Of Bondlings and Blesh Chapter 19

Chapter 19

The room smelt of polish. Such light as illuminated a wet afternoon spilt through now-clean windows. Several of the future whip-making slaves were singing – each voice seemed sweet, but discord was introduced by the fact that not all of them sang the same song. My wet feet slipped on the smooth floor.

The morning’s filth had gone – but cleaning was not the only transformation. Improvised, but serviceable, work benches had been created from packing cases and planking. A sleeping area was now furnished with hammocks. There was even a sitting corner with cushions.

When a girl with a mop glared at me, I realised that I was leaving dirty marks on the clean floorboards. Wiping each of my feet on the opposite calf didn’t help much. In the process, I dropped several of the tools with a clatter. Queuti hurried forward to relieve me of part of my burden.

Staggering half a dozen steps further, I placed the remainder of my insecure load on one of the makeshift work benches. Queuti added the tools that she’d picked up. Madame Scurf was approaching, cane in hand. My thought was that she was about to chide me for carelessly handling the skins and tools.

“This is for you, Tuerqui,” she said.

Her turn of phrase surprised me. I’ll learn yer would have been more usual. Then I realised that she wasn’t about to strike – but was giving me the cane in the sense of handing it to me. Puzzled, I accepted the stick, albeit rather gingerly.

“Seein’ as ’ow she knows the tricks o’ the whip-making trade,” Madame Scurf announced to the room, “I’m puttin’ Tuerqui in charge. Consider yerselves ’er bond-lockers[1]. I’ve given yer bond-mistress[2] a cane – an’ she’s ter use it. Is that understood?”

“Yes, mistress,” the whip makers replied, almost in unison.

“If the whips don’t turn a profit, I can always change me mind an’ ’ave yer boiled dahn fer glue,” Madame Scurf was speaking to me now. “Keep that in mind – they need ter work ’ard an’ learn fast. You’ll be doin’ no one a favour be goin’ easy with that there cane. ’It ’em ’ard an’ ’it ’em often.”

This was a development I had not foreseen. Back in the days of my personage, I had of course punished slaves – although my feeling was that I had made rather a mess of it. Taking responsibility for the discipline of my fellow slaves was quite another matter, and not at all welcome. The fact that our lives might depend on it made matters very much worse.

Madame Scurf was already half way to the door. I opened my mouth to call her back, somehow pass my responsibility to another slave – but what could I say? The cane felt very light in my hand, quite wrong for such a heavy burden. The whip makers gazed upon me expectantly, clearly awaiting my first orders – I needed to make them convincing.

“Right,” I said, “I’m going to teach you to make whips.” It sounded almost as though someone else were speaking. “Gather round. I’ll show you the tools and how to use them.”

“I’ll show you the tools and how to use them,” Shugathise repeated mockingly. “’Ark at her ’ighness!”

Shugathise did not normally drop her aitches – perhaps she intended to mimic Madame Scurf. In any case, it was clearly the first challenge to my authority – and had come from a slave I’d regarded as a good friend. It was obvious that I could afford neither hesitation nor leniency, however little I wished to punish her. In an attempt to emphasise my position, I brought the cane down with a loud thwack on the palm of my left hand, wincing as I did so – whether or not it conveyed menace, it certainly hurt.

“I will not tolerate insolence!” my voice barked, louder than I expected. “Over that work bench, slave. I’ll soon teach you who’s in charge here.”

She grimaced at me, but – rather to my surprise – obeyed. I swished the cane experimentally. It lacked the power of even an adequate whip, but was very supple and could clearly hurt a great deal, as my stinging left hand testified. Positioning myself behind the bending slave, I braced myself to strike.

“You know and I know,” I said softly, “that there’s only one way this can work. I have to do this.”

“Yeah, well,” she replied resentfully, “if you’re going to do it, just do it.”

So I did it. The first stroke landed harder than I expected, producing a sharp red line across Shugathise’s buttocks and making her yelp. Her cry, I think, was as much surprise as pain. Perhaps she expected me to hold back.

“From now on,” I said, hardening my heart, “you will call me bond-mistress. And you will thank me for the cane.”

“Thank you, bond-mistress,” her voice sounded genuinely subdued.

“No need to thank me yet. Insolence will earn you more than just one little tap.”

“Yes, bond-mistress. Of course, bond-mistress.”

By the time I was done, her bottom was a sorry red and purple mess. Shugathise was crying – and it was my fault. Several of the watching slaves gasped, I don’t think they’d expected me to do it. I had secured command, together with the loneliness that goes with that, was no longer one of the girls.

When the boys joined us the following day, now fully trimmed, genitals entirely gone, I turned to asserting my authority upon them as well. It proved unexpectedly easy. The excision of their dangling parts seemed to have knocked all the fight from them. It left me oddly disappointed – while I had not enjoyed subduing the girls, perhaps I had looked forward, at least a little, to mistressing the boys.

True to her word, Madame Scurf provided we whip-makers with our own image of the goddess. She was only about six inches tall, moulded from sawdust and glue[3], crudely painted, but the image sufficed. The more religious of us prepared an adequate altar and we soon felt the gracious presence of Our Lady of the Lamp. It may be that there were the remains of whores in her composition, achieving – in some wise – unity with the deity.

Each morning, for the first couple of weeks, one of the trainee vets injected us with an outsized needle. It had both girls and trimmed boys howling louder than did the impact of my cane. I tried to take it with fortitude, but failed. My impression was that, in spite of their own hurt, my fellows were pleased to see painful treatment meted out to me – as wielder of the cane.

Just before our course of injections finished, I had half a dozen fresh bond-lockers. There had been another outbreak of the pox. It meant that, once the trainee vet had done with sticking her needle into us, we had the luxury of watching others receive the treatment. For my part, I had more than enough of witnessing others in pain as I inflicted punishments – but some of the whip makers clearly enjoyed seeing the inoculations continue when they no longer had to endure them.

One night, piercing screams reached us – quite beyond anything likely to be produced by needle, cane or whip. I wondered whether someone had taken a knife to a whore. Nothing of the sort had happened during my time at the Laughing Phallus, but I’d heard stories of such atrocities. My thoughts made me more glad than ever to be done with whoring, but that gladness left me feeling guilty.

“Blimey!” said one of the swill slaves the following morning, “there was a do an’ a half last night. Madame Scurf nailed a lad’s balls to the floor[4]. It was something to do with giving whores the pox. He screamed the place down – you must have heard – but the customers laughed their socks off.”

“Serve the bugger right,” said Shugathise, “if it’s who I think it is, he’s the reason I’m cutting my fingers with the leather knives, and squirming under her ladyship’s cane. I’d rather be a shaftarama spunk bucket, thank you very much.”

Perhaps I should have punished her for that, but my heart wasn’t in it. There was, in any case, some justice in what she said. As a teacher, or a bond-mistress, I was aware of leaving much to be desired. And there were more accidents than there should have been – partly the fault of my inadequate training skills, and partly the fault of the substandard tools with which we were provided.

The first time I asked Madame Scurf whether she could buy us better quality leatherwork tools, her response was a growl. Subsequent requests were answered with the whip. I don’t suppose that I would have asked more than twice, but my use of the cane filled me with a sense of responsibility. My feelings may have been a longing for balance – setting the workers’ sore bottoms against me doing my best for them.

Our whips were very fair, given the standard of the leather, poor tools and my failings as a bond-mistress. The fact that Madame Scurf often greeted me with a smile bore eloquent testimony to our handiwork selling well, and at a good price. I even received literal pats on the head unless I made what she considered unreasonable requests. Visiting Leatherhead during the first weeks, she allowed me to have adequate skins – although none of the first quality.

But, with each trip to market, it became more difficult to persuade her to buy acceptable leather. Eventually, she went without me, returning with all but useless skins. The quality of the whips fell – and inevitably her sales dropped in line with that. She whipped me with increasing frequency and ferocity, which achieved nothing apart from relieving her feelings.

Eventually, a statuesque beauty and promising leather worker, Lushess, was placed in charge. I became one of her bond-lockers, just another whip maker. It would have been lovely had this made me, once more, one of the girls. Alas, that happiness was denied to me.

It was clear from the start that my companions resented the punishments I had imposed. That left me isolated – as much so as when I’d been shunned as a catter-lover in Berenice’s antenatal tent. My feelings weren’t helped by reflecting that, this time, there was some justice in my companions’ coldness. Perhaps I’d done no more than what had to be done – but might the cane have been less necessary had I been a better teacher?

“Please Shugathise,” I said, “we came from Red Hill in the same batch. We were friends.”

“Berenice’s enemies were alive. Were is right.”

“I know I hurt you, but I had to do it.”

“It’s bad enough being hit by a person. But you – you’re just a slave, no better than me and I’d say a good deal worse, if anyone asked me. Not that you ever did ask.”

“I’m sorry, Shugathise.”

“Yeah, well, the time to be sorry was when you still had the power to whack my arse. It’s a bit late now.”

Meanwhile, Lushess plied her cane eagerly. She selected me for the heaviest canings. One reason for that, I feel sure, was simple revenge for the beatings I had given her. It is probably also true that she hoped the fury of my chastisements would help her gain popularity with the other bond-lockers. As heavily as she applied the cane, it was only a stick – and my punishments remained slight compared with those of my bond-mistress, who was often on the painful end of Madame Scurf’s whip.

“Bond-mistress – call yerself bond-mistress,” Madame Scurf snarled. “The whips yer so-called bond-lockers make sell fer coppers, if they sell at all. I’m out o’ pocket – an’ I’ll give yer a pastin’ ter remember – you idle ’ussy!”

Turning my head away, I would have liked to stop my ears against the blows. My gaze fell upon my fellow bond-lockers. Shugathise and several others were watching eagerly, their eyes bright as children’s at the New Year feast. If Lushess was beating me hard to court popularity, the tactic wasn’t working very well.

On a sweltering afternoon, in Thunderhead I think, Lushess started to treat me more kindly. She had been caning one of the boys but broke off – wiping sweat from her brow – after scarcely half a dozen strokes. It was an exceptionally mild punishment by her standards, and she was seldom lenient with the boys. As she stepped in my direction, I expected her wrath to fall upon me – but, instead, she ruffled my hair affectionately.

“I’m sorry, Tuerqui,” she said, “I know that you just did what you had to do… what I have to do.”

As the summer progressed, a few more pox-stricken slaves joined us, but Madame Scurf slowly reduced our numbers, presumably in response to the low demand for inferior whips. It seemed that we were being sold piecemeal to private buyers, rather in batches at auction. Most likely, our mistress made more money thus. Shugathise was still no friend of mine when she departed at what was probably the end of Thunderhead.

The weather was growing cooler – almost certainly Swellbelly – when my turn came. I’d often thought about that moment, and expected to be terrified by the possibilities of what might befall me. Instead, I merely felt numb as I followed Madame Scurf through the twisting passages to her office. Awaiting us was a filthy and almost toothless old man who seemed familiar, but whom I found hard to place.

“This is the one I told yer ’bout,” Madame Scurf introduced me. “Good strong shoulders on it – do yer a treat, it will.”

“I dunno, Molly. I ain’t got money t’ burn y’ know.”

“Come off it, Sam. I ain’t got time ter ’aggle – an’ me price is cheap enough an’ ain’t droppin’. Take it or leave it.”

“All right – yer on. I’m in need o’ another ’orsey – as well y’ know. If I ’ad an ounce o’ sense, I wouldn’t cough up ’alf as much fer a broffel pony. ’Ere y’ are.”

He counted a few coins into her outstretched palm. It didn’t seem to be much money. Madame Scurf signed a sales docket, and I was Sam’s property. He led me out into a sunny, but slightly chill, morning.

I glanced up at the Laughing Phallus sign, its tip still grinning idiotically in the early sunshine, although the paint was starting to flake. In its shadow, a dog eared poster bore the legend Have a whacking good time at the Laughing Phallus cabaret. It showed a recognisable scene from a school-based playlet in which I had frequently starred. A strong feeling possessed me that the school mistress, with a cane lifted past her shoulder, was intended to be a portrait of me.

“Come on ’orsey,” Sam said, slapping my bottom.

The slap hurt much less than the cane stroke depicted on the poster would have done, but I quickened my step. Then, suddenly, I knew where and when I had seen Sam before. He was the carter who had, sixteen months earlier, fetched us from Red Hill market. His cart was waiting in the road – such a common sight that I’d scarcely seen it.

Approaching the vehicle, with a sudden shock I recognised Shugathise, hitched to the right-hand shaft. She was dust-stained and – with unfocussed eyes – had obviously yet to recognise me. Looking more closely, I saw several other familiar faces. Amongst them was Mussiltarte, who had departed the Laughing Phallus while I was still a cabaret actress.

The cart was lopsided with six slaves on the right-hand shaft, but only five on the left. There was a gap where an unbuckled harness was looped loosely about the traces. As we stepped close, Sam unlooped the coils. I knew what was expected of me without being told.

My status had fallen to draught slave, a beast of burden. Even a whore might despise me. Amongst beasts of burden, I was lower than a pack slave. On the other hand, it was surely better than being boiled down for glue, or illegally incorporated into one of the cheaper brands of blesh and onion pie.

I took my place at the shaft, head bowed, ready to accept whatever befell. Visualising the Laughing Phallus image of Our Lady of the Lamp, I muttered a brief prayer. Ultimately, I was sure, the goddess would deliver me. Sam buckled the cart harness to mine, almost fondling me as he did so.

“Good ’orsey,” he cooed, “pretty ’orsey… ’old steady, nah, ’orsey.”

When I was buckled in place, Sam patted my flank. I heard him clambering on to the cart. He coughed and spat. The reins flicked about my head – and his whip cracked, but didn’t touch me.

“Gee up, ’orsies!” Sam croaked.

Exerting my entire strength, I leaned forwards. It was even heavier work than I’d imagined it would be. Then we were moving and the effort required from me decreased sharply. As we started down a hill it required no effort at all.

A sudden jolt, for which I couldn’t account, jerked the cart backwards. My harness bit cruelly. Subsequently, I would realise that this was Sam applying the brake a little too well – allowing the cart to freewheel could have crushed slaves under the wheels. At that moment, concerned only with the discomfort, I didn’t even wonder what the carter was doing.

There were several more sharp jerks as the slope grew steeper. By the time we reached the valley floor, I had almost become used to them. The harness had cut me, I was bleeding. It felt as though my feet had been cut as well – the smooth brothel floors left me unprepared for stepping on the sharp stones of the roadway.

Abruptly, the steep slope gave way to the level valley floor. Pulling the cart up on to a hump backed bridge was hard work. The structure spanned a small sluggish stream, quite out of proportion to the deep valley through which it flowed. Cresting the hump, Sam applied the break again – this time more gently.

There was another flick of the reins. I was probably the only slave at the traces who didn’t recognise this as the signal to brace ourselves for the uphill climb. When we reached the steep incline, I was almost jerked backwards off my feet. A lash made contact with my shoulders – Sam’s contribution to righting me.

I glanced at the girls on the right-hand shaft – to take my cue from them. It was fortunate that we weren’t blinkered, as draught slaves sometimes are. No doubt our unblinkered condition was designed to save Sam money, rather than to allow us to see one another. Assuming the same stance as my companions, I was soon pulling with them.

It came as a relief when, part way up the hill, a tug at our reins turned us aside into a walled yard. A moment later another rein pull brought us to a halt. Already, I was beginning to distinguish between the carter’s different signals. Sam, evidently having clambered from his perch, spoke to someone I couldn’t see.

“Well – ’ere I am. Fill ’er up, an’ I’ll be on me way. I ain’t got all day.”

“No more ’ave I. Fucking cheek! Yer late.”

“’Ad ter pick up a new ’orsey.”

“That ain’t my fault. Yer gonna give us an ’and?”

“Nah – yer know ’ow me back is. Anyways, I gotta attend ter me ’orsies, ain’t I?”

“Any ’scuse.”

“Poor old Sam’s a martyr to lazy-back-itis,” this time it was a young woman’s voice, laughing. “Makes the cat look busy, ’e does.”

“Pearl, you’re as lovely as ever,” Sam replied. “If I weren’t married, ’an forty years younger…”

“Gertcha, yer dirty old bugger. If yer gonna attend ter yer ’orsies get on with it an’ cut the cackle.”

Loud thuds reverberated, obviously something being loaded into the cart. The prospect of hauling a heavier, laden, vehicle appalled me. Sam moved from slave to slave with a filthy towel, a rusty bucket with protruding ladle, and a small sack. I watched curiously.

Lethargically, he rubbed the first girl with the towel. That task evidently completed to his satisfaction, he offered her the ladle – she drank three or four dips into the bucket. Finally, he reached into the sack to hand her what looked like a large biscuit formed of sawdust. That done, Sam started on the second slave.

He had begun with the right-hand shaft, returning on the left, which left me near the end of his round. Although the towel was filthier than ever when it reached me, I was delighted to have some of my sweat and dust removed. The water was brackish and the ladle unwiped, but it would have been a strange piece of ex-brothel stock who worried about swallowing a little of other slaves’ saliva. The biscuit was very dry and had a musty taste – I’d eaten more than half before I realised that it was beast-flake[5].

Feeling a trickle of moisture, I lifted my foot. A glance revealed the source of the stream as Pretti, on the right-hand shaft, emptying her bladder. Others were following her example – no one unhitches a common draught slave to go to the toilet. The realisation dawned upon me that I would have to attend to my bodily functions in the same way.

Sam climbed noisily back into his seat and flicked the reins. The cart had been heavy before, but I was entirely unprepared for the effort it now required. With a sick feeling I realised that something I had taken for a wall had actually been a stack of bricks ready for loading – the chimney beyond was surely part of a brick oven. Small wonder that pulling at the shafts was such hard work.

As we inched into motion, a gate swung open ahead of us, but not the one by which we had entered the yard[6]. Turning into the road, Sam yanked hard on the reins for a right-hand, uphill, turn. Almost pulled from my feet, once more I attempted to copy the stance of the slaves on the other shaft. The exercise was worse than useless – they were marking time, on a sharp right-hand turn the slaves to the left make all the effort.

I seriously doubted whether my heart would take the strain of climbing to the top of the ridge. Although I was now better prepared for the downhill run, a couple of unexpectedly hard brake applications came as painful shocks. Our destination was an inn where, evidently, the ruinous outbuildings were being reconstructed. Sam dismounted and made as if to attend to his slaves.

“Now then, ’orsies,” he said, “we’ll soon ’ave yer nice an’ comfy again.”

“Oh no you don’t, me lad,” said a formidable-looking woman with a whip tucked into her belt – presumably the landlady. “The ostler can do that – it’s ’is job – you can give ’Arry an ’and with the unloading.” Then, raising her voice: “Billy! Out ’ere an’ attend ter the slaves – or I’ll ’ave the skin off yer back!”

“’Orsies,” Sam said reproachfully, “I likes ter call ’em ’orsies, not slaves.”

To my surprise, he made no further objection, but removed planks from the cart while a burly man humped the bricks. I think that the timber must have been loaded before I joined the team. Billy appeared, a youth of perhaps fourteen or fifteen years. I scarcely looked at him, however – instead my eyes were fixed on his towels, not only plural but clean.

After the sweaty run with a heavy load, a rub down with a clean towel was the most delightful thing imaginable. It has often occurred to me that pleasure is not absolute, but relative to our general condition. There is more pleasure for a cart slave in a good rubbing down than for a great lady in the most exquisite of entertainments. I should know, having experienced both.

I’d hoped that we might run empty from the inn, but Sam’s itinerary was too shrewdly planned for us to make many unladen trips. We picked up a barrel and several cured joints. I think that the meat was smoked pecker studded with spices. To judge from the way Harry and Sam handled the large cask, it was full and very heavy.

“Mind now!” the landlady yelled, whip at the ready. “It ain’t bitty ale.” Then, almost purring, “Yon’s a drop o’ good!”

In motion once more, the new cargo proved to be lighter than the bricks. We paused at a farm to load butter and cheeses. Our next stop was unmistakably a guards’ barracks. Warrior girls stood about, resting their weight on ornate halberds or fingering crossbows menacingly.

Sam didn’t bother to ask whether the guards would help him unload. As the carter worked, an officer swatted him with a riding crop. The guards grinned, their smiles crueller than their scowls. The more I saw of the armed women with their hard eyes, the more they frightened me.

As though reading my thoughts, the officer called: “Corporal, I think we’re frightening the slaves! Fetch the bastas[7] to give them a lump of sugar apiece before they be-shit the parade ground!”

Sam grimaced, but for once did not protest that he liked to call us horses, rather than slaves. He glanced nervously in the direction of the officer, but when she met his gaze the carter hurriedly averted his eyes. Several of the guards moved closer. I wondered whether my owner might be-shit the parade ground.

Then the girls whom the officer called bastas took my entire attention. There were a dozen of them, in red uniform, marching in perfect order from the barrack house. Each carried a shining bucket and a spotless towel. They wore no trace of armour, but like the armed guards, had shiny leather belts and straps with equipment pouches.

All were lovely – but I only had eyes for she who was assigned to me: a beautiful girl with a long mane of dark hair, clad in figure-hugging military scarlet. I was half in love with her before she began to rub me down, pressing a fragment of sweet stuff into my mouth as she did so. The sugar was, of course, root-pulp not honeycake. For all of that, I enjoyed the sweet more than Lady Margaret had the finest honeycake candies.

As the girl leaned close, I kissed her shoulder. She smelt lovely. In return, she kissed my forehead, not amorously but with affection. I was sure that she genuinely liked the slaves for whom she cared.

She dipped a gleaming metal cup into her bucket and placed it to my lips. I drank deep of the clean sweet water. Nothing finer had been served at my father’s table. Raising my head, I smiled at her; she ran her fingers through my hair.

Unbuckling a pouch at her waist, the basta produced a fragment of beast-flake. Unlike the biscuit Sam had given me earlier it was slightly sweet, had a pleasant oaty flavour and was not in the least musty. Taking a brush from another pouch, she attended to my hair. She didn’t have time to make me gleam like a military draught slave, but by the time she was done I felt an unexpected stirring of personal pride.

I was saddened to leave the barracks, although we were now travelling unladen. Not far down the road, where a notice of bankruptcy told a sad story, bailiffs’ slaves loaded us with household effects. The family were already harnessed and branded, a clerk was entering their new names in a registration book. A lady of quality stood by, fingering her whip and taking an undisguised interest in a handsome lad and pretty girl – no doubt the son and daughter of the house.

“Bailiff,” she said, “the slaves?”

“Are you interested taking the lot, ladyship – in part settlement of the debt, of course?” asked a middle aged woman wrapped in a black cloak.

“No – just these two young ones. The rest can go to auction. Don’t forget that I’ve provided the harnesses – so the proceeds of harness at valuation are all mine.”

“Of course not, your ladyship. I couldn’t forget what’s yours. Everything is set down perfectly in my ledger. Take a look, if you like.”

“I’ll trust you. Fraud can be an enslavable offence, can’t it? You know me well enough to realise that I’d press for the most profitable penalty.”

“Well, the two youngsters are the best of the bunch, without a doubt –” the bailiff said, ignoring the threat, “and will be the most expensive. Quite lovely, in their way. I don’t think that it would be overdoing things to say six electors each.”

“Six? They’re nice, but I hardly think so. Eight for the pair, maybe.”

“Eleven?”

“The reason that I’m chief creditor, rather than enslaved as bankrupt, is that I don’t throw my money away.”

“Of course, ladyship. Ten electors, then?”

“Nine, and I’m being a fool to myself – but both of them look eminently beddable.”

“Nine it is, your ladyship. Set off against money owed.”

The two bondlings could obviously hear every word. The boy looked defiant, the girl distraught. When she started to cry, her brother placed his arms about her shoulders. A well aimed and undoubtedly painful arc of the lady’s whip soon had him springing back.

“You are both my property,” she said levelly, “you will not comfort her unless and until I tell you to do so. Is that understood?”

“Yes, mistress,” he almost snarled the words.

“Curb your tongue, boy – unless you want an early appointment with the trimmer.”

“I’m sorry, mistress,” he replied – suddenly sounding a lot more like the slave he had become. “Mistress – I beg your forgiveness.”

“That’s a bit more like it – but you’ll need a deal of training if you’re to keep your tackle. Your sister seems more biddable. Perhaps she will pleasure me tonight. I could do with something new – too much same old, same old.”

The pale afternoon sunlight glinted on the bright metal of half a dozen cooking pans about to be loaded on to the cart. A neat kitchen garden hedge rustled as the wind shook it. The gust wafted a lavender scent from an unstoppered jar. My limbs ached after the days’ exertions.

[1] Bond-lockers: Slaves placed under the authority of another slave. The origin of the term lay in a practice, largely abandoned by this time, of making newly-enslaved bondlings the bond-lockers of a well established slave. This was seen as helping the bondlings to appreciate their new status – of, in effect, locking their bonds. At this time, the term bond-lockers did not necessarily imply recent enslavement.

[2] Bond-mistress: A female slave given authority over fellow slaves.

[3] At this time many images were made of a mixture of sawdust and glue – primarily designed for altars in the homes of the poor. The material tended to disintegrate, and almost all surviving examples are badly worn.

[4] This may be further evidence that Madame Scurf was well-connected. Treating the culprit in this way could easily have been construed as excessive force. Without friends in high places she might have been arrested.

[5] Beast-flake: easily transportable cakes of dried food used for feeding beasts of burden.

[6] At this time, premises such as brick yards commonly had a gate at each end. It saved the necessity of turning carts – and allowed extra space for storage (in this case, stacking bricks).

[7] Basta: Baggage And Supply Train Attendant. The armies of Surrey made extensive use of well trained draught slaves and other beasts of burden. Equally well trained was a corps of persons to attend to baggage and supply trains. This gave the Surrey armies a significant advantage over enemies who either had inefficient supply trains or whom relied on looting their supplies.

Tuerqui was evidently unfamiliar with the term basta. She spelt it baster. The spelling is corrected once in someone else’s hand – and thereafter by Tuerqui herself.

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