Golden Goddess and Bloody Times/Of Bondlings and Blesh: June 2006

Saturday, June 24, 2006

Of Bondlings and Blesh Ch 6

Chapter 6

A sharp tug on my chains had me stumbling forward again – this time careful to avoid the mooring lines. Passing the rear end of the craft, there was a hissing and rattling – the sound of an idling steam engine. Behind the first boat, was a second one. Beyond that, I could see the dim shape of locks and hear water splashing through ill-fitting or badly repaired gates.

The awning of the rear boat was folded back and the girl ahead of me was climbing through the dark aperture – in the process, she tugged sharply on my chains and I hastened to follow her. The gunwale was unexpectedly slippery and I caught myself painfully on the left knee. Then I was in the hold, groping through the blackness and gulping air that smelt like a drain. The girl behind me, evidently losing her footing, kicked me just above the curve of my bottom.

As the rest of the captives clambered into the hold, I received several more blows from girls struggling in the darkness. To judge from the cries of my fellows, I was not the only one to be hit – nor were my injuries the most painful. Once we were all aboard, the squeals of pain turned to articulate complaints. Then a brief flash of light reduced us to silence.

In the sudden quiet I heard Lady Isobel’s voice: “Hoi there! The hold stinks! A couple of you men – pull back the awning and let in a bit of air.”

I didn’t expect them to take any notice of her – but, a few moments later, two grunting pirates started to roll up the heavy waxed canvas. As they did so, the moon and stars appeared above our heads. The cool night breeze began to waft away the stink. Lady Isobel climbed aboard with lantern in one hand and whip in the other.

Pirates were striking the mooring pins and coiling ropes. The steam engine of the boat in front chugged into life. With a faint shudder, we moved out into midstream. Lady Isobel hung her lantern from a post that had supported the awning.

“It’s my job,” she said, “to turn you into slaves. We can do it the painful way, if you cooperate and do as you’re told – or we can do it the wishing you’d never been born way, if you give me trouble. The first step is to get you out of your clothes and into harness. And to begin with an act of kindness, I will first attend to the girl who took the ducking – step forward!”

A young woman in dripping clothes approached Lady Isobel as closely as the chains allowed. My former slave took a key on a chain from about her neck and unlocked the girl’s manacles. At a word of command, the bondling stripped – obviously eager to be out of her wet things. That done, our trainer selected harness, anklets and bracelets from a pile that, in the shadows, I hadn’t previously noticed.

Once the first of us was harnessed, she was given a towel and immediately put it to use. Then Lady Isobel called the second girl and repeated the procedure, and so things continued. Once in harness, each of us folded her clothes neatly and laid them on top of a chest. Whenever a fresh slave was tardy or clumsy, she received several clearly pains flicks from the whip.

I was the last to be called – and had begun to wonder whether she intended to harness me at all. No other girls were chained now, and the weight of the entire tangle of metal hanging from my wrists made it difficult to move. My slowness was met with three or four extremely painful lashes. I smiled – it felt like another game of mistress and slave, all the more so because the flashing lights had left me with the expectation of rescue.

“Wipe that smile off your face – this is reality, not a game!” Lady Isobel said, applying her whip with extra force. “Or do you think that the lamp signals will bring your daddy to the rescue? Well – is that what you think? Answer, girl!”

“No… no, mistress,” I lied.

“Don’t lie to me!” The words were accompanied by yet more furious strokes of her whip. “The truth, now!”

“Yes, mistress. That is what I think.”

“One of the lessons I will teach you,” she continued, no longer applying the whip, “is that a slave never lies to her mistress. Neither does a mistress lie to a slave – it is beneath her dignity to do so. So, when I tell you that you won’t be rescued, you may believe it. Well – do you believe me?”

“Yes, mistress,” I whispered, choking back a sob – for suddenly I did believe.

“Louder slave!”

“Yes, mistress – I believe you.”

“Good! You were not the only one to see the signal lamps. I saw them, the Duke saw them, our brave captain saw them. Do you think we’re blind?”

“No, mistress.”

“Or stupid?”

“No, mistress.”

“The signals have caused the captain a lot of lost time and extra trouble. He was going to take you straight to market in Ail’s Bury. Now he’ll have to go round a longer way. Do you think he’ll be pleased about that?”

“No, mistress.”

“No, mistress – damn right he isn’t. You’d better stay out of his way. Now, present your wrists, girl. Or do you want more kisses from my leather friend?”

“No, mistress.”

I held out my wrists as well as I could for the weight of the chains. Lady Isobel turned her key and the right hand manacle fell away. I cried in pain as the burden of the chains fell solely on my left wrist. She smiled and paused for three or four heartbeats before reaching to support my left hand, and unlock the second manacle.

As the chains fell to the deck with a loud clatter, an enormous sense of relief swept over me. I grasped my left wrist, squeezed and rubbed it. Slowly, circulation was returning to my hand and – as it did so – pins and needles shot through my fingers. Then – much more painfully – the whip curled over my flank to my back.

“Slave! What do you think you’re doing?”

“Sorry, mistress – I was trying to massage the blood back into my hand.”

“I will tell you if and when you can indulge yourself. You do what you are told, when you are told, and you don’t pamper yourself. Do you understand?”

“Yes, mistress.”

“I hope so. I’m happy enough to whip any of you – that’s my job. But I don’t want to wear myself out. I’ll say this just once: strip!”

I started to undress. Aware of how my body had aroused Jenna’s lust, I rather enjoyed doing it. A sense of get a load of this girls filled me. Aware that the thought made me smile, I hastily recomposed my features before Lady Isobel could wipe it from face.

“Dirty cow!” the words cut into my striptease. “You’ve wet yourself! Well – you can do the washing.”

Someone giggled. Turning sharply, Lady Isobel silenced the mirth with her whip. For all of that, I felt deeply ashamed. I finished undressing and placed my folded my clothes on to the chest without desire for anyone to look at me.

The harnessing procedure was now familiar, from my games. The bracelets and anklets were heavier and less well made than those Jenna used. The harness was also heavier – additionally, the leather was less well finished and a lot less comfortable. I was, and now felt like, a real slave – not a lady playing the role for kicks.

“Good,” Lady Isobel said. “That’s all of you harnessed. It remains to name, mark and register.”

A sick feeling arose within me – and I am sure that I was not alone in that. Mark? – did she mean to brand us? This had had not previously entered my calculations, based as they were on my games with Jenna. Of course, there would be no need for us to visit the trimmer[1] like slave boys – but the idea of branding terrified me.

With a few efficient whip flicks, Lady Isobel set a couple of girls to lighting and tending a small brazier. Its smell blended unpleasantly with the lingering stink of the hold. She produced and set out what was needed for the task in hand: a registration book[2] with a pen with which to write; a padded plug on which the slaves could bite; a branding iron with a box of metal slugs to set in its head and wooden handled tweezers with which to set them when the iron was hot. I crouched on the floor, trembling in fear.

She consulted the registration book, and scrutinised the girl who had fallen into the canal, before setting slugs for the first brand. I recognised these actions – checking the registration number and selecting the slave’s name. Next, Lady Isobel spat into the brazier and, evidently satisfied with the hiss, put the iron into the glowing charcoal. I was trying not to look, but couldn’t prevent myself.

“Right,” she announced at last, “I am almost ready to name, mark and register. I will take you in the order I did the harnessing. The first of you will be Slippa, in honour of your slipping into the cut. Come girl, sit on the chest with your right leg braced against the post.”

With only a second’s hesitation, Slippa took her seat on the chest and braced her right leg against a post designed to support the awning. Lady Isobel nodded approval before checking the condition of the iron. Obviously dissatisfied, she returned it to the brazier and placed the padded plug in Slippa’s mouth. A few minutes later, she looked at the iron once more, and this time smiled.

The branding itself took but a moment. Slippa’s scream was loud in spite of the padded plug. The hold smelt of charred flesh. Lady Isobel examined her handiwork and seemed pleased. She wrote Slippa’s name and number into the registration book before resetting the slugs with the wooden handled tweezers and returning the iron to the brazier.

“Right – next girl – you will be Spanquibelle because you have a nice bum. Take your position and brace your right leg against the post.”

Spanquibelle was disinclined to obey, having witnessed Slippa’s pain. However, a series of furious lashes had her reconsidering her attitude. After that, the branding continued smoothly, with no slave showing more than token resistance. Finally, my turn arrived.

“Very well – last slave – you are Tuerqui. Into position and brace your right leg.”

My legs felt as though they had turned to jelly, but – somehow – I managed to step to the chest, take my seat on its unyielding surface and brace my leg against the post. Lady Isobel placed the plug – soggy with my fellow slaves’ saliva – into my mouth. There followed what seemed a very long pause, but was probably only a few seconds. Then searing pain – worse than I imagined it could be.

Looking at my injured thigh, I saw that it was now neatly marked with Cap’n Gentle’s sign, the registration number 1207 and the name Tuerqui. In my moment of pain I had passed from being Princess Margaret of the Blood Victoria to being Tuerqui, slave 1207 in Cap’n Gentle’s register. Tears rolled down my cheeks, were salty in my mouth – mourning, perhaps, the person who had ceased to be. The last lingering sense that this might be a game had passed.

Each of us in the hold now had a new name and a new identity. Inqui, my slave of the early evening, now had personage and was Lady Isobel. The rest of us were persons no more and were marked with our slave names. A vacant-looking girl was now Fluffi, a blonde with large breasts was Fuquibelle, Heliotrope had become Bifi and Carlotta was Bouche.

Lady Isobel was barking orders: “Fuquibelle, Chit – you’re to prepare a meal for the jolly pirate boys. The rest of you, apart from Tuerqui, are to clean the hold. There are mops and scrubbing brushes in a cubby hole just ahead of the forward bulkhead. There’s a dipper by the cratch…”

I expected to be assigned an especially vile task, but was pleasantly surprised when she ordered me to brush her hair. At first, I stood behind Lady Isobel as I brushed. It reminded me of the services Inqui had regularly performed for me. When she told me to sit on her lap to continue, I could not help thinking of the slave games with Jenna, although painfully aware that this was nothing of the kind.

My thoughts of Jenna were reinforced when Lady Isobel started to fondle me, as I worked. This was my first unambiguous sign that she found me attractive. I had a strong impulse to kiss her. Eventually, I could resist no longer and, expecting a whipping for my presumption, I pressed my lips to hers.

“How do you expect me to react?” she asked.

“With the whip, mistress.”

“Yes – and so I should, but – as it pleased me – I’ll let it pass. You make a pretty slave, and I look forward to bedding you. I made a good job of your brand – it’s very beautiful – and makes you more beautiful than ever.”

I gazed down at my thigh with new feelings. The mark was beautiful, and a pride in my slavery surged through me for the first time. Turning to look into my mistress’ eyes, love also started to blossom within me. She had not made a good slave, but personage suited her and she certainly had the makings of a fine mistress.

So passed the remainder of the evening. I performed the office of personal slave while the others laboured on domestic chores. Occasionally, Lady Isobel pushed me aside to attend to the discipline of one or more of my fellow bondlings. Even when seemingly sinking into bliss, she was attentive to the slightest fault.

At last it was almost time for us to sleep. Bifi, Bouche and Slippa rolled the awning back into place. After the thorough cleaning, the hold smelt comparatively sweet. A comfortable bed was prepared for Lady Isobel, blankets placed on the deck for the slaves.

“No time to prepare swill[3] tonight,” our mistress said. “We’ll have boat’s biscuit before we settle.”

She handed us pieces of something that looked almost like shortbread. Mine proved chewy, a little gritty and not in the least sweet. In fact, it had very little flavour of any sort. For all of that, I devoured it enthusiastically – I’d been seized before dinner, was by now very hungry, fortunately the biscuit was filling.

Once we had eaten, Lady Isobel commanded me to share her bed. I was delighted to obey, in spite of nervousness that I would arouse the jealousy of my fellow slaves on being granted such favour by our mistress. She proved a savage beast between the sheets. My body received bites and scratches, but everything we did was exquisite and I gave myself to her in unconditional love.

Through the much of the night, the steam engine chugged its soothing rhythm, growing louder for a span in what I believe to have been a tunnel – putting miles between us and Watt’s Ford Gap. In the grey light of dawn, Lady Isobel arose from our bed and soon had the slaves scurrying about their business – me included. My early emergence from under the blankets brought home to me, once more, that my slavery was no longer a game. Our mistress set me, Fuquibelle and Fluffi to folding back the awning.

The waxed sheet was very heavy, and I broke a nail as I lifted it. Fuquibelle deliberately tripped me as I tried to concentrate more fully on the task at hand. I fell heavily into the hold – adding extra bruises to my collection. As I lay on the deck feeling a little dazed, Lady Isobel’s whip found its mark across my back.

“Stop fooling about, and shift that awning,” she said, giving me several more measured strokes.

“Who’s mistress’ pet now?” Fuquibelle whispered as I returned to work.

We were at the top of a flight of locks and the pirates were busy opening the first of the gates. The smell of their breakfast cooking – eggs and bacon I thought – filled the air. A string of ponies were being untethered from the motor boat. I realised that I was hungry after my night of pleasuring our mistress – hungrier still for the physical labour with the awning – and wondered what my breakfast would be like.

Having been hoping for the unlikely treat of eggs and bacon, I was sorely disappointed. I queued with the other slaves, chipped bowl in hand, while Bifi served slop from a large pan. As she ladled the muck into my bowl, I looked at it dubiously. The stuff was an unpleasant-looking dark red colour and smelt worse than it looked.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Slave swill – what did you expect?”

I took the bowl and sat on the deck, with my back to an awning pole, next to a girl called Leggi. Smiling at her, I was surprised when she smiled back. Bracing myself, I took my first sip of the swill. It tasted at least as bad as it smelt.

“Ooh,” I whispered to Leggi, “that’s nasty.”

“So is mine, but we’ll regret it if we don’t eat. I think it’s a mistake to sip the muck – better to take big mouthfuls. That seems to kill the taste a bit.”

She was right about our regretting it if we didn’t eat, I had no doubt – the day was sure to be a hard one. The idea of taking a lot of swill at a gulp seemed more doubtful, but I closed my eyes, tilted back my head, and poured it into my mouth. I must have overdone it because I started to choke. Leggi slapped me on the back, and we both dissolved into giggles.

“I didn’t say to down it in one!”

Leggi reached out her hand, and I took it. I had the sense of her being my first real friend – the concerns of personage having previously formed a barrier between me and those I might have befriended. With this came my first sense that enslavement was in some wise a liberation. Barely was the last of the swill down my throat when Lady Isobel set us to work – in so far as there is freedom in slavery, it is of a peculiar kind.

As my first task after breakfast, I joined the slaves helping the pirates negotiate the locks. There were six lock chambers with a little water between each and the next. Our duties were chiefly to haul the boats into and out of the locks, with some work in opening and closing gates. The pirates turned spindles with windlasses – something they did not entrust to slaves.

As I worked, I had my first encounter with the loafers whom the pirates termed gongoozlers. These idle fellows – for all were men – took their ease while watching us negotiate the locks. I hated their insolent stares, but hated even more that occasionally one of them would goose a slave – a bold move, as the Cap’n clearly disliked them. I was sure that he deliberately manoeuvred the ropes so as to duck spectators – and he was much pleased when one of them tripped and took a wetting.

At the bottom lock, one of the gongoozlers cheered as Lady Isobel unceremoniously urged us back into the hold. Cap’n Gentle obviously took this amiss, for he shied a stone at the wretch with unerring accuracy. The loafer howled, clutching his forehead with blood dribbling between his fingers. Then a sharp whip lash reminded me that I wasn’t there to gawp.

Back on board, Lady Isobel set me to washing the clothes we bondlings had worn the night before. Unfamiliar with the task, it was slow and difficult work – but our mistress was swift to correct my errors and I was quick to learn. To my chagrin, I found that I was not the only one to have wet herself, in spite of having been the only slave to be reprimanded for it. Once garments were clean to the satisfaction of Lady Isobel’s watchful eye, I hung them to dry on a line strung between awning posts.

I had almost finished the washing when Lady Isobel decided that it was time for our first lesson in the application of slave cosmetics. At first I welcomed this break from my labour. Dealing with pots of eye, lip and nipple colour took a lot less energy than the awning, locks or wet clothes. However, the fine points of make up were emphasised with the whip – and, quite soon, I’d have preferred to return to my work.

The lesson was interrupted with a bump as the boats were pulled in to the towpath. Shouted commands had us scurrying from the hold. We were at the foot of another flight of locks. As an initial task, Leggi and I were set to untether the ponies from the motor boat – and it was a pleasure to work with my new friend.

This time we were going uphill, which I expected to create extra work, but – to my surprise – it didn’t. However, these locks were much narrower than the previous flight – and that did cause extra trouble, delay and labour. The two boats had gone through the wide locks side by side – so that each had to be filled and emptied only once. Here, there was space for only one boat at a time, so that many tasks were doubled.

After the fourth lock, we paused for lunch. The pirates and Lady Isobel dined upon cold roast fowl. We slaves took our chipped bowls to queue for cold swill. It proved even less palatable than it had been hot at breakfast, but I forced it down.

During the afternoon, we worked through another five locks, bringing us to a place the pirates called Mars Town Doles. There was no sign of a town, but the place seemed more than sufficiently dolorous. However, my spirits lifted when, with a deft flick of a rope, the Cap’n precipitated a gongoozler into a full lock. The loafer proved unable to swim and, as he drowned, the Cap’n laughed so hard that he wet himself.

At the second Mars Town Doles lock, there were no loafers to watch our progress. Instead, we were greeted by half a dozen men in mail, bows at the ready. Briefly, I formed the wild idea that they might be my father’s guards, come to rescue me. However, it was soon clear that although they meant to delay the pirates’ progress, they did not mean to engage them in combat.

The pirates moored above the lock and stared sullenly at the guards. Cap’n Gentle hurried into his cabin to change his breeches – perhaps he did not care to negotiate in wet trousers. Afterwards, the Cap’n spoke at length with a swordsman who was clearly the troops’ captain[4]. None of we slaves were able to hear anything that passed between them.

While the discussions continued, Lady Isobel sent me to forage for useful plants with two other girls – the buxom Busti and the less well endowed Raiqu. The armoured guards seemed menacing and I was, at first, glad to be away from them. But as we started to pick the plants, I felt extremely vulnerable in harness with black-rimmed eyes, scarlet lips and crimson nipples. I found myself wishing that we had some protection, but Raiqu clearly felt otherwise.

“You know, maybe we could run away – there’s no one watching us.”

“Oh yeah,” Busti replied, “a long way we’d get – ’arnessed and marked as slaves. Maybe we’d be picked up be peckerdilloes[5]. I’d rather stay with the Cap’n, ’er ladyship and ’er whip.”

“You said it, Busti,” I agreed.

I considered eating some of the plants we were picking. One consideration that made me hesitate was that I would certainly be punished, if caught. Even more persuasively, I wasn’t sure that the plants were edible. Lady Isobel had shown us pictures of those we were to gather, but not told us whether they were to flavour a stew or poison arrow heads.

My sense of vulnerability escalated as a group of youths gathered to gawp at us. When they rushed in our direction, emitting uncouth whoops, I feared that we would be raped – and no doubt we would have been had not the Cap’n commanded such fear. Instead, after I’d been pushed to the ground, one of the rowdies sat on my stomach. Mouthing obscenities, he fingered my body and masturbated.

Afterwards, the youths ran away laughing. We picked ourselves up and brushed as much dirt as we could from our bodies. Wiping away the youths’ semen smeared our nipple colour. I had a sense of deep defilement.

Returning to the boats, Cap’n Gentle was now talking to a fop in a broad brimmed hat decorated with green and scarlet plumes. Lady Isobel was angry that we had returned with fewer plants than she expected – and by our dirty, smeared and tousled condition. We were punished accordingly. It didn’t seem worth trying to offer an excuse in mitigation.

Set back to work, I found Cap’n Gentle’s urine-soaked breeches added to my washing. Quite apart from the piss, the garments were unutterably filthy. Washing them was the most unpleasant work I had so far undertaken. I hoped that our mistress would show me some favour after this nasty job, but she failed to do so.

That night, Lady Isobel took Fuquibelle to her bed, whilst I – and the rest of my fellow bondlings – curled up on the deck planks with a couple of rough blankets apiece. The quiet of the night was broken by creakings of the bed, and by giggling and groaning. I felt horribly jealous.

It was hard to sleep – partly because of my physical discomfort, partly because of jealousy and self doubt. My breasts were smaller than Busti’s, I was less slim than Raiqu and less athletic than Bifi. I seemed the least attractive slave on the boat. Tears started to flow – then a warm body pressed close to mine and someone took my hand – the comforting presence of Leggi – I smiled in the darkness.

[1] Trimmer – one entrusted with the task of castrating male slaves. Normally, the entire genitals were excised, but practices in this regard varied a great deal at this time. In Lundin and Essex, for example, all male slaves had their entire genitals removed. In the Meadow Lands, castration was often less complete. In Scotia Minor, coupling with slaves was considered a sexual perversion so some male slaves remained intact for purposes of stud. In Surrey, some slave boys were kept intact for the sexual pleasure of persons of both sexes. Within the next few generations all of this was to change radically as the development of gynozoa rendered males unnecessary and subsequently uncommon.

[2] At this time, it was common practice for slavers to keep their own registers. If the slaves were to be sold in Surrey, the contents of the register had to be passed on to the Central Slave Registry of Surrey. This could be done through a number of local registrars. Elsewhere, practices varied widely.

[3] This was about the time modern scientific slave feeds were first being developed. In general, slaves ate either ate persons’ food or, more often, slave swill – a thick soup based on the left over portions of the persons’ food. Sometimes slave swill contained drugs to encourage docility.

[4] Captain, here, seems to signify a commander rather than a specific military rank.

[5] Peckerdilloes – persons who abducted slaves in order to butcher them as meat – or to sell them to butchers.

For chapter 7 click
http://bondlings.blogspot.com/2006/07/of-bondlings-and-blesh-ch-7.html

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Of Bondlings and Blesh Ch 5

Chapter 5

“What are those lights?” I asked Sir Hainward, who was riding at my side.

He was in a good humour – having, twenty minutes earlier, found his mark with a pebble thrown at a peasant working in a roadside field. The missile had caught the yokel neatly behind the ear. The loud yelp and dance of impotent rage had made Sir Hainward laugh. The caravan master was still chuckling.

“Aren’t they a fine sight, your ladyship?” he replied, grinning broadly and dropping the reins to rub his hands together. “They are the lamps of Watt’s Ford Gap Services, where we will make camp tonight. And no worry for a comfortable bed – they never close their gates to caravans. You may feast on Meadow Lands delicacies – pork pies, orange cheese, bean and bacon casserole…”

“Watt’s Ford!” I said “– didn’t we have lunch there yesterday? Are we going round in circles?”

“Watt’s Ford Gap – quite a different place, and much further north… Spit roast pork, sallies in the basket, nelson pastries, Meadow Lands ale from Burr Town and Wolverens…”

Sir Hainward was right, the gates were open – and didn’t even appear to be guarded. Inside the palisade was a cluster of solidly built brick buildings, surrounded by a good many pitched tents and tethered beasts. Persons and slaves tended to their evening tasks. The air was filled with the smell of wood smoke and spit roasted meat.

A liveried, but unarmed, official approached us. Ignoring me, he started to discuss the lodging of our caravan with Sir Hainward. I felt annoyed by the fellow’s conduct; all the more so as a second day in the saddle had left me more sore than ever. Given my rank, he should have greeted me first, however briefly.

“The place seems crowded,” I said, after allowing him long enough to recall his position.

“I’m sorry, your ladyship…”

“I’m glad to hear it. What caravans are in your compound?”

“The Brister and Newkey caravan is here, your ladyship. One master has brought his charges from the north east, another from the south west. They meet here and exchange caravans. We also have the honour of the Duke of Lester and his entourage.”

“Does that satisfy your ladyship’s curiosity?” Sir Hainward asked rather icily.

“I think so.”

“Then perhaps we can continue to discuss our practical trivialities,” Sir Hainward said with obvious sarcasm.

“The best place to tether your beasts, Sir Hainward,” the official said – now ignoring me again, “would be the meadow we call the Cower Park. I believe that it was named after a Baroness Cower who once used the field for grazing cattle. Alas, due to her disturbance of a general during war discussions, an important battle was lost. As a result, she and her kin were disgraced and enslaved.”

I strongly suspected that this was an insolent rebuff designed for my ears, but wasn’t certain. In all likelihood there never had been a Baroness Cower[1] – and the official had invented her to represent me interrupting his discussions, with either himself or Sir Hainward in the role of the general. I wondered whether it would be worse to react to an imagined slight or ignore a real one. After a brief internal struggle, I contented myself with giving the fellow what I hoped was a withering look.

My temper had not been improved by the information that the Duke of Lester was at Watt’s Ford Gap. At first, the mention of the name had left me uneasy without quite knowing why. Then, I recalled that Sir Toby Slack had named him as the noble who colluded with Cap’n Gentle in his piratical career. The more I thought about his presence, the more grave my forebodings.

I went in search of Jenna to ask her opinion. She proved difficult to find – but asking six or eight persons and slaves – I tracked her down to the meadow where our beasts were grazing. When I found her, she was talking to three disreputable-looking men; neither did she seem pleased to see me. With a wordless gesture, Jenna motioned her companions away.

“Who were those men?” I asked.

“Is that what you came here to find out?”

“No – no – of course not. It’s just that I heard some troubling news, and wanted to know what you thought. The Duke of Lester is here with his entourage.”

“Why should that be troubling? The Duke is a noble lord, and I believe that we are in his domain. If you have nothing more important…”

“But, Jenna, don’t you remember what Toby Slack told us. The Duke is in cahoots with Cap’n Gentle, the pirate.”

“Toby Slack is an old woman. He should be ashamed to gossip so much.”

It was clear that Jenna wasn’t going to take the matter seriously, and didn’t want my company. I felt hurt – after our love-making, she should not have been so short with me. Feeling that the presence of the Duke of Lester was a serious matter, I set off to find Sir Dagobert. He proved a lot easier to find than my cousin had been – and was more receptive to my concerns.

“Princess Margaret, I am as worried as you,” he said. “The man is less to be trusted than a snake. Before we left, the excellent Mr Addal warned me to be vigilant when we passed through the Duke’s domain. According to usually reliable spies, the wretch of Lester has received ambassadors from Surrey.”

“Perhaps we should leave this place – camp somewhere else.”

“I thought of that – but if the Duke means mischief he can easily overtake us on the road. Unfamiliar with the country, and in the dark, we would be at a considerable disadvantage. The only practical measure is to be cautious. In case of disaster…”

Sir Dagobert was obviously nervous about completing his sentence. He looked about – presumably checking to see whether he might be overheard. Dissatisfied, he led me a little distance before continuing. When he spoke again, it was little more than a whisper.

“I have set guards to secure the signal tower. If anything goes awry, lamps will pass the news south, other lights will pass it on. Your father will know how we have fared within the hour. Troops should be here in a couple of days, at the most.”

“Two days is a long time.”

“True, but what more can we do?”

Having no answer to that question, I looked at the surrounding countryside as though the trees might be mobilised to our assistance. If the unfamiliar place was to help anyone, it would be the Duke. I saw a man striding in our direction, imagining him to be a cutthroat. As he approached more closely, he proved to be an apparently unarmed flunky.

“Do I have the honour of addressing Princess Margaret?” he asked when almost upon us.

“What of it?” Sir Dagobert said, aggressively – and rather rudely.

“The Duke of Lester requests the pleasure of Lady Margaret’s company at dinner.”

The flunky spoke equably, as though he had been met with politeness. I looked at Sir Dagobert to gauge how I should respond. He nodded his head and pressed downwards with open palms as though pushing a solid object at chest height. My interpretation was that I should accept, but be cautious.

“Tell His Excellency that I would be pleased to accept the gracious invitation, but that Princess Jenna and Sir Dagobert must join our party.”

He bowed and departed. Sir Dagobert and I watched his retreating figure in silence. Neither of us cared to speak before we were sure that he was beyond earshot – and we preferred to err on the side of caution. Eventually, Sir Dagobert spoke first.

“That was well said, Princess Margaret. I will be glad to guard your person. I’m less sure of Princess Jenna, though… Still – it is better to keep her in sight.”

“You suspect Jenna? I did see her speaking to some ruffians. All the same… And I don’t see how she could have contacted the Duke of Lester from the Palace Victoria.”

“I have no idea. Mr Addal is a spymaster, not a town crier. He told me no more than he thought I needed to know.”

“Yes – I think he keeps secrets even from himself… Uh, better shut it – there’s the Duke’s flunky coming back.”

Sir Dagobert nodded, but said nothing. There was no real need for silence, as yet. While the Duke’s messenger was hurrying toward us, he must have still been beyond earshot. As he approached, our quiet felt increasingly uneasy.

“Princess Margaret,” the messenger said at last, “the Duke has no objection to the presence of either Princess Jenna or the captain of your guard. His only doubt is that, as Sir Dagobert is not of the quality of the others at table, he may feel out of his depth. The company will include the Prince of Brister and the dowager Duchess of Louess. If the good knight feels that he cannot attend, the Duke will understand the nicety of his sentiments.”

“Thank the Duke for his kind consideration, but I will be pleased to accept his invitation,” Sir Dagobert replied rather stiffly.

“In that case, we dine in an hour’s time. I will escort you to your rooms where you may dress for dinner.”

He led us to the largest of the brick buildings. The rooms reserved for my use were comfortably – but not grandly – furnished. I was surprised to find Inqui already installed. She helped me change into eveningwear.

Once dressed, I despatched Inqui to fetch Sir Dagobert, who appeared in an immaculately polished breastplate and with a sword in an elaborate scabbard. He was, clearly, doing his best to combine dressing for dinner with preparing for trouble. We discussed our fears, but came to no definite conclusion. It was almost a relief when a flunky arrived to lead us into the dining hall.

We ascended a staircase of polished wood and passed through sparkling glass doors. The chandeliers were reflected a myriad times in the gleaming glassware and cutlery. A second flunky – so obsequious that he seemed to ooze grease – showed us to our seats. An incongruously rough-looking person, clothed in studded leather, introduced himself as the Duke and named our company.

My place was at the foot of a long table, the Duke took the head. To the Duke’s left was the dowager Duchess of Louess, with her back to the doors. To his right was the Prince of Brister. To my left was Jenna, Sir Dagobert was to my right – I would have preferred them to exchange places so that the captain of my guard would have commanded a view of the doors.

There were two other persons at table. One was the dowager Duchess’ daughter Carlotta, who sat between her mother and Sir Dagobert. The other was the Prince’s daughter Heliotrope, seated between her father and Jenna. Each of the two girls may have been two or three years younger than me.

If anything, the Duke’s silver studded black leather made him look more the warrior than Sir Dagobert. I was in a peach-coloured evening gown, Jenna wore scarlet, Heliotrope lilac and Carlotta pale blue. The dowager Duchess was in black, possibly as a mark of respect for her late husband; but her dress was such an extravagance of frills and artificial flowers that she put me more in mind of a funeral cake than a woman. The prince’s garments were also ostentatiously cut with tucks and frills – and were of a satin that matched my dress almost exactly.

Other than Jenna and Sir Dagobert, I had previously met none of the company – but I knew the prince and the dowager Duchess by reputation, gleaned from the generally reliable talk of slaves. The prince was said to have been interested in lying with his wife only for the purpose of producing an heir, otherwise he preferred boys. He obliged the boys with whom he lay to dress in skirts and delighted in beating them. It was said, however, that the only time he had whipped his wife was when her first child proved to be a girl.

The dowager Duchess was a daughter of King Henry IX of Ampsher – who had had offered, as her dowry[2], the royal borough of Little Ample. Unfortunately for the Duke of Louess, two years later, a Surrey army under Constance Conquest defeated the Ampsher army at Arrow Dell and seized Little Ample[3]. He found himself saddled with a dreadful wife without the compensation of the royal borough – and is said to have died of a broken heart.

Carlotta and Heliotrope, while attractive in their way, might best be described as strapping. I knew nothing of them, apart from the story that Heliotrope’s mother had been whipped for giving birth to her. It was clear at once, from their conversation across the table, that they knew each other very well. They seemed to have been at school together, and played hockey in the same team.

“What was the name of that forward from Old Halt Hall?”

“June of Sidder Mouth?”

“No – not her – the big one with hairy legs.”

“Rebecca of Pool!”

“That’s the one! Well, Madge was dribbling down the wing when the beast of Pool nearly flattened her. Luckily, I managed to hook her ankle with my stick without the ref seeing. She went down like a ton of coals…”

“There I was on the sideline with my leg in splints. I thought something rummy was going on, but I couldn’t see what…”

“Dear Lady Margaret,” the dowager Duchess boomed through the crossfire of the hockey conversation. “From London – how do you put up with the place? I went there once with Pongo – the late Duke, you know. I simply can’t think why they don’t put the poor to the sword and burn their hovels – it would be a mercy, really it would.”

“London!” snorted the Prince. “Never been there, but I once had a stable lad from the place. Luckily, I smelt a rat and had him checked over. Riddled with the pox, he was.”

“How horrid,” screeched the Duchess, ignoring me now. “How I do hate anything in the least little bit horrid.”

The Duke of Lester had made no remark since making the introductions. Jenna and Sir Dagobert, too, were quiet. I had the impression that they listening to something. Concentrating as well as I could, there seemed to be the faint sound of distant shouting – as yet much less obtrusive than the Duchess’ voice.

As the sounds from outside grew louder, Sir Dagobert shifted his chair close to mine. Hand on the hilt of his sword, his eyes flicked between Jenna, the Duke of Lester and the doors. The noise began to resolve into separate elements – shouting, cries, heavy footfalls, objects breaking. Carlotta and Heliotrope were fidgeting nervously and fell silent.

“By the whips of the gods, what a racket!” the prince exclaimed. “No evil had better have befallen, or someone will answer for it. I told my chamberlain that the Meadow Lands weren’t safe, but he insisted on the journey. What is that din?”

“My dear Prince,” the dowager Duchess gasped, “how I do agree. There is positively nothing worse than something horrid. I think that the world should be filled with joy. You may be sure that I have my slaves well whipped when they seem gloomy.”

“Nothing like whipping to dispel gloom,” the Prince agreed.

“How true – it’s little things like that make all the difference between civilisation and barbarism. The Meadow Lands are barbaric – as we may plainly hear. I wish that I had never set foot in the kingdom, but the Surrey wretches are making the south so trying just now.”

“No doubt our Westland boys will soon turn the tide against Surrey,” the Prince’s voice was rising almost to a shout to make himself heard above the din. “Pity your husband didn’t live to see the dowry returned. I have despatched two regiments to Abben Don[4].”

“Oh I know that you will be victorious, but one really can’t remain so close to Surrey. The Meadow Lands are horrid, but the service here is fearfully good.”

The Prince clearly attempted to reply – I saw his jaws moving – but his voice was drowned as the din rose to a new crescendo. It was as though someone were slaughtering pigs, castrating slaves and hurling saucepans down a dry well – all at the same time. Sir Dagobert rose to his feet, drawing his sword. The only figure visible beyond the dining hall was a flunky, staggering toward the glass doors as though drunk.

As the doors swung open, the noise rose to an almost deafening level. Sir Dagobert shifted to one side, giving me a clearer view of the flunky. I felt my jaws open and throat rasp with a scream, but could not hear myself. A sudden stink must have been somebody evacuating their bowels.

The flunky was coughing foaming gore with two foot of bloody metal spike protruding from his chest. As we watched, his jacket heaved and writhed in the region of his abdomen until the organs of his belly burst through the constraining garment – intestines unravelling like a snake awakening from hibernation. For a moment he stood swaying, and then collapsed: a marionette with severed strings. The slaughterhouse stench was appalling.

The glass doors, now spattered with blood, no longer afforded so good a view of the stairs – but, through the red mist, two figures were approaching. They moved at a leisurely pace as though engaged on an ordinary night’s entertainment. It seemed to take a long time before they entered the dining hall. As they did so, the leading figure – a grinning bearded wretch – kicked the flunky’s corpse to one side with as little thought as I would shift a piece of litter that was in my way.

Raised near the Essex coast, I recognised the second figure at once. Its moon-shaped travesty of a human face disfigured by a bristling mess of hair – the bald patches dotted with large moles – it was a nazeman. I’d often seen them before – carried home on a pole after the hunt, in the pit for the sport of nazeman baiting with which I’d beguiled the innocent days of childhood, served roasted on the table with an apple in the mouth… Thus had I seen them, but never before – even in nightmare – one free to work its iniquities, armed with human weapons.

“Evenin’ Lordship,” the bearded man greeted the Duke. “Nice bit o’ work ’ere, I’m sure yer’ll agree. Now – which of ’em are t’ be spared?”

“The lady in the red dress is well-connected in Surrey – let her choose.”

“Kill the old bag and the poof[5], for preference make them suffer – they deserve it,” Jenna said. “Enslave the three girls – I hate to see girls go to waste…”

“Captain Gentle, I presume,” said Sir Dagobert, drawing his sword.

In a blur of movement, the pirate swung an axe and Sir Dagobert’s head was bouncing across the room. The captain of the guard’s corpse folded to the floor, blood spurting from his severed neck. The only hand likely to be raised in my defence was now that of a dead man. The Cap’n spat on the knight’s body and allowed his fighting arm to relax.

“Gentle be name,” he said, “gentle be nature. Nazeman – see to the poofter[6] and the old bat – an’ make it nasty, if yer like… Girls – ’old out yer wrists for some pretty bracelets. Yer just wouldn’t like me when I gets miffed.”

With shaking hands, first Carlotta and then Heliotrope presented their wrists for the Cap’n Gentle’s manacles. Both they and I turned our heads from the other end of the table, whence loud screams and unpleasant squelching sounds betokened the nazeman making it nasty for the Prince and the dowager Duchess. Jenna leaned back in her chair, drinking from a hip flask. A sudden wetness told me that I had emptied my bladder.

“You’ll find two slaves in room twenty-eight,” Jenna continued in a matter-of-fact voice. “Beddibelle is mine – I want to keep her. Inqui belonged to my cousin. I suggest that you engage her as slave trainer. It’s easy to see in her eyes something that can only be a vocation with the whip.”

“Jenna, please…” I said.

She held the hip flask to my lips, and I found myself half choking on a fiery spirit. I felt heavy manacles fasten about one of my wrists then the other. Until that moment I was unaware that I’d extended my hands to receive them. A tugging on my chains had me on my feet and stumbling toward the door.

“Bye bye cousin,” it was Jenna’s voice, seeming to echo from a long distance. “Maybe we’ll meet in Surrey. I think slavery will suit you. Have a nice life.”

“Slaves from room twenny-eight…” Cap’n Gentle said to a pirate whose entrance I hadn’t noticed.

Glancing down, I saw that my manacles had been joined Carlotta’s and Heliotrope’s. Being chained to the other girls made it difficult to control my feet and – with a sick feeling – I realised that one of my high heels was lodged in the guts of the slaughtered flunky. The tugging at my wrists did not relent, and I nearly fell on top of the corpse. Fortunately, I managed to twist my foot from the shoe and a moment later kicked off the other one.

Then I was being pulled downstairs. Had the second court shoe remained on my foot, I would certainly have fallen. With another jolt, our party paused on a landing. Inqui, her face creased by an enigmatic smile, and Beddibelle approached from below.

“It seems that I’m going to be training you,” Inqui said. “Curtsey nicely.”

Heliotrope, Carlotta and I curtseyed to her as well as we could in the confined space. Then the three of us were being dragged downstairs again. A few heartbeats later there was grass under my stockinged feet and cool night air on my bare shoulders. A short distance ahead, a pirate guarded another half dozen chained girls – of course they would all be young to maximise their price, and the same sex to save the trouble of mixed cargo.

I looked up at the signal tower: lights were flashing. Starting to gain my bearings, I turned my head to the south, the direction from which we had arrived. Distant lights were flashing their response. Our guards were raising the alarm and the message passed on – perhaps a rescue had already been despatched.

With a further tugging, our chains were linked to those of the other young women. Carlotta and Heliotrope exchanged outraged glances. Following their gaze, I noticed the cheap clothing of the girls to whom we were being chained. I felt a brief surge of anger that we were being chained to common people, but quickly decided that it was the least of my problems.

A pirate passed us leading several ponies; another was loaded with inanimate loot. The bodies of several guards lay on the grass, none of them, I thought, from our caravan. A soldier, halberd over his shoulder sauntering across the meadow, saluted in our direction. No doubt, he was one of the Duke’s men.

A fresh tugging at our wrists had us stumbling toward the palisade. The last light was fading from the sky and I was concerned that I might place a foot in something unpleasant. To my relief, we chanced upon neither animal droppings nor corpses. We passed through a gate and then there were the stones of a pathway under my feet, much less comfortable than the grass.

The girl ahead of me tripped over a rope drawn taut across the path, I narrowly avoided following her example. A shape to my left resolved itself into a boat. Of course, we were on a canal towpath and the tripping hazard was a mooring line. There was a loud splash, followed by a sharp tug on my chains accompanied by yells and the quacking of a duck – one of my companions had lost her footing and fallen into the water.

Ahead, a lantern appeared from what I soon identified as the boat’s cabin. By its glow, I saw Cap’n Gentle accompanied by Inqui. She was now smartly dressed in a suit – and held a coiled whip. They looked at us for what seemed a long time before either of them spoke.

“Welcome one an’ all,” the pirate said at last. “Me name’s Cap’n Gentle, and yer’ll be pleased to ’ear as ’ow I’ve liberated yer from yer dull lives. Ye’re t’ be jolly slave girls one an’ all – an’ this kind lady ’as agreed t’ make yer good slaves.”

“My name,” Inqui said, “is Lady Isobel – but you may call me mistress. You look a sorry lot but my friend…” she patted the whip “…and I will make slaves of you. Welcome to your new lives.”

“Well said!” Cap’n Gentle continued. “What a jolly time we’ll all ’ave t’ be sure. Now lets ’ave free cheers fer piracy, free fer me jolly boys and free more fer Lady Isobel.”

He raised both hands as a signal, and we cheered. Nine times we raised our voices. Cap’n Gentle grinned, Lady Isobel smiled. After the final cheer, a pirate played a merry tune on a squeeze box.

[1] These suspicions seem to have been just. There is no trace of an historical personage named Baroness Cower. Almost certainly, the word Cower, here, is a corruption of carriage. The meadow provided grazing for carriage beasts.

[2] Dowry – a gift presented to a daughter (or her husband) on marriage. The institution had, even at this time, fallen into general disuse. The court of Ampsher was perhaps the most archaic and snobbish of all.

[3] The Battle of Arrow Dell, Iceflake 16th YD 709 secured for Surrey its first foothold on the south coast. In fact, Constance Conquest was a subsidiary commander under Daphne Deicide. The omission of the latter’s name is almost certainly due to her being a disgraced person at the time of writing.

[4] The battle of Abben Don took place on Thunderhead 23rd YD 724. An army principally from Westland and Ampsher was routed by a Surrey army commanded by Belinda Blood. The Prince of Brister’s regiments acquitted themselves poorly. This conversation at Watt’s Ford Gap took place on Thunderhead 9th, a fortnight before the battle.

[5] Poof – an offensive term for a man who lay with other men.

[6] Poofter – a variant of poof (see note 5).

For Chapter 6
Click
Here

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

Golden Goddess and Bloody Times Navigator

Golden Goddess and Bloody Times Navigator

Part 1 click
Here

Part 2 click
Here

Part 3 click
Here

Part 4 click
Here

Part 5 click
Here

Part 6 click
Here

Part 7 click
Here

Of Bondlings and Blesh Navigator

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

Of Bondlings and Blesh Ch 4

Chapter 4

On Glarehaze 20th, I awoke to find the palace unusually quiet. When Jenna and I descended for breakfast, only a single serving slave was about – and no persons other than us. As we ate, nothing was to be heard but the scrape of spoon on bowl and a little desultory conversation. It felt somehow wrong to disturb the deep quiet with our voices.

“Where is everyone?” I whispered to the serving slave.

“Has no one told you?” The slave sounded genuinely surprised. “Captain Major Flight leads his men into Surrey today. Even slaves have gone to the parade ground or the stables to see them off.”

“Ha!” Jenna snorted. “Brilliant tactics! Attacking by morning so the Surrey warriors see them coming!”

Either the slave did not understand Jenna’s sarcasm or chose to ignore it. “Yes – with the sun gleaming on helmets and armour – and shining on banners and plumes. The Surrey strumpets will shit themselves and run.”

“Or maybe they’ll kill half of them before they’re out of the boats.”

“Boats? No – they have a mighty man o’ war. It will be a famous victory!”

“For Surrey,” Jenna muttered – then, louder: “Breakfast, slave! And less lip if you value your hide!”

The slave scurried in the direction of the kitchen. A faint sound of rattling pans followed, apart from that, silence reigned. The quiet now seemed oppressive. I longed to stretch my legs, to stride from the table in search of noise.

“Jenna,” I said, “after breakfast let’s follow Flight’s men down to the river.”

“Why? Are you bored with the things I do to you?”

“No – no – of course not. It’s just…”

“Oh – whatever – I’d like to see Flight and his men get the start of what’s coming to them.”

We emerged on to the parade ground – packed with persons and slaves. There was tumult of cheering and shouting – walking into which, from the quiet of the palace, felt like leaping into hot oil. At first, I could see nothing but a confusing mass of bodies. Neither slaves nor low born persons parted to make way for us.

Craning my neck to gaze above head height, Flight was visible – mounted on a white horse, his shining helmet bedecked with tall blue and yellow plumes. I could also see two banners, both depicting crossed yellow arrows on a blue field – the arms of the Blood Victoria. Otherwise, I could see no sign of the troops. Flight twirled his mustachios and blew kisses to the crowd.

Jenna was shaking my arm – turning to look at her I saw that she was speaking – but her voice was lost in the din of cheering. I started to tell her that I couldn’t hear, but realised it was futile. Still tugging me by the arm, Jenna guided me through the Grand Ceremonial Gateway and into the street beyond. As far as I could tell, the guards at the gate took no notice of our passage.

The noise level immediately outside the palace walls was only a little less than that on the parade ground. The processional route down to the Pier Victoria[1] was lined with persons and slaves all, evidently, there to see Captain Major Flight’s expedition. It looked as though Jenna and I were only ones in Lundin not to have heard that the troops were about to depart. I suspected that Wilfred Addal had engineered our ignorance, but couldn’t imagine why.

At the far end of the processional route, I could make out a large ship – high in the water and with two masts. The morning sunlight glinted on the polished woodwork. From the top of the taller mast fluttered the banner of the Blood Victoria. The furled sails were blue with traces of yellow – no doubt they, too, bore the crossed arrows device.

I would have attempted to walk down the processional route, except that the crowds were too great to admit our easy passage. Still unable to make herself heard, Jenna took my arm and led me down Great Rustling Street and then parallel to the processional route on Corpses Street. The name of the road always made me feel uneasy, although it goes back to the Old Time and has nothing to do with anything that happens there now. The metalworking shops that line the street were quiet, both the persons and slaves who work there must have joined the crowds waiting to see the start of the expedition.

“We’ll zigzag down to Black Flowers,” Jenna said, “should get a good enough view from there.”

The roads were not crowded and we were able to walk quite quickly. Arriving at Black Flowers, we found that dozens of others had already taken their stations to watch Flight and his men cross the river. It took a while to find a place that commanded a good view but we managed it at last, amid the ruins of an Old Time bridge. Once in place, we settled down to wait.

Almost an hour later, the troops appeared, preceded by a band – resplendent in scarlet and yellow tunics. The music didn’t carry well, the wind was in the south east, but I recognised such tunes as Let the Surrey Foe Beware and Heroes of Ampsher. I felt an urge to cheer, but – seeing Jenna’s scowling face – resisted the impulse. We seemed the only ones not giving voice to enthusiasm.

Suddenly, the cheers turned to screaming. A spectator only yards from us toppled into the river transfixed by an arrow. Everywhere panicking bodies were attempting flight. An old man I could almost have touched was trampled under foot, his blood spattering the stones.

Jenna tugged me roughly and I found myself in the shelter of an arch that had once formed part of the bridge. I had a sense of time being slowed so that seconds stretched into minutes. It was now clear that several persons had been skewered by arrows – and a larger number trampled. The slaughterhouse smell brought the taste of blood to my mouth, and then I was sick.

“What happened?” I asked in bewilderment.

“The opening volley from the Surrey archers caught the crowd,” Jenna replied in a matter of fact voice – sounding not in the least confused or upset. “Well – they’re off.”

Following the direction of Jenna’s gaze, I saw that the ship had cast off and was turning its nose in the direction of the south bank. Arrows rained upon the decks and the area about the Pier Victoria. Several great splashes puzzled me. Only when a large rock hit the ship’s rail, spraying the river with splintered wood, did I realise that the Surrey troops were deploying a catapult.

As the man o’ war moved out into midstream, sailors launched a stone from a catapult mounted on the foredeck. The recoil had the ship lurching violently, dipping a yardarm into the stream and seemingly threatening to capsize the vessel. Arrows from the Surrey shore scattered the catapult crew, killing at least one of them. I wondered why the Surrey warriors didn’t allow them to launch more stones, and very likely sink the expedition.

A few minutes later, the ship was on the southern shore, discharging men and horses. Their banners and plumes – as well as the gleam of their armour – had clearly suffered during the short journey across the river. I saw several soldiers fall to a hail of arrows, but none struck the horses – no doubt the Surrey warriors were hoping to secure them for their own use. After all, a trained warhorse could buy at least two hundred slaves – and would cost less to feed.

Then Flight, on his white horse, vanished into the Surrey-held streets. Soldiers who had avoided the arrows followed him. On the shore, sailors carried six or seven wounded guards back on to the ship. Then, as far as the few of us watching from Black Flowers were concerned, there was nothing more to see.

“What happens to the ship?” I asked.

“If Flight and his men return, it’ll bring them home. If not, it’ll belong to Surrey. For now, its job is done – and no one but you is interested in it.”

“And I’m not very interested – it feels like time to head for home.”

There was a sense of anti-climax as we started to climb the steep slope toward the warehouses that line this part of the north bank. As we did so, we were careful not to step on any of the corpses left by the arrows and the panic. At least as far as I was concerned, it had more to do with disgust than with respect for the dead. The sun was high in a cloudless sky and birds sang from the rooftops.

The walk back to the palace seemed a lot longer than the outward journey. It was uphill, I was tired and I would rather not have seen the things I’d witnessed. The only thing that seemed to have upset Jenna was our not having been told of the expedition. She complained about it at length, and I wished she’d shut up.

We entered the palace grounds via the Stableyard Gate. The sentries had been slouching at their post, but straightened and saluted smartly as we passed. A slave sweeping horse manure was the only occupant of the yard itself. A sentry leaned on his halberd in the shadow of the palace door.

Wearily, I climbed the stairs towards my apartment – closer than Jenna’s when approached from this direction. I was in no mood for physical activity and wondered how I should convey this to my cousin. For her part, Jenna had not exhausted the topic of secrets being kept from her – I noticed that she was using the word me instead of us. Passing an open doorway, my heart sank to hear Toby Slack calling us from within.

“Can it wait, Sir Toby?” I said. “I’m not feeling at my best.”

“Not basking our victory?”

“Victory? Has Mr Flight returned?”

“No, of course not…” Sir Toby sounded displeased – presumably with the tone of my voice, or perhaps my use of the word Mr. “But our men have landed and who could doubt their victory?”

“Yes, course…” I tried to sound fatigued but happy. “I’m just a little tired for a victory party.”

“But not, I hope, too tired to listen to what I have to tell you – both of you – it concerns Princess Jenna as well.”

“If it has to do with the expedition…”

“No, no, but it has to do with an expedition – yours to Scotia Minor. Come in, sit down and I’ll tell you.”

My interest quickened – and I no longer felt so tired. We entered the Attorney General’s office and seated ourselves on a large heavily padded settee. I kicked off my shoes which had been chafing for some time. Sir Toby made a tent of his fingers and beamed at us.

“There has been a change of plan…” he said.

“Typical,” Jenna snorted.

“I am afraid that you must prepare yourselves for a long road journey,” Sir Toby continued, ignoring my cousin’s rudeness. “A well-guarded caravan departs for the Emswon Road on Thunderhead 3rd, and you are both to join it.”

“But why?” I asked. “Surely a boat would be more comfortable – and safer too. Have you forgotten the caravan that was attacked on the Great East Road?”

“General Munby has cleared the Emswon Road of bandits. In any case, there was no threat that a few guards couldn’t handle – it is sufficiently removed from any lands held by Surrey – and the tom-men, if any, are neither savage nor organised. And the waterways are no longer safe – Cap’n Gentle, the canal pirate, is ravaging the Grand Junction. We live in dangerous times.”

“How can there be a canal pirate?” Jenna asked. She sounded irritated. “Pirates at sea have plenty of room to escape the law, bandits on a road may take to the woods or hills, but where can a fugitive escape justice on a canal?

“In peaceful times, Princess Jenna, you would be right – but these are not peaceful times. Cap’n Gentle continues his wicked work because persons of quality – especially the Duke of Lester – permit him so to do. I could tell you his story, if you wish.”

“Thank you,” Jenna said. “In knowledge lies power. As we head north, any scrap of information may be useful.”

“Fifteen years ago, boats on the Ox Ford Canal were plundered by bandits who hid in the Forest of Fenny. The Duke of Worrig sent troops into the woods to flush out the villains, but it was no use. The bandits knew the place better than Worrig’s finest scouts.”

“Was Cap’n Gentle one of the bandits?”

“Not at all – he was a boatman and a soldier fortune. Not what I could call a respectable person, but in those days he remained more or less on the fair side of the law. The Duke of Worrig hired him to patrol the canal in a war craft disguised as a trading boat. There was a tax to cover Cap’n Gentle’s fee, he had as much booty as he could seize from the bandits – and he was welcome to plunder from boatmen who evaded the tax.”

“But that isn’t piracy,” objected Jenna. “The Blood Victoria uses soldiers of fortune in a similar way.”

“True, Princess Jenna, but the line between campaigning against robbers and engaging in piracy can be hard to draw. He turned increasingly to the loot of trading boats and seizing slaves. Since then, such nobles as the Duke of Lester have allowed him to pillage – providing he doesn’t hurt their interests and pays the necessary bribes. I am sure that King Trevor of the Meadow Lands doesn’t like it – any more than we do – but he doesn’t control his aristocrats.”

“But… if he can clear the Emswon Road of bandits…”

“He could clear the canals of pirates… Well, yes… but King Trevor’s resources are limited and, just now, he considers the roads more important. Besides, he doesn’t want to fall out with the Duke of Lester.”

“Because it would take only a few nobles allied with Surrey to bring down the kingdom.”

“Exactly, Princess Jenna. You have an alarmingly good grasp of politics.

The plans for our departure having now changed twice, I assumed that we would not take the Emswon Road. However, the days passed and there was no cancellation. Sir Hainward, the master of the caravan, became a regular visitor at the Palace Victoria – I saw him more frequently than I did my father. The stables now held riding mules for our use, and an ox cart was being readied for the baggage.

On his visits to the palace, Sir Hainward was usually accompanied by a swaggering bully who called himself Sir Lionel. He was commander of the caravan guard, but – in my estimation – it was probably not long since he had abandoned a career of banditry. I took an instant dislike to him, and felt virtually certain that he had no knighthood. His guard comprised a dozen witless youths who probably had no idea as to techniques for using their shiny weapons.

More reliable – I felt sure – were twelve of my father’s guardsmen who were to accompany us under the command of Sir Dagobert. They were not veterans of any campaign but had been trained under the watchful gaze of Sergeant General Bob Bosset. Sir Dagobert had been knighted for gallantry in the field. It was said that he had exhibited much valour in the army which had failed to hold Ail’s Bury the previous summer.[2]

There seems a strange contrast between the battles of which I’ve heard reports and those I have actually witnessed. The ones I didn’t see are said to have been marked by gallantry, glory, valour and the like. Those I’ve seen were all scenes of butchery that turned my stomach. It may be that veterans of battles lie about them – it could be that I failed to see the qualities others noted, different people react differently – just possibly the battles I saw were nastier than most, although I do not believe that.

Each day Jenna and I walked to Use Town, about half a mile north of the Palace Victoria, where the caravan was forming, its tents erected on the assembly ground opposite the Sepulchre of Osrick[3]. We watched Sir Lionel drilling his guards without seeming to inculcate much skill in the use of arms. He appeared to be more interested in kicking backsides than in making soldiers of the youths. They were as far as ever from being of any possible use, but their commander was obviously enjoying himself.

Sir Hainward seemed to take no notice of Sir Lionel and his gawks. His chief business was with the tally clerks who enrolled travellers and collected their fees. He also spent a lot of time trying to sell beasts of burden to travellers – assuring them that it was too far to walk, and that the animals he commanded were unsurpassed in price or sturdiness. For the rest, he drank ale and joined interminable games of dice and calendar bones.

Sir Dagobert drilled his men on the palace parade ground, making no attempt to coordinate them with Sir Lionel’s youths. At the time, I felt proud of the obvious superiority of the Blood Victoria troops. Only later was I it to occur to me that failure to integrate the guard was a foolish policy. It may also have been that more emphasis on combat, and less on drill, would have been a good idea.

On Thunderhead 1st, I was surprised to find the guards no longer at drill, but standing idle puffing on pipes and passing a bottle of whisky. Sir Dagobert sat on a step, evidently deep in thought. Abstractedly, he fiddled with a shiny object that at first I took for a coin. Approaching, I saw that it was the badge from an officer’s helmet.

“Whatever is the matter?” I asked.

Looking up, Sir Dagobert showed me the badge. “It was Captain Major Flight’s,” he said.

“He… he’s dead?”

“He is now… but when we found him… Lady Margaret – ask someone else.”

I went upstairs, where I was astonished to find that neither Inqui nor Beddibelle knew anything of the matter. Usually, slaves make it their business to know, if only because good or bad news can make a lot of difference to how kindly or cruelly they are treated. Inqui went to ask other slaves, but returned without any definite information. It was not until evening that she had the story.

“They found him just outside the South East Gate this morning, mistress, still alive. His tongue had been cut out – and his tackle. The full works – willie and balls.”

“I can see why Sir Dagobert didn’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s not all, mistress. His tackle had been sewn into his mouth and the tongue between his legs. He survived another hour after they found him.”

The following day, supposedly the eve of departure, Sir Hainward told us that the caravan would set off on the 5th – two days later than planned. He said that the delay was a mark of respect to Captain Major Flight. My belief was that it had to do with his hoping to attract extra travellers and increase his profits. The postponement, coupled with the death of Flight, left me feeling that the plans for our departure were about to be changed again.

A further delay, for which I received no explanation, increased my doubts; but finally – on Thunderhead 8th, five days late – the caravan departed and Jenna and I were amongst the travellers. The sun had barely risen and the air still chilly as the Blood Victoria party left the palace grounds through the Grand Ceremonial Gateway. We turned northwards and were soon approaching Use Town where travellers were striking tents and packing their baggage. I felt stomach-heavy, weighted by my large and hastily eaten bowl of porridge.

By the time we reached the assembly ground, the caravan had already started to defile into the road. The surge of travellers paused briefly to allow our party to take its place. Then we were surrounded by members of the caravan, stepping westward for Mary’s Bone Road. To either side, three storey merchants’ houses towered above us.

All of the Blood Victoria party were mounted but, in spite of Sir Hainward’s efforts to sell beasts, at least a third of the caravan were on foot – their belongings strapped to their backs, men and women alike. Sir Lionel rode a rather mangy piebald pony, although his guards walked – their step was certainly no march. I watched one of them stumble, tripping on the scabbard of his sword. One of our guards threw a small object, catching the youth neatly on the ear.

Less than half an hour later we turned right on to Wattle Street. Near the turning, a cacophony assailed us as we passed a factory where sheet metal was beaten into shape. A glue factory added stench to the din. It was little wonder that I had seldom ventured north west of the palace.

“They call this place Marvel Arch,” Jenna said.

“Why?” I asked. “I see no arch.”

“Maybe because it would be a marvel if they built one in a dump like this.”

Dump was precisely right. Beyond the glue factory was a mound of rubbish through which I could see rats scuttling. There was a kitchen garden bounded on two sides by the rubbish dump and the factory wall. The unwholesome cabbages looked as though they’d poison anyone foolish enough to eat them.

A short distance later we passed through the North West Gate of Lundin. The guards snoozed or smoked in the morning sunshine, taking no notice of the caravan. Sir Dagobert scowled in their direction, but made no remark. I wondered at their obvious lack of vigilance so few days after Captain Major Flight had been dumped at another gate.

We passed into the Crickle Wood, a forest mostly of beeches and birches with very few oaks. As we entered the woods, Sir Dagobert barked orders to his men. The road maintained a straight course through the trees. Someone had once told me that this was a sign that it had been built by Romanies, a race from nomads in the Old Time.

Further up the column, Sir Lionel – no doubt taking his cue from Sir Dagobert – bawled at his youths. Moments later there was a scream. At a sign from Sir Dagobert, one of our guardsmen rode ahead to investigate. It took him only a few minutes to assess the situation and report.

“A poor bugger’s – beggin’ your ladyships’ pardons – close on dead up there.”

“But not an ambush?” Sir Dagobert asked. Adding – to Jenna and me – “A forest always presents a danger of ambush.”

“No, sah! Sir Lionel shouted at ’is lads, an’ frit one o’ them so as ’e poked a mule with ’is ’alberd. The mule kicked another o’ the lads, ’an I don’t fink ’e’s gonna make it.”

“Maybe the less lads with Sir Lionel,” Sir Dagobert said, “the safer we’ll be.”

A few minutes later we passed the wounded youth. Two of his fellows were making a stretcher from saplings, hacking at the young trees with their swords. The victim, shuddering in a blood-soaked blanket, looked more in need of a priest than a physician. After another mile of two, there was a wayside shrine – I assume that the dying boy was left there with enough coppers to pay for his burial.

In a couple more miles, we emerged from the woods and the Emswon Road branched off to the right of Wattle Street. Out of the shade of the trees it was very hot. The road was not in the least muddy and we made excellent progress. We passed Scratch Wood Mire without seeing any of the tom-men – not, I feel sure, that they would have attacked so well-protected a caravan.

At Watt’s Ford the caravan paused for lunch. It was a place comprised mostly of shanties in a poor state of repair. The most prosperous-looking building was the inn. Its paint was flaking, but it had at least once been painted.

We joined the persons of quality who took lunch in the village inn – not at all bad – roast fowl, potatoes and greens. Poorer travellers made fires to cook their own food. Some stole turnips from a field. A farmer who tried to protect his crop was soon put to flight by Sir Lionel’s youths.

During the afternoon, we continued to make fine headway. Sir Hainward had planned to spend the first night at Harpy’s Den or perhaps Slip End but – so firm was the going – he decided to try for Dunn’s Table. In this, he was too ambitious because, although we reached the town before the last light had faded from the sky, the sentinels had closed the gates before we arrived. Although they could not have failed to see us, they made no move to re-open them.

“Hoi!” Sir Hainward called. “Open up there!”

A sentry leaned over the palisade, spat at nothing in particular, and said: “These are dangerous times.”

Jenna and I had already dismounted, the mule having made more impact on my bottom than all of Jenna’s spankings. Inqui and Beddibelle seemed less anxious to be out of the saddle – perhaps years of frequent punishment had toughened their hides. I might have considered walking, rather than riding, through the afternoon – but this would have placed me with the common folk. Perhaps more importantly, I thought that an admission that I could ride less well than the slaves might cause discipline problems.

Sir Dagobert, having erected a camp stool asked: “Would you care to sit, your ladyship? I think that we will be making camp tonight outside the palisade.”

“No,” I replied. “I think that I’d rather stretch my legs. Perhaps Princess Jenna would care to sit.”

“I think I’d like to stretch my legs as well,” Jenna said.

Travellers were lighting fires, pitching tents or preparing bivouacs. Sir Dagobert’s guards were taking our tents, cooking pots and the like from the baggage cart. Inqui and Beddibelle prepared a fire for our evening meal. Smoke drifted over the encampment and someone was wringing a chicken’s neck.

After we had eaten, Sir Dagobert posted sentries and I prepared for sleep. Ordinarily, I would have found it very difficult to settle with only a few blankets between my back and the stony ground, but I was very tired. So I sank into a fitful sleep punctuated by disturbing dreams that melted like snow flakes every time I opened my eyes. As dawn broke, rather grey, I felt tired and downright irritable.

From beyond my tent, I could hear the sounds of the camp waking. I pushed my blankets to one side and then struggled into some clothes, hampered by the confined space. Looking out of the tent flap, there was a commotion a few yards away. Fearing that there had been an attack during the night, I went to investigate.

There had been some overnight rain, and the ground was a little muddy. The cause of the disturbance was not, to my relief, a dead body but an impression in the mud. It had the look of a bird’s footprint with toes over a foot long. My thought was that a joker had scratched the marks with a stick.

Sir Hainward seemed to be taking the marks seriously and asked a passing rustic: “Yokel! What made these tracks?”

“Bain’t no worrit there,” he said, “’tis jes’ one o’ the Lay Town Buzzards.”

“Sir Lionel,” hissed Sir Hainward, “fetch me a chart of the region.”

The guard commander stomped off on this errand, obviously in a foul temper – his youths scuttled away before he could kick them. The rustic ambled on his way, clearly in no hurry. Travellers were striking tents and preparing breakfasts. Inqui had presented me with a bowl of porridge before Sir Lionel returned with the chart.

“Pah!” snorted Sir Hainward, after staring at the map for a few minutes. “It’s as I thought. Lay Town Buzzard is a nearby town. The wretch was mocking us and – worse – has not remained to be cuffed.”

“It takes a sharp hand to box the departing ear,” Sir Dagobert said.

Sir Hainward had to content himself with kicking the behind of the lad who fetched his breakfast. His meal was some cold fowl and bread. Perhaps he might have preferred my porridge, well laced with honey and whisky, for the morning was damp and a little chilly. He was to remain grumpy for much of the day.

Soon after the caravan started to move, the early morning damp resolved itself into drizzle which continued for several hours. The rain saw us through a westward extension of Essex which had once continued to Ail’s Bury. Later, after we entered the Meadow Lands, and were approaching New Port Pag’s Well, the rain ceased and bright sunshine broke through the clouds. When we stopped for lunch at Gay Hurst, it was dry enough for travellers to light cooking fires, although the damp wood smoked a great deal.

As the sun warmed me during the afternoon, I felt a lot more cheerful in spite of my sore bottom and the lingering moisture in my woollen cloak. The rain had not been heavy enough to turn the road into mire and we still travelled rapidly. Towards dusk, we saw a cluster of lights. It seemed rather early in the evening for them to burn.

[1] The processional route was the almost straight road now known as the Lundin Pavement, stretching from the Imperial Citadel (built on the site of the Palace Victoria) to Great Berenice Pier (formerly the Pier Victoria).

[2] The battle of Ail’s Bury, Litnight 6th YD 723. A Surrey army under the command of Nadine Next routed an Essex force supported by companies from Westland, Lundin and Mittenkens. It is doubtful whether Sir Dagobert, or any survivor on his side, acquitted himself very well. Modern historians believe that Nadine Next’s well discipline force was greatly outnumbered, and that Essex and its allies lost through poor training and inept command.

[3] The Sepulchre of Osrick was demolished after the fourth battle of Lundin and a public lavatory erected on the site. The area is now the parade of shops that includes Hart’s Harnesswear.

For Chapter 5 click
http://bondlings.blogspot.com/2006/06/of-bondlings-and-blesh-ch-5.html

Sunday, June 04, 2006

Of Bondlings and Blesh Ch 3

Chapter 3

The following morning, I went down to breakfast leaving Jenna in bed. I would have loved to remain with her, but it was just possible that our surrenity remained unsuspected and – should it be so – neither of us wished to arouse suspicion. Descending the stairs, I saw only my father at the table – eating his porridge and leafing through a sheaf of papers. Assuming what I hoped to be an innocent expression, I hurried down the last few steps.

As the far end of the table came within sight, I froze in sudden alarm and confusion. Wilfred Addal sat there, his broad brimmed hat thrust back, negligently stroking his sharp chin and fixing me with a piercing stare. I attempted to compose my features, but felt sure that my effort was in vain. Wrenching my eyes from the spymaster’s stare, I approached the breakfast.

“You returned without your ponies,” Wilfred Addal said in a tone of voice in which one might remark upon the weather. “Muddy, too, I think.”

“Yes,” I replied, selecting a seat in which I might be able to avoid his gaze. “Surrey raiders stole them. We hid in the marshes – in the fog and tall reeds.”

“Of course. Quick thinking. And you clung to one another in terror. Muddy hand prints, and all that.”

“You… you were out when the Surrey villains…” my father shouted, choking back a mouthful of porridge. “Vow Vosnex![1] Do you know…” The rest of the sentence was lost in a spluttering cough.

“It’s in my morning report,” Addal said levelly, ignoring my father’s choking fit. “I suspect that neither Lady Margaret nor Lady Jenna was in very great danger – not from the raiders, anyway.”

“I had the ponies,” I hastily explained. “And of course, I wanted to take them for a ride – and Jenna wanted to ride as well…”

“Do… you… know,” my father continued – regaining his composure and ignoring both my words and the spymaster’s – “what they would have done if they’d found you?”

“Yes father – they’d have enslaved us.”

“They’d have enslaved you.” My father seemed irritated – perhaps by my tone of voice. “At this moment you’d be in harness and chains marching to market. When your steps faltered the drivers would ply their whips.”

“I know how it is for slaves.”

“Do you? You know about civilisation – where a slave is a slave and a person is a person. In Surrey it’s the other way round.”

“Yes father,” I thought it best to ignore the fact that his last sentence made no sense.

“Yes father, yes father – pah! I wouldn’t mind so much for Jenna – a good whipping would do her no harm – except that the sly little madam would wriggle out of it. Well – I’m keeping her out of Surrey. But you… you need to marry well, and marry as soon as I can find an alliance with a bit of advantage.”

“Of course,” said Wilfred Addal, “and I counsel separating Margaret from Jenna. The stink of Surrey…”

“Yes, yes,” my father cut in. “And Lord Higate counsels that they’re both removed to a place of safety. Says that Lundin just isn’t safe now we’re moving into reprisals and counter-reprisals. I can ignore raids that snatch the scum from their hovels, but when it comes to killing my guards…”

“Of course,” Wilfred Addal agreed, “dead guards are an insult you can’t afford to ignore. But you need two separate places of safety for the girls.”

“All in good time. I had it in mind to ship ’em off to the Belle House. Maybe I could have Jenna sent on from there to the Roach Keep[2].”

The previous morning, I would have been delighted by this idea. I had spent my childhood in the Belle House, my mother’s ancestral home. Aged sixteen, I had joined my father in Lundin, but had never liked the town – with its warrens of rat infested hovels and the menace of Surrey across the river. The woods and brooks about the Belle House were a precious memory.

But my afternoon and night with Jenna had changed everything. The thought of returning to the Belle House while Jenna was locked in the Roach Keep brought tears to my eyes. Having found my beautiful princess, we couldn’t be parted – or, I thought for a moment, we would surely kill ourselves like the star-crossed lovers in story books. Yet I couldn’t imagine Jenna committing suicide, she was too practical – and there was comfort in that.

Glancing down, I saw – for the first time – that a bowl of porridge had been placed before me. Taking the honey pot with a trembling hand, I poured more than I had intended on my breakfast. My father glared at me – he always took his porridge unsweetened. Wilfred Addal focused on my shaking hand.

I was stirring the honey into my porridge when Jenna seated herself across the table. She snapped her fingers and a slave brought her porridge. Jenna poured what seemed to be a carefully calculated measure of honey. Returning the honey to the table, she licked her fingers – my shaking hand had left the pot sticky.

“Jenna!” I said, “Father’s to send me to the Belle House and you to Roach Keep.”

“Really?”

Jenna’s face seemed impassive, apart from a raised eyebrow. Wilfred Addal flicked his head – a brief glare in my father’s direction then a longer more quizzical look at Jenna. My reading of his face was that he thought my father shouldn’t have mentioned in my hearing the business of sending us away – and was now trying to read Jenna’s reaction. I bent my head over the honey rich porridge, afraid of what Wilfred Addal might read in my expression.

At this tense moment, Lord Bustain joined us. Approaching the table, his hand was down the front of his breeches – scratching, or I hoped that he was merely scratching. He took the chair next to Jenna’s – she shifted her seat in the opposite direction. Lord Bustain sniffed the fingers that had lately been in his breeches.

“Well – good morning, one and all…” he said cheerily, “Lordship, Mr Addal, girls. I’ve not much of a belly for porridge this day – perhaps your Lordship has a trifle of smoked fish.”

“Smoked fish for the noble lord,” Wilfred Addal said to the serving slave – the tone of voice reserved for noble lord implied that his opinion of Lord Bustain differed little from mine.

“Fine beasts, those ponies,” Lord Bustain continued.

“They’ve been stolen,” my father said in a voice drained of emotion.

“Really, Lordship? Terrible shame – and the girl hardly had ’em for five minutes. If you can’t lay your hand on the villains, I’m thinking you’ll be needing another pony or two.”

“I think not – but I might be interested in half a dozen mules. I’m sending the girls away. Four riding mules for the girls and their slaves, two pack mules for their effects.”

“Mules is it? I think you might be in luck. Usually it would be six thousand crowns for pack and six and a half for riding. That would be, let me see…” Lord Bustain counted on his fingers, seeming to become confused, “…thirteen – twenty-seven – no, twenty six – a dozen – call it thirty-eight thousand crowns… I think I could see my way to thirty-five…”

“Twenty-eight thousand crowns,” my father said, “and not a copper more.”

Jenna and I left the table at this point. Neither my father nor Lord Bustain seemed to notice our departure. Wilfred Addal stared after us, no doubt to read every piece of meaning we might betray. I was pleased when a bend in the staircase took us beyond his line of vision.

“It would be more discreet if we went to our own rooms,” Jenna said. “Beside – I could do with a bit of rest, you bad girl!”

I nodded. “I suppose so. All the same…”

“There’ll be time for all the same later, Addal willing – or, praise the goddess, ignorant.”

Jenna slapped my bottom and I returned, rather unwillingly, to my apartments – where Inqui, my personal slave, greeted me with a curious look. I had not seen her since before the ride to West Minester – Beddibelle had fetched my clean clothes the previous afternoon and that morning. Knowing that slaves gossip, I wondered whether I should interpret the expression on Inqui’s face as insolence, and punish her accordingly. After a short mental struggle, I decided to let it pass.

Knowing that I was fond of Inqui, I was sometimes alarmed by what seemed to be her attitude, and my possible over-indulgence towards her. Perhaps, it occurred to me, Jenna might have useful advice on how to handle Inqui – my welts surely indicated that she knew how to treat slaves. I had previously considered asking the same thing of Martello Brown, my father’s Slave Master General. The reason I hadn’t done so was probably a reluctance to admit that I was uncertain as to how I might deal with a slave – something any real lady should know.

During the morning, I had another opportunity to gauge how well Jenna could administer discipline. This time, I gave myself to her whip more willingly – in spite of yesterday’s welts, still stinging as I had never stung before. The lashes seemed to assuage my heartache at the prospect of separation. Jenna plied her peccalalo more viciously, probably expressing her anger with my father and Wilfred Addal.

We took lunch with my father, Lord Higate and Lord Bustain – I was pleased by Wilfred Addal’s absence. My father and Lord Higate discussed the defences of the palace and of Lundin, taking no notice of Jenna or me. Lord Bustain’s table manners continued to revolt me. Jenna and I left the table as soon as we finished eating.

It was me who suggested, that afternoon, that Beddibelle should dress as a lady to play the part of Jenna’s guest, while I served both of them. Beddibelle looked lovely in a white satin dress, and she made a stern mistress. She presumably had a better idea of how slavery worked than either Jenna or I did. The game reached its climax with me over Beddibelle’s knee receiving a very warm seat from the back of a hair brush.

“You have the makings of a very bad girl,” Jenna said afterwards – “coming up with the idea of Beddibelle as a person. That was just plain juicilicious[3] as far as I was concerned.”

Jenna and I were the only ones at table that suppertime. My father was busy with his generals. Wilfred Addal was busy with his informants. Lord Bustain had departed to procure – so the serving slave said – both mules and warhorses.

In spite of our expectation of interference in our activities, Jenna and I were left increasingly to our own devices as the days passed. My father and Wilfred Addal had more pressing matters than a couple of girls. Most of what we heard of those matters came from slaves. I spent a lot of time talking to Inqui and Beddibelle.

My intimacy with the slaves increased after Inqui joined our games – another of my suggestions. I thought that Inqui enjoyed what we did, but was not entirely sure – she could often be inscrutable. Encountering Inqui and Beddibelle whispering and giggling together, from time to time, I found their intimacy increasingly disturbing. Sensing my authority slipping from them, feeling powerless to intervene, I was reminded of the Effilia's Hipnos story.

On Glarehaze 10th or 11th, my father despatched eight cutthroats across the river on a reprisal raid. On the morning of the 13th, I awoke to the palace in uproar. Amid much shouting from ten or a dozen officers of the guard, Sir Garrafad of the Mount was stamping about, soundly cuffing any slave or person of low birth who was foolish enough to step within range. My father and Lord Higate were bellowing at no one in particular, while Wilfred Addal was booting the bottom of any informant he could find.

“What’s going on?” I asked a serving slave who was poised for flight, keeping a wary eye on Sir Garrafad.

“It’s the south east gate this morning. One guard skewered, another slit open from throat to willie. A third ’un missing – but that ain’t the most o’ it.” He seemed to be enjoying the grisly story.

“Well?” I snapped. “What else?”

“The Surrey girls left a box. Y’ know them cutthroats yer daddy sent off? Their clothes was inside – and eight hacked off willies besides – an’ a letter. It said thanks for the slaves…” he started to laugh, hastily covering it with a coughing fit.

“Enough!” I said, attempting to assume more of the role of mistress than I felt. “It’s plain enough that we won’t be able to breakfast at table. Send breakfast up to my room – enough for Princess Jenna as well as me… and enough for our slaves. Snap to it!”

My impression of she who must be obeyed was, evidently, good enough. The slave scurried in the direction of the kitchens. I ascended the stairs slowly and with what I hoped was dignity. Once on the second landing, I started to run.

During the afternoon, Inqui brought graver news: “Mistress, mistress!” she called, bursting in on Jenna and me, lying together without slaves.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Jenna shouted. “Fetch my peccalalo! I’ll teach you a slave’s place!”

“But, mistress… it’s…”

“Calm down, Inqui,” I said. “Jenna! Hear her out. There’s to be no whipping until I say so.”

“Thank you, mistress. A messenger’s just returned from the Great East Road – more dead than alive. A well guarded caravan…”

“Mistress! Mistress!” This time it was Beddibelle bursting in without ceremony.

“Calm down, Beddibelle,” I said as soothingly as I could manage. “Inqui’s telling us. Right, Inqui – a well guarded caravan…”

“Attacked – Surrey warrior girls from the south, nazemen[4] from the north. The caravan were slaughtered or enslaved – all but the girl who brought the news.”

“Nazemen and Surrey folk? Can they be in alliance?” I said. “Can people consort with tom-men?”

My thoughts went back to my childhood in the Belle House, and hunting in the forests. Mostly the hunters brought back deer, wild oxen or boar – but, once in a while, they returned with a nazeman trussed to their pole. I had eaten nazepork[5]. No – I assured myself – nazemen were beasts, not men.

“More to the point,” Jenna said, “if the Great East Road is no longer safe, we won’t be going to the Belle House or – in my case – Roach Keep.”

Over the next few days my father spent more time with Sergeant General Bob Bosset and the Honourable Eric Marsh than with Sir Garrafad or Lord Higate. General Bosset’s concern was with the training of troops, Eric Marsh’s with ordnance. Presumably, my father considered that he now needed more trained men and arms for their use. Captain Major Jonathan Flight was the lowest ranking officer I knew to have spent time with him.

It was Beddibelle who explained what business my father had with Captain Major Flight. The odious Flight was to command a troop of guardsmen who were to cross the river under cover of darkness. The plan was to take retribution upon the Surrey folk, returning with as much treasure and as many slaves as possible. My father’s hope was that the expedition would finance itself – and possibly make a modest profit.

However, as the days passed, the financial aspect of the affair obviously concerned my father, for Cornelius Lock, Tax Gatherer General, joined his deliberations – as well as Sir Thomas Shrew, Engineer in Ordinary and Toby Slack, Attorney General. Sir Thomas Shrew smiled vaguely in my direction when we passed in the passageways – but seemed preoccupied with the abstruse problems that were his domain. Cornelius Lock didn’t smile upon me – but I never knew him to smile at all, it was as though he thought that twitching one’s lips might be taxable. Toby Slack not only smiled but exchanged a few pleasant, although uninformative, words – he never seemed too busy to spend a minute or two in conversation.

An increasing number of strangers were in the palace. One, from Scotia Minor, was a disappointment. I had heard that his people covered themselves in a black and white chequered pattern – called tar-tin because it was applied from a tin of tar. In the event, his appearance was quite ordinary, although he spoke with an accent unlike any I’d previously heard.

Lord Bustain returned to the palace, but – much to my relief – left the following day. According to the slaves, my father was putting a lot of business his way – mostly for warhorses. I thought of approaching Sir James Giddifly, the Stablemaster General, to ask if I might ride a warhorse. Unfortunately, Sir James was much too busy to see me.

It was Sir Toby Slack who brought news of the changing plans for Jenna and me to leave the palace. He knocked at my door one afternoon. Jenna was with me but, fortunately, we were both fully dressed. It was the first time anyone but Jenna and the slaves had entered my rooms for several weeks.

“Ah, Princess Margaret…” he began “…and Princess Jenna, too. I’m glad to find you together, this concerns both of you. There was a plan to send you into Essex…”

“But that was dropped when the caravan was attacked,” Jenna added.

“Oh – you know…” Sir Toby sounded saddened “…I had hoped that you wouldn’t hear the dreadful story. But, yes, the plan was abandoned because of the slaughter on the road. Now, the idea is to send you north – to Scotia Minor.”

“That must be half way to the edge of the world,” I said. “How are we to get there?”

“The first stage of the journey, as I understand it, is to be by canal. A boat is being furnished for you on the Grand Junction. Geography is not really my business, I expect that Clement Allan could tell you more.”

Clement Allan, my father’s Cartographer General, did tell us more. We found him marking a map of Kent with a pencil – obviously, lines had been repeatedly pencilled over its surface only to be rubbed out. It was clear that he was pleased to have an excuse to lay the map to one side. Presumably, he was moving the boundary between territory held by Surrey and that still occupied by her enemies.

“Can I help you, young ladies?” he asked with a bow.

“I hope so,” Jenna said, “we’re supposed to be travelling to Scotia Minor, via the Grand Junction Canal. We wondered if you could show us the route.”

“Certainly. To tell you the truth, I’ll be glad to take a break from Kent. The Grand Junction Canal extends nowhere near Scotia Minor, but… Well, I’ll show you when I’ve found the map…”

He started to rummage through stacks of maps, plans and charts, which did not seem to be arranged in any order. He found the one he sought unexpectedly quickly – perhaps they were stored less chaotically than it appeared. As Clement Allan was spreading the map on a table, Sir Thomas Shrew, Engineer in Ordinary arrived. I felt a little concerned at having disturbed the cartographer on a busy afternoon.

“Can I help you, Sir Thomas?” he asked.

“I just wanted to look at the plans of the barbican, but I’m not in a hurry. Deal with the young ladies first. I won’t be sorry for a little rest from the concerns of war.”

“Of course, Sir Thomas… Now, Princess Margaret, Princess Jenna, this blue line represents the Grand Junction Canal. I think you’d follow it – let me see – yes, ninety-five miles to the junction at Brew Stone. Then, you’d take the Ox Ford Canal…”

“To Ox Ford?” Jenna sounded puzzled – clearly, her grasp of geography was better than mine.

“No – northwards, Princess Jenna…”

My mind wandered as Clement Allan continued with a precise description of the route. Jenna nodded from time to time as the cartographer’s finger traced a line across the map – through the Meadow Lands, Mankash, Lankash and to Leeds in Yocker. The sunshine slanting through the window, and the song of the birds beyond, engaged me as the drone of the greybeard’s voice could not. My attention did not return to Clement Allan until Jenna asked another question.

“Do we take that black line from Leeds?” Jenna said. “Whatever is it? Roads are drawn in red, canals and rivers in blue…”

“Indeed, I think that you will very likely transfer to the black line. It is a wonderful device known as a rail way. Mighty steam engines are mounted upon iron bogies, and draw padded carriages, their wheels guided by metal rails.”

“Nonsense!” Sir Thomas snorted.

“Why is it nonsense, Sir Thomas?” I asked – finding the idea of a rail way exciting, in so far as I understood it.

“It is quite impossible for a steam engine to draw wheeled vehicles, Princess Margaret, and that is all there is to it.”

“But my father has boats powered by steam engines. If a boat, why not a wheeled vehicle?”

“I am afraid that Fort’s third law of motion is against you. Less power is required to move a body through an aqueous environment than over a dry one. Hence the ratio of weight to power in an engine allows it to move a body through water, but would be insufficient to move a vehicle over land. On firm ground, only the gods may fashion machines with sufficient power to move – that is to say persons, slaves and other beasts.”

With a sudden inspiration, I asked: “Have you heard of a flicker machine?”

“Yes, Princess Margaret, I know the device: it projects a shadow play onto the wall. Flicker rolls are turned by a small steam engine, the furnace also provides the light. Sometimes the shadows look like dancing people or beasts – more often they don’t. What of it?”

“Suppose a flicker machine was laid on its side. The steam engine would turn the flicker roll and it would act as a wheel. The thing would move like a miniature steam carriage.”

“Unfortunately not. The thing is just a toy. More importantly, it simply would not work. It has enough power to move the flicker roll, which is light – but not to move its own weight.”

He took a memorandum book from his pocket and scribbled down some equations about power to weight ratios, velocity and inertia. None of it meant much to me – Miss Lace’s schoolroom strap had left me with few ideas on mathematics, apart from the fact that it stung. My attention turned from Sir Thomas’ voice to the song birds. It was far too nice a day to listen to my father’s pedants.

I couldn’t argue with an Engineer in Ordinary, but hoped that he was wrong. It would be thrilling to ride in a carriage drawn by a giant flicker machine on its side. Clement Allan believed in the rail way. Who was to say that a cartographer’s opinion counted for less than an engineer’s?

[1] Vow Vosnex, occasionally written vowel Vosnex was an Essex oath. Vosnex is a local deity associated with the Ten Drain Peninsula. It has variously been suggested that Vow Vosnex is a corruption of I vow by Vosnex, vowless Vosnex or foul Vosnex – but none of those writings are recorded.

[2] The Belle House was the home of the Earls of the East Wood. It is almost certain that Lady Margaret’s mother was the daughter of one of the Earls – either Robert the 24th Earl or Colwood the 25th Earl. The Roach Keep was a fortress about four miles east of the Belle House – it was largely used to hold such political prisoners as it was inconvenient or impolitic to execute.

[3] Juicilicious – provoking the discharge of sexual juices.

[4] Nazemen – an hirsute race originating in northern Essex. Now thought to have been fully human – if exceptionally ugly – at this time they were regarded as one of the species of semi-human tom-men.

[5] Nazepork – the flesh of nazemen, served as meat. So called because of its similarity to pork.

For Chapter 4 click
Here

Golden Goddess and Bloody Times/Of Bondlings and Blesh