to his notice. The women were all silent; loyal subjects of the King, and something more in one case, they would be unwilling to give him any help. He looked at the King, at the gathered courtiers, but could see nothing to aid him there either. To unmask the women would be to forfeit the challenge, and to offer violence to them would be an outrage to the code of chivalry which he, like all the men present, was sworn to uphold. Perhaps he could guess -- a one-in-four chance was not such poor odds -- but the Prince had not achieved his position by guessing blindly. There had to be some way to solve the puzzle -- it needed only to think of it...

Then inspiration struck him. Stepping to the side, he conferred briefly with a pair of his lieutenants. "Have you given up?" the King demanded.

"In no way," the Prince said, as the lieutenants spoke orders and the men-at-arms stooped and seized each woman's ankles in a pair of strong hands, lifting them up and out. A gasp of protest rose from the crowd.

"What is this?" the King roared, half-rising from his seat. "If you mean to harm -- "

"I would never harm a lady," the Prince said. "But there are other things ... " As he spoke, the men-at-arms were divesting each woman of her footgear -- the nymph's slippers, the bird's talons, the nightgaunt's boots, the fool's sabots -- so that they now held eight small white feet side by side. The Prince plucked a feather from the bird's costume and, turning, swept its tip from one end of the row of soles to another. The sudden giggles were clearly audible in the now-silent hall. "A Princess, all agree, should be able to keep the dignity that befits her in the most desperate of situations -- even while being tickled." He brushed the feather back across the feet, and the women squeaked again, unable to resist despite themselves. Three times more he did this, and the women remained silent each time, though their feet twitched helplessly. The nightgaunt let out a hysterical giggle at odds with her sober garb, and the Prince quickly bent, applying his strong yet delicate fingers to her soles, which he knew would still be tingling from the feather's kiss.

The nightgaunt giggled again, shuddering in the grasp of the men-at-arms, then yelped as the Prince's fingertips traced the soft curve of each arch. Her feet were well-kept, without flaw, and highly ticklish, if the sweet laughter that spilled from her lips at the Prince's tracing touch was any indication. Her wings flapped limply as she squirmed in her seat, nearly helpless with laughter. "You do not control yourself well," the Prince commented, "so perhaps you are not the Princess -- but what of your companions?" Two shrieks split the air as his hands jumped to the feet adjacent to the nightgaunt's, tickling among the toes of the bird and the fool. Both women were jolted upright in their seats, clutching the arms as they struggled to keep their lips sealed after the initial squeals of surprise. But no matter how they writhed, their slim ankles remained solidly held in the men-at-arms' grip, and they could not win even a second's respite from the endless tickling. Inevitably, and before more than a few seconds had passed, the fool began to giggle, and then the bird joined her, shrieking her mirth to the high roof of the King's hall.

The Prince tickled on, working his way down from toes to heels unhurriedly, his touch exquisitely light and measured on the soft skin, teasing and tantalizing with a sensuality strange to see in a hard-bitten warrior. The uncontrollable laughter of the women testified eloquently to his effectiveness, though. Then finally he straightened and turned to the nymph. "May it be that you are the Princess, then?" Although the nymph could not move, she still seemed to shrink away as he approached her. "You do have a certain delicacy about you, a certain fineness of form that speaks of nobility...those toes like little pink pearls, for instance..." The wisps of the nymph's gauzy costume rustled from her body's trembling as the Prince reached for the part of her anatomy named. She turned her head away. The Prince lunged, the nymph gasped -- and the sound was drowned out in a sudden scream of laughter from next to her. The Prince had passed her by and was instead tickling the bird's feet all over once more, scratching and scratching at a particular spot where the curve of arch met the ball of foot, a spot he now knew was especially sensitive. The bird whooped with most unladylike laughter behind her fierce-beaked mask, pounding a futile fist on the arm of her chair.

"What game are you playing?" the disturbed King snapped. "If you think you can get away with torturing my d -- the ladies of my court in my hall -- "

"Torture? Is it torture to make this lovely bird sing so sweetly?" The Prince grinned sardonically. "Or perhaps you would prefer songs of the sea..." As he continued to tickle the bird's feet, one of his hands drifted over to the nymph's bare soles, skating over their pink-and-white delicacy, and two sets of shuddering giggles came from the helpless women. He tickled the undersides of their toes, and the giggles abruptly became squeals of laughter.

"Don't play the fool -- " the King began.

"I think I will." And in a flash the Prince was standing before the fool, one hand caressing the soles of her feet while the other, wiggling fingertip extended, darted at her belly and ribs. The painted smile of her mask remained immobile as the woman behind it laughed wildly. She grabbed frantically at the tickling finger that dug into the tender spots all over her body, but she was squirming so wildly in her laughter, her efforts at self-protection resembled a spastic's flailing and the Prince evaded them easily, tickling her in first one spot, then the other, as his other hand moved slowly and steadily up and down the soles. The bells on her cap and collar swung, their jingling making a counterpoint to the sweet silver sound of her wild, pealing laughter.

"You know what I meant!" the King roared. "You seek to win the contest by underhanded means!"

The fool's laughter interrupted him, for the Prince's tickling finger had become a tickling hand. His fingertips adhered to her rib cage as if they had become part of her, kneading away steadily no matter how she squirmed and wriggled in her seat. The fool finally got a hand on the Prince's and pushed it away, but her relief was short-lived, as he began to tickle her belly instead. Doubling over, she laughed and laughed.

"Do you think the ladies of your court are so weak that I can force secrets from them by a tickling?" the Prince asked, leaving off the fool's feet so that he could tickle her belly and the nightgaunt's at the same time. The nightgaunt yowled with laughter, and the Prince abandoned the fool entirely to concentrate on her. It was her bad luck that her costume left a significant portion of her firm white belly exposed, and further bad luck that she was exquisitely ticklish there. Her shrill laugh was almost as unearthly as the thing she was costumed as. The Prince's fingers crawled gently over the flesh, stroking and kneading from hips to ribs and back again, tracing around the false black diamond she wore in her navel, digging in low on the sides. The nightgaunt shrieked, crumbling back in her seat as her body gave itself over entirely to the effort of producing laughter. Her hands flapped weakly, then clutched the arms of her chair hard enough for the knuckles to whiten as the Prince began a swift, firm scratching around her navel again. Her stomach heaved and trembled like a bellows with the force of her laughter, and the false diamond popped out and fell. The Prince caught it neatly with one hand, while using a finger on the other to probe the interior her suddenly exposed navel. "It's not me!" the nightgaunt howled. "It's not me!" And then she could speak no more for laughing.

"Perhaps I can," the Prince said, rising from her and pacing down the line again. "Or perhaps you are the Princess, and seek to deceive me. More investigation is needed..." He stopped in front of the nymph. A quick order, and two men-at-arms grabbed the nymph's wrists and pulled. The nymph's bare arms rose straight up, two smooth alabaster columns. The Prince laid his fingers on her wrists, where the pulse beat wildly, and then slowly drew them downward. The nymph let out a strained giggle as the fingers crossed her elbows, then a louder giggle as they entered her armpits, and then an uncontrolled squeal as they began to trace and circle all over the sensitive surface. The Prince stared down at her seductively smiling mask without seeing it, his concentration almost entirely on the tiny finger movements that sent waves of sensation crashing through her body, making her twist and writhe in the men-at-arms' grasp. He swept his fingertips down, traced the backs of his nails up, and she gasped with mirth, shuddering all over. He circled around and around the armpits, turning inward in a lazy spiral, and the nymph's laughter almost rattled the windows in their frames as the thunder had.

"Enough of this!" the King roared. "Make a choice now!"

"One moment," the Prince said, and knelt beside the tropical bird. She barely had time to start before he had picked up the feather he dropped earlier and was threading it between her toes, tickling that vulnerable spot at the top of her arches at the same time. Then she dissolved into hysterics, bucking and screeching. "Would you deny us the extraordinary sight of a bird tickled by a feather?" He scratched under her toes and over the balls of her wildly wriggling feet, then returned to his work with the feather, tickling deliberately between each set of toes in turn.

"Now," the King said in a voice like stone.

The Prince pulled the feather through the bird's toes one last time as she yelped, rose again, and turned to the nymph. He leaned forward. The nymph shrank back, but he merely whispered something to her, too quiet for anyone but she to hear. She stared at him a moment, then said, "Yes!" in a husky voice. Eyes widened in the crowd -- had she just confessed to being the Princess? But passing by her, the Prince spoke to the bird, who nodded her head in reply. The nightgaunt was the next questioned, and said, "Yes, yes!" emphatically. The King chuckled to hmself, believing his enemy confounded once more. Finally, the Prince spoke to the fool, who was silent a long time, then quietly said, "No."

Smiling, the Prince took hold of the fool's clown-mask and pulled it upward. The beautiful, pink-flushed features of the Princess were revealed beneath as the thunderstruck King leaped to his feet. The men-at-arms deferentially released the women as the Prince took the Princess's hand and raised her up. "I believe the wager is won," the Prince announced.

"What did you ask them, blast you?" the King gritted.

"I merely asked: Do you want me to stop?" The Prince smiled. "The other ladies feared being unmasked and having the whole court see how they squirmed and laughed like any common hoyden, and felt my tickling only as a torment, but the Princess, who knew no one would ever dare mock her, was free to enjoy the novelty and appreciate the pleasures a gentle touch can bring." And so saying, he left the hall with the Princess, still in her fool's motley, as the King slumped back onto his seat.

When the forester had finished his tale, we were all greatly amused, and praised the cleverness of the Prince, and there was some merry speculation about what the Princess's married life had been like.

"Who shall tell the next tale?" the physician asked, looking around the room.

"As I estimate it, only two have not yet graced us with a tale," the summoner said. His thick finger pointed first to me, then to the quiet young lady. "One of you must be next."

I glanced at the lady, and she cast her eyes down, blushing slightly. Clearly she was in no hurry to tell whichever tale was in her mind. "I will do it," I said, moved by a sudden impulse of gallantry.

"It's about time you did," the harper said. "After all, this whole tale-telling business was your idea in the first place."

"Then I shall have to endeavor to outdo all of you," I retorted, and our little group separated amidst jests and laughter.

NEXT: The Scrivener's Tale, or An Incautious Enchantment.