Of Bondlings and Blesh Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Strong sunlight spilt through the open windows, dappling the room with deep shadow and brightness. A shaft of light was warm on my shoulders. The songs of working slaves drifted in from the gardens. The vet smelt of medicine – with floral overtones, perhaps the soap with which she’d washed.

“I’m glad you’ve brought Tuerqui with you,” Lady Isobel said. “I’m bothered by her cough – perhaps you’ll listen to her chest. But let’s have the test results first.”

“Well, as yet, I only have the first results. Pox was your worst fear – wasn’t it?”

“I’m not sure that I’d say worst – the blethers could be a lot worse. But pox is probably the most urgent. It’s holding me back from enjoying my purchase.”

“Quite. The blethers test needs to stand for twenty-four hours – but the pox is ready, and entirely negative. Whatever Tuerqui may have – and my main worry is foot rot – she no longer has the pox.”

“You’re certain?”

“I wouldn’t say so if I wasn’t,” the vet sounded a little offended.

“Of course not. I’m sorry. And her chest?”

Eliza Downtree took a length of tube from her bag. She applied one end to my chest, the other to her ear. Several times she tapped me, and more than once asked me to cough. The vet didn’t reply to Lady Isobel’s question until her examination was complete.

“It sounds like roof leak lung. I’m afraid the condition’s all too common amongst draught slaves. But until there’s some regulation of slavery…”

“Someone needs to be mortalled[1] over it, if you ask me.”

“It’s not entirely the carters’ fault. They’re just trying to make a living.”

“I know… Well – politically – we’re both aware of what needs to be done. Back to immediate problems – tell me about Tuerqui’s roof leak lung.”

“If that’s what it is, time and a dry bed should cure it. I’ll test against the scrapes I took yesterday. I may need a urine sample. If so, I’ll send a messenger to collect it.”

“And the other results?”

“Nothing has come up positive so far – apart from some indications of foot rot. The last results may take a couple of days yet. I’ll let you know.”

“Well, Tuerqui,” Lady Isobel said after the vet had gone. “That’s the go ahead for you to lie with me… I’m tempted to take you right here and now. Dirty doings on the carpet.”

She exhaled – a deep sigh – and reached out to touch me. Her lips met mine, and I started to respond – impelled by both duty and desire. She aroused me with an almost frightening power – not only mistress, my owner, but beautiful woman and my beloved. When she disengaged herself from me, gently but firmly, it was with a definite wrench that duty overcame desire and I stepped back from her.

“I said that I was tempted.” Lady Isobel emphasised the word tempted. “But I have my duties, at least as much as you have yours – and there are half a dozen things I have to do before lunch – maybe more, come to think of it. Perhaps we’d better leave making love until tonight – in the meantime, how’d you like to make yourself a concubine’s dress?”

“I’d love it, mistress.”

With pause for thought imposed upon desire, I was gripped by a strong urge to prepare myself properly for my mistress. Several considerations, not least my fragile self esteem, made me wish to look my best for Lady Isobel. I should be displayed in a gauzy textile, my make up must be perfect. The more I considered, the stronger was the necessity to prepare.

“Do it, Tuerqui. Have me dripping with passion. And, after you’ve finished stitching, if you have time, you can help Tuerquelle again.”

Lady Isobel gave me directions to the sewing room. It being only my second day in the University of Pain, I became lost and had to ask the way from my fellow slaves. They were pleasant and helpful, but my sense of worthlessness was fed by the failure to remember what my mistress had, so recently, told me. There were four slaves in the stitch room, all busy with needles.

“Can I help you?” one of them asked. “I’m Spare – that’s my name before you make any funny remarks – the head stitch slave.”

“Please, bond-mistress, I’m Tuerqui. Lady Isobel sent me here to sew myself draperies – to become one of her concubines.”

“Don’t call me bond-mistress, or curtsey,” she replied, laughing. “The stitch slaves aren’t my bond-lockers – and you certainly aren’t. I’ve about as much authority, round here, as the lead slave setting the pace for the carriage team.”

“Less authority,” another slave corrected her.

“Shut up, Tawsibelle… Any ideas on how you want your costume, Tuerqui?”

“Not really – apart from provocative.”

“That goes without saying. I’ll show you what we’ve got.”

Spare took me to a store room half filled with cloth bales. Gauzy and net fabrics were available in a dozen shades. At Spare’s suggestion, I held several against my skin, contemplating the effect in the mirror. Red looked grotesque against my weather-beaten hide – reluctantly, I abandoned it in favour of turquoise.

At first, sewing proved difficult, even with a little help, and especially on so fine a fabric. There was no use in wishing that it was more solid cloth – no one can make a concubine’s dress from heavy duty stuff. I had once been a reasonable hand with a needle, as demonstrated by my embroidery on the dress Lewis Ironhand had ripped to take me, to conceive Tuerquelle. Mercifully, as I was about to despair, my former skill started to emerge from the cart slave’s clumsiness.

With a seam or two properly sewn, my confidence started to return. Perhaps I was, after all, fit for better things than drawing Sam’s cart. I considered begging some spools of coloured thread from Spare, and attempting a little embroidered decoration – but decided that there was insufficient time. It had taken me almost an hour, by the sand trickling into a large glass, to sew three short seams.[2]

“Oh – goddess take it!” I shouted in frustration, realising that, at my current speed, the dress wouldn’t be ready that night – let alone allow me time to rejoin Tuerquelle.

“What’s the matter?” Spare asked.

“Oh – just me being stupid. I was hoping to have this done with half an hour to spare before lunch – looking forward to working with my daughter. Lady Isobel wanted me in this dress tonight – fat chance of that, by the looks of things.”

“Spare –” said Tawsibelle, “are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Sexy girl unclothed in turquoise? A bit of naughtiness to brighten our morning?”

“I’ll say. Bint, Slippa – what do you say? A favour from us, and maybe a favour returned?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, puzzled, and worried by the cryptic remarks.

“What she has in mind, I think,” said Spare, “is that, if we all set to work, we’d have your dress done in half an hour – maybe a little less – good enough for a stitch slaves’ concubine, anyway. Lunch isn’t till the red mark on the glass – so it would not only give you time to work with your daughter, but plenty of time to return our favour.”

“Return your favour?”

“No need to be coy,” said Tawsibelle. “A tumble with one of Lady Isobel’s concubines would pass our time very well. And – to judge from your RBS mark – I’ll bet you know a trick or two with your fingers and tongue.”

“And, long before Lady Isobel wants you tonight, we’ll have your dress done to perfection. What do you say?”

I felt deeply ashamed of my slowness with a needle. The solution to my problems lying with what amounted to re-assuming whoredom – paying my way with sex – made matters a good deal worse. But there was no denying that I had done much more unpleasant things in the Laughing Phallus than pleasuring four comely stitch slaves. For all of my hesitation, there was no way that I would decline the offer.

“Very well,” I said, “if that’s how it is, then that’s how it will be.”

They set to work and in twenty minutes, by the sand in the glass, my dress was ready. It was better than I could have managed in several days work. Much better: the entire flesh display – arrangement of carefully positioned slits – was Spare’s concept. Trying it on, a glance in the mirror showed a degree of seductiveness I would have scarcely thought possible for so poor a slave as I had become.

I disported myself for the stitch slaves much as Lady Isobel’s concubines had for me the previous evening. The movements came easily in a dress designed to facilitate them. The thought that it was well to practice – before attempting to entice my mistress – did a little to sooth my conscience. Going beyond enticement, actually to pleasure the four slaves, seemed less readily excusable – but there could be little doubt that I made a good job of it and, truth to tell, enjoyed my whorish work.

With my face pressed close to her thigh, I was startled to see Slippa’s brand – she was 1197 under Cap’n Gentle’s mark. We had been enslaved at the same time. Whether or not she remembered me, a matter I couldn’t gauge, it didn’t feel like the sort of thing which should pass without comment. Searching my mind, nothing suggested itself short of an extended conversation – having neither the time nor inclination for that, I made no remark.

Spare assured me that my dress would be ready by evening. Not only would the rips inflicted in passion be mended, any secretions carefully expunged, but it would be much better finished. She showed me where it would be stored. I gave her a kiss – affection, our lust having been fully spent – and departed.

After asking several slaves, I found Tuerquelle polishing the wooden panels of an upstairs passageway. She welcomed me with a smile that was certainly, in part, for my stories. My daughter seemed a little disconcerted when, unable to restrain a surge of love, I squeezed her – holding her close for several minutes. Then I took a cloth and set to work.[3]

“Now, sweetheart,” I said, “where was I? With the story, that is.”

“The silly slave was balancing the sled of water pots on his head, mummy.”

“So he was. Well – he managed to lift it up on to his head, and reached the pump with only one pot toppling to the ground and breaking. The slave thought he was being really good this time. Do you think he was, Tuerquelle?”

“No, mummy. He was being silly.” She sounded extremely solemn.

“He filled all the pots, except the one he’d broken, and then tried to lift the sled on to the top of his head again. Now, when he’d carried the empty pots, they’d been reasonably light. But do you think the full pots were still light?”

“No, mummy. Pots filled with water are heavy.”

“That’s right, my love, they were very heavy. He tried to lift the sled, but he couldn’t. He tugged at it as hard as he could. He pulled so hard that the sled fell on to its side – smashing all of the pots.”

“Ooh, mummy!”

“When his mistress found out, she said something a bit more fierce than ooh, Tuerquelle. In fact, she whipped him very hard for a long time.”

“Quite right, too, mummy.” Tuerquelle nodded her approval.

“You should have tied a rope to the sled, his mistress told him, and dragged it along the ground behind you. Now, I want you to take a sack of wheat to the mill – and don’t do anything silly. Can you guess what he did, Tuerquelle?”

“He tied a rope to the sack and dragged it along behind him.” She chuckled.

“That’s right, sweetheart, and he soon wore a hole in the sack – all of the grain fell out and was lost. When his mistress found out, she whipped him longer and harder than ever. You should have hoisted it on to your shoulders and carried it on your back, she said. I’ll give you one more chance before I have you made into blesh sausages.”

“If she had, I bet they’d have tasted silly, mummy.”

“I bet they would, my love. Anyway, his mistress told him to take a valuable donkey to the queen. It was to be a bribe in a law case.”

“What was the law case about, mummy?”

One of her enemies wanted to enslave the slave’s mistress, and so tried to call in all of her debts. It was too much money for the slave’s mistress to pay. So the slave had to take the donkey to the queen – can you guess what silly thing he did?”

Tuerquelle laughed loudly at the thought. “He lifted the donkey up on to his shoulders and carried it on his back.”

“So he did. Now, the queen had a beautiful daughter who had been cursed by the fell folk, so that she had never laughed in all her life. She was gazing out of the window as the slave approached.”

“Did the princess laugh, mummy?”

“The slave looked funnier, my love, than the fell folk’s magic was strong – the curse was shattered, and the princess roared with laughter. The queen was so delighted that she cancelled all of the slave’s mistress’ debts, enslaved her enemy, and let her keep the donkey. For once, the slave really had been good, after all. His mistress was pleased and gave him sugar – but she never again gave him a job he could botch.”

Before I could make much headway with the next story, a bell rang. Tuerquelle folded her cloths neatly, placed the lid on the tin of wax and put the materials on a shelf. Following her example, I folded my own cloth a little less neatly and placed it with the others. My daughter started down the stairs.

“What is it, Tuerquelle?” I asked.

“Lunch, of course, mummy. Aren’t you hungry? That was the slaves’ lunch bell.”

Joining Tuerquelle’s usual table, I ate with my fellow slaves. Spare and her team of stitch women waved at me from the other side of the refectory – Bint was giggling. A girl called Fliti placed a steaming bowl before me. The swill was excellent – bearing to Sam’s slops the relationship between finest smoked pecker thigh and a glue carcass[4].

With a start, I noticed Lady Isobel’s carriage slaves occupying a table somewhat separated from the rest. How could I have missed them the previous day? True, they were not wearing their plumed headdresses, but they were still taller than any of we more lowly beings. Theirs was the quietest table – I feel almost certain they distained the ordinary slave chatter that formed such a delight for me.

The company of my fellows continued to be a joy. It was easier to understand the table talk than it had been on the previous day. I had now met most of the slaves mentioned in their conversation, if only briefly. Part way through the meal, Switi gave us news of trouble brewing in Surrey – and perhaps for our mistress.

“This morning there was an official messenger in the livery of the Nine,” she said.

“Yeah, I saw her, too,” Spanqumi agreed. “Got any idea what it was about?”

“I didn’t catch much,” Switi admitted. “Seemed to be something about the Nine quarrelling, but I heard Lady Isobel say that it looked like big trouble.”

“Still, I don’t suppose it’s anything to bother us,” Spanqumi said. “I’ve seen the Nine at work. Their slaves will suffer, I dare say, but Lady Isobel’s not one to take her temper out on us – thank the goddess.”

“Yes,” Passibelle sounded doubtful, “but all the same, if there’s real trouble it’ll affect us one way or another.”

“Only indirectly,” Honeyminge said. “Of course, our mistress’ loss is our loss, and all that. But, for us, things should carry on as normal. Why wouldn’t they?”

“I don’t know…” Passibelle sounded more concerned than ever.

I agreed with Passibelle. The workings of Surrey politics had sent me to Red Hill, inaugurating two miserable years. Of course, Lady Isobel wouldn’t send me to market, I couldn’t doubt her goodness – but who knew what else might happen? About to voice my thoughts, I decided against it for fear of upsetting Tuerquelle.

After lunch, Tuerquelle and I did the washing up again. This time, Tuerquelle stood on a box to put her hands into the suds. I dried. Part way through the work, Switi came to take me to Lady Isobel.

“Don’t worry, mummy,” Tuerquelle assured me, “it’s best part done – I’ll soon dry the rest.”

“I’ll see you later, sweetheart,” was my response.

Switi took me to a chamber I hadn’t seen before. It was a spacious, lofty place – as tall as two floors of the house – and almost devoid of furniture. Our footfalls echoed loudly. Lady Isobel awaited me.

I caught my breath at the sight of her – she was magnificent. My mistress was dressed as a concert tormentor, in a brief skirt of royal blue leather, and a matching pair of wrist braces. Her bare arms and torso, liberally oiled, reflected light from the high windows. Coiled in her hand was a beautiful clunt, also of royal blue leather and decorated with silver studs.

“I’ve decided to start your training today,” she said. “For one thing, the students are away on their Vendral holiday – I’ll have less time when they return. There’s also something else that may soon take up my time, but perhaps it won’t come to anything, I don’t know… Anyway, if you’re ready, my love, we’ll begin.”

“I shall be, mistress, as soon as I empty my bladder.”

“A wise precaution, my sweet, we don’t want any puddles on the floor, do we?”

This time, I used the slaves’ facility. It was clean and pleasant, although not – of course – as luxurious as the persons’. Its austere aspect fitted well with the training session about to commence. In spite of being concerned over my poor condition[5], and at the prospect of the training process, I hesitated only a moment before returning to my mistress.

“Very well,” she said, “let’s start with a simple labay figure. Form a single melle – now!”

Her clunt snaked towards me as I formed the figure too clumsily and too slowly. The pain was exquisitely applied and redolent of love. Abstract beauty within the whip work brought more tears to my eyes than did its sting. There fell upon me the sense of luxury I’d experience with Melissa Lovett’s tormentors – compared with Sam’s clumsy work it was as satin to sackcloth.

“I’m afraid you’ve slipped more than I thought, my love – you’re not the slave you were on Cap’n Gentle’s boat. Don’t despair, sweetheart – I can fix you, but it might take a while. We’ll start at the beginning… Toe to toe – now!”

Again, I was too slow. The answering lash cascaded down my back like a shower of perfumed oil. My senses were not so blunted that I couldn’t feel the love. I felt myself falling back into gear, and knew that my next toe to toe would be both prompt and perfect.

Although, in absolute terms, my achievements were modest enough, I was very pleased with the session’s work. Under the expert guidance of my mistress – and her well-applied clunt – my clumsiness faded. The single melle had been perfected to our mutual satisfaction, and the double melle attempted. My reactions were no longer those of a cart slave.

The session all but over, a messenger slave arrived from Eliza Downtree to collect a sample of my urine. Having emptied my bladder just before the session, my attempt to wee met with failure. The messenger assumed a waiting stance, head bowed, legs forming an A shape, hands clasped behind her back. With a precisely modulated flick of her whip, Lady Isobel released the desired stream.

“Thank you, mistress,” I said, towelling myself after our session was done. “You’ve been very kind. I think I’m making progress.”

“It was a pleasure to do some hands-on work, for a change, Tuerqui – although not as much pleasure as you’ll give me tonight, you little minx.” Her mouth fell on my shoulder, half biting, half kissing. “I think you’re making progress, too.”

Feeling sore but happy, I rejoined Tuerquelle. Looking up from her polishing, she smiled. Her manner changed almost instantly. Blinking back tears, she stared at me, lower lip quivering.

“Why, Tuerquelle, whatever’s the matter?” I asked. Then, in realisation – “Oh, it’s the whip marks, isn’t?”

“Yes, mummy… why…?”

“Don’t cry, my love. It isn’t that Lady Isobel’s been cross with me. I asked her specially…”

“Why did you ask her, mummy?”

“I need to be a good slave, sweetheart. She’s training me.”

“But you are a good slave, mummy… You are! You are!”

“I want to be even better, my love. It’s an honour. You must know that Lady Isobel doesn’t usually train slaves at all.”

“Then she’s not cross, mummy?”

“Not a bit – truly, sweetheart. Now – would you like another story?”

“Yes please, mummy.”

“I’ll tell you about the Storm Queen, and her slaves. Once upon a time, oh best beloved, there was a land beyond the north wind, where the gales couldn’t reach…”

Tuerquelle looked into my eyes – no longer any shadow of doubt clouding her gaze. We worked together for the rest of the afternoon. I continued to draw upon my fund of stories, to Tuerquelle’s unfailing delight. The telling of tales seemed to speed our work, rather than slow it – so my conscience was clear.

At supper time, we joined the table at which we’d taken lunch. It had already become my table, and the slaves who sat there had become my friends. Alas, there was more talk of trouble. Again, Switi initiated the topic.

“I was talking to Midling,” she said, “while we were drawing water for her ladyship’s bath. She’d been on call in the morning, and Lady Isobel summoned her to fetch some ink. That was while our mistress – goddess save her – was with the messenger.”

“Did she overhear anything much?” Fuquibelle asked.

“She certainly did.” Switi paused dramatically before producing her sensation. “The messenger came from Berenice Blackheart. She wants to know Lady Isobel’s attitude to being appointed as an elector.”

“What did she say?” Fuquibelle asked probably intending our mistress, rather than Midling, by she.

“I’m not sure, Midling didn’t catch that bit. I really hope she decided against – just now politics sound even more dangerous than usual. Some of the empers have been killed – or so the messenger said.”

“There’s fighting?” This time Passibelle posed the question.

“Yes – the Nine are split. Berenice Blackheart, Sylvia Sneak and Nadine Next are on one side,” she counted on her fingers. “Against them are Felicity Firewhip, Daphne Deicide, Tabitha Terror and Clarence Clunt. The messenger wasn’t sure what Juliet Justice and Penelope Peace were going to do[6].”

“Let the Nine do whatever they want – and they will anyway,” Spanqumi said, “but may the goddess protect our mistress.”

I said: “No two ways about that.”

The thought of my mistress plunged into peril through entering politics brought tears to my eyes, nor was I the only slave to cry. My only comfort lay in the hope that she had refused the position. I recalled her saying that another matter might soon occupy her time. The words now assumed a sinister meaning – we finished the meal in silence.

Eliza Downtree called to see my mistress during the evening. As in the morning, I was permitted to join Lady Isobel and the vet. Miss Downtree’s facial expression promised good news before she spoke. My owner continued to look grave.

“I haven’t got all of the results yet,” the vet began, “but I’ve cleared up most of my worries – there’s definitely no pox or blethers. Tuerqui does have some foot rot, though – and a minor urinary infection for which I’ll prescribe pessaries – it’s not contagious, so there’s no worry in making love. The chest trouble is almost certainly roof leak lung – I’ll mix some physic to relieve the symptoms, while improved housing effects the cure. As you thought, Hortense’s new slave seems to have much the same set of troubles.”

“Mistress –” I broke in. “Begging your pardon, mistress – but, please mistress, if I may ask…”

“Yes, Tuerqui, Hortense has bought your friend, Mussiltarte.”

“Thank you, mistress. But how…?”

“The details of your story – you told me yesterday. It was plain enough where Sam lives – and which slave you would most like to see delivered. In any case, Mussiltarte had obviously once been the best of the team, although she’s not in the best of conditions just now, and should make an excellent working slave – docile and sturdy. She also fits with Hortense’s idea of a good tumble.”

“Sturdy as she once was – and surely will be again,” Eliza Downtree said, “I think she was nearing the end of her days for heavy draught work. She’d obviously been at the shafts for longer than Tuerqui – an extra winter[7], by my guess. I suppose that’s why the carter didn’t haggle too furiously.”

“Well, it could have been a lot worse,” Lady Isobel commented. “I suppose we’ve all escaped lightly, all things considered.”

“We certainly have! I think that everything can be righted without too much trouble, and both slaves have good teeth. There may be a few dietary deficiencies – I’ll prescribe supplements to their swill, but there’s no hurry over that. Basically, Tuerqui is a good, sound slave – and a pretty[8] one, too.”

The conversation continued for a little longer, but didn’t add much to what had already been said. Mussiltarte’s deliverance was a wonderful surprise. I’d made the unworthy assumption that my mistress had forgotten the idea of Hortense purchasing a cart slave, but had felt constrained from reminding her – because that would have been unpardonable insolence. Whether or not we met – it was good to know that my Laughing Phallus friend was nearby and was safe.

Also a delight was to receive so nearly a clean bill of health – delight mixed with not a little astonishment, I’d assumed my condition to be a lot worse. My mistress and the vet decided not to start my treatment until the following day. That was undoubtedly a further boon for which to thank the goddess. Especially in view of how unworthy I was of the honour she did me – it would have been an ill thing to have a pessary inside me during my first night as one of Lady Isobel’s concubines.

“Tuerqui,” my mistress said when the vet had gone, “I know as well as anybody how slaves talk – certainly should do, I was once in harness myself. Well – you must remember – I was your slave, wasn’t I? Seems kind of weird now, but it’s true… I’m sure you’ll have heard rumours after a couple of meals worth of slave chatter, and I’d like to set you straight.”

“Mistress?”

“It looks as though I’m about to enter the politics of Surrey.”

“Mistress!”

“Yes, Tuerqui?”

“Mistress, may I speak freely?”

“Of course.”

“I’m worried, mistress. Politics are dangerous. If anything should happen to you…”

“I know, but it must be done. I’m needed, Tuerqui – to see that slavery is regulated, slaves protected. Of course, that isn’t the main reason Berenice Blackheart wants me in – although she is concerned that, if it comes to civil war, there could be a slave revolt[9]. Whatever – I’ve named slavery regulation as a condition of my acceptance, and I expect her to agree.”

“Mistress?”

“An end must be put to the dreadful conditions many slaves suffer. You must know from your own experience…”

“I do, mistress. It’s noble work – but must you?”

“I must. It is indeed noble work, but self-interested, too. Slaves will have to be properly trained. Slave trainers will need to be qualified – and where will they qualify?”

“The University of Pain, mistress.”

“Precisely. The University gains, I gain, the slaves gain… Most importantly, the world gains. Tuerqui do you know anything about the Old Time?”

“Not much, mistress. Really just what everyone knows – it was an age of wickedness and blasphemy, when everything was turned upside down.”

“Indeed – and they did away with slaves, or thought that they had.”

“Mistress! You mean that they killed all the slaves?”

“Not quite, Tuerqui, but it might almost have been better if they had. They said that all must be persons. Can you imagine the result?”

“Mistress – it would be like Effilia’s Hipnos. They’d go mad. We’d go mad.”

“So they did, Tuerqui, and wrecked the world in the process. Did you know that Empress Margaret – foremother of the Blood Victoria – was chosen by an electorate of slaves?”

“No, mistress, I didn’t.”

“They wrecked the world, but it wasn’t their fault. What are poor slaves to do, thrust into personage?”

“I don’t know, mistress.”

“Nor does anyone. My great fear is that, if we can’t sweep away the abuses of slavery, history could repeat itself. If slaves can’t be at peace in their slavery, perhaps they’ll gain personage. And then…”

“Chaos, mistress – disaster, madness…”

“As you say, Tuerqui. You must know that a slave, respected, valued, treasured, treated properly, is the happiest of creatures. In some ways, I could envy your slavery, really I could… But a slave maltreated is a monster in the bud.”

“Something must be done, mistress.”

“Precisely, Tuerqui. Much as you and I might wish otherwise, I fear that the goddess has selected me as the someone who does it[10].”

“May I pray for you, mistress?”

“Please do, Tuerqui. I need all the protection I can get.”

I prayed long and hard. As the prayers were accepted, I felt Our Lady of the Lamp’s blessing – still strengthened in her own month – reach out to enwrap my mistress. I’d done as much as I could. Now it remained to trust in the goddess.

My feet skipped along the waxy smooth floor of the passageway. Ahead of me, clouds of steam emerged from the bath chamber door. The fragrance of perfumed oil greeted my nostrils – a prelude to the first night as my mistress’ concubine. Another pot of water splashed loudly into the tub.

[1] Mortalled – a punishment for certain heinous crimes. The wrong-doer became a mortling whose life was forfeit. Sometimes mortlings died in the arena. Especially in Surrey, and everywhere preparations were being made for war, mortlings were killed in military training.

[2] The following passage is a late addition to the text. Originally, Tuerqui edited her account of doings in the sewing to room to eliminate possible implications of wrong-doing (on her part, and on that of the stitch slaves). An earlier version read as follows:

Mercifully, Spare and her stitch slaves helped me complete the dress. Nor was that Spare’s only help – the entire arrangement of carefully positioned slits was her concept, rather than mine. At last – after much assistance – I had the pleasure of beholding my reflection, displayed as a concubine. I was sufficiently alluring to inspire myself with lust, even before I moved – in motion, the fabric exposing and half covering by turns, the effect was breath-taking.

Spare, obviously aroused, ran her fingers over me. Her touch increased my confidence to a point which would have seemed impossible only an hour before. My allure was undoubtedly real. Perhaps I was almost worthy of Lady Isobel.

It seemed a shame to remove the draperies, but they weren’t suitable for polishing with Tuerquelle. I folded the garment carefully, and Spare showed me where the concubines’ dresses were stored. On my return, Tuerquelle was polishing the wooden panels of the upstairs passage. She welcomed me with a smile that was certainly, in part, for my stories.

[3] At this point the late interpolation ends (see note 2).

[4] It is probable that Tuerqui had never eaten either finest smoked pecker thigh or glue carcass. Prior to her enslavement, Tuerqui is unlikely to have eaten slave flesh at all – see Chapter 15 note 1. While it was not unknown for poor persons to eat glue carcasses, doing so required the use of knives the like of which were rarely given to slaves, except (as for leather work) in carefully monitored situations.

[5] Poor condition – the implication, here, seems to be that Tuerqui doubted whether she was sufficiently physically fit to take the whippings of the training process.

[6] Penelope Peace and Juliet Justice had been regularly voting against the triad of Berenice Blackheart, Nadine Next and Sylvia Sneak (see Chapter 18 note 4). However, as Surrey moved closer to civil war, they hesitated to join any armed conflict. Eventually, both Penelope Peace and Juliet Justice committed troops against the triad.

[7] This may mean that Mussiltarte only worked as a whore for about six months before being sold to Sam.

[8] This is the only point at which Tuerqui is described as pretty. Taking the book as a whole, it seems that while Tuerqui was attractive and possessed of sexual magnetism, she may not have been conventionally pretty.

[9] This is certainly true. Berenice repeatedly expressed her opinion that it was necessary for slavery to be regulated – and especially that all slaves should be thoroughly and expertly trained – to prevent slave revolts should civil order break down. Her agents seem to have fermented slave revolts in both Westland and the Meadow Lands as a weapon against her enemies, but she would not have countenanced such agitation closer to the Surrey heartland.

[10] As an elector, and during her brief time as an emper, Lady Isobel was the someone who did it. An assembly which seemed destined only to vote itself out of existence was made the vehicle of important and lasting reform. Largely through Lady Isobel’s efforts, the Statute of Slavery Protection was passed. Conditions for the training and keeping of slaves were regulated, and the Slavery Protection Board established. Lady Isobel subsequently served with distinction as the first Governess of the Slavery Protection Board.

For chapter 24 click
http://bondlings.blogspot.com/2007/08/of-bondlings-and-blesh-chapter-24.html

Of Bondlings and Blesh Chapter 22

Chapter 22

The steps were smooth and solid under my feet. They smelt faintly of linseed oil. The clatter of a person’s boots sounded from the hallway below. Ahead of me, at a bend in the staircase was a larger than life painting of a woman wearing few clothes – only the expression on her face, arrogant and commanding, declared it to be a portrait of a great Surrey lady.

All too soon, the dishes had been washed, and Tuerquelle had gone to her next duty. Re-entering the slave’s refectory, I had found the large room deserted – and curiously intimidating stripped of my colleagues’ company and chatter. In the hallway beyond, a slave was answering the door to a lady. Feeling anxious, without any easily explained cause, I climbed the stairs.

My surroundings certainly seemed too grand for me. Perhaps I felt that my luck was too good to hold. There may have been an element of expecting Lady Isobel to see me for what I was, sooner or later – an ex-whore and worn out cart slave. Very likely, the notion of someone again taking Tuerquelle from me had formed itself, at least unconsciously.

My bladder felt uncomfortably full – but I had no idea where the slaves’ toilet was. If it came to that, I didn’t know where the person’s lavatory was, either – not that I’d have dared to use it. Needing to urinate did present one advantage. It gave me an easily identifiable and not too terrible worry – that I might disgrace myself on the floor.

At the top of the staircase, another immediate anxiety arose. The left-hand side of the passage had no doors – only windows overlooking the gardens. The right-hand side had eight doors – I counted them – all shut. I had no idea which was my mistress’ dining room and – after a few minutes of agonised indecision – knocked at a random door.

“Enter!” the voice was not Lady Isobel’s.

Turning the handle, the door opened almost silently on well-oiled hinges. Beyond was a room lined with bookcases. Two ladies sat at a table, attended by a slave whose occupation was unclear to me. One of the persons looked up.

“Ah!” she said. “You’ve been sent to attend to me. About time, too!”

“No, ladyship,” I replied, “I’m afraid not. You see…”

“That sounds like bloody cheek to me,” the second lady said, glaring in my direction. “Caroline[1] – I have no doubt that a dose of the whip is what the slave needs.”

“It certainly sounds like it, Jane[2] – but perhaps I should ask her business first.”

“A spanking is the least she deserves – give her that, at least.”

“You’re right,” Caroline said to Jane, and then – to me – “Here, slave! Over my knee! You can explain yourself afterwards.”

Without a word, I obeyed. For me, there was more comfort than pain in the spanking. Being hurt was unavoidable, I thought, better this than something that really mattered. After half a dozen slaps, came another knock at the door.

“Enter!” It must have been Jane’s voice.

“Well – are you my attendant slave?” Caroline asked.

“Yes, mistress. I’m sorry I’m a little late.”

Caroline gave me a couple more slaps – harder than before. Perhaps she was expressing annoyance with the slave who had just entered. Possibly she regretted having less definite reason to punish me. Very likely, she had started to enjoy my chastisement[3].

“You will be…” Caroline said, I think to the newly arrived slave. Then, perhaps to Jane: “Oh, who’s this I’m spanking? She can’t have been my attendant.” Finally, to me: “Up, girl – and explain yourself – it had better be good.”

“I’m new here, your ladyship,” I said when I had risen, still avoiding the word mistress – which I was reserving for my owner. “Lady Isobel commanded me to her dining room. I wasn’t sure which door it is – so I knocked to ask.”

“You must be late by now, and I hope she gives you at least half a measure of the whipping you deserve,” Jane said. “So – turn right – third door. Go! We don’t have time to deal with you – and are too polite to inconvenience Lady Isobel by further delaying her slave.”

“Yes, ladyships. Thank you, ladyships.”

I curtsied and hurried to the door. My bottom felt warmer than I’d have expected from just eight hand slaps. It had been more the punishment of a naughty child than an erring slave, but it left me with a sense of having received a little of what I deserved. Turning right into the passageway, my knuckles rapped on the third door.

“Yes?” this time it was my mistress’ voice.

“It’s me – Tuerqui, mistress,” I responded.

“Well – don’t stand on ceremony. Come in, you silly girl.”

Lady Isobel’s table had been cleared of food and dishes. For a moment, I wished that I had been allowed to clear them – before reminding myself that neither a cart slave, nor an ex-whore, had any right to aspire to table duty. My mistress was leafing through a stack of papers and sipping a red tea. A few moments later, she looked up, smiling.

“Ah, Tuerqui! I’m afraid that the vet’s been delayed – one of the University slaves has broken a leg and needs emergency treatment. Sit down. Have a cup of rose hip tea.”

“Mistress – if I may...”

“Yes, Tuerqui?”

“My bladder is rather full – and before I drink anything – I need the slave’s convenience, only I don’t know where it is, mistress.”

“Poor Tuerqui. Turn right into the passage, and it’s the next door along. Don’t bother to knock when you come back.” Then – as I turned towards the door: “Tuerqui – your bum looks a bit red.”

“Yes, mistress, I knocked on the wrong door and disturbed two ladies. Lady Caroline spanked me.”

“Tuerqui! I’m sorry. I’ll have a word with her.”

“Please mistress, a spanking was less than I deserved. Truly! If you say anything, it should be about not being so easy on slaves… But that’s for you to decide, mistress – speaking so boldly makes me a wicked and presumptuous slave, and I should be punished.”

“Oh, Tuerqui!”

“Really, mistress – you must know it.”

“Just have your wee – and hurry back.”

The toilet was not only – as I expected – perfectly clean, but was by far the most luxurious one I’d used since leaving the Palace Victoria. If this was the slave’s convenience, I wondered what the persons’ must be like. It occurred to me to wonder when I’d last urinated – while still hitched to Sam’s cart? Surely, I couldn’t have held it in so long – while not being aware of having done so, perhaps I’d emptied my bladder in the bath.

“Sit down, Tuerqui,” Lady Isobel said on my return.

Obediently, I sat down. My mistress poured me a cup of steaming liquid and passed it across the table. I blushed. Her waiting on me was unfitting.

“I should be serving you, mistress. I am the slave.”

“Time enough for that later, my love. I’m glad we have a little while alone together. I’d like to hear your story.”

I outlined what had befallen me – Berenice’s camp, Tuerquelle’s birth, the Red Hill sale, the Laughing Phallus, and Sam’s establishment. Most of the details were glossed over. Sometimes Lady Isobel asked me to expand. Several times, I saw tears in her eyes.

“Tuerqui, I love you,” she said when I’d finished.

“I love you, too, mistress.”

“Eliza Downtree – the vet – will make you well again – you’ll see. I wish she’d come. A lot of vets don’t care, but Eliza’s different – she really loves slaves. That’s probably why she’s taking so long over the broken leg.”

“Mistress, everyone’s much more kind than I deserve, even Lady Caroline.”

“Nonsense – if ever a slave was due for kindness, respect and love, you are she. The slave training techniques we teach here emphasise respect for the slave – kindness and love, too, in their place. Some people think a person’s a higher being than a slave. That’s nonsense too – each has a separate place, each worthy of respect.

“Mistress, talking of slaves and persons…”

“Yes, Tuerqui?”

“I was thinking about my cousin, Princess Jenna – that she and I may both be in Surrey – she a great lady, me in my place.”

“You’re right about Jenna – she’s taken the name Jenna Javelin and become one of the eighty-one empers[4] who vote on the laws of Surrey. In politics, she’s Berenice Blackheart’s woman – and wisely so, I think. If it comes to a fight – well, you don’t need to know about that. Why don’t you tell me more about Whipfelle?”

There wasn’t time to expand much on what I’d already said before Eliza Downtree arrived. She was dishevelled, middle aged, and carried a black bag. My attention was focused immediately upon her grey eyes – piercing but kindly. I was certain from the first that my mistress had judged the vet correctly.

“I’m sorry I’m so late,” she said. “After I’d set the leg I found that another slave was developing fever, and I think a third may be pregnant. I’ve taken samples, so I’ll soon know for sure. Is this Tuerqui?”

“She is, indeed.”

“Come on then, Tuerqui. Let’s have a good look at you.”

She proceeded to examine me not only more attentively than any previous vet – but more thoroughly than Lady Margaret’s physicians. Her touch was gentle, firm and reassuring. Scarcely a square inch of me escaped her scrutiny. Miss Downtree took several smears – from my mouth, vagina, and soles of my feet – but without causing discomfort.

When I seemed nervous, she fondled me. She talked constantly – a soothing flow of words, although they didn’t signify very much. The vet placed each sample in a separate bottle, labelling them with neat, square letters. Finally, she reported to Lady Isobel.

“All things considered, she’s not in bad shape. She’s had the pox, but I think it’s cleared up – I’ll let you know for sure in a day or two, when I have the results. There’s a bit of foot rot, which I’ll have to treat. There may be one or two other problems, but probably nothing I can’t handle easily enough.”

“Tuerqui,” Lady Isobel said after the vet had gone, “I love you – and you’re sexy enough to make a statue damp where it counts… It’s hard to think of anything I’d like better than to bed you tonight.”

“Thank you, mistress.”

“But, until you’re cleared of pox, I can’t – obviously. In the meantime, you can have the pick of my concubines for tonight. In fact, I command you to take one.”

“If that is your command, mistress, may I have Passibelle?”

“If you like, Tuerqui – but you might as well see the selection first.”

Lady Isobel took me up a staircase and into a room where waited some of the loveliest slaves imaginable. All were bedecked with jewels, painted with cosmetics and displayed in concubine costumes designed – like those of Laughing Phallus whores – to render the slave more provocative. Gauzy fabrics, especially with strategically-placed slits, can leave a slave far more naked than a plain harness. The effect was achieved more subtly than at the Laughing Phallus but, to my mind, more powerfully.

In spite of my libido having been subdued for at least several months, I was immediately aroused by girls who seemed to have stepped from a sexual fantasy that had been haunting me unawares. At a word from Lady Isobel, they were in motion – each taking her turn in a lascivious display. Not only did they twist their limbs and torsos in lust-provoking ways, but their faces also conveyed the same, unmistakable, message. I was damp at the crotch before the first girl’s enticement had given way to the second.

“Well?” my mistress asked when the last of them had completed her display. “Which is it to be?”

“They’re all too lovely for words, mistress. Each is worthy of an empress – a goddess, even – and I’m just a poor cart slave. If I may, though, I still think that I would like to lie with Passibelle.”

“Of course you may… Passibelle – take Tuerqui to the green bedroom. She’s yours, and you’re hers, till morning.”

“It will be my pleasure, mistress,” Passibelle replied, curtseying.

The green bedroom was aptly named – walls draped with apple green fabric, its other soft furnishings a slightly paler shade of the same colour. Few chambers could have contrasted more strongly with the filth of Sam’s stable. Passibelle smiled bewitchingly as she closed the door. I looked at her – and at the room – in wonder.

“May I please you, mistress?” she asked.

“Oh, Passibelle – you do please me – but please don’t call me mistress. I’m only a slave, and not a very good one. You’re much too good for me. I wouldn’t have dared ask for you, except our mistress…”

“Mis… I mean Tuerqui, please don’t say that. Mist… Tuerqui, can I speak freely?”

“Of course you can, Passibelle, we’re slaves together. Please sit with me, on the bed… Calm down.. Oh – don’t cry…”

Sobbing now, Passibelle was certainly under the grip of a strong emotion. I settled myself on the bed. Passibelle sat next to me. My arms encircled her, our bodies fitting together delightfully.

“I knew that Lady Isobel was looking for you – and, in truth, I though she was maybe a bit crazy,” she said, fighting back the tears. “I know that a slave should never think such a thing of her mistress. I deserve…”

“You deserve to be loved,” I broke in, starting to cry myself. “Please, Passibelle, dry your tears. You’re getting me going.”

Sorry Mist… Tuerqui. I’ll try to keep calm. But when I first saw you today, Tuerqui, you were a mess. You must know it’s true.”

“I know it all too well. And I expect you thought, more than ever, that our mistress is crazy.”

“No, Tuerqui – that’s just the point – I didn’t think she was crazy at all. There was something about you – in your eyes, maybe – I don’t know. It’s hard to explain, but years ago, while I was still in personage, I saw a play called Colmar[5]. Do you know it mis… Tuerqui?”

Passibelle was soft, warm, deeply desirable. I kissed her hair. She shifted slightly, her thigh pressed against mine. Her lips brushed my shoulder.

“Yes, Passibelle – I saw a lot of plays when… before I was enslaved.”

“You’ll remember the girl, Colmar, a filthy Bolmer, but… magnetic. Everyone falls in love with her. You reminded me of Colmar – I know it sounds silly, Tuerqui, but you did. You were filthy and were in a harness fit only to throw down a privy, but my heart went out to you and…”

She broke off, now crying almost uncontrollably. At first my kisses were soothing, to stem the tears. Then we made love. It was as though my entire being emptied into her, and she into me.

“I love you, Tuerqui,” she said, as we lay quietly afterwards.

“I love you, too.”

“That’s what I was going to say before… before we made love. I couldn’t get the words out then – I could only cry. Now I feel as if I’ll never cry again. I love you.”

“You know, Passibelle, I’ve been so starved of love. Today it’s as though an entire lifetime’s worth has all come at once. There’s our mistress – I fell in love with her so long ago, it feels like another lifetime. I knew today my love for her was as strong as ever, and would have been no matter what.”

“Please, Tuerqui, love you…” Passibelle sounded urgent, almost tearful.

“Don’t worry, Passibelle, my love for Lady Isobel doesn’t change the way I feel about you. I really do love you. I don’t have room in my heart for as many as the goddess – but there’s room for more than one. You must love our mistress, too.”

“I’m sorry, Tuerqui. Forgive me. I felt a little jealous for a moment. I know it was silly, but…”

“But you do love me?”

“Yes.”

“Think of our mistress almost as a goddess, Passibelle. We’re united in her love. She draws us together. In her we’re one, through her we love.”

“I’m sorry, Tuerqui. You’re right, of course.”

“Don’t be sorry, Passibelle – be glad! Our mistress, you and I form a beautiful triad of love – stable and strong. My love for Lady Isobel couldn’t reduce my love for you – no more than my love for Tuerquelle could. You must know that.”

“I love you, Tuerqui.”

“And I love you – I really do. I’ve had so much love today – our mistress, Tuerquelle, and you. You’re beautiful.”

“Thank you. You’re beautiful, too, Tuerqui.”

“Come on, let’s get into bed.”

We climbed under the covers together, sinking into the feather mattress, caressed by satin sheets. I reached out to Passibelle, she responded eagerly. After making love again, we whispered endearments, while sleep laid its seal upon our eyes. Drifting into the realm of dreams, I wondered again at the perfection with which Passibelle’s body fitted into mine.

I awoke with a start to broad daylight, unsure – for a moment – of where I was. Then I remembered with a deep contented sigh – my deliverance had been more than a wonderful dream. It was well past the hour at which cart slaves take to the road. Passibelle was already up – re-entering the room, fetching breakfast on a tray.

The luxury of breakfast in bed scarcely seemed possible. Passibelle climbed back under the covers to share the meal. It was all that breakfast should be – hot buttered toast, sausages and eggs, washed down with a refreshing green herb tea. I kissed Passibelle tenderly before taking the first delicious bite.

I should have been blissfully happy – a tasty breakfast in an exquisite bed; my love for Passibelle, for my mistress, for Tuerquelle – better still, love returned by each of them. For all of that, my contentment was evaporating, something was wrong. It took me a few minutes to realise that my malaise lay in being spoilt, treated as a person rather than a slave. A growing ache gripped me – to become what Tuerquelle thought I already was – to cease to be not only a poor slave but one who would, while so indulged, grow worse.

With this in mind, I requested an audience with Lady Isobel. In her indulgence, she saw me almost at once. A good mistress will listen to a slave’s petition, but only at her own convenience – certainly not at the slave’s. I had no wish to reject Lady Isobel’s love, but yearned for it to reflect our places as mistress and slave.

“Yes Tuerqui?” she asked, smiling upon me as I entered. “Is everything all right?”

“No, mistress. I’m afraid that it isn’t.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Tell me… Is there anything I can do?”

“Last night, mistress, you spoke of the need to respect a slave. You must know that respect relies on treating a slave as a slave. Treating a slave as a person is like dressing an animal in human clothes.”

“And I’m dressing you in human clothes?”

“Oh, mistress, I love you – but as a slave loves her mistress. I don’t want personage. I enjoyed the breakfast, but should have had swill.”

“If you really want swill, you can have it for lunch, of course.”

“I think I do wish it, mistress.”

“Yes, I think you do, Tuerqui – what a treasure I’ve bought. You’re quite right about respecting a slave. I suppose you’ve just told me what I already knew.”

“And mistress, if I may ask, the toilet next door that I used yesterday. Is that really a slaves’ convenience?”

“No, I’m afraid not. It was a bit bad of me. If Caroline or Jane had found you in there, doing anything but cleaning, you’d have caught it, but…It’s just that I do love you, and you’ve been so ill used…”

“Mistress, over the last few years I’ve been ill used in more ways than the obvious. May I ask a great favour, mistress?”

“Ask it, Tuerqui. Please do.”

“Will you train me, mistress? Jenna and I played silly bondage games, but on Cap’n Gentle’s boat, you actually made a slave of me. Since then, I’ve passed through too many unskilled hands. My reactions are ruined.”

“I’m a busy lady, Tuerqui. I don’t train slaves any more – I teach my staff to train slave trainers! But – all right – because I love you I’ll make an exception. Satisfied?”

“Almost, mistress. You’re the kindest owner a slave ever had, but I’ve spoken too boldly and imposed upon your kindness. I ought not to go uncorrected.”

She nodded, an almost sad look in her eyes. “It’ll be as you wish, Tuerqui, my love. No need for the whip, I think. The back of a hair brush reddening your bum should suffice.”

“Yes, mistress. Thank you, mistress. I’ll fetch a suitable brush, mistress.”

Back in the green bedroom, I took the brush with which Passibelle had stroked my hair half an hour earlier. Returning to Lady Isobel, I curtseyed, presenting the instrument of my coming correction – punishment was too harsh a word. It seemed important that I should ask for my beating, as my mistress had taught me on Cap’n Gentle’s boat. My words, alas, were blocked by the nervous constriction Surrey folk call a toad in the throat – but known as a frog in Essex – either way it croaks.

An attempt to clear my throat developed into a coughing fit. Lady Isobel’s face registered alarm. Even I was a little worried. The damp air in Sam’s stable had affected my chest, but I hadn’t expected the cough to continue in my new, dry, home.

“Are you all right, Tuerqui?” My mistress’ concern formed a curious prelude to a well-merited smartening of my buttocks. “Perhaps I’d better send for the vet.”

“No, I don’t think you need to, mistress,” I gasped. “I was just trying to clear my throat. It seems to have worked. Please, mistress,” I curtseyed again, “will you correct me with the brush?”

The back of the hair brush stung a great deal, but I took at least three sources of joy amid the smarting. It was my first, small, step towards becoming an improved slave. Better still, I sensed Lady Isobel’s artistry even in her use of so clumsy an instrument. Best of all, the chastisement was given – and received – in love.

“Thank you, mistress,” I said afterwards, with genuine gratitude.

“Maybe you’re not so badly out of training,” she replied. “The thing that really bothers me is your chest – I’ll have Miss Downtree listen to it. In the meantime, you can join Tuerquelle. I saw her half an hour ago – polishing the balustrade of the main staircase, I’m sure she won’t be finished yet – it’s a big job.”

“Thank you, mistress.”

Tuerquelle was working bees wax into the wood, her fingers clearly practiced. My eye was unable to detect a blemish in the length she’d done. Concentrating, she didn’t look up as I approached. In spite of that, I felt sure she was aware of my presence.

“Hello, Tuerquelle, I’ve come to join you.”

“Hello, mummy.” Her voice registered no surprise. “I’ve got some spare cloths in the hallway cupboard. I’ll fetch one.”

Trying to copy Tuerquelle, I soon decided that polishing was not as easy as it looked. Naturally, I’d never been asked to clean or polish in my girlhood – there had been slaves for that. On Cap’n Gentle’s boat there had been metal to polish, but nothing calling for wax. I gritted my teeth in frustration as my first real effort as a house slave failed.

“No, mummy, not like that,” Tuerquelle corrected me, gently but firmly. “You do it like this… See…”

With skills most definitely inferior to those of a small child, my self confidence took another blow. I didn’t have her dexterity, but tried my best. Humility, I assured myself, was good for a slave. In spite of the truism, there was no denying that correction would have felt more acceptable had it come from my mistress rather than my daughter.

“I’m not as good as you,” I sighed. “I’m just not nimble enough, not like you, my sweet.”

“Oh, it doesn’t really matter, mummy.” She sounded a little smug – I sensed that Tuerquelle was very pleased to be described as nimble. “You don’t become valuable by polishing wood.”

My remark had reminded me of something from perhaps twenty years before – a story Nanny Spencer told me in the Belle House nursery. “Darling, do you know the story of the clumsy hound and the nimble rabbit?”

“No, mummy, I don’t.” Her eyes opened very wide.

“Well, once upon a time, oh best beloved, when the Old Time was young, there lived a nimble rabbit. He lived in a deep hole in the ground. Whenever danger threatened, he dived in there so quickly that not even the fastest hound could catch him…”

So it was that I began to tell Tuerquelle the stories I’d enjoyed as a child. In doing so, I exhibited a hitherto unsuspected skill. It did little to increase my self esteem, but gave us both pleasure. Re-telling the stories was almost as enjoyable as first hearing them, many years before.

I finished the tale, and started another, that of the slave who would be good. Tuerquelle was an appreciative audience and I was improvising extra details of the slave’s folly. Glancing over my shoulder, as a shadow fell upon us, I saw Eliza Downtree, smiling. The vet listened to the story for a little while before interrupting.

“I’m afraid I have to butt in, Tuerqui,” she said almost apologetically. “You’ll have to finish the slave’s story another time. I’m going to see your mistress. As you’re the subject of what I have to say, maybe you’d better join us.”

“Of course, madam… I’ll finish the story next time, sweetheart.”

Hurrying after the vet, I noted that she took the stairs without touching the balustrade – thus avoiding extra work for Tuerquelle[6]. Her wishing my presence, when reporting to Lady Isobel, was another sign of Eliza Downtree’s kindness. It showed an attitude contrasting with that of the Laughing Phallus vets. When reporting to Madame Scurf, it was obvious that they were entirely indifferent as to the presence or absence of we whores.

The steps were silky, almost soft under my feet. The balustrade smelt distinctly of bees wax. The nervous giggle of a startled slave sounded from the hallway below. Ahead of me, beyond a bend in the staircase, above the large portrait of a great Surrey lady, was a painting I hadn’t previously noticed – a small canvas depicting a black and white cat curled in sleep.

[1] No member of the University staff at this time was named Caroline. The most likely identity of the woman is Caroline Capture, an elector and trusted agent of Berenice Blackheart. Her business at the University of Pain is unclear.

[2] If Caroline was Caroline Capture, then Jane was almost certainly Jane Jagged – also an elector and an agent of Berenice. The two women frequently worked together.

[3] This over the knee spanking certainly has more the air of something done for pleasure than a serious punishment.

[4] Jenna Javelin was appointed as an elector on Iceflake 12th YD 725 – a replacement for Lily Lashtongue, an opponent of Berenice Blackheart who had been killed. It is thought that she took the name Javelin in deference to her mother (Tuerqui’s aunt) Cordelia Catapult – a javelin being a lighter weight weapon than a catapult, and one with a shorter range. Almost a year later, Cordelia Catapult died, possibly of natural causes, on Iceflake 10th YD 726, and Jenna inherited the chieftaincy of the Blood Victoria. (As recognised by Surrey, although her uncle [Tuerqui’s father] continued to control Lundin and was recognised as the chieftain in Essex and elsewhere.) Jenna was elected as an emper on Swellbelly 16th YD 730, taking the place of Andrew Agony, one of the few male empers, who had been enslaved for misappropriation of public funds. This placed Jenna amongst the ninety most prominent persons in Surrey.

[5] Colmar, the work of Cornelius Fry (YD 579-624) was a much admired play at this time. It concerns a magnetic Bolmer (nomad) girl who lures several men to their doom before, herself, coming to a tragic end. Colmar is described in the stage directions as ragged – but not as filthy. Perhaps the production Passibelle had seen made Colmar seem filthy, or possibly she considered this to be a quality of all Bolmers.

[6] Her reasons for doing this may or may not have included kindness towards Tuerquelle.

For chapter 23 click
http://bondlings.blogspot.com/2007/07/of-bondlings-and-blesh-chapter-23.html

Of Bondlings and Blesh Chapter 21

Chapter 21

At my feet was a large puddle, wind ruffled into tiny wavelets. The soft mud of its shoreline was cold between my toes. Sheep were bleating from beyond the hedge. Lady Isobel, drawing closer, smelt of fine leather and rose petals.

“Tuerqui, calm yourself,” Lady Isobel said gently, brushing the hair from my eyes. “You’ll be a poor purchase if you die from overexcitement within five minutes of my buying you. Into the carriage, now, and we’ll be on our way.”

I was now unhitched from the traces, and the driver was fastening the supposedly lame slave in my place. Shifting myself rather clumsily, I clambered into the coach. A beautiful slave, unclothed[1] as a concubine, moved up to make room for me. Lady Isobel seated herself to my right, and we were on our way.

“Passibelle,” my mistress said, “this is Tuerqui of whom you’ve heard so much. She looks a mess at the moment, but we’ll soon have her clean. Tuerqui, this is Passibelle, one of my beloved slaves.”

“I’m honoured, mistress,” Passibelle said. “Tuerqui, I hope we’ll be great friends – should our mistress permit.”

“You may be as great friends as you wish.”

Struggling to speak, I produced a whinny, dissolving into hiccoughs, before turning into my first articulate word for half a year: “Mistress!”

“Calm down, Tuerqui – things will be all right, you’ll see. The final night on Cap’n Gentle’s boat, I told you that I’d find you and buy you. As you should know, a lady always keeps her word – so – I tried, but Henrietta Heartless wouldn’t allow me to see her detailed records of Berenice’s slave disposal[2]. Then, today in Leatherhead, I thought I saw you but couldn’t believe it, had to check a couple more times – that’s why we kept passing you.”

“Mistress!” I repeated, delighted to regain both my mistress and my voice.

“I tried to keep it as an ordinary business transaction with the carter – afraid that, if he knew I wanted you especially, he might refuse to sell. Not everything I told him was a lie. The sale docket was Hortense’s – she really is thinking of buying a slave.”

“Mistress…”

“Yes Tuerqui?”

My thought had been that, if the driver bought one of Sam’s other slaves, perhaps a friend could be delivered. Mussiltarte sprang to mind. She wouldn’t have my joy, but Hortense would surely be at least a reasonable mistress. Clearly, expressing this to Lady Isobel would have been a monstrous piece of insolence, so I said nothing.

Lady Isobel continued after a brief pause: “I’m sorry to have prolonged the pretence of your being a replacement coach slave – taking the carriage round the bend… Perhaps I shouldn’t have, but…”

“Mistress?”

“Well – not having you hitched to the traces, or unhitching you where we might be seen from the inn, would have been an admission that I hadn’t been telling the truth. I have my standing to consider, and to be seen as a spinner of lies to a common carter...[3] The main thing is that you’re here. It’s like waking from a nightmare.”

“For you too, mistress?”

“Yes, of course for me too. I thought you were probably dead…” Silence fell as she paused to wipe her eyes, continuing a few minutes later: “I’m glad that Mistress isn’t the only word you can remember, anyway.”

“Oh mistress, it’s so long since I’ve spoken that I wasn’t sure if I could.”

“You haven’t been speaking, Tuerqui?”

“No, mistress, the carter wouldn’t allow it. We could only make neighing noises. He liked to pretend we were horses.”

“Well – I can see that the ragamuffin would never be able to afford real horses. All the same – it’s a bad business. Perhaps Hortense could rescue one of your friends.”

“Mistress, that would be lovely.”

Astonished that Lady Isobel had expressed my thought, I started to cry in earnest. Someone squeezed my hand and for a moment; I assumed it to be my mistress. Then I realised that one of her hands was on left thigh and the other on my right shoulder. Brushing away my tears, I saw that Passibelle had reached out to me, she was smiling.

“I couldn’t start looking for you,” Lady Isobel said, “until I was settled in Surrey. First, I had to make a few trips with Cap’n Gentle. Then I started a career as a concert tormentor.”

“You’re a concert tormentor, mistress?”

“Not any more – a tormentor couldn’t afford a carriage like this! I had to retire with whip-hand wrist[4]. After that, I worked as a slave trainer for a while – there’s plenty of call for them in Surrey. Then I had my inspiration – to found a school to train slave trainers – now I’m the Chancellor of the University of Pain.”

“So you teach people how to train slaves, mistress?”

“Not personally any more. The university still has courses for slave trainers – but now we’ve branched out into other areas as well. We’re even the leading centre for gynozoa research[5] – I’m very proud of that. Not that I know much about gynozoa science, but I hold everything together.”

“Is today Drizzlemoon 12th, mistress?”

“Yes it is… What an extraordinary question, Tuerqui… Ah – here we are…”

We turned off the road, through a pair of imposing gates, and up a smooth drive. A large building, topped with a dome, lay ahead. A flight of gleaming steps led up to the door. A small child polished them.

“Is this the University, mistress?”

“It certainly is, Tuerqui – and the slave child you see polishing the steps…”

“Tuerquelle!”

Lady Isobel hadn’t needed to complete her sentence. It was just under two years since I had seen my daughter, she’d grown, but I knew her at once. Tears streamed down my face. Never in all my life before had I been so happy.

“Stop the carriage, Hortense,” my mistress called. Then, opening the door – “Go to her, Tuerqui.”

With a hurried “Thank you, mistress.” I was away.

Perhaps a dozen paces, taken at a run, brought me to the steps and placed Tuerquelle in my arms. She allowed herself to be held, but did not return the embrace. Her unresponsiveness scarcely mattered – we were reunited. She was warm and solid, and had obviously received good care.

“Tuerquelle…” I sobbed. “Tuerquelle… Oh Tuerquelle…”

“Yes mistress?”

For a moment I thought she was speaking to me. It was unlikely that she’d previously seen a slave in as pitiful a condition as mine. Had she taken me for a person in spite of harness, matted hair and filth? In fact she was addressing Lady Isobel standing a short distance behind me.

“Tuerquelle,” I whispered, “I’m Tuerqui – you mother.”

“My mother?” she asked in obvious bewilderment.

“Yes, Tuerquelle,” Lady Isobel’s voice was unexpectedly close. “She’s your mother. I’ve found her at last.”

“Mistress – she is a valuable slave?” Tuerquelle sounded no less puzzled.

“The most valuable of all. You’ll see when she’s clean. Come on, Tuerqui.”

Tuerquelle’s bewilderment, I soon found out, was based on knowing that Lady Isobel had searched for me. Her conclusion was that I must be an extremely valuable slave. Truly, I cannot have appeared to be worth more than a few coppers. Soon, I would feel impelled to conform – as well as I could – to Tuerquelle’s image of her costly mother.

My arms dropped from Tuerquelle as I rose to my feet. I must have embraced her for longer than I realised – the carriage had gone, and so had Passibelle. Lady Isobel stood, smiling, two or three yards away. Giving Tuerquelle one more kiss on her forehead – and leaving another dirty smudge on her previously clean skin – I followed my mistress up the steps into the building.

The hallway was floored and panelled in a rich yellowish brown wood. Its glossy surfaces reflected many candles, and smelt of polish. There were a dozen statues – the Leather Mistress and other Surrey deities – as well as smaller carvings of snake-women, lions, tigers, dragons and other fabulous beasts. On the staircase hung a fine copy of Salmon’s The Reward of Insolence[6] in which the crouching slave’s welts were especially vivid.

“I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see your joy in Tuerquelle,” my mistress said kindly.

“Joy, mistress? Oh mistress, I love you. I’m overjoyed at your owning me at last – but Tuerquelle is my daughter, she is my life – I hope that doesn’t offend you, mistress.”

“No Tuerqui, it doesn’t offend me in the least. It was much easier to find Tuerquelle than to find you. She was still Berenice Blackheart’s property. Berenice gave her to me after an especially inspired performance.”

“Mistress, it surely must have been inspired. Berenice’s economies…”

“Sometimes she economises, sometimes she’s lavish – Berenice Blackheart is a law unto herself. She gave me Tuerquelle – and your daughter has been a delight ever since – the perfect slave child. I deliberately didn’t mention Tuerquelle in the carriage. I wanted her to be a surprise.”

“Thank you, mistress.”

“There’s something about the way you say mistress, Tuerqui. You’re not merely submissive, as a good slave should be. You’re happy in your slavery.”

“Mistress, I wouldn’t want personage, were it offered to me – which I hope it never will. I’d rather be hitched to a filthy cart than lose my slavery. Mistress, I am a slave. I am your slave – and hope that I will remain so always.”

“Don’t worry your pretty head, Tuerqui. The idea of thrusting you back into personage hadn’t even crossed my mind.”

“Thank you, mistress.”

“First of all, I think we’d better clean you up, get you out of that rotting harness, and into something decent. After that, I’ll have Eliza Downtree – the vet – check you over. You’ll like her, she’s good. Is there anything you need?”

“Please, mistress, there are two things – if I may.”

“You’ve only to name them, Tuerqui.”

“When you bought me, mistress, we were about to be fed and watered. I’m hungry. But – more important, mistress – I’d like a religious image.”

“A religious image?” she sounded astonished.

“Mistress, I worshipped Our Lady of the Lamp in the brothel. As a cart slave, I made an image of the goddess from mud and straw, prayed every morning and night. I knew that she would deliver me, and that was how I knew it was Drizzlemoon 12th – it’s her great festival. Now that I’ve been delivered – delivered more wonderfully than I could have imagined – I have to thank her.”

“Tuerqui, you’ll have your dinner. You’ll have your goddess too. When you pray, please thank her for me as well.

“It’ll be my pleasure, mistress – and my duty.”

“If you wait here, Tuerqui, I’ll send down some slaves.”

My mistress ascended the staircase, leaving me alone in the hall. I was used to waiting, although not in such magnificent surroundings – it was certainly no hardship. I marvelled at the smoothness of the wood under my toes – so utterly unlike any surface they had touched for a long time. Even the warm dry air was a luxury.

The sense of luxuriance still transfixed me when two lovely slaves arrived to pander to my needs. They wore harnesses of blue leather and real silver – as I’d already guessed Lady Isobel’s personal livery. Each curtsied, as she might to a person. I squirmed in embarrassment.

“Please don’t curtsey,” I said, “I’m only a slave, and I’m a long way short of being your equal. I’m just a run down cart slave – but I would be thrilled if you’d treat me as your harness-mate[7].”

“I’m Fuquibelle,” one of them introduced herself with a pretty laugh, echoing her tiny silver harness bells. “I hope we’ll be friends. Our mistress says we’re to bathe you. The water’s ready.”
“And I’m Spanqumi,” her companion added. “Welcome harness-mate.”

“I’m Tuerqui – but you must know that already.”

They led me down a passage and into a bathing chamber. The bath, already filled with steaming water, was carved from a block of polished stone through which blue veins twisted. Several kettles hung from hooks above the fire, more pots of water were in readiness. I hadn’t seen the like since my former existence in the Palace Victoria.

Fuquibelle took a large pair of scissors, snipping away the rotting strands of my harness. It was the one in which I had left the Laughing Phallus and – while it had been good enough for Madame Scurf to be seen with me wearing it in public – the thing had never been of the first quality. Roger had neglected my harness, along with the rest of his duty, and it had become something few persons would permit their slaves to wear. The scissors slipped through the leather as a battle axe through worm-eaten cheese.

In the meanwhile, Spanqumi took a pin from her hair and opened the locks of my bracelets and anklets. She tossed them away – their destination the bin into which Fuquibelle dropped the remains of my harness piece by piece. Spanqumi’s contribution to my unharnessing took seconds – Fuquibelle’s work took rather longer. While the pieces of metal from my wrists and ankles had not exactly rotted, there was plenty of rust under the filth with which they were coated.

“Into the water, harness-mate,” Spanqumi said.

I didn’t need a second bidding. The warm water reminded me of the bliss the goddess bestows upon dutiful souls. Moans of ecstasy escaped my lips. Opening my eyes, I was alarmed to see that the water was almost black.

“That was a neat trick with you hairpin, Spanqumi,” I said, as she and Fuquibelle emptied the bath.

“Easy! Your wrist and ankle locks were rubbish. I could probably still pick good ones, though. I’m a bit out of practice now, but I used to do it for a living.”

“You were a thief?” I asked in surprise, she seemed so innocent.

“A spy, which might be worse. Either way, opening Nadine Next’s document chests was slavery for sure if I was caught[8]. She called me Spanqumi because she thought I should be spanked pretty often in the years to come. Still and all, slavery has worked out well for me – and I love our mistress, as we all do.”

“That we do,” Fuquibelle added. “She respects her slaves – and is a tiger between the sheets. I couldn’t ask for much more. Now – back into the water and we’ll see to the next layer of dirt.”

Spanqumi and Fuquibelle didn’t bother with flannels and soap until my third bathful of water, by which time I must have been a different colour from my cart slave self. As they lathered me, they talked continuously, including much about doings at the University of Pain. Amongst the names they mentioned, there were – of course – few to which I could put a face. I tried to memorise as many names as possible, with at least a few details for each.

It was an especial delight to hear about Tuerquelle – and to learn that they both thought highly of her. Spanqumi said that she worked as well as a child twice her age. Fuquibelle wished that Tuerquelle were her daughter. Clearly, both of them had taken Tuerquelle as a harness-mate, and I’m sure that left them favourably predisposed to me.

Spanqumi spoke of her former career as a slave of the Nine – owned collectively by Surrey’s rulers, rather than by an individual. It followed from having been a spy. She had secrets in her head – and none of the Nine trusted any of the others to be her sole owner. When the secrets grew stale, she was presented to Lady Isobel – with strict instructions that she was to be kept from speaking incautiously.

In her anecdotes, of slavery under the Nine, I expected Berenice Blackheart’s name to be the most familiar. However, one story concerned entertaining a guest whom she called Princess Jenna. The name is not very common. In fact, I think that my cousin is the only Jenna I’ve ever met.

“Did you say Jenna?” I asked.

“Yes – Princess Jenna. She’s been Chief of the Blood Victoria since her aunt, Princess Cordelia, died. What would that be? About five years ago, I think.”

“She’s in the Palace Victoria – in Lundin?”

“No, the usurper” – by usurper she clearly intended my father “still holds Lundin – more’s the pity. Princess Jenna’s safe in Surrey. If the goddesses and gods are kind, our troops’ll deliver her birthright.”

“I’m sure they will,” Fuquibelle added, “each of our brave warrior girls is worth at least a dozen of the enemy. When I see one, all shining armour and gleaming muscles, it gets me going – wet where you know it counts.”

“Me, too,” said Spanqumi, “A girl’s top mouth may sometimes lie, but the one below doesn’t. I could fancy a night or two with a whole squad of ’em.”

They dissolved into laughter and I joined their giggles – although my recollections of Surrey’s warrior girls contained little of the sexual. My first thought was of the cruel eyed women to whom Sam delivered farm produce on my first day as his slave. That brought images of the battle of Abben Don to mind. In turn this led me to think of the rain of arrows and slaughter of civilians at Black Flowers.

“How is she?” I asked.

“How is who? One of the soldier girls?”

“No – I mean Jenna.”

“Princess Jenna?” Spanqumi sounded surprised by my question. “Well enough, I think – although I’m sure she’ll still be too hard on her slaves. You seem to know a lot about the Blood Victoria. Have you met the princess?”

“She’s my cou…” I began, then rapidly decided against revealing our relationship. “That is – yes – I’ve certainly met her.”

“Cu…? She was your custodian, perhaps?” Fuquibelle asked.

“Something of the sort,” I confirmed.

“Well – you’ll know how she is,” Spanqumi concluded.

Both Jenna and I were in Surrey – albeit in very different circumstances. Slight as my grasp of politics was, I knew that Jenna belonged to the branch of my family recognised in Surrey as legitimate. Jenna had colluded in my enslavement – probably planned it – but I no longer harboured malice on that account. I had been through some tough times but, at that moment, I was most certainly the happier cousin.

Between my third bathful of water and the fourth, Fuquibelle washed my hair, while Spanqumi drew fresh water. Fuquibelle must have rinsed my head half a dozen times before applying shampoo. It was the first of several latherings. She also doused me with something to kill insects.

Afterwards, both slaves combed and brushed my hair. It was a painful business – my head had, more or less, been crowned with one large tangle. In spite of the smarting, I was delighted to have my hair dressed. I’d taken good care of it at the Laughing Phallus.

My hair done, Fuquibelle cleaned and trimmed my fingernails, while Spanqumi attended to the toes. When they finished, my fourth bath was drawn. The fifth bath was in perfumed water. When I emerged from the scented liquid, they dried me with fluffy towels.

Once I was dry, Spanqumi left the bathroom to return a few minutes later with my new harness, anklets and bracelets. Tears welled in my eyes when I saw them. Like those worn by Spanqumi and Fuquibelle, the harness was of royal blue leather – and the metalwork was real silver. However, mine wasn’t merely as beautiful as theirs – it was the most magnificent harness I’d ever seen, with what were surely real sapphires set into the silver fittings.

Harnessed, I felt half way to being the slave Tuerquelle supposed. My two companions led me upstairs and through corridors, the windows of which looked out upon lovely gardens full of spring flowers. They left me in a spacious chamber where Lady Isobel sat reading. She looked up from her papers, smiling.

Fuquibelle and Spanqumi curtsied to our mistress then departed. A table was laid for a meal, including such delicacies as preserved fruits and Chip Stead stuffed eggs. Lady Isobel ushered me toward the food. Smartly, I stepped in that direction, ready to wait on her as she ate.

“Have you said your prayers yet?” my mistress asked.

“I’ll say them, mistress, as soon as I have a goddess.”

“Then pray, Tuerqui. The goddess is at your left breast.”

Glancing down in renewed delight, I saw the tiny goddess worked into my harness. Pausing only to dedicate the figure to Our Lady of the Lamp, I poured out my thanks – and those of my mistress. Worshipping a worthy image on her great feast, I felt the goddess’ love and power as never before. I must have been absorbed into a deep communion for a long time before Lady Isobel broke the spell.

“Tuerqui, I think that the goddess will excuse you long enough to eat. You must be very hungry.”

“Yes – I am, mistress. I’d be glad of some swill.”

“No swill for you today, my love. Take a seat at my table and eat with me.”

“If that’s your command, mistress.”

“It’s just what I command. Sit – and eat.”

I sat and ate. The roast was exquisite. Before glancing up, I must have eaten a great deal. Lady Isobel was smiling across the table.

Rising slightly, and reaching out, my mistress ran her fingers over my breasts. Leaving my seat, I went to her so that she could take stock of me properly. Her touch extended over my belly and down the thighs. She concluded her inspection with an affectionate squeeze.

“I reckon you were a pretty good buy,” she said. “You’ve scrubbed up well. Come and see.”

Taking my hand, she led me into a bedroom, to stand before a full length mirror. I regarded myself carefully. In part, my reflection pleased me – Lady Isobel was right, cleaning had made a lot of difference. Simultaneously, I found myself wanting – too skinny, apart from overdeveloped legs and shoulders – a cart slave in fine harness.

“Do you see your beauty returning, Tuerqui?”

“I think that perhaps I do, mistress. I hope I’ll always please you.”

“I’m sure you always will. Would you like anything else to eat?”

“No mistress – I’ve had more than enough. If I may, I’d like to take my place amongst your slaves. That’s unless you have any special duties for me, of course. I’d like to be worthy of your owning me.”

“You want to join the other slaves? Fair enough…”

She led me downstairs and into a refectory where the slaves were finishing an evening meal. My bath and prayers had consumed most of the afternoon. As we entered, the slaves rose to their feet and curtsied to their mistress – she motioned for them to resume their seats. Curtseying to the assembled slaves, I took a seat on the same form as Tuerquelle – my companions greeted me with smiles.

“You can help Tuerquelle with the dishes,” Lady Isobel told me. “I’m sure that’s what you wish. When the washing up’s done, I want you back in my dining room – the vet’ll have to examine you. Can you find your own way back up there?”

“Yes, mistress, I can.”

Lady Isobel departed. She’d been quite correct about my wish to work with Tuerquelle. Waiting for our duty at the sink to begin, I joined the table talk. It was impossible not to like all of my companions – they were fine slaves and their gossip and jokes were a delight, all the more so after my wordless months.

The slaves’ meal over, I helped Tuerquelle gather the dishes and carry them through to the scullery. The cooking pots were already stacked. I filled a kettle and hung it above the fire. Soon, I was up to my elbows in suds, while Tuerquelle dried.

“Are you really my mummy?” she asked.

“Yes of course I am, darling.”

“Lady Isobel has been looking for you ever so long, mummy. You must be the most valuable slave there ever was.”

“I try to be as valuable as I can, sweetheart, as we all must. We have to try to please our mistress – and she’s the one who sets our value.”

“I do, mummy – I do. I always try to please her.” She was close to tears – thinking, perhaps, that I doubted her devotion.

“There, there, darling – I’m sure you do. I’m sure we both do.”

“I’m going to be as good as I can, mummy. I want to be as valuable as you are, when I grow up.”

“You’re valuable already, my love.”

“No, I’m not, mummy. There are too many things I can’t do yet. One day I’ll be like you, though – you’ll see.”

Having no reply to this, I gently kissed the top of her head. The misplaced pride in her supposedly valuable mother almost made me weep. Disabusing her would have seemed cruel. Instead, I resolved to come as close as possible to justifying her admiration.

“Mummy – who is that little statue on your harness?” Her eyes were obviously sharper than mine had been.

“My goddess – Our Lady of the Lamp. It’s only through her love that I’m here now. I pray to her every morning and night.”

“And she listens to your prayers, mummy?” The idea obviously filled her with awe.

“Of course she does, sweetheart.”

“You must be a really and truly valuable slave if even a goddess listens to you, mummy.”

Smiling, I tried to hide my thoughts. Beyond whoredom, I might have passed from the goddess’ concern, although – in her mercy – she will always look kindly upon former strumpets. Tuerquelle might one day have harlotry forced upon her – although, saving my goddess, I hoped she never would. More than ever, I seemed a cart slave out of her element.

“Would you like me to teach you to pray, my love?”

“Oh – yes please, mummy!”

We prayed at the sink. I felt the unmistakable presence of the goddess – taking Tuerquelle on this, her great feast. Tuerquelle’s face was filled with wonder as she became one with the world unseen, probably for the first time. Our Lady of the Lamp didn’t insist upon service in harlotry – a deity is always bigger than our artificial conceptions.

The wind rattled the window. Looking out, I could see the outlines of trees waving in the dusk. Sudsy warm water caressed my hands, I was reluctant to withdraw them. The dish soap smelt of apples.

[1] Unclothed as a concubine. Passibelle would have worn draperies in addition to her harness – the implication being that they made her seem more naked than a normally harnessed slave.

[2] Lady Isobel was not the only person to be denied access to these records. Berenice Blackheart came to believe that this was because Henrietta Heartless had cheated her. We are unlikely ever to know for certain whether Berenice’s suspicions were just.

[3] Duplicity towards a social equal would have been acceptable as a piece of intrigue – duplicity towards a social inferior would simply have been unworthy conduct.

[4] Whip-hand wrist – a painful affliction associated with concert tormentors.

[5] It was, of course, at the University of Pain that Professor Olivia Harkness developed gynozoa as a practical replacement for reproduction involving two sexes.

[6] The Reward of Insolence was a popular painting by Eunice Salmon. Many copies of it were in circulation at this time – most of them of indifferent quality.

[7] Harness-Mate, at this time, had a slightly different sense from the way it is used today. It referred to a strong bond between slaves and, especially, between the slaves and their mistress – a oneness in serving a common mistress.

[8] Slavery for sure if I was caught. While true as far as it goes, this glosses over the full extent of the risk Spanqumi faced. Spies were butchered for blesh if they did not seem to have the makings of worthwhile slaves (especially if they were not considered sexually attractive) and/or were suspected to knowing too dangerous secrets.

For chapter 21
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http://bondlings.blogspot.com/2007/07/of-bondlings-and-blesh-chapter-22.html

Of Bondlings and Blesh Chapter 20

Chapter 20

A woman was shouting, but I could not discern the words – it was merely a disagreeable hubbub. Prickly straw scratched at the backs of my legs. The planking of the walls was an indeterminate grey – only peeling flakes showed that it had once been painted. The place smelt of mildew.

This was Sam’s stable – its redeeming feature was that my being there proved that the day’s work was done. During the last couple of hours everything had blended into a blur of aching tiredness. I’d seen the carter’s family, but they had made little impression on me that evening. There was a seemingly half witted lad, considerably less attentive than an ostler should be, and an intimidating woman who screeched at Sam and the boy.

In my hand was a crude image of Our Lady of the Lamp fashioned, with a little effort, from straw and mud. Having formed the goddess, however poorly, it was time to pray. If that prayer was ever completed it was in the realm of dreams. The stable was draughty and damp, the straw on which we slept filthy and prickly, but I was more tired than in all my life before.

I was awoken early for my second day of hard toil. The reason that I’m sure of this is that we were woken early every morning. Looking back, I can divide few of my draught slave recollections into separate days. Seasons are another matter.

It was Swellbelly when Sam purchased me. The nights were cold, the early mornings and evenings a little chilly. For the rest, the day was pleasantly warm without being too hot. For a week or two, it remained dry before becoming cooler and much wetter.

With the heavy rain, the worst roads became bogs. Plunging our feet into mud sometimes eighteen inches deep, we tugged at a cart with its wheels half buried, spraying semi-liquid clay in all directions. Better quality roads became treacherous with wet leaves on which it was easy to slip. In my accumulating misery, the goddess was my only comfort.

With the shorter days, our working hours were generally reduced – but that scarcely compensated for the worsening weather. To my dismay, after a few weeks at the shafts, our toil occasionally increased as the long nights brought a series of mysterious expeditions. When there was no moon, we were roused quietly and harnessed. I don’t know what cargoes we hauled, but armed women stood guard while the cart was loaded and unloaded.

With their eye patches and scarred faces, seldom have I seen persons more transparently villainous. Their weapons did not gleam like those the guards, nor were they ornate, but I did not doubt that they were deadly and in skilled hands. No one spoke above a whisper, sometimes we slaves were muted with gags. The business seemed all the more terrible for my having no idea what was going on.

I was able to observe Sam and his family as only a domestic animal can. People never pretend in front of their livestock as they do for fellow persons. Sarah, Sam’s wife, was the head of the household – and seldom seen without a whip in her hand. She lashed her family furiously on the slightest pretext.

In spite of her using the whip so freely, I never saw her touch a slave with it, even by accident. My impression was that she viewed as beneath her dignity any direct contact with slaves. Much of our care, as well as the routine upkeep of buildings, fell to her son Roger – a lazy youth in his late teens or early twenties. He was equally slipshod in attending to our needs and in plugging the gaps between the stable boards; I was always cheered to see him whipped.

However much Roger neglected us, we couldn’t complain – Sam wouldn’t tolerate our speaking, and Sarah seemed to ignore slaves on principle. The carter liked to pretend that we were horses – costly beasts entirely beyond his means. He sometimes rewarded us with sugar when we produced realistic neighing sounds. Anything that resembled human speech provoked furious applications of his whip.

Sam and Sarah had a daughter, an anaemic-looking and listless girl called Fiona. I was unable to gauge whether she was older or younger than Roger. Her duties lay mainly in the house, usually emerging only to fetch water from the pump. My first sighting of her was probably at least a week after I’d been purchased by her father.

Occasionally, Fiona was told to feed us. She was more dutiful than Roger, but less able. When we received too little to eat from Fiona, I’m sure that she had failed to correctly calculate the necessary quantity of swill. When Roger did the same thing, it was certainly through laziness.

Prescription against speaking did nothing to reduce my understanding of what I heard. Their conversations made it clear that Sarah and Sam also had two older sons – Bob and Bert – and an elder daughter – Maude. The last named had married someone called Algy to become, in Sarah’s words too stuck up be ’alf. Algy, in her opinion, would end up on the slave block – an’ it’s where ’e belongs an’ all.

Bob was a lazy good fer nuffink, should a whipped ’im a deal ’arder when ’e were a nipper, an’ ’at’s a fack. Bert, on the other hand, had bin led astray by that there woman – a viper’s what she is, but I never learnt the viper’s name. Sarah often shouted, as she raised her ship, you ain’t goin’ the way o’ Bert – or Bob, or Maude. She obviously knew how to inflict pain – I was glad that she considered slaves beneath her notice.

Nothing seemed to arouse Sarah’s wrath more than what was known in the carter’s household as waterin’ the ’orses – a euphemism for coupling with cart slaves. Occasionally, Roger or Sam tiptoed into the stable during the night to seize a slave. Less often, Sam stopped on a lonely stretch of road, unbuttoned his breeches, and took a slave without bothering to unhitch her. Usually, Sarah found tell-tale smears of semen on his undergarments after such a session.

“Yer’ve spunked y’ knickers!” I heard her yell. “I’ll learn y’ t’ water the ’orses – that I will!”

Nocturnal waterings generally ended with Sarah bursting into the stable, whip snaking unerringly to any flesh exposed by lowered breeches or raised nightshirt. Thereafter, we were bothered no more until the welts fully healed. The respite usually lasted several weeks, followed by a restless night, or two, or three. After the shaftarama, I viewed the disturbances with indifference – apart from anger over lost sleep, and delight in seeing Sarah’s whip properly applied.

We cart slaves were free to pleasure one another, should we feel so inclined. I was usually too tired to respond properly to my fellows’ occasional advances – but there was comfort in the closeness of a companion’s body – and luxury in a gentle touch. As the nights grew colder, one another’s body warmth became increasingly necessary and – eventually – we snuggled together in groups of six, usually preserving the distinction between the right and left-hand shafts. There was little sexual in this, in spite of intermittently straying fingers.

Comfort of another kind was available from the goddess – for me and at least some of my companions. Although the patroness of whores, rather than cart slaves, Our Lady of the Lamp did not desert me. The crude image I’d made was in nightly use – my prayers never missed – no matter how tired I was. Knowing that the goddess’ powers increased with the spring, I trusted to some deliverance in due season.

Without pretensions to become a priestess or calendress, I knew the dominions everyone knows – and knew those of Our Lady of the Lamp. Her season is spring, her month Drizzlemoon, the second week is hers, her month day is the twelfth, and day of the week Valday. Had I been a calendress, it would have been possible to compute the chances of deliverance each day, by balancing the degree of dominion against any baleful influences. As it was, I had no means of measuring time beyond judging the season from the weather and length of daylight.

Since we were forbidden to speak, there was no way to consult anyone else on the passage of time. Nor could I keep a scratch calendar – Sam regarded signs of literacy with even more disfavour than speech. I am sure that he also disliked our fashioning religious images, but was too canny to offend the deities by preventing it. Our prayers had to be silent, of course, or comprise neighing sounds – I think that, eventually, I came close to losing the power of human speech.

The increasing cold became difficult to bear, clad in nothing but slave harness. Had not some provision for our warmth been made, it is doubtful whether we could have survived the winter. Our receiving blankets was surely aimed more at protecting Sam’s investment than at ensuring our comfort. The provision of blankets, in any case, lagged behind the changing temperature, leaving us colder than a dutiful carter’s team would have been.

It fell to Roger to provide us with blankets while we were stabled. Sam provided them during the less active parts of the day – straining at the shafts we sweated in all but the coldest weather. As usual, Roger was more remiss than Sam. Worse – our warmth in the morning and evening lay in a disputed area between Roger’s duty and Sam’s.

Blankets were least forthcoming when most needed – at dawn and dusk. We were left shivering while Sam and Roger bickered. Sarah was more practical – when she saw duty neglected her inevitable answer was the whip. Where there was doubt as to whose duty it was, she applied her whip impartially.

“I don’t care ’oo’s s’posed t’ be lookin’ after the ’orsies,” she shouted. “Jus’ do it!”

I smiled weakly to see Roger and Sam writhe in pain, but it was small comfort – covered as I was in gooseflesh. Blankets weren’t fetched until Sarah completed the whipping. The longer the punishment, the more we shivered. Their howls would have been a lot more enjoyable had it been blankets first and whip afterwards.

With the harder frosts, our drinking water froze before morning. Roger was supposed to break the ice with a small pick, but when he failed in his duty our nearest approach to a drink was cautiously licking the cold surface – an unpleasant business. When the water was entirely frozen, Roger was supposed to light a fire underneath. He was even more remiss with the fire than he was with breaking ice.

Unfortunately, our drinking water was not the only thing to freeze – so did the highway ruts. Frozen puddles were more of a menace for the cart wheels than for our feet. Stepping into cold muddy water was sufficiently unpleasant for us to have been walking on the ridges for the last couple of months or so, avoiding the ruts. So – while we tended not to slip on puddle ice – the cart was less discriminating.

As the cart began to slide our shoulders were painfully wrenched. Another wrench followed as Sam applied the brake. It was worse on downhill slopes, where the cart skidding in our direction threatened to crush us. Alas, this was but the start of our problems with ice.

Between the ruts were muddy ridges and – when they froze – we faced two additional problems. One lay in the hardened mud cutting our feet. The other trouble was that it was no longer possible to avoid stepping on ice. Our feet skidded, as well as the wheels.

Just as the provision of blankets was slow, protection for our feet came at least a week late. The protection took the form of stiff plates with ridged soles that were strapped in place. They were very uncomfortable but brought an end to frozen mud cuts and gave us a little purchase on the ice. On balance the plates were a boon in spite of the straps chafing our ankles.

With the first substantial snowfall, the ruts and ridges vanished under a white blanket. At first, it was a little easier to pull the cart, but that didn’t last for long. Compacted snow was as slippery as ice – worse, it filled the ridges on our soles so that we lost purchase on the road. Snow also worked its way between our feet and the stiff plates, something that caused much trouble.

The most alarming of winter’s discomforts and dangers lay in ice or compacted snow fouling the brake. Sam should have chipped the ice from the brake after each application, but sometimes failed to do so. On occasion, I imagine, it was impractical to remove the ice – as when the brake had to be applied repeatedly on a slope. When ice accumulated between brake and wheel, the device wouldn’t work.

Several times, all of us came close to being crushed as the cart slithered out of control, Sam working furiously – brake lever in one hand, ice pick in the other. Miraculously, only one of us was killed in a skid. The day she died, the road was covered with slush, partially melted snow. As the temperature dropped in the afternoon, the slush froze.

Sam draped blankets over our shoulders to keep us warm as we pulled – a precaution necessary only at very low temperatures. We tugged the heavily laden cart uphill – difficult work with ice forming under the wheels. Several times Sam clambered from his seat, hammering wedges behind the wheels to give them some purchase. We breasted the hill, at last, and started downwards.

Glancing nervously over my shoulder, I saw Sam attempting to chip the ice whilst making frantic brake applications – but he must have had other worries, too, as the cart rocked, threatening to overturn. Then we started to slip in earnest, the carter now hacking furiously with the ice pick. Sam leaned right over the brake, bringing the cart so close to toppling that, soon after, he was obliged to lean hard in the opposite direction. As he abandoned the brake lever, I was pulled from my feet – the cart was skidding out of control.

Although fully expecting to die, I reached the valley floor with nothing worse than cuts and bruises. Shugathise had not been so lucky. She was a mangled mess under the front wheels. Her face, almost her only undamaged part, was contorted into a mask of horror – eyes and mouth frozen into an unending scream. I think that she had probably been strangled by the traces before being crushed.

Sam clambered down from his perch, set off along the valley floor and was soon hidden by a tall hedge. I wrapped my blanket about me as tightly as I could and – shivering, not entirely from the cold – stared at Shugathise’s corpse, wishing that I could take back every stroke of the cane. Not being allowed to speak as cart slaves left me uncertain as to her forgiveness. When she had looked at me during her final months, it seemed to be with no great hostility – but I would never know for sure.

Without a way to measure time, Sam might have been gone for minutes or hours, not that I bothered to consider the matter. On his return, he unhitched all of the surviving slaves, and then set to work examining us carefully – looking for signs of broken bones, I imagine. When it was my turn, his touch felt unexpectedly gentle. All the same, I had no doubt that he was more concerned for his profits than for my welfare.

Then – it seemed suddenly – the place was the scene of frenetic activity. A team of burly he-slaves were unloading the cart, transferring part of its contents to another vehicle, when I looked again they were placing jacks under the axles. Women lit a fire and wrapped us in extra blankets. Turning my eyes again from the now leaping flames, back to the cart, I saw that Shugathise’s body had gone – I don’t know what became of her, most likely she was turned into stewing blesh.

One of the women handed me a hot, very sweet, drink. It all but scalded my mouth as I gulped it down. The liquid clearly did much to revive me. I started to hear the women’s words – previously they had merely formed a babble of indeterminate sound.

“Well – Sam’s a bloody fool,” said a rather well spoken woman, probably in her thirties, “taking a heavy load on this road in these conditions.”

“It could a been worse, at least there was help nearby. If it had a been, say, the Crook House Mount, the slaves would a died a cold afore anyone came – and Sam too, maybe.” This was a girl, probably still in her teens.

“True – but the help’s gonna cost. Could bankrupt him.”

“That’d maybe serve Sam right – but I feel sorry for Sarah, Fiona and Roger. The old man’s stupidity ain’t their fault.”

“Fiona might be better off as a slave. Roger’s a lazy piece of work – enslavement would wake up his ideas, and a good job too. Sarah should whip Sam harder and more often – well more for what really counts than just for shagging slaves – it’s her fault he’s so dozy, if you ask me. Maude, bless her, had a bit gumption and got out – Bob and Bert, too, if it comes to that – though Bob’s a bad bugger.”

Eventually, Sam hitched us to the cart again, and we were back on our way. The vehicle was now more lightly laden. Chains had been fixed to the wheel rims[1], which seemed to afford us more traction. I realised with surprise and delight that I still had my extra blanket.

A couple of days later, I heard Sam say to Sarah: “I don’t like it – it’s too risky. If I’m caught it’ll be enslavement for sure.”

“If we go bust, it’ll be enslavement for us all.”

Shortly thereafter, we made the first of our nocturnal expeditions on bright moonlit nights. Often, when more light allows us to better see people or things, they seem less alarming. The opposite was true of the villainous looking armed women. However, not only did the night work fend off bankruptcy, but as spring approached the carter and his family seemed positively prosperous – we hauled new furniture home, and Sarah flaunted herself in stylish frocks.

In spite of bringing heavy rain and cold winds, spring was most welcome. On the downside, the wet made our blankets worse than useless, rendering them heavy and very cold. We had no protection against the wind – but it wasn’t dangerous, merely uncomfortable. I was especially pleased to lose the protective plates from my feet – hauling barefoot wasn’t ideal but was an improvement.

Another pleasure on the turn of the season was the thought that we were now entering Our Lady of the Lamp’s vernal dominion. Through her autumnal nadir and winter darkness, my prayers had remained steadfast. Now, if ever, a boon from the goddess’ bounty was at hand. I smiled in that secret knowledge.

One blustery morning, with the daffodils bent almost double in the icy blast, I knew that it was the day. Perhaps I had gained a deep rapport with the goddess through my devotions – allowing me a direct knowledge of fine seasonal gradations. It is possible that I’d heard or seen a portent that had reached my soul without impinging upon my mind. However it was, I knew without being told that it was Drizzlemoon 12th, the goddess’ great festival.

We pulled the cart unladen to the brickworks that had been my first call as a draught slave, perhaps seven months before. I smiled serenely as the bricks thudded into the cart – that morning the prospect of a heavy load didn’t bother me. It started to rain as we inched into motion – and I heard the sweet song of a blackbird above the groaning of the axles. The bird sounded like a good omen but, for no reason I could place, the sound brought tears to my eyes.

The cart jolted along the uneven surface of a country lane. I knew where we were going – we’d been delivering there for more than a week. Pecker Fresh Products were building new pens at Valday Farm. There seemed a good omen in the name of the place – the week day dominion of Our Lady of the Lamp.

As the bricks were unloaded, I stared at my reflection in a puddle – the only mirror to which a cart slave has access. The reflection revealed me as a mess – and I doubted whether the goddess could bestow her mercy on such an unalluring slave – were I still a whore who would have wished to take me? An attempt to straighten my hair with my fingers didn’t seem to help very much. It occurred to me belatedly that I should have collected a little brick dust to redden my lips.

With the bricks stacked in the yard, joints of meat were loaded – pecker to judge from the shape and colour. Conversations I’d overheard suggested that, in spite of the company’s name, many of its products were neither pecker nor fresh. The trays of pies which followed the joints on to the cart were probably of more suspect composition than the less processed meat. Such, clearly, was the belief of a labourer.

“Shoun’t be surprised if there weren’t cart slaves in ’ese pies,” he said morosely.

“Shurrup,” Sam snapped. “You’ll scare me ’orsies… Nah then, ’orsie…”

The final three words were addressed to Leggi – not my friend from newly-enslaved days, but the replacement for Shugathise. To judge from her build, she might once have been used for racing[2]. Not only was she physically unsuited to draught work, but was far too highly strung. After the workman’s unguarded remark, she seemed on the verge of bolting in panic.

It took Sam five minutes or more to calm the nervous slave. When at last she was steady, Sam flicked the reins and we turned northwards. Passing through Dorking, I caught a fleeting glimpse of the Laughing Phallus before taking the Leatherhead road. From a distance, Leatherhead presented a gorgeous sight with the spring sunshine glinting on the mansion windows and temple domes – but I was surprised not to see the Leather Mistress’ colossal image silhouetted against the sky[3].

Having entered the town, we made our way through streets as squalid as those of Dorking. Urchins flung mud pies – or worse – at one another. Their mothers sat on doorsteps, gossiping and swigging strong spirits, instead of spanking their brats. A cart approaching us included a male slave in its team.

The little wretches yelled the coarse rhyme: “The slave has got a willy – the carter is slaffilly![4]”

As the cart came into range, they pelted the carter and his unfortunate slaves with what were obviously worse than mud pies. A carter who stoops to use such a low creature as a male draught slave[5] naturally receives taunts. For all of that, it was not the slaves’ fault – and the children deserved to be soundly beaten. Presumably, their mothers were too drunk to care.

The little wretches were still chanting: “Lick lick lick – Slave has got a prick – Boil the carter in bleshy stew – Braise his balls in pecker goo…”

The Pecker Fresh Products cargo was unloaded at the market. Leggi gave further trouble when a youth ventured more unkind comments on the pies. This time, Sam used more whip and less kindness in calming her. The process took even longer than it had at the farm.

There was a short unladen run before taking on our next load. Sam halted the empty cart in a spacious square set about with civic buildings. Unbuttoning his trousers, he entered the public convenience. The smell should have warned him that it was ready to be emptied.

Sam was scarcely inside when the stink cart rumbled into the square. The lavatory man connected his hoses to the inlet and outlet valves, before fixing the other end of the inlet hose to the cistern on the convenience roof. We smiled knowingly and watched the entrance – the carter was about to be drenched and, forbidden to speak, we could utter no warning. Sam soon emerged, dripping and furious, his breeches still about his upper thighs.

In the excitement, I almost missed seeing the carriage. The well oiled axles made hardly a sound, there was no obvious reason for me to move my head. Indeed, I was almost certainly the only slave to turn from Sam and the lavatory man. Perhaps I was prompted by the goddess.

The carriage was worth more than a cursory glance. I had occasionally seen such vehicles, but not often. It was lightly and gracefully built – royal blue and gleaming silver. The vehicle’s beauty brought a lump to my throat.

Lovely as the coach was, it didn’t compare with the twelve perfectly matched slaves at the traces. They were tall and slim, platinum blonde hair falling almost to the waist. Stepping high, their knees rose to navel level on each precisely synchronised pace. Their faces were masks of arrogance – proud of their slavery, they would surely have sneered at a princess.

The fittings were worthy of the slaves. Their tall royal blue plumes were set in headpieces of what was certainly real silver. The harnesses were fitted with the same metal. The leatherwork matched the plumes – no detail was less than splendid.

A beautiful girl, dressed in royal blued trimmed with silver, drove the carriage without glancing to the left or right. My eyes met those of a passenger for a moment, although I could not clearly see either of the shadowy figures within. I gazed in wonder for a few heartbeats before the swift carriage turned a bend in the road. My breath came in a deep sigh – it had been a vision from another, wonderful, world.

Flicking the reins angrily, the bedraggled Sam urged us the short distance to a disagreeably low pub called the Peace Pot. If the carriage represented a world more wonderful than reality, the Peace Pot belonged to one more sordid. Although it was still morning, a wretch vomited from an upper window. Some of the slaves on the right-hand shaft had difficulty in avoiding the drunk’s filth.

Mercifully, the cargo from the Peace Pot didn’t take long to load. There were four large packing cases, obviously very light for all of their bulk. I preferred not to contemplate their possible contents. We must have been outside the pub for less than five minutes – but that was plenty long enough.

We took the Gullford road. Perhaps a mile out of Leatherhead, the beautiful blue and silver coach passed again. I felt sure than someone within was scrutinising us carefully. The carriage evidently made a rapid U turn – a few minutes later it passed for a third time.

We were not more than three miles beyond Leatherhead when Sam urged us into the forecourt of a dilapidated inn – the sign so badly weathered that it was impossible to tell what had once been depicted. Here, obviously, Sam intended to take his lunch. Unprepossessing as the place was, it looked less likely to poison him than the Peace Pot. A few minutes after Sam had sauntered inside, a reasonably efficient ostler emerged with food, water and towels.

Before the boy had time to attend to us, the magnificent carriage arrived. Drawing up before the inn, it looked incongruous – like a gem set into a turd. The driver dismounted to open the door, saluting smartly. A lady emerged, but I didn’t dare to look directly at her.

“Boy – whose cart is this?” the lady enquired of the ostler.

There was something familiar about the voice. I passed in mental review the great ladies of Surrey I’d encountered. She certainly wasn’t Berenice Blackheart. The solution eluded me.

“If it please y’ ladyship,” he replied diffidently, “it b’longs t’ Sam ’oo’s ’avin’ lunch inside.”

“Fetch him at once. I must speak with him.”

Pausing only to bow and mutter something inaudible, the ostler hurried to obey. Sam, emerging a few minutes later, was obviously not best pleased at having his lunch interrupted. The public lavatory incident having already frayed his temper, I had an idea that the ostler would shortly receive Sam’s boot. The carter could not have dared to disrespect the lady, whatever venomous feelings he harboured.

“Yuss y’ ladyship,” he said, “what can a n’umble carter do f’ y’ grace?”

“I wish to purchase one of your slaves. One of mine is lame, I need a temporary replacement. Needs must where the gods dispense”

“Well, I dunno –” I judged that Sam was stalling for a good price, rather than genuinely reluctant to sell any of us. “Which ’orsey,” he emphasised the word ’orsey, “was you finking of?”

“If I may inspect the livestock, I’ll let you know.”

Although my eyes were averted, I was aware that she was starting to examine my fellows. When it came to my turn, my eyes screwed shut as I felt my lips parted – no doubt to inspect my teeth. Each of my feet was lifted in turn. Then, presumably, she moved on to the next slave.

All morning, I had been expecting release from life as a cart slave. Now that one of us was obviously to be delivered, panic arose within me. I could be no more than a joke in the team of proud beauties. Deliverance seemed worse than remaining as one of Sam’s ’orsies.

“I’ll give you this for that one,” the lady announced, tapping me on the flank. “By chance I find that my coachwoman had a blank sale docket about her person. She seems to be considering a slave purchase, perhaps I pay her too well. In any case, we can make it nice and legal – not that I imagine you would care to dispute with me.”

“No, y’ ladyship. O’ course not, y’ ladyship. I’m jus’ a n’ ordin’ry man, if it pleases y’ ladyship – I dare say respectable, but not what you’d call rich.”

“I have a pen in my bag. Let me see – how is the slave named?”

“The ’orsey is Tuerqui, y’ ladyship.” For once he didn’t especially emphasise the word ’orsey.

“Yes – I see – the filth on her thigh doesn’t entirely efface the letters. Tuerqui with a T.”

I wasn’t surprised to be selected. Although I was far from Sam’s best slave, it accorded so well with my premonition as to seem inevitable. Suddenly, I perceived my doubt of the goddess’ bounty with a greater clarity – that it truly made me an unworthy wretch. A tear – of sorrow or contrition – trickled down my cheek.

“Blimey y’ ladyship,” Sam replied after a short pause, “but that there ’orsie is gen-you-wine bloodstock – the pride o’ me ’orsies she is. You can pick a filly, an’ no mistake. But ’ow can I part wiv ’er f’ jus’ a few coins? Robbin’ mesel’ – that’s what I’d be doin’ – an’ robbin’ me poor fambly, which is worse, savin’ y’ ladyship’s pardon.”

“Now look here,” she replied, “I’ve eyes in my head, and am not so innocent that I don’t know what RBS means. And quibbling after I’ve started to write the sales docket is little short of scallimandering. Of course, if you don’t want to do business…”

“Oh no, ladyship, I’m a businessman. It’s just that I hesitates t’ sell meself short – even to a fine lady like you. An’ I got a sweet wife, an’ me kids t’ fink of, an’ all. Like I says, we’re respectable – but we ain’t what y’d call rich folk.”

“Very well, this is my final offer…” There was a clink of coin. “Take it or return every penny – it’s up to you. Perhaps I should go back to Leatherhead with my team one short – and see what I can find in the market – they sometimes have really quite good slaves there.”

“Ain’t no need for that, ladyship. Jus’ ’and me the paper t’ sign an’ the ’orsie’s yours. You got a bargain. ’Ere ostler – un’itch the ’orsie an’ give ’er t’ the lady.”

The ostler did as he was bidden. I looked up to see Sam’s back retreating towards the inn – and his lunch. My new owner was already in the coach. The driver had unhitched one of the proud carriage slaves to tie her to the rear of the vehicle. I took her place at the blue-stained shaft, fitted with silver.

When the coachwoman resumed her place and flicked the reins, I did my best to keep pace with my fellows at the traces – an effort foredoomed to failure. My buffoonery merited furious lashes, but the driver failed to deliver them. Her forbearance increased my misery – there is a measure of comfort in just retribution. I stumbled onwards, hopelessly out of step with the beautiful slaves, weeping uncontrollably.

Not since my separation from Tuerquelle and sale to Madame Scurf had I been so miserable. In Sam’s team, I was little worse than the others – now my every fault was unmistakable. I felt that, boiled down for glue, I wouldn’t stick properly. The final touch of pathos lay in my having left the inn without being rubbed down, fed or watered.

I struggled for perhaps half a mile before we rounded a bend, and the driver reined us in. The carriage came to a halt. There was the whisper of a beautifully balanced door opening on well oiled hinges, and then approaching footsteps. When I felt hands unfastening me from the traces, my first thought was that I was to be put down, slaughtered as I deserved to be.

The hands, however, were gentle. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I gazed upon the coachwoman who had almost finished unbuckling me. Behind her stood the lady, looking in my direction. Wiping my eyes again, I saw that my new mistress was smiling.

“Tuerqui!”

For a moment, I was still unable to place the familiar voice – then recognition dawned, although it seemed impossible that anything quite so wonderful might happen to me. Several heartbeats thudded before I could entirely believe – but it was true – she was Lady Isobel. How unworthy had I been to doubt the goddess’ bounty. Trying to express my joy, only neighing sounds would emerge.

The driver’s perfume filled my nose – certainly floral, and as far as I could remember fragrances, it was lily of the valley. A gust of wind rattled the roadside hedge. I felt a sprinkle of tiny moisture drops sprayed from wet leaves. Towering white cumulus cloudbanks were scudding up from the south.

[1] Tuerqui has already told us that the cart was jacked up – but jacks would not have been necessary for installing the chains. Presumably the vehicle suffered some damage of which Tuerqui was probably unaware.

[2] Slave racing was popular at this time, and racing slaves were expensive. If Leggi was really a racer, she had presumably suffered some mishap – otherwise Sam would certainly not have been able to afford her.

[3] The colossus of the Leather Mistress had been toppled on Iceflake 9th of that year (see Chapter 18, note 4) – two months and three days before Drizzlemoon 12th. Either Sam’s cart had not visited Leatherhead for a long time or – more likely – Tuerqui had been unobservant.

[4] Slaffilly or slaffilius – a man who enjoyed being anally penetrated by he-slaves. The two words stemmed, respectively, from slave-fill-he and slave-fill-his-arse.

[5] He-slaves were generally held in low esteem in Surrey at this time. Male draught slaves, trimmed or whole, seem to have been regarded as especially debased and unreliable creatures.

For Chapter 21 click here
http://bondlings.blogspot.com/2007/07/chapter-21-at-my-feet-was-large-puddle.html