This story recounts one of the many conquests of Samson, the most accomplished rakehell of medieval times. Describing our hero requires few words: ÒThere are men. And then there is Samson.Ó If you can picture a man with the charm of Casanova, a physique that would intimidate the Incredible Hulk, and a phallus to put John Holmes to shame, you now know Samson.
For those of you who have not read his erotic memoirs, Samson is not so much a character as a mental condition suffered by Lord Farallon. Farallon is a schizophrenic knight of great abilities whose ambitions are constantly thwarted by his erotic desires that manifest themselves in the alter ego of Samson.
Samson is 350 pounds of solid muscle and monolithic id. He completely dominates Farallon who only makes brief appearances as his nagging conscience. Though feral and impulsive, Samson is honorable. The noble savage sincerely loves women but only can express his feelings through his primal urges. Because his goodwill manifests itself in a covetable talent for pleasuring women into cross-eyed oblivion, many females tolerate his rakish ways and some even consider him a friend.
We now join our hero in Amstelland (Amsterdam) where the penniless paramour plans to participate in an annual jousting tournamentÉ
Samson rode into town late in the afternoon. The city had not seen a battle in centuries but it had a gatehouse to weed out undesirables such as our hero.
"Name," asked the guard, eying the stranger with suspicion as he dismounted his palfrey.
"Thundercock" he answered without batting an eye. He sometimes used that alias when traveling incognito. Favored courtesans also used the name as a sobriquet for his legendary equipment. Samson wore a fake beard and tied his long hair back in a ponytail that was concealed under the hood of his cloak.
"What is the purpose of your visit?"
"I work in the plumbing trade. I came here to lay some pipe."
To Farallon's relief, the bureaucrat did not catch his suggestive remark. He simply rolled his eyes and motioned him through the gates. Samson quickly remounted and galloped away lest the guard have any second thoughts.
While his shoddy disguise got him past the gatehouse, Samson did not know how much longer he could travel undetected in the crowded thoroughfares. Everywhere the familiar faces of past lovers drifted past his gaze. If only they knew ... But surely one of them would recognize the superlative stud behind the beard. Farallon caught him winking at various girls several times but he restrained Samson from calling out their names. A willing wench could be found any night but the tourney came only once a year. Farallon would never forgive him if the magistrate booted them out of town before the joust.
Samson had some lancing ideas of his own but Farallon forced him to make a beeline for the jousting pavilion to scrounge equipment. Like most tournaments, weapons and armor could be rented to contestants on the day before the competition. Although most knights of distinction would have brought their own gear, Samson had pawned it long ago for drink. As he made his was to the city center, Jonah slowed from a gallop to a canter to a trot to a halt. The winding lanes were clogged with layabouts and roustabouts. Street vendors hawked their goods. Beggars shook their cups. Pickpockets studied their marks. Provincials gawked in wonder at the scene. Samson cursed under his breath.
By the time they reached the pavilion, Samson could obtain little more than a spare vambrace, a banner and shield whose respective coats of arms almost matched, and a rusty lance. Worst of all, the quartermaster told him he had to supply his own armor. With not a dozen gold coins to his name, even a used set of chainmail was beyond his means. Fortunately, Amstelland possessed one of the largest marketplaces for military equipment in Europe. A freelance could obtain nearly anything he wanted. However, ten gold coins would barely fetch a helmet. Crossed arms and shaken heads met him at every turn, his offers met with silence or outright laughter.
Unable to procure an affordable suit of mail, his attention began to wander among the desiderata hanging in the stalls. A new saddle blanket for Jonah would be nice. Or, perhaps, a gold bracelet for a favored wench. Roses had just come in season as well. He could certainly part with a few coppers for some flowers. T'was a pity to always meet his lovers empty-handed. If only he did not need to buy that damned armor!
As he walked past IsaacÕs stall, a most intriguing curio caught his eye. Velveteen breeches were hard to come by, especially for a six-and-a-half foot tall barbarian. And that embroidery! Knights and dragons fought in patterned battles of golden lace, the entire melee framed with a sable fringe running up and down the inseams. The garment would have suited a pasha at leisure in his seraglio. In reality, Isaac explained a sideshow giant had sold them off after he quit a traveling circus. The previous owner cleared seven feet. Samson's trunk-thick thighs stretched even the baggiest trousers skintight but the garment fit him like a glove. He would just have to have the waistline taken in a couple inches. Meanwhile, a belt would hold them up just fine. Best of all, the capacious crotch left ample room for his organ to breathe. Tailors did not sew pants for men hung like Samson.
Surely, such an obscure bauble would never fetch a decent price. Nonetheless, Isaac drove a hard bargain. Samson negotiated with him respectfully. Jews never bothered him. They were outsiders just like he was.
"You give usury a bad name. Who would throw away good money on that worthless rag?"
"If you donÕt want it, donÕt buy it. Ten gold ones and I'll throw in a belt."
Hell and damnation! He forgot about the belt. A rope would look ridiculous with such finery. Isaac took out a handsome one with a brass buckle from under the counter. Samson reluctantly dug into his pockets. The purchase would take him down to his last penny but what a dashing figure he would cut for the ladies tomorrow in such flamboyant attire!
Though Farallon assumed Samson had squandered the money on impulse, his decision formed part of a larger scheme he had invented a few minutes earlier. A seasoned litigant in the labyrinthine codes of jousting, Samson knew the Heilbronn Ordinances, followed by most tournament societies of Northern Europe, did not require the wearing of armor. However, few participants would be so foolish as to compete without protection.
However, besides an instinctive taste for risk, Samson had always specialized in offensive tactics and his increased mobility in the field could play a decisive advantage. Save for an adamantine codpiece or a breechclout of wolfhide, he preferred to fight naked in the battlefield. Further, even if he had been able to obtain a suit of armor by some miracle, he would need to hire a smithy to enlarge the confining codpiece. Though the Chronicles never dwelled upon such earthy matters, an itchy pair of balls tested the resolve of even the greatest fighter.
Samson left the market with only a handful of coppers clinking in the silk-lined pockets of his new breeches. His wandering feet soon brought him to the German Quarter. Most called it the "sin district." The rogue called it "home." If a man wanted to drink, hear a ribald song, place a wager, or find female companionship, he had found the right place. The wencher often frequented that precinct and knew the familiar streets.
SamsonÕs feet began to ache. Not a coin for new boots, of course...
"Brilliant!" muttered Farallon, following close on his heels like a stubborn shadow. ÒYou squandered our last pennies on junk. Now how do you plan to pay for the inn tonight?"
Samson figured Farallon would show up sooner or later. His purchase must have infuriated him.
ÒAnd donÕt start babbling about the Heilbronn ordinances. Even if we can still join the tourney, you will get cut to pieces!Ó
Samson did not find much comfort in his willful vulnerability either. The blunted coronel of a lance could not pierce chainmail but it would slice flesh into ribbons. He was running the risks of a genuine battle just to perform in a tourney.
ÒArmor is for sissies!Ó he laughed. ÒA real man can take a hit and keep on fighting.Ó
ÒIf you cannot act like a soldier, canÕt you at least dress like one?
ÒYou know how I feel about armor, Farallon. Neither love nor war are places for clothing.Ó
Farallon sighed in exasperation. They had argued about battlefield attire a million times before. It was futile to complain. They proceeded in silence.
Samson could tell by the setting sun that he had been walking for a very long time. He appreciated FarallonÕs longing for accommodations. They had not enjoyed a decent night of sleep for days. Even the red glow behind the windows of the whorehouses oozed a sense of cozy domesticity. The happy thought of a familiar face leaning out of a window and beckoning him to her bedroom played through his mind. Unfortunately, his disguise concealed his identity rather nicely. Samson paused for a moment before one of the cleaner brothels to reflect upon his prospects.
ÒNo, never.Ó growled Farallon. ÒI will not be humiliated. You promised never to try that act again! Ever!Ó
Samson had given Farallon his word but only did so because the trick never worked anyway. At the moment, however, he had nothing to lose. Twisting his expression into a mask of grief, he boldly approached the door and knocked. The door opened a crack.
"What is your business?" barked the madam.
.... There is more of this story ...