Of Bondlings and Blesh Ch 9

Chapter 9

A rising wind howled; the tent fabric rippled. The young woman in the green skirt slapped her companion on the bottom. There was more laughter. I eyed their bouncing breasts with wholly sexual appreciation.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” she of the white draperies said, “as you will know my name is Jane Turrell… Well – it looks like you don’t know – hand up, anyone who did know… I see – hand up anyone who knows why you’re here… Not a one…”

“Typical!” snorted the young woman in blue. “I’ll bet none of them have heard of you – or even of grand labay.”

“Miss Turrell is the world’s greatest director of grand labay – and you are here to audition for her,” added she in the green skirt.

“Thank you, Helen,” Miss Turrell said. “Let us start from basics, you all know what labay figures are, I assume… Well – thank the goddess for that… In grand labay, the figures tell a story in symbolic form, recounted entirely from the point of view of slaves – persons do not appear on stage.”

“Of course,” Helen clarified, “Miriam and I help the slaves through their rehearsals, but we do not appear on stage during the performance.”

“Exactly. We will perform Laurence’s[1] masterpiece Effilia’s Hipnos. Who knows the story?”

My hand was one of those to shoot up. According to the tale, Effilia had her personage sucked into a flask by the sorcerer Mandick, leaving her in a state of limbo – known as hipnos – in which she had neither the authority of a person nor the submission of a slave. Eventually, Effilia’s daughter, Roseblue, managed to uncork the flask – releasing her mother’s personage and sucking that of Mandick into the bottle[2]. Nanny Spencer had told me the story when I was little.

“Well – the few who don’t know will soon pick it up, should they pass the audition. Up on stage – all of you – we’ll practice a few figures from the end of the first act – conetts and diapumes. You are Effilia’s slaves feeling her authority lift from you as she slips into hipnos. Imagine the horror and despair that you would feel deprived of your mistress’ personage.”

I stepped on to the stage with my fellow slaves and formed conetts and diapumes, attempting to infuse them with horror and despair – not by contemplating deprivation of Berenice’s personage, but of Lady Isobel’s. Miss Turrell’s verdict was that I was technically imperfect, but showed signs of passion, and I was not excluded after the first set of figures. Ten minutes later, with a particularly clumsy pedukoi, I failed the audition. Two from Cap’n Gentle’s cargo were accepted – Slippa and Raiqu – I was pleased by the implied affirmation of Lady Isobel’s training, but ashamed of my unworthiness.

Two drivers sheltering under umbrellas had we who had failed the audition scurrying into heavy rain. No other persons were to be seen, but a few bedraggled slaves attended to outdoor tasks. The large tent into which we were urged was only about twenty yards from Miss Turrell’s – but, by the time we reached it – I could scarcely see through the water dripping from my hair and coating my eye lashes. Had I been clothed, rather than harnessed, my garments would have been soaked.

On regaining my vision – after shaking myself, pushing back my hair and wiping my eyes – I saw that the tent was another performance space. Beyond the rows of empty seats, the stage was a forest of iron leaved trees. The wood was of whipping posts and frames, the leaves open jawed manacles. There was a lady, dressed in red, who might have been about thirty – together with a dozen younger women clad only in short skirts and clutching torment instruments.

A well aimed lash from a driver had me scurrying to the stage where a tormentor, purple skirt about her thighs, clamped a set of manacles upon my wrists. The restraints proved surprisingly comfortable – they were well padded and not set too high. The post was polished and felt perfectly smooth. My only discomfort was the certainty that I was about to be whipped.

“I am Melissa Lovett,” a voice behind me said. “You are auditioning as torment subjects.”

Lady Isobel had mentioned Melissa Lovett’s name in connection with her family’s whip and harnessware business. She was, so my former mistress had said, a virtuoso torment artist who had become a leading conductor. Her kindness, and generosity with her time, had received much praise. A great deal of the whipping theory I had learnt on Cap’n Gentle’s boats had originated with this gracious lady.

“First we will try the peccalalo run from the start of the third section,” Miss Lovett continued, “building up to the crescendo before the belleroles come in. From the top now…”

I braced myself for the whip. The peccalalos hissed and cracked – but, to my surprise, I didn’t feel their touch. It soon occurred to me that – as we slaves outnumbered the tormentors – they were taking us in two batches, and I must be in the second group. Leggi, just to my left, was obviously in the first.

“Fine,” the conductor said at last. “A few of them are really quite promising. We’ll try the others, now – same section, from the top…”

With the final word, a flicker of fire played across my back – painful yet with a sense of luxury. I was reminded of the caress of a silken camisole sliding into place. It was as unlike the clumsy work of the drivers as smoked salmon is to boiled pond fish. It was unlike Lady Isobel’s loving whip strokes, too – colder and more precise – for the first time, perhaps, I truly glimpsed what artistry is.

“I quite like mine,” my tormentor said during the discussion after the peccalalo session. “She rises nicely to the lash – and has quite a pleasing expression.”

“Yeah, I like the way her tits bob up and down in time to the whip,” another said with – I thought – unnecessary crudity.

“Not bad,” Melissa Lovett said. “She has potential, but she’ll need a good deal of rehearsal. We’ll try her on the tristelle next – I think it might suit her.”

“What do you think of mine?” a tormentor asked, as the discussion moved on to another slave.

The tristelle, with which I auditioned next, was more painful that the peccalalo. There was, however, the same curious sense of luxury mingled with the pain. I sensed that there were nuances to the performance I was unable to follow. An unfavourable verdict came as no surprise.

“This one’s too crass for the tristelle,” my tormentor said. “I don’t think she even noticed the difference between the one and a half beat run with the crossed left mid tail, and second beat and a half switched over to the right.”

“Agreed,” Melissa Lovett sighed. “The demi-flick with the half beat cross over was completely lost on her. She’ll do for the temperole background, if she shapes up, but hasn’t the soul for a lead subject.”

In the event, six slaves from Cap’n Gentle’s cargo passed the audition – Leggi, Spanquibelle, Fuquibelle, Bifi and Bouche, as well as me. In spite of feeling apprehensive on becoming a torment subject, it was a relief not to be separated from my friend, Leggi. I also felt pleased that Bifi and Bouche were to remain together – and Miss Lovett was clearly pleased to find two such sturdy girls – suitable for the heavier instruments. It was time to part from Chit, Fluffi and Busti, and I felt sorry to see them led away by the drivers – although, for all I knew, their fate might be kinder than ours.

My continued presence amongst Miss Lovett’s girls was in some doubt until I started to shape up at the third rehearsal. For a little while after that, it looked as though I might be a second back[3], but this became increasingly unlikely. Of Cap’n Gentle’s cargo, Spanquibelle – true to her name – proved the finest torment subject and was assigned to a lead instrument. The rest of us had more lowly roles.

It was, of course, painful work – but not without its satisfactions. A protracted series of inexpert whippings tends to dull the sense of pain. It is the art of torment to have precisely the opposite effect. Through the artistry of the tormentor, the subject’s ability to experience pain is continually refined.

We were to perform Woodward’s third agorole, a lengthy and complex work lasting about an hour and a half and requiring more than fifty tormentors – and, of course, a like number of subjects[4]. It called for the finest tormentors and required almost two months to prepare. The performance was clearly designed to demonstrate both the refinement of Berenice’s sensibilities and her wealth. Few, even of the Nine[5] could have afforded to pay for such a spectacle – to stage it in conjunction with the production of Effilia’s Hipnos was astonishing.

We were often reminded that Berenice’s triumph depended on our responsiveness to the whips – the fate of those who disappointed her was left to our imaginations. I suspect that our imaginings were more lurid than the reality would have been. I now realise that things would have gone much harder for Melissa Lovett and her tormentors than for we subjects. A person is just a person, but a slave has a market value which is not to be lightly squandered.

For the first time since my enslavement, I received veterinary treatment. Clearly, torment subjects needed to be fit – and the vet was, I felt sure, more competent than the Palace Victoria physicians. She was a Miss Hawker, and proved not only thorough, but unexpectedly kind, seeming genuinely to like slaves. Not for the last time, I decided that I liked vets better than doctors.

Even more welcome was the quality of our swill. My food was better than any since my capture – seemingly in another lifetime – at Watt’s Ford Gap. Occasionally, we even received bowls of savoury meat stew with hunks of bread to dip into it. Not only did we need to build up our strength for the performance but – Melissa Lovett considered – a certain gaiety was necessary for torment subjects.

We were allowed plenty of leisure time, during which Miss Lovett encouraged us to socialise. She said that we needed to bond, to become a guess all, more than some of our parts – and other things that seemed to make no sense. While I do not wish to imply criticism of a great artist, a noble lady, a generous and kindly woman – it was said that she picked up such notions from Old Time books. I am sufficiently old fashioned to think that the only good to come out of the Old Time was the modern age.

At first, we just talked; but, after a little while, we started to play games. Initially, it was a matter of hauk-stick, using twigs and straws – and Lady Anne with the grid scratched in the dust or mud, according to the weather. Then Bifi and Bouche, working together, produced a set of calendar bones[6]. That soon became our favourite pastime, and it was not long before we had produced half a dozen sets.

Small bones could be scavenged easily – finger bones proved the best. Also to hand were sharp stone fragments suitable for flattening the surfaces and marking them with month symbols. We wagered pieces of bone or rock suitable for fashioning calendar bones, each of us forming a little store of this slave currency. Persons who occasionally looked at our games sneered, but we took it all very seriously.

Even now I feel frustrated when I recall re-rolling on the verge of a season. After three re-casts with one of the bones, I was still left with only a lump and cusp – giving me a score of bar five! The winner had a mere lump, but on a single roll. It was hard to fight back my tears as I handed her thirteen of my precious fragments.

Amongst the rubbish scattered about the camp were a great number of rags. Many bore stitching and seemed to be shreds of garments, perhaps from the clothing of those who had been foolish enough to offend Berenice. While the scraps were of little use for most purposes, some were large enough to wrap our pieces of bone and rock between games. I was delighted to find a useful piece of red cloth with white dots to replace my original beige bundle.

Perhaps a week before the performance, sweating gangs of he-slaves – mercifully trimmed – struck the torment and labay tents, folded them neatly and loaded them on to ox carts. We assumed that the tents were to be re-erected at the performance site, but this was to prove false. The removal of the tents was probably a mistake. We continued to rehearse in the open – something that sorely tried the tormentors as they struggled to keep their instruments tuned in spite of the damp.

For we slaves, it allowed the pleasure of seeing Effilia’s Hipnos in an advanced stage of rehearsal. Never before had I seen grand labay and was immediately enchanted, occasionally the performance moved me to tears. Especially poignant was the scene in which, the lady’s personage restored, she reasserted her authority upon the slaves. Not only was it a beautiful sentiment, exquisitely performed, but it had me dreaming of Lady Isobel reasserting her authority upon me.

Three days before the performance, we clambered into ox carts and were taken in luxury to the festival site. We snuggled into the straw and swapped jokes that would have made Lady Margaret blush. With a definite pleasure, I joined in with the lewd recital. My story was an old one, but it made my friends laugh.

“A lady took a slave boy to the trimming shop, only to find that the trimmer wasn’t there. While his mistress looked for the man, the boy decided that didn’t fancy being whittled down to size. Looking for a place to hide, he slipped behind a curtain – but that was no good because his willy was sticking out. He picked up an old axe head, slipped it over his erection, and went back behind the curtain…”

“Green wood!” Leggi squealed, obviously realising which joke it was.

“The trimmer came back,” I continued, ignoring her, “and said ‘what’s that axe doing there?’ He grabbed the slave’s willy, pulled, and the boy spurted into the trimmer’s hand. ‘Wood as green as that, with so much sap, must still be growing on the tree,’ he said, ‘I’d better cut it off’. So he took a pruning knife to it – and the lady, coming back, said ‘just the blade for his prunes!’

“That reminds me of another one…” Fuquibelle said, when the laughter died down, “After being cut down to size, a slave boy goes back to trimming shop and starts rummaging through the pig bin[7] – looking for his willy…”

That night we rehearsed in the great dark crimson tent on the festival site. We caught our breath as we beheld the scene revealed in the flickering glow of the torches. The tiers of seats were upholstered in scarlet, trimmed with gold. The tent posts were of polished hardwood, each bearing a golden flambeau bracket.

Most glorious of all were the stage fittings. The whipping posts and frames were of hardwood, not only polished but carved with intricate designs – each a work of art in its own right. Their metal fittings reflected the torch light with the unmistakable gleam of real gold. The beauty of the scene brought tears to my eyes – for the first time, I truly felt unworthy to be a torment subject.

Raising my wrists for my bracelets, I gasped in fresh wonder. Not only were the restraining bands of precious metal, but were obviously the work of a great goldsmith. A raised design depicted a labay performance in minute detail. Set into the relief were – I felt sure – real sapphires, their blueness as cold as Woodward’s masterpiece.

The full beauty, however, was not revealed until the following evening, as we prepared for the dress rehearsal. First, a group of slaves with an irritable overseer delivered our performance harnesses. Muttering curses, the person took keys to the crude stuff in which we were locked. The slaves fastened us into the most beautiful harnessware I had seen – glossy black leather, real gold set with more sapphires.

Initially, my performance harness was an unalloyed delight. Then – reflecting that it must be more valuable than a thousand slaves, it seemed a great burden. I sought out a tormentor and asked if I might speak to her – and she was gracious enough to consent. When I spelt out my worries, she roared with laughter and slapped me hard, but affectionately, on the bottom – finally, seeing that my concern was genuine, she reassured me.

“Berenice doesn’t like thieves. Her law is that any thief who steals from her should meet a more horrible fate than the last. It’s years since anyone tested her ingenuity. Just being Berenice’s slave guards you better than a company of the finest troops.”

An hour or so before we were fastened in our places, pack slaves arrived with large pots of perfumed oil. Young slave girls with long and extraordinarily supple fingers massaged us with the oil until we gleamed. No crevice escaped their probing touch. I was left as glossy as my whipping post, and smelling like a goddess’ concubine.

Nor had I previously seen the tormentors dressed for performance. At rehearsal they wore a motley collection of skirts, scarcely two of them matching in colour, length or style. Now, all were in black satin, fringed with golden tassels and belted with gold chain, their legs and torsos – like our bodies – gleamed. Their whips matched their skirts – black leather with gold pommels.

The following night was that of the performance. Both we and the tormentors were oiled even more thoroughly than for the dress rehearsal. Melissa Lovett was careful to ensure than we were fastened in our places with time to spare. The tormentors joined us shortly afterwards, busy with their warm up exercises.

The stage lights were extinguished while the rest of the tent remained brilliant. Staring at the tiers of seats from the darkness, I had the impression that I was part of the audience and the action in the illuminated expanse before me was the performance. The fact that I was chained in place did not dispel the notion – the persons of quality taking their seats continued to strike me as actors. Most of the ladies were soberly dressed, but the men wore colourful robes – here crimson, there lime green, the most splendid of all was magenta and turquoise ornamented with silver tassels.

A slave took her place at each flambeau, as unobtrusively as she could, although it was difficult not to notice girls of such beauty. Suddenly, in perfect unison, they extinguished every light. For several heartbeats the great tent was in complete darkness. Just as I started to wonder whether something was amiss, flares sprang up about us on the stage.

The tormentors, subjects and whipping posts were starkly revealed in the harsh and unnatural light. The audience clapped. Then – as silence descended – the ensemble paused motionless, whips aloft, ready to strike. The peccalalos hissed, followed by three heavy beats from the bagerole. On the third beat, the temperoles joined the chorus of pain, and my back was afire.

At the interval, the stage lights were extinguished and those illuminating the seats rekindled. In the darkness, there was a flurry of activity. We were unfastened from our posts and frames, given refreshing cordials to sip, massaged, re-oiled. The tormentors stretched their limbs and sucked hungrily at bottles.

“Arch your back to the whip as each stroke falls,” one of them reminded me. Then, presumably in response to some sign of my distress added: “Don’t worry, kid, you’re doing fine.”

She patted my back, something I would rather she had not – the first half had left me very sore. No doubt, she meant it kindly. The audience were starting to return to their seats. A lady and her gentleman caught my attention.

“The smoky taste of that whisky goes so well with the pecker,” he said. “Superb!”

“It was too fatty,” she replied, pulling a face and wiping greasy fingers on her handkerchief. “And I’m not sure it wasn’t blesh. If you ask me, Berenice feeds her slaves too well – and doesn’t slaughter them soon enough.”

A few minutes later, the lights about the audience were extinguished once more and – a minute or two later – those of the stage reignited. The second half started with the belleroles, then tristelles and clunts, before the temperoles came in… and so the agorole unfolded. My tormentor had sufficient skill, and I was sufficiently receptive, to render my pain more acute at the climax than during the opening temperole swell. Woodward’s extraordinarily subtle conclusion was filled with deep bittersweet emotions – I was left weeping, but not primarily in physical pain.

My deep – almost inexpressible – feelings had scarcely begun to resolve themselves when the grumpy overseer, and her slaves, returned for our performance harnesses. I cried fresh tears to lose the beautiful tangle of supple leather and gleaming gold. Being thrust back into cheap harnesswear was both humiliating and profoundly saddening. Gloom seemed to descend upon all of we torment subjects.

Our return from the festival site was in contrast to the outward journey. Nobody felt inclined to joke – indeed, few remarks of any kind were made. Two factors, in this, were certainly that the spell of the performance had not entirely left us – and the sad loss of our exquisite harnesses. Also, I think that we all felt a sense of foreboding – Berenice had surely done with us as torment subjects, and we had no idea as to what lay in store.

Eventually, we fell entirely silent. Now the only sounds were the creaking of the cart, the ox’s hooves squelching in the mud and the occasional cries of night birds. Suddenly, the quiet was broken by an explosion of sound. It was not until heavy rain drops started to fall, a moment later, that I realised it had been a peel of thunder.

We scurried to pull the sheet of waxed canvas over our heads, and huddled in its shelter. Without a word, Leggi kissed me on the lips. Then we were embracing, fondling, licking – not just Leggi and me, but all of us in the cart. Cries of delight, pleasure, ecstasy mingled with the drumming rain upon our shelter.

I arrived back at Bernice’s camp full of apprehension, but – in the event – the following days didn’t seem to justify my fears. Our overseers were short tempered and our swill vile, but there seemed little evidence of the legendary cruelty which had led Berenice to take the name Blackheart on receiving her electorhood[8]. When we were given embroidery to do, I recalled stories of Berenice’s slaves sewing with needles fashioned from splinters of their own bones. Much to my relief, I was given an ordinary metal needle.

During my childhood, tapestry had been considered – in the Belle House – a suitable accomplishment for young ladies. While my work had little artistic merit, it had exhibited a deftness of touch. That was to stand me in good stead now – for our task was to render designs on gauzy dresses. Each of us was given a painted board to copy – mine was of a white horse on a red ground.

Although the embroidery wasn’t large, the work was so delicate that I didn’t complete it until the fourth day. A stitch out of place earned a furious lash, so I worked with care. Since tardiness was also punished, I made pains to be diligent as well as careful. For all of the overseers, we found time to chatter – as slaves will – and the rumours of the camp passed between us.

I was horrified to hear a girl called Daffi announce: “The barbarians are coming – here!”

Tales of barbarians playing ball games with their victims’ heads – and other such horrors – sprang to mind. The truth proved less spectacular. An alliance was planned between Surrey and the western barbarians, with a view to crushing the Westland army between them. As a nut between hammer and anvil, it was said – but I never found out which was supposed to be hammer and which the anvil.

Barbarian warlords from Cymru, Ex Moor bandit chiefs, Cornish rebel pretenders, and others of their ilk had beached their painted ships at Surrey Port. Now they made their way north by canal craft and litter, to negotiate with the Nine of Surrey. Berenice, determined to ensure her share of the plunder, had invited them to a reception at her camp[9]. While the barbarians were not coming in peace, their war was not with us or with our mistress.

Before I had completed my embroidery, stories were circulating of the barbarians who had already arrived in the camp – horribly hairy men without manners or other refinement. Mercifully, the tales were of drunken loutishness, rather than atrocity, but they conveyed more than a hint of menace. In spite of my being set to decorating the large banqueting tent – once my needlework was done – I didn’t see any of the barbarians until the night of the reception. No doubt, they seemed all the more frightful for remaining hidden.

At last, it was self-evident that the reception would take place that night, although we were not actually told – the banqueting tent was ready and the air was filled with the scent of roasting meat. A party of guards, who already escorted a dozen girls, collected we tent decorators. As we continued around the camp, more slaves were added to our number – all, I noticed, from the group who had embroidered the dresses. We crossed a compound where several barbarians staggered, already drunk and looking quite as disagreeable as I’d feared – they were the first I’d seen.

The ogled us, then laughed, shouting something in their own language, which I assumed to be lewd. One slapped his crotch, while his companions laughed even louder – as we passed I was not the only slave to form the sign of the Great Mother. Stepping downwind of them, my hand darted to my nose on catching a stink compounded of fish, beer, urine and unwashed sweaty deposits. The smell seemed to follow us into the long low tent in which we had embroidered the dresses.

An official in a low cut royal blue dress ticked our names on a list as a guard in black leather read them aloud from our thighs. As each name was called, the official replied with what was obviously the name of a barbarian. An assistant stood by a rail from which hung our embroidered dresses, handing a garment to each slave as a barbarian’s name was pronounced. They worked efficiently and the queue moved rapidly – soon it was my turn.

“Tuerqui,” the guard read, “Gentle 1207.”

“Lewis Ironhand of Clun,” the official responded.

The assistant handed me the familiar dress embroidered with a white horse on a red ground, then a driver sent me scurrying from the tent. Another lash urged me through an open flap and into the arms of a waiting slave, who – without a word – signalled me to a chair. Reading her thigh, I saw that she was Yummibum – and, as she turned to select from a box of make up, observed that she did indeed have a nice bottom. I smiled at her.

“You were well named,” I said.

“Thank you” – smiling back – “I’m to do your face and dress you.”

“Do you know what this is all about?”

“They don’t tell slaves anything, but – well…”

“Yes?”

“Oh, it’s just what I can guess… Maybe I’m wrong… I don’t think I should say… And it might be something else.”

“The feast for the barbarians?”

“Mmmm… That’s what I thought… But I don’t really know…” As she spoke, she applied cosmetics to my face.

“I’m to be part of the desert course?”

“I don’t know, but…”

“But that’s the way it looks?”

“All I really know is that our mistress is holding a feast for the barbarians tonight… And me and some other slaves are doing girls’ – and a few boys’ – faces and putting them into gauzy dresses embroidered with symbols. That’s all. The rest is just guesswork and gossip.”

“But you wouldn’t wager your next meal on me having my virginity in the morning.”

“No – to be honest – I wouldn’t. But I could be wrong. And, even if I’m not, it might not be as bad as all that. Do you like boys?”

“No – I’m a girls’ girl.”

“Oh – well – perhaps you could imagine…Or maybe not. I’m really sorry, but I’m just a slave like you.”

“I know.”

She kissed me on my lips and brushed my tongue with hers. Eagerly, I began to respond, and reached out to embrace her. Yummibum evaded my arms, but took my hand and pressed it. Then she kissed me chastely on the forehead.

“I’d love to,” she said. “But I can’t – honestly. Now I’d better re-do your lips.”

A fresh squall and its burden of rain drummed loudly on the canvas. Yummibum frowned as she concentrated on her work. I bit my lip, trying not to think of what was about to happen. A chorus of singing lifted above the sound of the storm, the words didn’t sound like English.

[1] Fiona Laurence, grand labay composer (YD 623-709). The score for her Effilia’s Hipnos survives.

[2] It is interesting that this account omits all sexual references. Mandick (the second syllable of whose name seems to have been a dialect word signifying penis) wished to ravage Roseblue. Eventually, Roseblue gains access to the flask by pretending to submit to his demands.

[3] A second back was a reserve torment subject, to appear only if another subject was unable to do so. A reserve tormentor was known as a second arm.

[4] Several scores survive for this work, showing considerable variation. The number of instruments varies between 48 and 57, while the timings seem to range from 88 to 114 minutes. Louise Doe in Torment: a First Imperial Art suggests that the longest known version was never performed and that the norm was around 93-96 minutes (not including intervals), involving 52-53 instruments.

[5] The Nine was the governing council that ruled Surrey under the Democracy. New members of the Nine were chosen by the 81 Empers who, in turn were elected by the 729 Electors. New electors were appointed by the Nine.

[6] Calendar bones was played with three elongated dice, designed to fall on one of four faces, each marked with the symbol of a month. The usual set being:

Bone 1: Chillflurry, Drizzlemoon, Glarehaze, Mistream
Bone 2: Iceflake, Cornsprout, Thunderhead, Dankfog
Bone 3: Wind rush, Litnight, Swellbelly, Blinkday

The three bones were rolled, producing a combination of three months awarded points as follows:

Nix: 0 (Forming none of the following combinations)
Openers: 1 (The first two months of a season)
Closers: 3 (The last two months of a season)
Cusp: 6 (The last month of one season, plus the first month of the next)
Lump: 8 (The first and last months of a season)
Lump and cusp: 10 (Combination of a lump and a cusp.)
Quarter: 12 (Three consecutive months, not forming a season.)
Season: 20 (All three months of one of the four seasons.)

The bones could be re-rolled, but doing so cost 1 point if all three bones were re-rolled, 3 points for 2 bones and 5 points for one bone.

Re-rolling, especially repeated re-rolling, could result in minus scores called bar scores – bar one was minus one, bar two was minus two, and so on. The amount the loser paid the winner depended on the difference between their scores.

The usual set of bones (described above) did not permit a lump and cusp to be scored, but some variations did.

[7] The severed genitals of male slaves were often fed to pigs.

[8] On becoming an elector of Surrey, persons abandoned their family names and took symbolic names instead. The process signified that Surrey was now the elector’s family. There were changing fashions in electoral names. In the late democracy years, they usually signified the way in which the elector intended to behave. Berenice Blackheart’s stood for her cruelty, Nadine Next’s for her ambition (she would be next) – and so on. From the middle of the sixth century YD onwards, alliterating names were almost universal.

[9] This passage – treating of matters beyond Tuerqui’s direct knowledge – is clearly a parody of this paragraph from Helen of Good Almin’s Chronicles:

A splendid alliance was forged between the Nine of Surrey and the most worthy of the western lords. The aim was to crush the wretches of Westland whose rebellion against the authority of Surrey persisted in spite of the glorious victory on the field of Abben Den. The rebels would be crushed like a nut betwixt hammer and anvil. For this purpose, a company headed by Dyfed of the Red Dragon, Prince of Cymru – attended by king Ambrose of Corn Wall and Eric, Duke of Ex Moor – berthed their gilded ships at Surrey Port. Thence, they travelled north in state barges and gorgeous palanquins. The first to receive them was Berenice Blackheart, determined to ensure her share of the glory.

This is an example of the way in which a slave might be allowed a freedom of expression inconceivable for a person. Indeed, a person would have risked execution or enslavement for such a parody. In this, Tuerqui follows the tradition of such works as The Ninny of Surrey and Surrey’s Gory.

For Ch 10 click
http://bondlings.blogspot.com/2006/08/of-bondlings-and-blesh-ch-10.html

Of Bondlings and Blesh Ch 8

Chapter 8

Dree and Kerry secured the chain of boys to railings in front of the tavern. Deb and Doom took we girls into the shade of a neglected garden at the back. Bees buzzed, crickets chirped, I lay flat on my back – staring into a cloudless sky and chewing on a blade of grass. Noticing a bramble with two ripe berries, I placed one in my mouth and one in Leggi’s.

Around lunchtime, a serving girl brought us water and something to eat. The swill was nothing like as bad as we had received in the slave shed, and she added an apple apiece. The fruit was not properly ripe – but she polished each one on her grubby apron – and I’m sure that we all felt grateful. Many of us – including Leggi and I – pressed her hand.

“Swiped them apples for yer,” she said, winking. “The gaffer don’t know. None for them dirty little buggers out front – an’ I pissed in their swill. Serve ’em right, too.”

Her remark was met with cheers and whistles of approval. I’m not sure why, but our male companions seemed generally unpopular. She didn’t explain what the boys had done to annoy her. I disliked them without any easily identifiable reason.

During the afternoon, we were on our way again. It was clear that Nancy and the drivers had drunk heavily in the Dappled Owl. Deb seemed more heavily affected by the alcohol than any of the others. Her whipping hardly stung at all, but we feigned hurt rather than court trouble.

As night was falling, we reached another tavern – The Meadowside Inn[1]. Here, the boys and girls were urged into separate large pens about twenty yards apart. Sharpened spikes were driven into the earth around the base of the fences – but, to judge from the direction of their angle, they seemed designed to keep something out, rather than keep us in. This detail, combined with something in the mood of Nancy and the drivers, worried me.

“One of the girls told me,” Slippa said, “that the tavern is so called because it’s next to the Cracked Meadow.”

When I was perhaps seven or eight, Nanny Spencer had told me tales of the Surrey Badlands – of which the Cracked Meadow was a part. The stories gave me nightmares which I was at pains to conceal from my mother and Miss Lace. I felt that, should the matter come to light, my nanny would receive a whipping – or worse. In recent years, I had come regard the place as a figment of bogie lore.

Leggi and I peered hard into the gathering gloom, trying to make something of the landscape beyond the tavern. It was useless – all we could see was a dim grey expanse. When an owl hooted we both jumped, sure for a moment that it was a bogie emerging from the darkness. Then there was quiet, but for the sigh of the wind, the chatter of slaves and the faint sound of singing from the inn.

When the pot girl brought us water and especially vile swill, Spanquibelle asked her: “Is that really the Cracked Meadow over there?”

“Right enough it is,” she said pleasantly. “Your drivers are taking you across the Badlands tomorrow and perhaps the day after. It’ll probably be all right – though I wouldn’t care for it meself.”

“You mean we’ll have to sleep on the Cracked Meadow tomorrow night?” a slave called Whipfodder asked.

“Oh deary me, no. You’ll be over the Cracked Meadow be noon – then it’s the Doubtful Ridge, the Grey Plain, Rabbit Wood and the Scree. They wouldn’t want to risk being in the wood after dark, so I ’speck they’ll camp on the plain.”

Settling on the ground without any sort of bedding, made it hard to sleep that night. The proximity of the Badlands – and that we were, apparently, to cross them the following day added to the difficulty. It became cold during the night, and we girls drew closer for warmth – and comfort, I’m sure. Before dawn, we were in one big cluster with some struggling as slaves attempted to avoid being on the edge.

Dawn was barely tinting the sky – and I felt that I’d hardly closed my eyes – when the pot girl reappeared with more water and unpleasant swill. Perhaps an hour later, we were on our way , stepping on to the Cracked Meadow[2] almost at once. It was a stone plain with many deep fissures. I noticed that a few of the slave boys were now carrying backpacks – which hadn’t caught my eye the previous day – perhaps they had been picked up at the Meadowside Inn.

In the darkness of the fissures, I could see vague shapes crawling – and did not like the look of them. Even if they were natural creatures, I felt sure that they were nothing a sane person or slave would care to touch. Here and there, spikes of very rusty metal protruded from the stone[3]. We had to be careful not to step on them, as well as not to thrust a foot into one of the cracks.

It was too early for a heat haze to have built up, yet the view ahead vanished into obscurity. As we advanced, it became increasingly clear that we were stepping toward a bank of mist. Eventually, it occurred to me to connect the poor visibility with the name of the Doubtful Ridge. Nancy and the drivers were clearly becoming nervous.

As the mist finally closed about us, Nancy’s nervousness resolved itself into bawling at her drivers, starting with the youngest: “Deb! There’s one for yer whip practice!”

“Right-oh!” was the half-giggled reply. “Only I’m a bit confused about what is and isn’t there.”

“Doom! Shake yerself – don’t fall asleep! Lay a few good ’uns on that ’ussy!”

“All right. Keep yer ’air on. I’m doin’ it, ain’t I?”

“Dree! That one with the ’alf-inflated sausage needs one of yer ’eaviest!”

“Don’t worry, chief! The dirty little bugger’s gonna get it!”

“Kerry! To yer duty! The laddy with the big nose – but no willy to match – needs one of yer ’ardest!”

“Jolly D – cap’n!”

“Doom! Look alive now!”

“Great Mother! What a fuss! No rest for the poor drivers…”

“Jus’ attend to yer work Doom – and yer may end up an agent, though I doubt it. Why keep a cat and catch mice yerself?... Deb! Don’t tickle the slaves! It’s s’posed t’ ’urt!...”

It was soon clear what Deb meant by being confused about what is and isn’t there. I repeatedly glimpsed things from the corners of my eyes – but on trying to look at them directly, there was nothing to be seen[4]. The further we advanced up the ridge, the stronger this impression became. The whips of the drivers barely sufficed to keep panic at bay.

“We’re startin’ to walk along the ridge,” I heard Nancy call. Climb as steeply as yer can – we’ve gotta get over it – and quickly. More whip! Keep the slaves climbin’.”

In another moment Doom’s lashes had me climbing steeply. Now, I was very close to a clear glimpse the things that were not things. Shutting my eyes seemed to make little difference – in fact it seemed to make matters a little worse. When I reached the crest of the ridge and started to descend, I was only dimly aware of the fact.

Stumbling downwards, a choking sensation seized my throat. Only afterwards did I realise that it was the tugging of Slippa’s and Leggi’s chains on my collar. I think the chief aim of the whipping, at this point, was to prevent any of us from being strangled. If so – it succeeded, although I don’t know how.

Abruptly, I stepped from the mist. Before me was a barren greyish expanse – undoubtedly the Grey Plain – and such had been my expectation. What the name did not imply was that it would surge and roll as though it were the sea[5]. For the moment, I was more concerned with a sensation like sea sickness than with the unnaturalness of what should have been solid ground behaving thus.

Here and there, the plain was dotted with stands of unhealthy-looking trees. When I focused upon them, they dipped and swayed like the masts of ships. There were clumps of low-lying vegetation, too, but for the most part it was composed of dry, dusty, grey soil supporting no form of life. None of the plants looked right and, as we stepped, no one cared to tread on them[6].

In the distance, a tower arose as a lighthouse from the sea. Staring at the distant object, I thought I could see earthen breakers crashing at its base. There was a wrenching at my neck as Slippa vomited. Against the odds I was managing to keep down my morning swill.

We seemed to be walking towards the tower, but it gave every appearance of growing further way. My thought was that it was moving in the same direction as us – but a lot more quickly. Then, abruptly, the tower seemed only ten or twenty yards away. The surf of soil at its base had diminished to little wavelets.

After the tower appeared to grow close, it seemed to take quite a long while to reach it – although it was difficult to gauge time. At first I thought the structure was featureless, failing to notice that it had a door until Nancy knocked on it. As far as I could see, it had no windows. The movement of the ground was resolving itself into a slight rolling motion.

The door opened a few inches, Nancy spoke to an unseen presence inside the tower, but I could hear nothing of their exchange. A few minutes later, the door opened again and some pots pushed out. At least some of them contained water – which was offered to the slaves. I was not the only one to hesitate to drink something from that tower, but my thirst didn’t allow me the luxury of refusing a drink.

The drivers divested the boys of their back packs, and divided them into two piles. One heap clearly contained food and camping gear. Some of the male slaves took the other luggage to the tower. Again, the door opened and the bags were pulled inside by unseen hands.

The food was in dry form – that supplied to we slaves resembled biscuits formed of wood chips. They tasted like nothing that had passed my lips before[7] – but I couldn’t decide whether it was pleasant or nasty. My mouth was very dry so that the meal required repeated draughts from the water jugs. Fortunately, there was plenty to drink.

Both chains of slaves were silent – communicating only by gestures and facial expression. In fact, the only sounds I’d heard since venturing on to the Grey Plain had been the occasional whip crack and a vague sighing, perhaps wind in distant trees. Now, Nancy and the drivers gathered to discuss their course of action. Their voices were unnaturally loud; I could hear every word although they seemed too far away to be heard.

“We could borrow weapons from the tower, stop here for the night,” said Nancy.

“Can’t we just head straight out of the Badlands?” Deb asked. “I don’t like this place.”

“Who does?” snorted Dree. “But who likes their chances in Rabbit Wood after dark?”

“What about the tower?” Deb replied. “Couldn’t we shelter in there?”

“Wouldn’t let you in – and if they did you’d wish they ’adn’t,” Kerry said, clearly no longer in good humour.

“Ain’t nowhere good, this side o’ dark,” Doom added.

“We need to arrange watches through the night,” Nancy said. “Me and Deb the first two hours, then…”

“So we’re to…” one of the slave boys started to say – then stopped abruptly, presumably on realising that his voice was booming so loudly.

Leggi squeezed my hand – then she, Slippa and I joined in a double embrace. Other slaves round about were doing much the same. We could say all that was needed without speaking. Not so Nancy whose voice rolled like thunder when she knocked again at the tower door.

“Weapons for the night… we’ll return ’em when we collect the packs…”

An astonishing array of swords, spears and bows was pushed through the door – far more than five persons could use. The drivers placed the stack quite close to where I was sitting. Perhaps they did not trust the boys sufficiently to put arms within their reach. All of we slaves having been imported from beyond Surrey’s borders, it was unlikely that any of the girls would be able to make effective use of weapons.

In spite of my fears, it proved unexpectedly easy to fall asleep on the Grey Plain. One factor, I suppose, was that my restlessness of the night before had left me very tired. Also – I found the rhythmic movement of the ground beneath my back unexpectedly soothing. Soon I was in a strange dream world where things that might have been slave boys vanished whenever I tried to look at them.

I was wrenched abruptly from my dreams by a screech. The sound started with a deep bass note, rising sharply in pitch. The glow of the fire and couple of lanterns, bobbing in the darkness, revealed little – but the scream had come from the direction in which the boys were tethered. There was a stirring around me, as the entire party awoke.

“Watch out – of ’em’s got a slave!” It was Nancy’s voice – yelling. “Quick! Go to it!”

There was a flurry of movement dimly illuminated by the fire. Shouts and curses echoed, but it was impossible to distinguish individual voices, or much of what was said. When the flames suddenly leapt into life, it was clear that Deb – sword in hand – had poked them. Now, it was possible to identify the figures and Nancy’s voice rose above the others.

“I’m a slave short!” she shouted. “That bitch Gail will be glad to note it down – an’ then who’ll take the whipping? The lazy drivers? Some chance!”

Deb threw more wood on the fire, and it blazed more brightly. I could see Kerry fingering a length of chain – probably it had been used to restrain the missing boy. For the first time, I became aware that the Grey Plain itself seemed to have stopped moving. All the drivers were fidgeting nervously.

“I’ll not be the only one to take a floggin’,” Nancy said. “Deb – fetch my temperole! Kerry up against that tree! Doom, bind ’er wrists – tight, mind!”

Given that it was the obvious place to camp on the Grey Plain, I wondered how trees managed to survive so close to the tower. That question having no answer, I relaxed and enjoyed the sight of Nancy whipping first Kerry, and then Dree. Under Lady Isobel’s guidance, I had become rather a connoisseur of whipping style and saw at once that Nancy was more accomplished in the art of pain than any of her drivers. Unfortunately, this was the only time I saw her using the skill.

After the excitement, I fell back to sleep surprisingly fast. One reassuring aspect of matters was that, after Kerry’s and Dree’s punishment, a vigilant watch would certainly be kept for the remainder of the night. I awoke, next, to daylight – and to yelps of pain. Dree had scattered thorns more liberally than ever – presumably in reaction to her whipping.

Breakfast was something that looked like the same dried food as the previous day – except that it was almost flavourless. Voices no longer boomed as they had, and there was no sign of motion in the ground. Nancy and her drivers returned their weapons to the tower, to receive a large number of back packs. As ever, no one was visible beyond the door.

After breakfast, each slave was allocated a pack. There was an extra one – presumably intended for the missing slave – which Kerry and Dree took turns to carry. My burden was heavier than I expected – and felt warm, a warmth that failed to dissipate during the remainder of the march. Normally, I would have expected slaves to speculate on what they were carrying, but no one ventured any comment on the matter.

I saw that the length of chain, which had been used to fasten the missing boy, had been snapped as though it were sewing thread. In contemplating this, I noticed the male slaves in more detail than hitherto. The names branded of their thighs were at least as insulting as those born by we girls. One much afflicted with spots was Pimpli, a slave with a small member bore the name Antwilli.

As the morning progressed, we passed an increasing number of trees until we were, at last, in Rabbit Wood. The trees were twisted into strange shapes, their fleshy leaves unaccountably repulsive. I formed the impression that the plants had been tortured into unnatural forms. Years later, my friend Passibelle told me that this was precisely correct – that the mad torment composer Calline Smith had spent several years inflicting pain upon Badlands vegetation[8].

Before lunchtime, we reached the edge of Rabbit Wood and the Scree[9] – a steep downward slope of loose stones – lay at our feet. Before we descended, the drivers moved the chains from our collars to our belts. It was as well that they did, slithering down a torrent of loose stones chained waist to waist produced cuts and bruises – doing so chained neck to neck would have strangled at least half of us. As it was, I hit the bottom painfully, and in a confusing mass of bodies, but all of us were still alive.

After about a quarter of an hour to gather ourselves, flap at the dust and rub our injuries, we were trotting down a country lane at a smart pace. It was now Swellbelly: beyond the hedges were fields of ripening wheat, ducks quacked on a pond. The abrupt transition from the Badlands to good farmlands had a sense of unreality, a feeling that its normality was a thin brittle crust that might snap at any moment. My foothold on reality felt only a little firmer when we paused for lunch at the Goose Green Inn near Doorken.

We were tethered for the night outside the Black Horse Tavern near Red Hill, and reached Cull’s Den before noon the following day. Ahead, we could see a great camp on the ridge of Crane Hill. We had gathered, from snatches of overheard conversation, that this was Berenice Blackheart’s encampment – and that it was our destination. Descending into a deep valley and starting up the other side, all of us fell silent, dreading our approach toward the legendary mistress of torment.

Berenice’s reputation was confirmed as we passed tortured bodies mounted on poles. At first, I assumed that the wretches were dead. Then a jerking foot, which was certainly not the work of the breeze, disabused me of that notion. I turned my head, trying not to look.

We halted amid the glossy black tents and waited for perhaps twenty minutes before a woman, carrying a clipboard and attended by a slave, emerged to greet us. The lady was lovely – dark glossy hair cascaded down her back, she wore an emerald green figure-hugging dress. Her slave was beautiful too, head decorated with scarlet and white plumes, wielding a matching fan. Briskly, the lady in green started to check the names branded on our thighs against the list she carried.

“Where’s Buggribill?” she asked at length. “You have the correct number of packs, but a slave short. All of the others are here, but I don’t see Buggribill.”

“Ah, yes, Lady Gail,” Nancy said, fidgeting with her hands. “The drivers were slack – but I whipped them well, you may be assured…”

“Stop prevaricating! Where’s Buggribill? As well you know, the slaves are your responsibility, not the drivers’. Give account at once!”

“Last night, if your ladyship pleases…”

“It does not please my ladyship!”

“Yes, well… We approached the Badlands from Wokerum because, as your ladyship knows…”

"If my ladyship knows it, don’t waste my ladyship’s time telling me. Be brief!”

“The drivers slept and a night thing carried the slave away.”

“That’s brief enough. According to the semaphore, Buggribill was a sturdy work slave valued at four hundred crowns. I don’t suppose that you have such a sum.”

“Not just at present, your ladyship, but I could soon save…”

“As I thought, you’ve boozed away your wages. And I don’t think Berenice gives credit – so it’s pay today, this way or that. I’ll give you a few preliminary lashes, then we’ll consider what you really deserve. To the T now!”

Muttering inaudibly, Nancy stepped to a T shaped post a few yards away. The four drivers watched with interest especially, I noticed, Kerry and Dree. After their whippings of the night before, they were obviously looking forward to Nancy’s punishment. I could understand their point of view.

“Quick now!” Gail barked. “Strip off and one of the slaves can… you…” she indicated a girl called Whipfodder, whom Kerry was quick to unlock. “Fix her wrists, slave. I’ll fetch my bellerole[10].”

While Gail re-entered her tent, Nancy disrobed until she stood naked by the T post. Whipfodder placed the bracelets at the ends of the T bar around the agent’s wrists, and snapped them shut, obliging her to stand on tiptoe with arms extended. Gail emerged wearing a short scarlet skirt, but with her torso entirely bare – she clutched an exquisite torment instrument. I was startled by her appearance – and undeniably aroused – later, I was to learn that torment artists always perform stripped to the waist so that clothing will not interfere with their whipping style.

It was a blissful moment, lusting after the beautiful Gail, her breasts bouncing enticingly with each lash. I also enjoyed seeing Nancy writhe in pain. Unfortunately, we were not allowed to see the whipping through to its end. We were led away by a lady sheathed in gold and fanned by a slave whose brow was adorned by a heavy golden ornament.

After depositing our backpacks, we were taken to the largest of the tents. We did not need to be told that we were entering the presence of Berenice Blackheart – or to be told that we must abase ourselves before her. In the moment before prostrating myself, I tried to drink in as many details as possible. Her throne was raised on a dais of perhaps ten or twelve steps, around the base of which stood many persons and slaves – amongst them a platoon of warrior girls, their spear tips gleaming brightly.

My eyes were drawn inexorably to the summit of the dais where Berenice was enthroned. Two nearly naked warrior girls mounted guard to either side of the golden throne, halberds at the ready, long swords at their waists. Two slaves wielded long handled fans, another three or four clustered at her feet, their occupations unclear. The mistress of all was clad in gleaming black with paler bands at her upper thighs and just below her armpits.

“The slaves from Redding, your highness” someone said.

“Redding or Red Hill?” – I’m sure that it was Berenice’s voice.

“Redding, your highness.”

“Well – you know what to do with them.”

“Yes, your highness.”

Then, smartly applied whip strokes had us scrambling to our feet and heading out of the great tent. Catching another brief glimpse of Berenice, I realised that the pale bands at her thighs and upper arms were glimpses of her golden skin[11]. Her black leather garment covered neither arms nor legs – she was wearing long gloves, and boots that reached her upper thighs. Her facial expression was impassive.

Perhaps twenty yards from Berenice’s tent, our chains were unlocked. Women with clipboards and quick whips sorted us into separate groups. I found myself included in a party of about two dozen girls amongst whom were all of those from Cap’n Gentle’s cargo. Each group of slaves was taken by a different set of drivers.

The sting of a well-aimed whip had me trotting smartly for a tent only a little smaller than Berenice’s. I was surprised to see that its interior was fitted as a theatre. Beyond rows of seats was a stage on which three women stood. One, older than the others, was in flowing white draperies, the other two were clad only in short skirts and carried what – even to my ignorant eyes – were clearly torment whips of the finest quality.

There was a smell of sawdust and pine resin, with just a hint of sweat and blood in the mix. From beyond the tent, sounded the dim rumble of thunder, portending a coming storm. My skin felt prickly. One of the young bare-breasted women said something inaudible – at which her companions bellowed with laughter.

[1] The Meadowside Inn is still open for business – the oldest building in the village of Bad End. The settlement is certainly named for its having once been at the end of the Badlands. Reasons for the former evil reputation of the area are no longer apparent.

[2] If one excavates the soil of the farmland to the south of Bad End, one finds deeply fissured concrete (not stone, as Tuerqui believed). It seems to be the remains of a large structure from the Old Time.

[3] These must have been the remains of iron bars used to reinforce the concrete in the Old Time. It is surprising that it lasted so long.

[4] It is thought that – in the late Old Time – a large quantity of chemicals were stored under the Doubtful Ridge. Either these were hallucinogenic drugs (intended for use as weapons?) or they took on hallucinogenic properties as they decayed. They have now dissipated, although there are occasional accounts of odd experiences on Dartford Ridge (as it is now known). The slopes of the ridge have become wooded – but seem to have been barren at this time. It is possible that at least some of the things Tuerqui reports as crawling in the fissures of the Cracked Meadow were hallucinatory (deriving from the proximity of the Doubtful Ridge).

[5] This must have been an effect of breathing the hallucinatory vapour as Tuerqui crossed the Doubtful Ridge. Accounts of journeys in the opposite direction report similar things of the Cracked Meadow – and the innocent farmlands beyond.

[6] The Grey Heath, as it is now known, is not very fertile – but, these days, it is sufficiently so to provide rough grazing for sheep and goats.

[7] The food was almost certainly slave cake – something frequently supplied to slaves on the march. Slave cake, however, does not seem ever to have had a strong flavour. Presumably, the taste Tuerqui mentions was hallucinatory.

[8] Calline Smith (YD 529-572) was a torment composer, of whom strange stories are told. The story of plant torment is recounted at length in Doreen Harkness’ Lives of the Composers, although she gives it no credence. Presumably, nothing of the sort ever existed – and none of Smith’s scores survive. Rabbit Wood now seems to be an unremarkable tract of woodland.

[9] In place of the Scree, the southern side of Rabbit Wood is now bounded by Tracy’s Wall, built during the reign of Empress Tracy III.

[10] Bellerole: heavy single tailed whip, as used in torment performances.

[11] Golden skin may mean that Berenice was sun tanned. More likely, golden was intended as a synonym for royal – examples of such a usage were frequent in the literature of Essex at this time, although not that of Surrey.

For Ch 9 click:
http://bondlings.blogspot.com/2006/07/of-bondlings-and-blesh-ch-9.html

Of Bondlings and Blesh Ch 7

Chapter 7

Yet again, a group of armed men waved as we approached – in addition, several archers were not quite hidden in the bushes. The Cap’n muttered something under his breath and signalled the tiller man. Pirates jumped ashore with mooring lines and spikes. A startled heron flapped into motion, and circled behind us.

I think that the journey from Mars Town Doles to Ox Ford might have been made in three or four days – instead it must have taken a dozen. We spent much longer moored than shifting. It was my impression that much of the time was spent with Cap’n Gentle negotiating rights of passage. Men with whom he spoke were of widely contrasting appearance. Some were as unwashed and unshaven as the pirates, some dressed for war, others perfumed, clothed in rich fabrics, wearing broad-brimmed hats trimmed with extravagant plumes.

During these pauses, the pirates grumbled about losing time and money – but made no move to strike the mooring pins. Hearing a mention of the Forest of Fenny, I recalled that Toby Slack had identified it as the place where Cap’n Gentle’s piratical career began. Sometimes, I think, the delays were for reunions with his old friends. When it was so, he grinned and drank a great deal of strong spirits.

At other times, he was in a savage mood, and whipped his pirates for trifling offences. My feeling was that this happened when he felt he was being over-charged for the right of passage. My fellow bondlings and I enjoyed the sight of the pirates receiving punishment. To my relief, however, he never offered violence to Lady Isobel.

Much as he disliked gongoozlers, the Cap’n hated anglers with more vehemence. He kept a pole tipped with a sharp blade to sever fishing lines. If they protested, or were exceptionally ugly, he wielded a pole axe to decapitate them. Once I saw half a dozen heads in the water as I polished the brass work of the motor boat.

According to rumour, the young rowdies we often saw were discouraged from raping us by Cap’n Gentle’s reputation for castrating and enslaving those who had done so. He was supposed to have confined one such in a tiny pen. The rapist was force-fed and everyone along the canal knew that he was being fattened for slaughter. Eventually, so the story ran, the pirates had barbecued him near the centre of Burbling Ham.

Certainly the Cap’n seemed to have objection to adding to our delay in order to achieve the artistic despatch of someone who had offended him. We left one of his old enemies squealing as he slid down an impaling pole. A wretch, who refused to doff his hat, had it skewered to his head. In less than a fortnight, the Cap’n must have killed at least thirty people.

Cap’n Gentle was clearly keeping an eye on we bondlings, but remained aloof from us. I never knew him to speak directly to a slave – or touch one. Nor did any of his pirates, except by accident. They were almost certainly frightened of his wrath, should they meddle with the cargo.

All of our direct dealings were with Lady Isobel, who worked us hard. Once in a while, I saw Cap’n Gentle speaking with her. Although I never heard a word of their conversation, the expression on his face seemed to indicate pleasure in her work. In spite of that, whenever I saw them together, I felt a little afraid in case she might have incurred his displeasure.

Our most prized task was cooking for Lady Isobel and the Pirates, because it could present the opportunity to eat some thing other than swill. Of course, slaves caught taking the persons’ food could expect to be whipped, but – with a bit of care – we sometimes escaped detection. And a tasty morsel or two could be worth a few lashes. It is all but impossible to hide anything in a slave harness, however, so there was never anything to eat later or share with a friend.

Light cleaning jobs were valued, heavier cleaning work was obviously less so. Personally, I preferred cleaning that was merely hard work to dealing with real filth. In light of that, I was glad that the pirates changed their clothes so infrequently, as it meant that the task of washing them seldom arose. On the other hand, when anything of theirs made it to the washing, nobody wanted to touch it.

Labour on the boats and their fittings – other than cleaning and polishing – was always hard work. Bow-hauling through locks was a heavy job. Between Mars Town Doles and Ox Ford, we must have negotiated about thirty locks, all of them narrow. At each one, all of the slaves were expected to help.

The further south we went the worse was the condition of the waterway. In places, the channel was choked with weed. We slaves were set to clear the obstruction, sometimes up to our thighs in the water, while the pirates lounged in the halted boats. Weed – and less pleasant things – often had to be hacked from the propeller shaft.

Several times a day, we were sent to forage – always in parties of three or four slaves. Sometimes this was light work – notably in picking leaves or fungi. On other occasions it could be much harder – as when we gathered wood for cooking or fuelling the steam engine. Worse than the foraging itself was the risk of encounters with rowdies, and the near certainty of nettles, brambles or both – against which our harness provided no protection.

Another task was whip-making. Lady Isobel’s family had a whip and harness business in Brick’s Town – a fact of which I had been unaware. She discovered some hides amongst Cap’n Gentle’s loot and had no trouble in persuading him that their value would be greatly enhanced by turning them into something useful. I think that I spent more time on this task than did any of my fellow bondlings.

“Learn well, my love,” Lady Isobel whispered to me. “The whip-makers’ art is prized in Surrey – and you will be glad of the skill.”

Amongst my companions, it was considered that whip-making was hard work and caused too many cut fingers. My spending at least an hour or two a day on this evoked no jealousy. Aware that Lady Isobel regarded it as a favour, I tried to see the good side of the matter. It was enough, perhaps, to know that our mistress cared about my future wellbeing.

The completed whips seemed mostly to go to paying for our rights of passage. Two or three times, Cap’n Gentle exchanged some completed whips for fresh hides. This meant that there was a constant supply of the raw material, but the stock of whips never became too bulky. I could recognise my own handiwork and felt pleased when it received admiring smiles from the purchasers.

In between our duties, Lady Isobel taught us many things, always emphasising her points with the whip. For the most part – no doubt – these lessons were intended solely to increase our price and maximise the pirates’ profit. On occasion, there may have been other motives. I believe, for example, that Cap’n Gentle had a weakness for nipple rouge.

Our mistress took us through the rudiments of labay[1]. Some of my fellow bondlings found this irksome. By contrast, I was pleased to acquire the new skill – all the more so as it marked a new level in the subjection of my will to hers. No flaw in her whip technique was evident as far as I was concerned, but she did not think her instrument was adequate for a labay trainer.

“If I had a tristelle, a temperole, a clunt or a peccalalo[2], I would perform wonders,” I heard her say. “But this crude thing…” her voice trailed off into a long sigh.

The skills seeming, at first, the strangest were using pancake make up to cover our real lash marks, and sticks of colour to make false ones – often both in combination. Covering my weals was essentially uncomplicated, although it could be laborious. Creating false marks was much more complex. Lady Isobel explained that whipping was an art – and one in which, should our subsequent owners be unskilled, they would not wish our backs to broadcast their shame.

The application of good marks required us to be able to distinguish between fine and crude whip work. For that, we needed to know some theory. Fortunately, Lady Isobel’s family business had been patronised by some virtuoso torment[3] artists. Much of what they had taught her, she now shared with us.

After taking Fuquibelle to her bed at Mars Town Doles, Lady Isobel chose me the following three nights. My love for her grew deeper and – for all of my discomforts – I started to count this as the happiest time of my life thus far. Falling, perhaps, more in step with their slavery, the other girls no longer showed overt signs of jealousy. Even Fuquibelle no longer seemed to mind.

“Lighten her mood and you lighten the whip,” she said to me. “You’re all right.”

After my third consecutive night with Lady Isobel, my period started. Our mistress treated me with consideration – and took care to show me the best method for attaching a rag to my harness belt so as to absorb the blood. However, she denied me her bed – taking a different girl each night. I felt especially forlorn when she chose my friend Leggi.

As my bleeding ceased, Lady Isobel took me to her bed again – and I tried even harder to please her. Thereafter, she often took another girl as well as me, in spite of my feeling certain that I gave her more pleasure than the others. The night she took Leggi and well as me, I was worried for our friendship – but it seemed unaffected. Only once more on that journey did I have to spend the night on the deck.

Every day, as the boats moved south, I became a better slave. I imagine that my transformation was partially due to drugs in my swill. A large measure may be ascribed to Lady Isobel’s skill as a trainer. However, I felt and still feel that the most important element was my love for my mistress.

Eventually, we reached Ox Ford. An almost palpable menace seemed to pervade the city. It was under arms, full of jittery militiamen. A pall of smoke hung over the town, drifting from the direction towards which we were heading.

Pausing only to take on some drinking water and a small barrel that probably contained strong spirits, we passed through the city. We slaves dragged the boats through Louse Lock, which might have been named for the parasites infesting the soldiers who mouthed half hearted lewdness in our direction. The pirates steered hard right then hard left, and we were on the Tems. Far downstream was my old life – already it seemed unreal.

It took me a little while to discern, through billowing smoke, the right bank of the river. When I did, I wished that I hadn’t. Two weeks with Cap’n Gentle had accustomed me to witnessing casual violence – and I suspect that drugs in my swill numbed me towards it. For all of that, nothing had prepared me for what I saw.

Where a small stream joined the river, the water had an unmistakable red tinge. A laughing figure was visible through the haze, chopping and slicing, a blade in each hand. A flock of crows descended whither the tide of battle had stranded its driftwood of corpses. A southerly breeze brought the smell to match the sight.[4]

“Back to your work, my love,” Lady Isobel whispered. “It isn’t good to look.”

I tried to concentrate on my tasks, but could not close my nose to the stink or my ears to cries of the maimed and dying. Neither the smell nor the noise had left us when, perhaps a quarter of an hour later, the boat bumped against the bank. The hold felt oppressive and, for once, stepping out to untether the ponies, and bow haul the boats into a lock, came as a relief. Proximity to the battle seemed to evoke a deep need for solid ground under my feet.

For once, the pirates had no need to step ashore. The work with the gates and paddles was performed by half a dozen gaunt wretches of indeterminate gender who glanced nervously this way and that. There was reason to be nervous: from our right drifted smoke and screams of the continuing carnage. To our left loomed Meadow Lands war machines – fidgety archers in wooden towers hastily constructed from whatever timber came to hand.

As I watched, a fugitive from the battle attempted to win safety across the bottom gates. A warrior girl, close on his heels, sliced with a three foot blade. The man toppled into the river beyond the gates, spattering the wood with gore before he fell. She used the lock side moss to wipe the blood from her sword before sauntering back.

We negotiated two more locks in the battle zone. Near the fourth Tems lock were the smoking ruins of town. I believe that it was Abben Don. Its blackened bricks seemed devoid of life but for crows, scuttling rats and a pack of feral dogs.

Incongruously bright, the yellow and red banner of Surrey fluttered in the breeze. In the shadow of the flag, a crow was jabbing its beak into carrion. The emaciated figures working the lock seemed little more than animated corpses. Involuntarily, I formed the sign of the Great Mother.

Beyond Abben Don, we passed through a couple more locks before dropping anchor in midstream by the Meadow Lands settlement of Cliff Den with Ham Den[5]. This was the first time we had not moored on the bank, a fact that did nothing to assuage my already overwrought sense of danger. That night there was a quality of desperation in the love I made with Lady Isobel. Afterwards, I lay awake for a long time listening to eerie splashings and gurglings from the river.

We reached Wallen Ford before lunchtime – now both banks of the river were controlled by Surrey. I expected this to increase the sense of menace – instead an air of normality prevailed almost at once. People were going about their usual business with no visible sense of being so close to a battle. Stall holders were selling fruit and vegetables, fisher folk plied their trade, children paddled from the muddy banks.

I was oiling an almost completed whip, a task requiring a lot less care and concentration than cutting the leather – and so was able to take stock of our surroundings without neglecting my duties. The sense of normality after passing through the battle zone filled me with a sense of wellbeing. The sun was shining, but the southerly breeze ensured that it was not too hot – even with the awning fully rolled. Thinking of the previous night’s love making made me tingle.

As I watched the bank, a crowd of persons and slaves formed – everyone clearly in holiday mood. The sense of their excitement filled me with expectation, but without any idea of what I expected. When they started to cheer, my voice joined theirs. Nor did I fall silent when their focus proved to be a column on battle-stained warrior girls marching downstream.

From infancy, I had been raised to regard these troops as my enemies. The previous day, I had been sickened by the butchery they wrought. The day at Black Flowers should have cured me of cheering martial displays. Yet still I cheered and – I realised – my fellow bondlings were cheering, too.

Were we simply infected by the enthusiasm of the crowd? Did we cheer for our own sex in triumph? Had witnessing the horrors of war done nothing to dampen our martial enthusiasm? Could the empowered and athletic young women have triggered our lust?

For perhaps a mile or two, our boats kept pace with the soldiers. Then their path diverged from the course of the river, and they were gone. My eyes ached with longing for their departed figures. The boat fell silent as we concentrated on our duties.

We were eating our lunchtime swill, passing through a settlement with the ominous name of Gory, when a woman dressed entirely in black leather rode past on a white horse. She was accompanied by half a dozen mounted guards on chestnut steeds. An excited buzz of conversation speculated upon her identity – some of us favouring Berenice Blackheart, others Nadine Next. There could be no doubt that she was a person of importance – and, again, we cheered.

After a long day on the river, we finally moored at a wharf in Redding. Something seemed to have changed in the mood of Cap’n Gentle and his pirates. My first thought was that it was due to a couple of days without killing anyone. Although I did not suspect it until the following day, this was journey’s end for them.

When Cap’n Gentle entered discussions with three prosperous-looking women in the morning, I assumed that he was negotiating rights of passage – as he had done en route to Ox Ford. My assumption changed when we bondlings were sent ashore to perform our labay figures. The display completed, the women began a minute physical examination of each slave. They were clearly considering our purchase.

I found it unexpectedly disturbing to have my genitals prodded, and lips lifted for a dental examination. It wasn’t that it hurt. Rather, my disquiet had to do with the idea that she was establishing my price. Enslavement was an established fact, but this was my first taste of being sold.

The women examined the ponies in much the way they had we slaves. It was clear that ponies and slaves alike were being disposed as a job lot. My awareness that ponies are more expensive than slaves increased my disquiet. Perhaps seven weeks before, I had been given two ponies as birthday presents.

That afternoon Lady Isobel confirmed what we already knew: “Cap’n Gentle is negotiating with livestock brokers. No price has yet been agreed – but you may expect to be sold in the next few days.”

That night there was again a quality of desperation in our love making. The moment of parting was almost upon us – and we both knew it. Afterwards, there was long silence as we lay apart. Then she embraced me again with a terrible ferocity, and we were both weeping.

“Tuerqui, my darling…” she said at last.

“Yes, mistress, I know. This is it…”

“I wish I could buy you, my sweet… but I don’t have the money. In any case, he isn’t selling single slaves. And I’ve agreed to make at least two more trips with him – he’s not a man to have for an enemy.”

“Mistress – I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too, Tuerqui. I didn’t think it would be so hard, didn’t think I’d fall in love.”

“I love you, too, mistress.”

“Look – I must make a few trips with the pirates. But I’ll earn some money, and then I’ll come looking for you. It’ll be all right in the end, you’ll see… Just be brave, my angel.”

She sobbed again. I knew that she wished to believe what she was saying, but didn’t – couldn’t. We both thought that we were about to part forever. With the bond of mistress and slave broken, we might not even meet in the world to come.

I attempted to reassure her: “One day you’ll find me again, buy me, and we can be happy, just like…” then emotion overcame me and I wept as well.

In the event, we were not sold the following day, or the day after. The haggling was taking a long time. When the sale was finally agreed, on the afternoon of the fourth day, the idea of parting was losing its reality. The end came suddenly.

We had debouched on to the shore for, as I supposed, another inspection. A moment later the pirates were casting off. Lady Isobel was by the tiller, waving farewell – the departure seemed to have caught her by surprise. I waved back, gazing after the boats until my eyes ached.

We sat on the wharf for over an hour before a driver – a lanky girl with a perpetually bored expression – came to collect us. I spent most of the waiting time listlessly picking splinters from the rotting timber. The driver was a person of few words – using her whip to scurry us into an adjacent square in which she tethered us outside a seedy-looking tavern. Having fixed us securely, she leaned through the door.

“Nancy,” she said, I’ve got the pirates’ slaves ’ere.”

“They tied up?” said an answering voice – rather gruff.

“Yeah.”

“OK Doom, come in for a drink if yer likes. Deb can take ’em in a bit.”

“Oh all right. I don’t mind a drink,” said our driver, entering the tavern.

I would have loved a drink, but we were obliged to squat in the scorching sunshine for perhaps two hours – without food, water or shade – until anyone emerged to tend to us. Eventually, a giggly girl, who couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen, appeared with a bowl which we passed from hand to hand. The water was brackish – but we all drank deeply. The bowl was empty before it could reach me on its second circuit.

“Aah!” she cooed “the slaves were thirsty… Bless ’em …”

“Never mind about bloody bless ’em,” the gruff voice replied. “Get ’em over to the shed.”

The girl unfastened the tethering line, flicked her whip, and we were trotting smartly down the street. Our destination was a large shed about half a mile away, where perhaps thirty slaves were already chained. As we entered, those who were already there glanced at us with little interest. Nobody spoke.

As evening fell, the young girl returned to serve us with swill more repulsive than any I could previously have imagined. From their attitude, it seemed that the slaves who had been in the shed for longer than us expected nothing better. Most of our party forced it down with grimaces, but made no protest. Fuquibelle, however, was less inclined to be compliant.

“This is muck!” she exclaimed.

“You horrible, ungrateful slave,” the young driver said, stamping her foot. “I’ve wasted at least half an hour cooking up your swill. And now you…you…”

The rest of her annoyance was expressed with the whip. The lashes were obviously applied with little skill and probably didn’t hurt very much. For all of that, no one else felt inclined to complain – and Fuquibelle started to eat what she had been given. The girl turned on her heel and locked the building for the night.

We remained in the shed for two days before a dozen more bondlings joined us. They obviously completed the consignment because – the following morning – we were joined neck to neck to neck with a chain and sent stumbling out into the sunshine. My place in the line was between Slippa, ahead of me, and Leggi, behind. A thickset woman with a black eye patch directed two drivers, Deb and Doom, who – in turn – drove us with neither gentleness nor notable cruelty.

Our way took us through a couple of streets of modest but well-repaired houses before we came to another shed. There we were joined by a chain of perhaps fifty slave boys and another two drivers. This was my first sight of untrimmed male slaves. I was immediately struck by the groin straps of their harnesses – which supported their genitals in what seemed to me a repulsive manner.

I didn’t have the leisure to look at them for very long. Almost at once, our drivers plied their whips and we were trotting out of town at a smart pace. Our way took us over a bridge and then down a dusty lane with the south easterly breeze in our faces. Occasional breaks in the hedges revealed tranquil farmlands.

We soon knew our drivers. The agent with the black eye patch was called Nancy; her four drivers were Dree, Doom, Deb and Kerry. Presumably Dree and Doom were nicknames, but I never heard them called anything else. Each was quite different from her colleagues.

Dree was certainly the cruellest, but – fortunately – she usually worked with the boys. Her whipping style was simply malicious, an unpleasant contrast with Lady Isobel’s tenderness. She delighted in playing tricks with thorns – secreting them in our swill or scattering them about our overnight resting places. Evidently, she regarded the thorns as a joke, laughing whenever she saw one find its mark or heard one of us yelp.

Doom, generally assigned to we girls, seemed bored by everything. She whipped hard, but clearly took no interest in it – or in anything else. A lash from her always came as a surprise. She gave the impression that she couldn’t be bothered to hurt us.

Deb was the youngest and much given to girlish giggling. Her whipping was less proficient than that of the others, so that she often produced less pain. When Nancy noticed a piece of especially poor whipping style she bawled at Deb, which ill temper was usually met with another giggle. Perhaps because of her inexperience, I never knew Deb to work with the boys.

Kerry, only occasionally involved with the girls, was the least predictable of the four drivers. By turns she was subject to a viciously evil temper and an exaggeratedly good humour. At other times she sulked for hours at a stretch. The touch of her whip naturally varied with her mood – the worst was probably her good humoured style.

Nancy, as agent and leader of the column, remained aloof. I never knew her to address or whip a slave. When she saw cause for a whipping, she ordered one of the drivers to attend to the matter. For the most part, she hardly seemed to notice slaves at all.

After a couple of hours on the road, I heard Nancy say to Doom: “We’ll pause a while in Wokerum. Can’t pass the Dappled Owl without a drop or two.”

Doom’s lips twisted slightly – her nearest approach to a smile. Nancy laughed and slapped her on the back. The wind was stronger now, and raising little dust devils at our feet. Deb’s sweet girlish voice rose in an ancient folk song:

“Are you human… or a spud?...”

[1] Labay was an art much prized in Surrey at this time. It had to do with slaves becoming subject to their trainers’ will to a sometimes extraordinary degree. The slaves performed a series of figures often telling a story in symbolic form. It was an ancestor of modern tam-dance.

[2] Tristelle, temperole, clunt, peccalalo were all types of whip used in artistic performances – notably labay and torment. Jenna owned a peccalalo, as mentioned in Chapter 2.

[3] Following the publication of Eve Strone’s Psychological Approaches to the Whip (276 IE), torment – whipping considered as an art – fell into decline. At this time, it was greatly admired – and considered by many to be the queen of art forms.

[4] This can only be the battle of Abben Don, Thunderhead 23rd YD 724 – see Chapter 5, note 4. The armies met at dawn, in the mid morning the Westland and Ampsher ranks broke and a rout began. The scenes Tuerqui witnessed could have taken place before noon.

[5] Cliff Den with Ham Den is fifteen miles and six locks from Ox Ford, the journey might have taken six hours.

For Chapter 8 click
http://bondlings.blogspot.com/2006/07/of-bondlings-and-blesh-ch-8.html