Mixed sword fighting, mixed boxing, 350 pictures 1920x1080 (Full HD), completely CFNM, bloody action.

On the night of 19^th October 1330, there occurred one of the most dramatic events in English history. Armed men, serving young Edward (soon to be Edward III), entered Nottingham Castle via a secret tunnel. Led by Sir William Montagu, and guided by the warden of the castle, William Eland, they were let into the castle by someone inside it, and went on to arrest Sir Roger Mortimer and his mistress, Queen Isabella.

Isabella and Mortimer had been ruling England as Regents ever since they deposed and imprisoned the King, and Isabella’s husband, Edward II. He was subsequently hideously murdered. (I won’t describe it here, but those interested may choose to google it.) Mortimer had to be overpowered before he was arrested, but it is – or was – unclear if this happened before the arrival of the intruders, or afterwards. Similarly, the person who unlocked the door, which barred access to the castle from the tunnel, was not known. Until now, that is.

Thanks to the discovery of a document that has been in the possession of a family named Sutton, we have discovered that the person who both unlocked the door and overpowered Mortimer was Lady Angela Sutton. The document was translated from medieval French (still the language of Royalty and the aristocracy, nearly 300 years after the Norman Conquest) into “Early Modern English” in the 17^th century. This account merely updates the style of language.

Lady Angela’s husband, Sir William, had been executed for taking part in a rebellion against Edward II eight years previously. She had only been fourteen at the time, and was considered blameless. It was thought that she entered a nunnery, but in fact she was taken into the care of Sir Hugh Despenser, a powerful magnate in the Welsh border country, and a “friend” of the King’s.

Despenser was struck by the girl’s wild ways. She was a natural at riding horses and sword play. When she was eighteen, and had grown into a beautiful young woman, he had watched as she successfully fought off an attempted robbery. After that she became his professional ruffian; but that same year Mortimer and Isabella staged their coup. Despenser and King Edward fled to Wales, but Angela was brought into the employment of young Edward – or rather his advisors.

She became his agent: a spy, a hitwoman, and a diplomat. Her beauty and charm persuaded opponents of Edward’s to betray secrets; her riding skills, her swordsmanship and her fists ensured her survival when those opponents discovered who she worked for.

It is no surprise, then, that she played a key role in the coup at Nottingham Castle, when she was now twenty-two. At the time, Mortimer and Isabella were not on friendly terms. When Isabella became ill, and was ordered to stay in bed by her doctors, Mortimer held a tournament to celebrate her illness (as you do). In the words of the 17^th century translation of the document, “At the tournament, did my Lady Angela find employ as a dancer between the jousts”.

These dancing girls were considered a scandal. They were cheerleaders, really, and in the words of an historian, they wore “tight-fitting costumes that showed off their figures”. They were denounced by Priests in sermons. If there was one thing Mortimer preferred to tournaments, it was the dancing girls, and it was easy enough for Angela to become the one who served Mortimer with his wine. He had a joust, which he won (his opponent thought it would be a good idea if this happened). When Lady Angela brought him his wine, she decided on a little flattery:

“My Lord, you did joust magnificently! You were so…so manly,” she concluded, giving him a sidelong look.

“My sweeting,” he replied, “I much admired your dance. You look delightful in your costume.”

“Does my Lord think so?” she pouted. I believe it makes me look too big… here.” She turned away and pushed her bottom towards him.

He beckoned to her, so he could whisper in her ear:

“If you would come with me to the castle, and perhaps dance for me, I will pay you a huge sum of money.”

“My Lord,” she countered, “I do not ask for money. I am not a whore, such as would be obtained in Gropecunt Lane [a common medieval name for a red-light district, which those interested may again like to google]. But I would ask for something else,” she concluded, beckoning to Mortimer in turn so that she could whisper: “You looked so handsome in your amour, and so thrilling in combat, that I desire to see you naked.”

Off to the castle then! On their way, in the gathering dusk, they saw two “drunks” that Angela recognised as Edward’s men; another one tried to beg from Mortimer. Not wanting to be seen entering the castle with her, he chose to use the tunnel. There were a lot of dead ends in the caves at the foot of the castle (where the pub, “Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem” now stands), but in the end Mortimer eventually found the right one.

As you would expect, it was pitch black in the tunnel, which Angela played up to heroically:

“My Lord, I am so frightened in this dark, may I hold onto you?” She fumbled artfully around his body, giggling: “My LORD, I did not realise you had brought your lance with you!”

Needless to say, Mortimer was as randy as a bull by the time they got to the locked door. He gave a coded knock on it, and a guard unlocked it, handing Mortimer the large key immediately afterwards. The guard, noted Angela, was the largest man she had ever seen. Somehow, she was going to have to get rid of him to unlock the door.

“I am not to be disturbed,” Mortimer instructed him, handing him a coin, before leading Angela along a passage towards his private chamber. Another guard, armed with a crossbow, marched up and down the passage, between the arrow slits in the wall facing the outside, through which he peered to make sure there were no intruders. That’s two now to dispose of, she thought.

Inside the chamber, he fastened the key down onto a wall table with straps, and started to tear his clothes off while she danced for him. As she danced, she noticed a sword on the table beside the key, and another on a wall shelf. She stretched her body for him as she improvised a dance routine, flitting between the dainty and ladylike and the brazen. She pointed her breasts at him, then bent herself away from him to show off the perfect semi-globes of her buttocks.

“Stay still, you dancing minx!” Mortimer roared, when he could bear the teasing no longer, “I wish to tear that wicked costume off you –”

“My Lord!” giggled Angela, as cleverly evasive as would be expected from someone so skilled at dancing.

After luring him away from the table, she then ran to it, and picked up the rapier, gesturing to him to get the other one.

“What devilry is this?” he demanded, his mood transformed to suspicion.

“Does my Lord not know that a little combat before love making heightens the pleasure of it afterwards?”

“No, I do not know that,” he answered angrily, picking up the rapier. “You have no right to challenge me! You are a common dancing girl, and I am the Lord here! Moreover, you are only a woman! Do you wish to insult me?”

“I would love to insult you, Sir Roger,” she answered insolently.

“How dare you!” he bellowed. Come with me, and after I have made you beg for mercy, with my blade at your throat, I will have you publicly flogged!”

In the private yard outside the chamber, Mortimer raised his sword at Angela and declared, “En garde!”

Angela was under orders not to kill him, but to disable him so he could be arrested. Young Edward had no desire to make him a martyr, having seen how his father became venerated after his murder – and even he might be displeased with her if she accidentally killed him. But it meant she had to fight defensively, and look only to wound him.

At the first clash of steel, they both had the same thought: “(S)he’s strong!” Mortimer came close to knocking her sword from her hand at his second stroke, banging her sword down, so that a jarring sensation went from it along her arm. Laughing at the point scored, he lunged; but Angela parried, surprising him.

“You are no mere dancing girl,” he hissed, as their blades rang against each other.

“My Lord learns quickly,” she parried verbally, sweeping her sword over his head.

Mortimer ducked, and nearly got her with another lunge. She just managed to escape it, leaning dangerously backwards on one leg, and he laughed at his second point scored. She feinted a lunge in reply, and he warded it off contemptuously. His sword was almost vertical, its point on the ground in a perfect defence against her strike.

“You’ll have to do better that that,” he gloated.

“Very well,” she replied, swinging her left fist into his neck. It was a hefty blow, and completely surprised Mortimer, not least through its strength.

“Aggh, where did you learn such lowly tactics?” he asked, clutching his neck with his free hand, and bringing his blade to meet hers.

“Fighting your men, Sir Roger,” she answered, confidently ringing her sword with his. “I was a member of Sir Hugh Despenser’s household, bordering your lands.”

“That perverted viper! There was no depravity that he was not capable of.”

“He did not arrange to have the King unspeakably murdered.”

“It’s a lie!” yelled Mortimer, meeting her blade backhanded. “There is no proof.”

“But the suspicion will always remain.” (She was right there.)

The two figures wove their way through the outer buildings, their swords clanging as they snarled their mutual loathing. Mortimer calculated that he had two advantages: greater strength, and knowledge of the castle. If he could force her into retreat, she would not know where she was going, and would eventually have to look round. Otherwise she could find herself against a wall, or fall backwards over an obstruction.

He met Angela’s sword, broadside on, and began to push. She retreated a step, and sensed his tactic. It was time for a bit more dirt, she decided, and high kicked him. One elegant, stylish, lady’s boot smacked into his neck in the same place where her punch had struck a little earlier. Mortimer staggered to his right, momentarily disabled by the blow, and Angela’s sword sliced deeply into that arm. Involuntarily, he let out a shout of pain.

“My Lord, my Lord?” Mortimer, feeling faint and sick, recognised the voice of the garrison sergeant, discreetly out of sight.

“What is it, damn you?”

“My Lord, do you require assistance?”

“No! I will flog any man who comes to my aid!”

“My Lord is going to do a lot of flogging,” laughed Angela, parrying a feeble stroke from him, and kicking him in the balls. “Will I be the first, I wonder?”

Mortimer flopped forward, and would probably have sunk to the ground, if she hadn’t seized his right wrist. She encircled his neck with her sword, and allowed it to hover against his skin, while she whispered, reminding him of his pledge to hold his blade to her throat. Then she cut his cheek.

Angela briefly arm locked him, before forcing him to his knees. Kneeling behind, she toyed with him, holding the blade at his throat, to reinforce her dominance. Then she put him on his back.

“Wasn’t this where you wanted to be, but half an hour ago?” she asked, snaking her thighs around his neck, and beginning to squeeze.

Lying crossways to him, and balancing on her left hand, she let the head scissor do its work. He had lost a lot of blood, and taken other injuries, so she calculated it wouldn’t take much for him to pass out. She was right, and enjoyed the momentary elation of triumph as he grunted, and flopped for the second time.

It was all going to plan. Angela retraced her steps to Mortimer’s private chamber, already thinking about how she would dispose of the giant and the crossbowman in the passage. She went to put her sword down on the wall table, and then unstrap the key to unlock the tunnel door …

“Treachery!”

Mortimer? How the hell had he recovered so quickly? His booming voice made her jump, and the sword clattered to the floor, out of reach. She barely had time to turn round, to rely on the only defence that was open to her.

(To describe the ensuing fight between Mortimer and Angela, I think it enhances the atmosphere of it to use the relevant extract from the document. It was reputedly written by someone who knew them both, and I am grateful to the Sutton family for their permission to reproduce it here. It has a charm to it, because the chronicler makes no attempt to be impartial: to him Sir Roger is a villain, and Lady Angela a heroine.)

“Faced with this unexpected crisis, my Lady Angela did not hesitate. The valiant lady did punch Sir Roger mightily in his face. Her fist smote his eye so hard that it did remain black for several days! This did shock Sir Roger, and for a moment he knew not how to respond; and a moment was all someone as resourceful as my Lady Angela needed! For she did now plunge her other fist into his stomach.

“Sir Roger coughed and stooped, so my Lady Angela did strike him up and under his chin. He took some steps back, else he must have fallen over with the blow. She pursued him, and did punch him straight as a lance upon his chin. Sir Roger retreated further, but that courageous lady now did smite her unworthy opponent in a half-circle punch, upon his jaw. Then she did attack him from under his chin once more.

“It was so funny! My Lady Angela’s assault did make him seem drunk! All she needed to do was to punch him one more time to bring him to the floor. For this my lady did choose to hit him with a straight punch upon his chin again, but with the opposite fist to the previous time. Her punch did meet him in the manner of a battering ram, and the effect was likewise. Sir Roger’s feet did leave the floor, and that heroic lady watched as her wretched opponent fell upon his back.

“Knowing Sir Roger’s unnatural ability to recover speedily, my Lady Angela did not rush to fetch the key, but stood ready to resume the fight. Certainly, her disgraced opponent stirred fast, muttering about a ‘witch with the Devil’s strength’, and standing up for more combat. At such moment did that spirited lady aim a perfect punch at his mouth. It did remain as bruised and swollen for as many days afterwards as his eye was black.

“That determined lady now did smite Sir Roger’s cheek and jaw, and it almost sent her ignoble opponent once more upon his back. His leg nearest her did leave the floor, and he needed to hop to remain stood, and my Lady did laugh at his confusion. This she now compounded with a strike upon his chin and jaw. It was another up and under punch, which also did swing across his face in its upward trajectory.

“My Lady Angela was able to choose her targets, and she did concentrate upon her base opponent’s face. One fist did assault his eye, the other did assail his ear. Sir Roger did appear to be dreaming. This female champion had time to prepare her last punch (as she judged it). She made steady her right fist, and then it did meet his chin in her favourite up and under blow. It was delivered with such force that Sir Roger did appear to fly before he hit the floor!

The dutiful lady did make haste to obtain the key, and she did run to the table to collect it. She undid the leather straps, and went to pick it up. But Sir Roger, once more quickly regaining his senses, knew that if she unlocked the door to the tunnel (if she managed to dispose of the guards in the passage) it would bring disaster to his person. He did surprise her at the table, and seized her by her shoulders, turning her round. My Lady Angela had but one option for defence, for the brute held her so close. She brought her knee up so hard into his genitals that it did render him incapable of further pursuit.

“The worthy lady now did hurry to the chamber doorway. There she did turn round to observe the stricken man who lay upon the floor, twitching with pain, and clutching his genitals.

“’My Lord, you did fight magnificently,’ she did tell him, ironically recalling that which she had said at the tournament. ‘You were so…so manly!’”

Gloating was all very well, she reminded herself, but she still had the two guards to contend with. She passed the first arrow slit, and knew that the crossbowman would march this far on his patrol. There was a handy stretch of wall at right angles to the passage, so she flattened herself against it and waited.

The guard had been doing this job too long. He mechanically marched beyond her, looking straight ahead, and checked the crossbow was primed, as he always did. Angela swiftly and silently moved behind him, then struck. In three sudden, lethal moves, she grabbed his throat, brought him to the floor, and broke his neck. Armed with the crossbow, she went to find the giant.

He stood in what must be his permanent place, a few paces from the secret door, sideways on to Angela. She steadied the crossbow, and took aim at his neck. She knew there would be a moment when he saw her, because she meant to hit him in the throat, but it was a gamble she had to take. She moved out from her hiding place, the guard saw her, and she fired. The bolt embedded itself in his throat, instantly killing him.

She reached the door, unlocked it, and the King’s men came streaming into the passage. Angela ordered them to arrest Mortimer and overpower the tiny, peacetime garrison, and went to find Edward. He was outside with a knot of soldiers, who dutifully looked the other way at her approach. (His infatuation with her was notorious.)

“My dear, your bravery has secured my Kingdom,” he told her, going down on one knee and kissing her hand.

*****

Two days later, King Edward III and Mortimer were strolling in the castle grounds, accompanied by two guards, and enjoying the last of that year’s blackberries (such was the curious nature of medieval chivalry). They looked up as they heard a horse at the trot, and saw a familiar figure riding it. The rider drew up level with them, and reined the horse in.

“Ah, my Lady Angela,” the King said to Mortimer. “There’s more to this lady than” – he glanced at Mortimer’s battered face – “meets the eye, Sir Roger.”

That man, knowing that imprisonment, death, and possibly torture awaited him, and believing he had nothing to lose, replied:

“Fuck off.”

“Seize him!” the furious King ordered the guards. “Bend him down and make him kiss the lady’s boot in apology for using foul language in her presence. My lady Angela?”

“Sire?”

“Be so good as to teach this scoundrel the proper way to behave to a lady.”

“Very good, Sire. Guards!”

“Ma’am?”

“Take this piece of offal to the dungeon, chain him, and wait for me.”

“Oh, and guards?” (This was from the King.)

“Sire?”

“See that my Lady Angela has a good chair in the dungeon, and Malmsey wine to drink.”

“Oh, Sire!” that young woman declared, “You remember my taste for Malmsey wine!”

“Such matters are engraved in my memory, as is your beauty,” he replied gravely.

“Oh Sire, you do make a poor girl blush,” she giggled. (Mortimer and the guards looked at each other as if they were about to be sick.)

*****

“Strip him,” Angela whispered to the guards, once they were out of earshot of the King. He thought she was a “nice girl”, and she wanted to keep it that way. A coin each for them helped immensely.

“Well, Sir Roger,” Angela surveyed the naked, chained man in front of her in the dungeon. “I have some news for you; indeed it was news to me until the guards told me. Your son is here, and is begging us to release you. In truth, I don’t know what to do with you, yet. So I will go to see your son now, and perhaps decide afterwards.

“Richard? Please, do him no harm. Do it to me instead.”

“I? Harm someone? I am but a girl!”

“Please. He is only eighteen, and a squire [an apprentice knight]. He lives an austere life, in training to become a knight. His days are spent in rigorous activities – combat training and tests of endurance – and at nights he sleeps in a monastery. He knows nothing of women. His life must remain this way, until he is accepted into a knightly order. He is innocent, and must remain uncorrupted by women.”

“But I love corrupting innocent young men!”

“’Oh Sire, you do make a poor girl blush,’” he mimicked her, derisively.

“I can play many parts, Sir Roger, and people believe them when I need them to. If you remember, you believed I was a dancing girl.”

“I swear I will never hold another tournament,” Mortimer declared grimly.

“You will never be in a position to, Sir Roger.”