Archive of Our Own

As the next in line for the English throne, Prince Hal, Poins surmised, would have been attracted to a pretty, red-haired, fair-skinned, blue-eyed English rose. While Hal was perfectly happy with a tavern girl upon his knee during a long night of drinking and dicing with Falstaff; when he had some of his father's money, when Hal was so drunk that he was no longer prone to dancing or jumping upon the tables, then the more exotic they were, the more Hal wanted them.

Poins knew exactly the days when Hal had money from his father's coffers in his purse. It was on those times when Hal would walk right past any of the regular company in the house. He would leave, be gone for some time, and come back with a different woman on his arm.

A French woman, sometimes a Spanish woman, sometimes a Moorish woman. Poins had often been surprised by Hal's taste in women; and he especially seemed to favour the French ones. The whores of England's enemy. It was no wonder.

Poins had gone with Hal to the brothel before. The one with the French and Spanish girls; Hal had known madame there. She kissed Hal whenever they'd visited, and, being the Crown Prince, Hal could have his choice of any of the women at any time.

Hal had taken the dark-haired, Gallic-faced French girl up to the room he shared in the tavern with Poins. Hal obviously couldn't bring a whore to the palace. As it was late and all other rooms were occupied, Poins had nowhere else to go.

Besides, Poins had watched Hal fuck tavern women before, and vice versa.

It'd be nothing different. Poins would simply sleep upon the floor.

Poins climbed the wooden steps, his steps lumbering with fatigue. He dragged his hand along the railing, the wood grabbing out at his hand and depositing a splinter within. "Damn," Poins cursed, sucking at the skin between his forefinger and thumb.

Thus distracted, Poins entered the room he shared with Hal to find Hal sat upon a deep, wooden chair in the centre of the room, the French girl in his lap.

Hal's jerkin and boots were on the floor, the red leather catching the glow of the firelight, the fire having been banked low. It should have been cold in the room, the fire dying as it was, but it was rather warm. The girl had lit an oil lamp, likely to make sure that Hal could see her and get his money's worth.

Poins had a vague memory of this one. This woman. She'd been to the tavern before, she'd been with Hal before. She'd been draped over him at some other day and some other time, watching over his shoulder as Hal swept victory over Falstaff at a game of cards or at dice. She would giggle, frequently, and would constantly touch Hal's face and wiggle her fingers through Hal's red-blonde hair. She'd worn a ring, a cabochon ruby.

Beyond all that, she smelt like a lady. She didn't reek of lye and wet like the scullery maids, or of beer like the serving wenches, or mustiness or the sea like the lady of the house with her sailor of a husband. She'd been perfumed with something exotic such that it had often made Poins sneeze.

Poins sat down upon the bedstead, kicking off his own boots. He looked up again and saw that the French woman had tried to take off her dress. Her bodice was loosened a little, but the back too complicated for her to have undone it by herself. Poins knew that Hal, in his cups as he was, had no coordination or ability to untie anything.

Taking pity on the woman, Poins walked behind her, inserted his finger in the loose knot and pulled the tie apart. He inserted his finger again, pulling at the laces, one by one, until she was freed from the brown fabric.

She looked up at him, touched his hand and whispered, "Merci."

Resisting the temptation to touch her newly bared flesh, Poins walked back over to the bed and lowered himself upon it, lying down and pillowing his head with his hands. He closed his eyes, trying not to listen to the sounds of Hal's cursing and grunting, and the woman expressing little love niceties in French.

"When I am king...," Hal said, sounding more than a little in his cups, "I'll no longer be paying for thee to take me upstairs; and aye... aye thou willst have to pay just as dearly for me to fuck thee."

He didn't even know if Hal knew whether Poins was even there. Poins knew the girl spoke only French, he'd seen her struggle with English before when trying to decipher Hal's love talk in the tavern; Poins also knew that Hal had no French. Poins, on the other hand, spoke French and wondered why he couldn't have a French whore to sit upon his lap.

The girl wriggled her body, settling herself deeper into Hal's body. She was still wearing her underskirts, and the bodice now hung loose around her breasts. She'd pulled the shift up and over her head, through her outer clothes, and it now lay in a ghostly, crumpled mess upon the floor. Poins sat up, watching as the girl put a hand through Hal's hair, cooing with the sensation of the soft curls, and then she touched Hal's cheek. Hal smiled a beatific, child-like grin, and nestled into the girl's palm. She said a few lines to him in French.

She had garnered Hal's attention. Grasped him by the cheeks and made him look at her. Said more words in French. He sat there, his eyes watery, panting like a man in the throes of death, staring at the girl like she was the Virgin Mary incarnate upon a holy visit.

Poins took his jerkin off, hanging it from the bedpost. Poins looked back and saw that Hal was still gazing at the girl, utterly gobsmacked, smitten. Hal's hands worked haphazardly over her back, and up through her hair, and down to squeeze her ample arse. She was still talking with him in French.

Poins felt compelled to translate, as if the words floated through his mind in French and out his mouth, automatically, in English.

"She wants for thee to remove her bodice, Harry." Poins poured himself an ale from the bottle into a horn cup that he'd brought up. Poins couldn't control the shaking in his hands, and some of the ale splashed down upon his shirt front. Poins took a long draft, sloshing more, the silence growing.

Hal's hands came off the girl's hips, grasped the edge of her bodice, and lifted it above her head. He held her arms up in that position for a long moment, running his hands up and down her arms. The girl wore nothing beneath, since the shift had been thrown off. Hal's hands moved further down. Poins' hands itched, watching Hal weigh her ample breasts in his hands, rub his thumb over her large, pink nipples, move his hands down her tiny waist; so tiny that Hal could have gripped her finger to finger with both hands if he'd so desired.

Poins' groin twitched at the sound of Hal's keening groan -- like a man wounded. Hal held the girl's breasts in one hand, pushing them together. He groaned again and Poins hadn't noticed until then that Hal's leggings were already pushed down to his ankles and his codpiece discarded to the side.

Hal started breathing heavily, his eyes unfocused, and the more he breathed, the more he panted. The girl said a few more things in French, and moved her hips in a way that made her underskirt rustle. Hal reached up to grasp the girl by the hips, but she pulled away, back over the length of Hal's thighs so she perched upon his spread knees, her own legs wide apart.

Hal reached his hand forward, his thumb perched to make contact with that very inviting, very sensitive, part of her body.

But she slapped his hand away. Hal growled.

The girl put her hand over Hal's mouth, her smile lacivious and her lips swollen and moist. She moved her fingers in a wave over Hal's lips, giggled and said a few more things in French. Hal gave a very idiotic smile, nodded his head, and just said "aye... aye my love."

Poins suddenly found it hard to move. His vision was blurring. His groin ached. He wanted to speak but found it difficult to do so.

The girl talked again.

Poins translated.

"She... she wants for thee to hold fast, and she calls thee, 'my lord.' She says that Englishmen and Frenchmen are the same. They always think they know what's best, what to do to get a truly good fuck, but if my lord would only hold still..." The very notion of what Poins was doing for his royal friend made his head giddy. "If thou wouldst hold still, my lord, she'll... she'll... she'll sit down upon thy erect royal cock and ride thee until my lord abdicates his claim to the throne to her."

"Aah! S'wounds!"

The girl reached beneath her underskirts and moved her hips, back and forth, side to side. Poins found himself walking around to the other side of the room so that he could see Hal's face.

Poins could see Hal breathe through his mouth, his eyes fully glazed over, black where they should be blue, and staring into the nothingness. Hal closed his eyes, licked his lips and bared his teeth. He looked away, toward the door, once again opening his eyes. The girl made a tutting noise and lay her hand against Hal's cheek, drawing him back. She spoke some more.

Poins wasn't sure he could say what she said, in good conscience and in proper manners near a woman. Then again, she was the woman who spoke the words, so did it really matter?

"She says that she wants for thee to keep thine eyes upon her. Keep thine eyes upon her. Isn't she goodly to look upon? Marry, isn't she beautiful? Mark, she says, cast thine eyes upon this."

The girl moved, her arms moving up, the fabric of her skirts rustling. She grasped the hem of Hal's shirt and lifted it up over his head, discarding it behind her back, nearly hitting Poins in the face. She lifted her skirts and Poins watched, his groin in full on pain now, as Hal lowered his gaze. Poins realized, he knew what Hal would have been seeing at the same time that Hal saw it.

The girl moved, her hips working lithely up and down. She spoke again, a few more lines in French.

"Look thee, my lord," Poins said. His voice echoed strangely in his ears, muffled, as if he'd been speaking from outside his earthly form. "Mark, that is thy flesh inside of her. She asks if it looks of a size, my lord? Is it? Look thee upon it. She says you feel larger than that inside of her...." Poins licked his lips, his hand falling upon his own growing erection. "She is tight, is she not? Thou canst feel that, yes, my Prince? My friend? Hal? She is tighter around thyself than thy own hand, tighter than any other wench's mouth. Tighter than a virgin."

"O, God!"

Hal moaned, a loud, unbidden bellow that echoed thorughout the small room, and likely beyond. He sounded as if he'd just been told that his father had died, that one of his brothers was taken in battle; Hal's fists were tight balls at his side; tight until the white showed upon the knuckles, tight until a small trickle of blood fell from within Hal's hand, dripping down on to the floor.

The girl started to move. She'd let go of her skirts, and moved, languidly, up and down, with long, rolling strokes upon Hal's cock. Poins closed his eyes and his ears were filled with the sound of rustling fabric, skin on skin slapping, and Hal's ragged breathing. Poins opened his eyes again. The girl's hair was wet around the hairline from sweat. She raised her arms and pushed back at it, making her breasts perk out. Hal leaned forward and took one in his mouth, sucking intently.

Poins' jaw fell open. He fell backwards against the wall and slid down until he sat upon the floor near the ewer.

No one said anything. The French girl said nothing. But Poins felt compelled to talk.

"How does she feel, my prince? Is her flesh not heated? Is she not tight and wet, yet wet such that she could still be fucked with ease?" Poins coughed, the words and his breath stuck in his throat, the air caught in his lungs. Yet, he found himself talking once again. "Is she not what thou dreams of when at war? All those nights with thy father sleeping upon the battlefields? Is she not what thou thinkest of when in thy bedchamber, alone at night? Wenching and drinking, yes, thou thinkest about those things, too, but this is what thou thinkest of most of all. A French beauty fucking thee until thou cannot talk, until thou can no longer breathe. Until my lord feels as if death will come and snatch him up before his time to rule England."

Poins swallowed, banging his head against the wall, making a sickening, reverberating thud. "And my lord, my prince, that pretty French woman? That is what thou hast now. My lord is buried in't."

The noise stopped. The girl stopped her deep, long strokes. Instead, she'd bounced upon Hal, moving in short, shallow strokes, halfway down, halfway up, all the way down, all the way up, and Hal started gasping for air. Hal's moans and pleas for release cut the silence, and Hal's squeezed his eyes shut. Hal's mouth twisted, his teeth bared in a grimace one would show when faced with sure death by an enemy's blade. Hal looked as if he were in pain, as if he were in agony.

Except, Hal kept mouthing "thou must not stop; thou shall not stop," over and over, occasionally bringing his lips back again with a grimacing, "please, oh, please," followed yet by a long, keening noise that in any other man would have been a girlish whimper.

Poins heard Hal whimper again. Hal turned his face and rubbed his cheek over his shoulder, his mouth open, desperate for release, desperate for that little extra bit of feeling, of sensation that would send him over the edge. The girl was holding him there, almost there, there again, almost there, not quite. Hal gripped the fabric of the girl's skirts, rubbing the fabric between his fingers, continuing to whimper and plead, begging, his mouth open.

Hal grasped the girl by the waist, bellowed, and arched his body off of the chair. Poins groaned; Hal gasped, and turned his face from his shoulder to look at the girl. Hal lifted the girl and slammed her down upon his flesh, groaning with it, and he held her firmly in that place, not allowing her to move, until he gasped again, quieter, and again, even quieter, and yet one more time, even quieter.

Hal, drunk as he was, finally stilled. He released the girl's hips, letting his hands fall limply at his side, hanging off the chair. Poins could see the small half-moon shapes made in Hal's palms by his fingernails. The girl leaned forward and placed a delicate kiss upon each of Hal's closed eyes.

Poins could have sworn he'd heard Hal snore. Like Falstaff.

The girl smiled, drew her finger down Hal's long nose, and stepped off of his lap. She picked her clothing off the floor, including her shift, which had landed right beside Poins' left leg.

She made her exit, quickly and briskly; except she took a moment to glance behind her at the scene in the small, near-dark room. The fire had nearly died, and the cold started to seep through. The girl shivered, and smiled a little smile, not only from the cold but from the scene before her.

Prince Harry, the future king of England, sat slumped in a chair, and his friend Poins, sat erect against the wall, his legs splayed out before him, a patch of dark wetness upon the left side of his leather leggings. The girl smiled, said something more in French, and closed the door behind her.

Poins' eyes were closed. He licked his lips. He heard the girl open the door, and the sounds of the tavern below crept into the room. The boisterous sounds of Falstaff and Bardolph and drinking and the typical "anon anon!" could be heard for a long moment until the door closed.

After, there was silence. Relative silence as Poins listened to the sound of his friend, and future king, snoring and moaning in the chair before him. But in that silence Poins tried to think, tried to make his own drink-addled mind come to the reason why he had just spilt is own seed in his codpiece and leggings, without him even once touching himself.

Just from talking to another man.

"I see thou didst never have need of me, gentlemen," the French girl had said.