Of Bondlings and Blesh Chapter 31

Chapter 31

My living room was untidy – footwear and clothes scattered over the furniture and floor. Having kicked off my shoes, the deep pile rug was springy under my bare feet. Lisa-Louise was deep in conversation with Barguin, they spoke too quietly for me to hear more than a murmuring sound punctuated by giggles. My mistress and body slave were taking turns to sip from a large glass of red wine.

It was shortly after lunch, Lisa-Louise had yet to re-harness me. She had told Barguin – in a voice loud enough for me to hear – not to tidy the room, adding that Tuerqui would clear it up later. It was in line with her insistence that it was my inner being that enslaved me, rather than the presence or absence of a harness. Before sinking deeper into conversation with my body slave, she had tossed me the wine bottle, telling me to uncork it.

The label marked it as some kind of berry – but a dirty thumb print obscured the first half of the word. From the colour and smell, I thought that it was elderberry, but couldn’t be certain. The vintage was year two of the reign of King Gavin. Used as I had become to Surrey dating, I lacked any idea as to how old that made it – indeed, the king’s name was known to me only as an enemy that Berenice’s troops had defeated, and left me unable to place his realm.[1]

There came a timid knock – Barguin, rising slowly and walking a little unsteadily, admitted a slave to my room. The newcomer carried a pile of folded garments in which grey and white predominated. My eyes were not, however, for her burden – but for she who carried them. There was something about her that stirred me before I knew what it was.

“Mistress, I’m from Miss Miles,” she said with a curtsey. “If it pleases your highness, Miss Miles says you’re to wear these things for your lessons.”

Now that even Mrs Clay’s stitch slaves called me Tuerqui, being addressed as your highness seemed both strange and wrong. But there was something about this particular slave speaking thus that added to the incongruity. The slave’s face was almost as familiar as my own – or at least an older version of the same features. Glancing at her thigh, I read the name Tipsi.

“Tell me Tipsi,” I said, “does the name Inqui mean anything to you?”

“Yes, mistress. I had a cousin called Inqui, she was a slave here, but left the palace years ago.”

“Do you remember Inqui’s old name – the name she had in personage.”

“Isobel, mistress. Saving your highness’ pardon for speaking a slave’s old personage name, but you did ask, mistress.[2]”

“So I did, Tipsi, no need to save my pardon.”

After Tipsi had gone, Lisa-Louise said: “Lady Isobel’s cousin. She’d escaped my notice – I must be slipping. By the right of inheritance, perhaps she should be your mistress.”

“No, mistress, while I remain in this palace you own me – and that for several reasons. Do I need to list them, mistress?”

“No, Tuerqui, you don’t. For all of that, I can tell that you’d like to see more of Tipsi. You could ask your father for her – as a second body slave. Why not?”

“Yes, mistress, I think I will.”

“I expect, from her name, that she was drunk when they enslaved her. A pity she’s not going to be here this afternoon – to cosy up with me and Barguin. Perhaps another day.”

Without being told, I stripped for Lisa-Louise to place me in harness. Evidently perceiving my intent, she rose from the couch and stepped, a little unsteadily, in my direction. The wine already having a noticable effect, she had some trouble disentangling the leather, so I helped with the task. The harnessing took longer than it should, but was done at last.

Starting to tidy the room, I examined the clothes Tipsi had brought. There was a white blouse, a grey pinafore dress, a striped tie, white knee socks and some serviceable – if unglamourous – underwear. Several of things were duplicated – presumably on a one to wash and one to wear basis. Perhaps, had I been sent to school, the things would have reminded me of childhood – as it was, they brought to mind some of the Laughing Phallus costumes.

There came another knock at the door and, this time, Barguin answered it a little more promptly. Frightened by the possible consequences of being caught in harness, I kept my back to the caller. To my relief, it soon became clear that the visitor was another slave, and that she didn’t recognise me. For all of that, it seemed wise not to allow her to see my face.

“Is this Princess Margaret’s room?” the slave asked.

“You have the right place,” Lisa-Louise confirmed.

“Her highness isn’t here?”

“Just me and the two slaves – as you see. Oh – and one glass of wine.”

“Well, saving your pardon, mistress Lisa-Louise, would it be possible to leave something for the princess?”

“Yeah, o’ course. Give it here and run along.”

Moments later, I heard the door open – and then shut. Turning, I saw that Barguin was returning to the couch where Lisa-Louise sat with the wine glass in her left hand. Her right hand was cupped, bearing a wooden box perhaps an inch and a half square. Shifting slightly, and almost spilling her wine, she tossed the small container in my direction.

“Tuerqui, for you, catch!” she called.

The box clattered to the floor as I grabbed empty air. Hoping that the contents weren’t fragile, I dipped to retrieve it, disconcerted to find that the object rattled. Removing the lid revealed a golden goddess on a slender chain, quite undamaged by her fall. My sketch had proved adequate – she was beautiful.

“What is it, Tuerqui?” Lisa-Louise asked.

“She’s my image, mistress – of the goddess. May I dedicate her now, mistress?”

“If you can do that and work at the same time, Tuerqui, feel free. But this room won’t tidy itself.”

“No, mistress, of course it won’t. I think that I can dedicate and tidy at the same time, mistress.”

“Go ahead then. Hey, Barguin, you know I said that…”

Lisa-Louise’s voice sank too low for me to catch the words, Barguin giggled. Dedicating the image to Our Lady of the Lamp as I worked, absorbed me into prayer. So deep did I slip into communion with the goddess that my two companions might almost not have been there, even when tidying about their feet. For all of that, on the spillage of a little wine, I was sufficiently alert to deal with the minor crisis, and hurried about mopping it up.

My father seemed less preoccupied during our evening meal than he had been at lunch. Perhaps in response to his being more aware of the world about him, the food was better, although not of the standard that Lady Isobel required. The floor had been swept during the afternoon and was now tolerably clean. In all probability, father had expressed his displeasure to persons – and possibly slaves – other than me.

“I’ll make a young lady of you, one way or another,” he told me. “It may not be easy to find a suitable taker for a woman marked as a slave and a whore, but sooner or later you’ll make someone a dutiful wife – be sure of that!”

“Yes, father,” I replied with what I hoped was disarming meekness.

“You are as stubborn as a mule and, like a mule, you need to be offered carrots and sticks. I have no doubt that Miss Miles will use the stick – and more power to her right arm. It’ll take a few thrashings to lick you into shape, my fine young lady.”

“You really mean me to attend morning lessons with Phoebe and Mary? I’m sorry I disobeyed you, father. I shan’t do it again.”

“Indeed you shan’t! But – yes – you will attend Miss Miles’ morning lessons. If you misbehave again, it’ll be lessons in the afternoon as well.”

“Please, father!”

“As I was saying, you need carrots and sticks. Your first carrot will be four or five boxes of your mother’s jewels. I’ll have a slave bring them to your room.”

“Your mention of a slave, father, reminds me. I was wondering whether I could have an extra slave to attend me.”

“I don’t see why not – slaves are cheap enough – and she might make a fine second carrot. In any case, a lady should be practiced in dealing with slaves. When you’re married, your husband will doubtless expect you to handle such domestic matters[3]. I’ll send Martello Brown to you, I’m sure he’ll be able to provide the right slave for whatever jobs you have in mind.”

“And Miss Miles, father – surely…”

“Your husband will also expect obedience, and rightly so. Miss Miles will teach you several valuable lessons. My mind is made up. Your lessons start at half past eight, palace standard time, tomorrow morning – and that coincides with the third temple bell – don’t be late, not by so much as a minute.”

“Father – a minute late is hardly late at all. Can’t I…?”

“Whatever it is – no you can’t. I have asked Miss Miles to subject you to exactly the same rules as she applies to Mary and Phoebe. I believe that she requires time lost through lateness to be made up by staying late for three times as long. She also has her cane, of course – as well as a hard hand and a strong arm – and, I understand, a strap in addition.”

“A detention three times as long as the lateness? Oh, father, that’s so petty! If I’m a minute late, I suppose I’d have to stay three minutes after lunch. You can’t be serious.”

“I am entirely serious. I don’t know exactly how detentions work out in practice, it’s not my affair. Miss Miles told me that, since she introduced the current system, Phoebe and Mary have hardly ever been late. She asked me to remind you that she expects her pupils to be punctual and correctly dressed – and to say that you will regret any lapse.”

“That’s another thing father – I’m a grown woman – surely she doesn’t expect me to wear…”

“You will most certainly wear the uniform provided. The things reflect a tradition that goes back beyond history – into the Old Time itself[4]. I have seen Phoebe and Mary in theirs – and very smart they look, too. You should be proud to wear that uniform, and proud of the traditions it embodies.”

“Well, I’m not proud and…”

“Quiet! I will hear no more. One more word of protest and I will ask Miss Miles to give you a two hour detention tomorrow – and a thrashing besides. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, father, I understand.”

Perhaps half an hour after supper, my mother’s jewels arrived – in several ornate boxes – and at almost the same time Martello Brown, the Slavemaster General, entered my living room. Lisa-Louise and Barguin were in the next chamber, sleeping off their wine-fuelled afternoon. Sitting alone on the couch, deep in thought, I was still in the dress assumed for the evening meal. It was a relief that Mr Brown had not caught me in slave harness – his reaction did not bear contemplation.

“Now, my lady,” the Slavemaster began, “I believe that you require an extra slave. I’m sure that you had a specific girl in mind.”

“Yes, I did. Her name’s…”

“Tipsi.”

“Yes – but how…?”

“Simple deduction, Lady Margaret, simple deduction. Tipsi was cousin to Inqui, now known as Lady Isobel. Or is she Isobel Ironhand?”

“Isobel Ironhand, but…”

“No buts, Lady Margaret, not with me. I always do my homework. I wonder whether Miss Miles will insist on you doing yours. Do you want me to tell you why you require Tipsi?”

“No – that won’t be necessary. I suppose that you’re not going to let me have her. Do you intend to tell my father? Or Miss Miles?

“I don’t see that there need be occasion to tell anyone, Lady Margaret. In fact, I don’t see why you shouldn’t have the slave – although I’d think that Diqui would suit your purposes better. There’s no reason for me to cross you – as long as we remain friends.”

During this speech, he moved to my side, and with the final words his left hand slipped to my buttocks. He was entirely unambiguous. I made no protest. His right hand rose to my breast.

“Why me?” I asked.

“What do you mean why you?” he replied, loosening my bodice.

“You’re the Slavemaster General. You could have any slave in the palace – plenty of them younger and prettier than me.”

“You shouldn’t run yourself down. You’ve got a nice pair of tits – and a thoroughly spankable bum. I quite envy Miss Miles having you over her knee.”

With these words, he first slipped his left hand down the front of my dress, then gave me several sharp slaps with the right. My clothes took most of the impact of the blows, but they would certainly have stung had my buttocks been less well covered. Without making any definite decision, I’d already surrendered to his advances. My hope was that Tipsi would be worth it.

“But the slaves must be much easier game than me,” was my final objection.

“Precisely, Lady Margaret, there lies part of your charm. Who wants it, when it’s too easy? Besides, I have a fancy to screw his lordship’s daughter.”

Martello Brown was a large, thick set man, with more muscle than fat. His grip demonstrated considerable strength. It would have been difficult to prevent his taking me. Gritting my teeth, I didn’t struggle.

“I’ll send you Tipsi tomorrow afternoon,” he promised on his way from my room. “You’ll be too busy for her before then. You’d better get an early night – school in the morning.”

As on the previous night, I slept fitfully – worse, I woke later than usual. For all of that, I should have had plenty of time to reach the schoolroom before my first lesson. Since Miss Miles had provided no footwear, a spirit of mischief prompted me to wear my highest heels. That done, the imp of the perverse had me painting my face provocatively.

Staring into the mirror, my reflection was momentarily satisfying – it would, I felt, teach Miss Miles a lesson. Then, noticing how the hour glass was emptying, a sense of reality came upon me. If I walked into the schoolroom in those shoes, and with that whore’s face, there would certainly be a protracted and very painful session with the cane – it wasn’t worthwhile. Hurriedly, I changed into demure flat heeled shoes and, removing my blouse and tie, started to wash.

Lisa-Louise and Barguin were of no help, still asleep – the sand was trickling through the glass, while the water served only to smear my make up. The more I hastened, the longer removing the inadvisable cosmetics seemed to take. To my alarm, I heard the third temple bell as my door closed behind me. Arriving in the schoolroom, I was breathless, Miss Miles inscrutable, Phoebe and Mary staring blankly in my direction.

“You are late,” Miss Miles said levelly. “I turned over my hour glass five minutes ago.”

“I’m sorry, miss. I…”

“No excuses – please, Margaret. When you are at fault you will be punished. It is very simple. Lateness earns you two cuts of the cane across the palm of your hand.”

Phoebe and Mary looked at me with what seemed increasing interest. I was sure that the little beasts were looking forward to seeing me whacked. Miss Miles had my father’s full authority – so there was no point in defiance, and I held out my hand for the cane. To my surprise, Miss Miles pressed it back down to my side.

“I hadn’t finished, Margaret. Would it be fair to treat a laggard who arrives a minute late in the same way as a little madam who thinks she can come five minutes after the others?”

“No, miss.”

“No, Margaret, it wouldn’t. It is, therefore, my policy to make latecomers take extra lessons equal to three times the tuition they have missed – owing to their tardy arrival.”

“Yes, miss. Father warned me of that, miss. So I have to stay a quarter of an hour after lunch, miss?”

“No, Margaret, not a quarter of an hour – I said that the rule is three times the tuition you miss. Your tuition begins when you sit at your desk after I’ve caned you. To make your detention worthwhile, you can wait for the cane. While you wait, you’ll stand straight, face to the wall, hands on top of your head.”

I took my station as instructed. Placing my hands in position, I felt the hem of the pinafore dress ride up my thighs. In an attempt to keep my knickers covered from the gaze of Phoebe and Mary, I briefly adopted a slouching posture. A burning stroke across my upper thighs soon had me straightening.

“I said stand straight, Margaret. On this occasion, I’ll let you off with just that one cut of the cane. Next time you’re disobedient you’ll be punished properly. I don’t usually let disobedience pass with less than six strokes – six of the very best, you may be sure.”

Although my arms soon ached, I held the required posture. It was no more difficult or painful than forming simple labay figures. Although unable to see the room, I heard first Phoebe – then Mary – punished. Just as it seemed that I would be required to stand thus all morning, Miss Miles called me to her desk.

“Very well, Margaret, if you hold out your hand I will punish you for your lateness. Afterwards, you may sit down and we may consider that you’ve started your tuition.”

She had left me facing the wall for more than three quarters of an hour, so that after a lecture on my waywardness – delivered while I had my hand extended for punishment – and two strokes of the cane, I took my seat a full hour late. During the course of the morning, and three hours of the afternoon, I received a further eight strokes of the cane bent over a stool, and a hand spanking across Miss Miles’ knee – it could have been worse. Mary received more punishment than me, Phoebe a little less. The schoolroom strap was on display – hanging from a hook – but saw no use.

“I reserve my strap for serious breeches of discipline,” Miss Miles had explained. “It’s a good one and – I believe – hurts significantly more than the cane. It certainly has my pupils squealing more loudly. Doesn’t it – Phoebe and Mary?”

“Yes, miss,” they had replied in unison, but with evident sincerity.

Arriving back in my rooms later than I’d expected, I found no sign of Lisa-Louise. Barguin told me that Tipsi had come, waited two hours, and left. Cursing under my breath, I searched for a pen with which to write Martello Brown a note. There seemed an irony in having difficulty finding a writing implement when my fingers were inky from my day in the schoolroom.

The day under Miss Miles had increased my determination to return to Surrey. As well as the note for Martello Brown, my thoughts ran upon the question of who, apart from the absent Lisa-Louise, might help me reach the University of Pain. Perhaps the jewel thief could help in some way – but how to contact him? Looking for a pen, the answer to that puzzle revealed itself.

It had occurred to me that a writing implement I’d seen the previous morning might be hidden behind mother’s jewel boxes. All, I noticed, had ornate locks and tiny keys. A small key can easily be lost. That would make an excellent pretext for summoning the thief.

Barguin found the pen for me eventually – hidden amongst the clothes I’d tidied the previous afternoon. Perhaps I’d been concentrating too much on the goddess to notice it. Now that I had the necessary equipment, penning the note reminded me too strongly of the written work I had done for Miss Miles. After only a moment’s hesitation, I removed my schoolroom uniform and slipped into a floral print dress before starting to write.

Taking my discarded schoolroom things, Barguin placed them with those I’d yet to wear. With a grimace, I noticed that some footwear had been added – T-bar sandals and some soft shoes with laces. The previous day, the pile had included a change of blouse, socks and underwear – but there now seemed to be more garments than there had been in the morning. Part way through composing the note to Martello Brown, I decided that the extra things should not pass without question.

“Barguin, there seem to be more schoolroom clothes than there were this morning – and some shoes as well.”

“Yes, Tuerqui. A slave brought them around lunchtime. She said that they hadn’t had any proper schoolroom shoes in your size the day before. Also there’s some games kit – for when Miss Miles takes you outside for drill. The slave said you’d want that tomorrow – and you were to fetch it to morning lessons.”

Having despatched Barguin with the note, I was still awaiting a reply at suppertime. On my way to eat with father, I rehearsed what should be said to him. Reporting that a jewel box key was missing required little thought. What I should say of Miss Miles and my day in the schoolroom was a more difficult matter.

To my relief – father seemed, by his own standards, in a pleasant mood – almost, but not quite, smiling. The food was significantly better than that of the previous evening, and the floor had been swept again. It occurred to me that, if I were careful with my words, I might perhaps persuade him to remove me from Miss Miles’ classes. The speech I’d rehearsed seemed inadequate, so I first broached the matter of the jewel thief.

“Father,” I began, “you remember mother’s jewel boxes? You were kind enough to send them to me.”

“Of course I remember them, girl. It was only yesterday. I know you’re just a female, without a man’s capacity for abstract thought, but there’s no need to ask quite such stupid questions.”

“One of the keys is missing. I was wondering whether you could send the person who unlocked my harness?”

“Oh, so that’s it. Of course. Who is he?”

“I don’t know his name, but he works for Wilfred Addal.”

“I’ll ask Mr Addal on your behalf. I can’t have my little mule missing her carrots, can I? I dare say that Miss Miles gave you enough stick today. Did she thrash you?”

“Yes, father.”

“Splendid!”

“It’s not splendid, father! And I think she intends to make me join the little girls for drill tomorrow. Physical exercises somewhere outside.”

“Excellent! Nothing like a bit of drill to keep you in trim. Prospective husbands won’t be looking for rolls of blubber on a wife, I’ll be bound. Bad enough that you’re branded and tattooed, without being fat as well.”

“But, father – exercising in the open – with those two children. Who knows who may be looking on? No one should be able to see a lady performing physical jerks. And suppose Miss Miles takes it into her head to spank me while we’re out – I wouldn’t put it past her.”

“Tush, girl, there’s no harm in any of that. I’m sure she’ll provide games kit to keep you decent – or decent enough. As to spanking – if you don’t want anyone to see, it’ll give you all the more reason to behave yourself. No harm in that – quite the reverse.”

“But today was awful enough…”

“Awful? What was awful? I’m sure she made you read and write – and pushed your ignorance back, just a little bit. Thrashed you, of course, but I’m certain that you deserved it.”

“She made me take afternoon lessons, even though…”

“Why?”

“Pardon, father?”

“Why did she make you take afternoon lessons?”

“Because I was a few minutes late. It wasn’t my…”

“I suppose that Miss Miles wouldn’t listen to your excuses.”

“No, she didn’t, father.”

“Good – neither will I. And I hope she caned you as well as keeping you in all afternoon.”

“But – father – it was only five minutes. She made me stand with my hands on my head facing the wall for almost an hour before she caned me. She gave me a detention not just three times as long as my lateness, but three times as long as I’d stood facing the wall, and three times how long she took to tell me off and cane me, too. Three hours for five minutes late!”

“I’m delighted to hear it. I believe that, with Phoebe and Mary, each time they were late she made them face the wall for longer than the time before. And, of course, their detentions grew longer. An excellent system which, I trust, she will apply to you.”

“But, father…”

“But me no buts, young lady, I won’t hear them. Did she give you the strap today?”

“No, father, she caned me, and gave me a hand spanking over her knee.”

“Oh well, plenty of time for the strap in the months to come. Imported all way from Scotia Minor, it wasn’t cheap but it’s a beauty. I believe it really woke up the ideas of young Phoebe and Mary – you’d hardly believe what saucy young madams they used to be.… Good piece of beef, this.”

“Months to come, father?”

“I hope I can get you married off in maybe six or nine months – we’ll see. After that, your husband will have to make provisions to keep you in line. But Miss Miles should place you beyond mischief at least until the wedding preparations are well advanced… Anyway, as I was saying, this joint of beef…”

There would clearly be no use in pleading or reasoning with him. His proposals for my marriage were even more alarming than the extended time he envisaged me attending Miss Miles’ lessons. What Martello Brown had done to me the previous evening was deeply distasteful. There being a man who considered that he had a right to do such things regularly, over a period of years, was to be avoided at all costs.

After supper, Lisa-Louise was waiting for me in my living room. She smiled at me, but made no remark. Smiling back at her, I slipped from my dress. Taking the tangle of white leather, she started to harness me.

“Mistress,” I said, “may I ask a favour?”

“Ask anything, Tuerqui. Of course, I won’t necessarily oblige you.”

“Of course not, mistress. But you remember our conversation up on the roof, you said you’d help me to…”

“Best not to speak too freely in your rooms, Tuerqui. I don’t know, but Mr Addal may have ways of hearing. Anyway – I know what you mean. As soon as I’ve done harnessing you, wrap a cloak about yourself and we’ll talk elsewhere.”

“Yes, mistress. Thank you, mistress.”

Lisa-Louise closed the remaining locks of the leather harness, but left the bracelets and anklets. She handed me a thick and voluminous cloak that would hide my slavewear and protect me from the evening chill on the roof. Then we made for the narrow staircase we had ascended the previous day. Once we emerged into the cool night air, she led me to a small door hidden in deep shadow to one side of a gable.

My expectation was that the door would lead us back into the palace, perhaps a part of the building I’d never visited before. It was rather disappointing to find that it was only a storage space somewhere between the status of a cupboard and a shed. Lisa-Louise shifted aside some cracked pots and a metal object of doubtful purpose which seemed to be broken. She extracted a filthy rug which, when unrolled, revealed the blade of a sword shining in the moonlight.

“This,” she said, “is the only sword I can place straight away. It’s a ceremonial weapon – not really for fighting – but it should do for a little practice. Getting into the armoury for a fighting blade could be difficult. It’ll certainly take a few days – could be weeks.”

“Thank you, mistress. I’m sure it’ll tide me over, mistress. I hope you won’t mind, mistress, but I… Well, I…”

“Come on, Tuerqui, out with it. A good slave is always honest with her mistress. If you’ve done wrong, I have my whip. A few strokes and all is well again.”

“No, mistress, I don’t think it’s wrong exactly. But when I finished my lessons, and you weren’t there, mistress, I got to thinking about how I might learn to fight. I thought, mistress, that the jewel thief might be able to help. So I made up an excuse, pretended I’d lost a key, mistress, and asked my father if the thief might come to open one of my mother’s jewel boxes.”

“I’m impressed, Tuerqui. That was good thinking.”

“So you’re not offended, mistress?”

“Offended, Tuerqui?”

“Yes, mistress, you said you’d help me. Then, when I decided I wanted that help, mistress, I didn’t wait for you. Did something on my own initiative, mistress. It makes me feel a bad slave.”

“I’ll feel a bad slave!”

She placed her arms about me and squeezed my bottom, a cheek with each hand. After the attention Miss Miles had given my buttocks that day – both with her cane and her hand – the squeezing was uncomfortable, but I didn’t mind. Giggling, I kissed Lisa-Louise – chastely on the forehead. We held one another for what seemed a long time.

“Mistress?” I said at last.

“Yes, Tuerqui?”

“You said that it was good thinking, mistress. Summoning the jewel thief.”

“Yes, that’s what I said. I can get into places he can’t – and I should think that he can get into places barred to me. And, for all of his thievery, he may be the one person in the palace we can really trust. He’s a bit limited and unimaginative, but the thief’s his own man.”

“Yes, mistress,” I said laughing.

“Why are you laughing? – you bad slave!”

“Because of what he said about you, mistress – when he was measuring for keys to Lady Isobel’s harness.”

“And what did he say about me?”

“That you were dangerous and crazy, mistress. He said that, if the palace were warship, mistress, you were a catapult that hadn’t been fastened to the deck. That you were as likely to send a boulder through our hull as through the enemy’s, mistress.”

She did not reply immediately, but held me tighter. There sounded a low, distant, rumble of thunder. I kissed her again, still chastely, this time on her closed mouth. The moonlight revealed a tear trickling down her cheek.

“Mistress, you’re crying.”

“Only a little, Tuerqui. It’s a dangerous world. The jewel thief thinks everything through, I act on gut feelings. In the end who knows which is more dangerous?”

An owl, perched somewhere in the gables above our heads, hooted its dismal note. A rising wind ruffled my hair, and I shivered, a little cold in spite of my cloak and the warmth of Lisa-Louise. The lamps of Lundin were scattered far below – in lines that must have corresponded to the street plan. A few drops of rain caught my face – harbingers of a coming storm.

[1] Gavin had been king of Dawzet. Much of his kingdom was seized by one of Berenice Blackheart’s armies in a campaign during Chillflurry, Iceflake and Windrush YD 729. The remainder was occupied by Westland. Gavin fled to Westland where he passed into obscurity. According to some sources, he was enslaved after subsequent Surrey victories, but there is no very good evidence to support this idea. The wine was six years old.

[2] It seems that, at this time in Lundin, a severe whipping was the penalty for a slave using the pre-enslavement name of a fellow slave. It was thought to imply doubt as to the justice of the enslavement. In Surrey a more modern attitude prevailed, and it was not considered a serious matter.

[3] Tuerqui’s father evidently expected her to marry into a modest household in which the mistress of the house would directly supervise slaves and other domestic matters.

[4] Pictures preserved from the Old Time prove this to be correct.

For Chapter 32 click
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Of Bondlings and Blesh Chapter 30

Chapter 30

The table was spattered with gravy puddles – I placed my finger at the edge of the largest, trying to coax it into joining another perhaps two inches distant. One of the pieces of meat on my plate had defied my efforts to cut it, the other had proved stringy – worse, perhaps, the spiciness seemed designed to hide the fact of its being far from fresh. A loud scrabbling from the skirting boards betrayed the presence of unseen mice. Shafts of light from the setting sun revealed a floor littered with food fragments – the debris of previous meals.

If anything, this supper was more gloomy than lunch. My father seemed deeply preoccupied, eating in silence whilst I toyed with food less appetising than all but the most vile slave swill. My observations on the unswept floor and rodent problem had met with scant response. It occurred to me that voicing a more serious concern could not make the atmosphere any worse.

“Back in Surrey, father, I heard that nazemen had taken the Belle House.”

“In that case, you heard right.”

“What about mother? Was she there?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Taken by nazemen, perhaps – otherwise Surrey slavers. No one knows.”

“Except mother.”

“Quite.”

“Is that all you can say, father? Surely…?”

“If she’d been a good obedient wife, she’d have stayed with me in Lundin. Perhaps you’ll bear that in mind when you’re married. Hopefully, you’ll have at least learnt obedience from your slavery. Are the sample collecting slaves ready?”

“When I came to join you, father, the stitch slaves were well advanced with their costumes.”

“Costumes? What costumes are necessary for a man to tumble a slave? This should be a cheap operation. If you’re racking up the expenses…”

“Father – I was in a Surrey whore house and…”

“Silence, woman! I will not hear of that. I’ll give the stitch slaves another hour – then Wilfred Addal and the others will collect the sampling vessels. Dressing up what are no more than bottles for seed samples – pah!”

Excusing myself, I left my father’s dining room. I’d thought to find Lisa-Louise in the passage outside, but was disappointed to find the corridor and stairs empty. The elfin girl was with Mrs Clay, Piqusi, Curvi and the stitch slaves. She fixed me with one of her unreadable expressions as I entered.

“Please, mistress,” I said, “Wilfred Addal and some men will be here in an hour – maybe a little less – to collect Piqusi and Curvi.”

“Then we don’t really have time for you to return to harness, just now. All the same, you will help your fellow slaves with their work, and Mrs Clay will discipline you – as necessary. It is your inner being, not the harness, that makes you a slave.”

“Yes, mistress. Of course, mistress. And Mrs Clay, I mean mistress, what do you require me to do?”

“Polish Piqusi’s leather skirt.”

Kicking off my shoes and squatting on the floor, I settled to my allotted task. My fellow slaves showed no sign of surprise. Presumably, much had been said of me during my absence. Mrs Clay loosened my dress.

“For the whip,” she said. “When you need it. It would be a shame to damage a lovely piece of satin.”

“Yes, mistress.”

Over the next half hour, she worked me hard – and was more ready to chastise me than any of the other slaves. At the end of that time, the costumes were ready. Then I assisted with dressing Piqusi and Curvi – and applying their make up. The work was too urgent and too delicate for Mrs Clay to lash me, but she continued to tickle my back with the whip, as a reminder of our relative stations and the consequence of insufficient effort.

At last, I was able to see the fruits of our labour. Piqusi looked every bit the high class strumpet – sheathed in shiny leather, her pencil skirt slit to reveal a hint of lace, and a glimpse of fishnet stocking. The lower parts of the stockings were concealed by knee length stiletto heeled boots, of the same leather as the skirt. The jacket revealed a lacy camisole at its collar, her hands were encased in matching lace gloves.

Dramatic make up completed the effect – much of it my work – dark red lips, blushed cheeks and violet eye shadow. The lace gloves revealed nails to match her lips. A bag across her shoulder contained a mass of satin and lace, things that Dashing Daniel would be unable to resist. Also included were a few instruments of correction for which he was certain to find a use.

If Piqusi appeared a high class whore, Curvi simply looked high class. In a sober suit of navy blue woollen fabric, she was demure but alluring. The skirt was slit but, while she remained standing, it might have been a box pleat. Artfully, it was calculated to reveal a glimpse of stocking top when she sat down.

Her blouse was white, fastened at the neck with a black velvet bow. The mane of dark glossy hair was tied with an identical ribbon. She wore white stockings and very shiny black shoes with a discreetly raised heel. Her lips were pink, make up unobtrusive.

“Tell me, Tuerqui,” Lisa-Louise said, “which girl would you rather tumble?”

“Mistress, it’s hard to choose. They’re both so… But, mistress, if I might have one, I think I’d go for Curvi. But, on the other hand, mistress…”

“Yes, well, quite. And you, Mrs Clay?”

“Curvi, I think. Piqusi strikes me as more of a man’s girl.”

“And yet I think that Carp-eye is more of a man than Daniel. Did I choose wrong? No – I don’t believe that I did… Tuerqui, do you recall my saying that we didn’t have time to harness you?”

“Yes, mistress. Of course, mistress.”

“Do you know why we didn’t have time?”

“Because, mistress, we were expecting Wilfred Addal and some other men in an hour, or less.”

“And?”

“Well, mistress, I suppose that you didn’t want them to find me in harness. The spymaster has sharp eyes, mistress.”

“So he does, Tuerqui. But it would have been a delicious game – seeing whether he recognised you. No, Tuerqui, there was another reason why you were to remain in person’s clothes. You are to join the spymaster on his expedition.”

“But mistress, my father has forbidden it!”

“You answer your mistress back? That is a piece of insolence with which I haven’t time to deal just now – but I won’t forget. Had you said yes, mistress, you could have just expected your father to have you punished. Now, you foolish slave, I will be punishing you as well.”

“Yes, mistress.”

“That’s better. It’s a question as to whom you owe obedience – and I’m sure you know the answer.”

“Yes, mistress, I know it. It is to you that I owe obedience, mistress.”

“Quite right. Now, get over there with the stitch slaves and wait quietly for Mr Addal and the others.”

So I waited quietly, head bowed, until five men arrived. Two I recognised – Dr Grimes and Wilfred Addal. A third, in uniform, introduced himself as Captain Headley of the guard. The remaining pair, he explained, were guardsmen in civilian clothes.

“You may go now, Princess Margaret,” Wilfred Addal said. “I’ll take over from here.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“I don’t think that was your father’s wish.”

“It wasn’t – but it is now,” I lied. “He told me himself, when he changed his mind, not half an hour back.”

“Are you sure that he changed his mind, Lady Margaret? And are you aware that this is a matter I will need to mention to him?”

“Of course I’m sure. And you must tell him whatever your duty requires.”

“It’s just that I find it hard to believe. If either of us are to be thrashed for this, I need to ensure that it’ll be you on the painful end of the punishment.”

“You doubt my word, Mr Addal?”

“I’m paid to doubt. And, for once, I need to ensure that everyone present is aware of my doubts. Covering my back – covering it against the whip – I’m sure you’ll understand. And if you insist…”

“I insist.”

“If you insist, I must accept your word. Come on.”

The eight of us – the five men, Piqusi, Curvi and me – crossed the square to the east of the palace and started down Gullford Street. The Surrey name seemed a good omen. As we walked, Wilfred Addal explained his plan. Several times, he asked the guardsmen and the slaves to repeat their instructions, seeming to assume them to be half witted.

The inn was to our left, its sign depicting a disarmed Surrey warrior girl at the mercy of a bearded brute. He held his sword at the hip in a piece of unmistakably phallic imagery. Her expression might have been intended for fear or pleasurable anticipation. His was unmistakably lust.

While the two guards in civilian disguise entered through the public door, the landlord admitted the rest of us via a side entrance. It occurred to me to wonder why the spymaster didn’t admit us with his own key – I felt sure that he would have one. Perhaps he preferred the landlord to believe himself the only person with admittance. As ever, it was impossible to deduce anything from Wilfred Addal’s facial expression.

“The girl’s already here,” the landlord said.

Wilfred Addal shot him an unreadable glance – and we ascended half a dozen thickly carpeted flights of stairs to what must have been an attic. As the staircases were obviously not for the inn’s patrons, the carpet must have been to muffle our footfalls. The point of such secrecy became clear when we entered a room lined with glass that revealed other rooms – even the gentlemen’s privy lay open to view. Lisa-Louise was curled in a comfortably padded arm chair, although I have no idea how she could have reached the inn before us.

“Lisa-Louise – I might have known you’d be here,” the spymaster said, betraying no identifiable emotion.

“Mirrors and prisms are so arranged to bend the line of vision round corners and through walls,” Captain Headley explained – presumably for my benefit, or Dr Grimes’. “No doubt our host spends a lot of time here.”

“The mirrors and prisms are purely for the sake of law and order,” the landlord protested. “I don’t come here to watch lewd goings on for my private enjoyment – gentlemen thrusting their hands up ladies’ skirts and unfastening… Well, never mind that. The very idea of such thing wouldn’t occur to me.”

The urinal mirror made me feel slightly sick, but it was hard to look away. Not only was the place it revealed filthy, but a red nosed drunkard stood at the trough, left hand scratching between his buttocks. The sot’s right hand misdirected a flapping penis, fresh moisture forming on the floor. When he fastened his breaches, the crotch noticeably darkened.

“OK landlord,” Wilfred Addal said, “you may leave us. This is public order business.”

“Of course, Mr Addal. You’ll see the strangers in the bar – enjoying my excellent ale and finest pork scratchings.”

The spymaster eyed him with disfavour, but made no further remark, Lisa-Louise smiled sweetly. As soon as the door closed behind the landlord, Mr Addal turned to the mirror reflecting the bar. It came as no surprise that he was able to select the correct glass without hesitation. It showed a glum-looking pair of pollygoggers staring into glasses of flat beer while attempting to bite on small, obviously hard, objects.

Carp-eye said something to Daniel and stepped toward the urinal door. Another customer followed him – someone it took me a few moments to recognise as one of the plain clothes guardsmen. The other guard leaned on the bar. Wilfred Addal picked up what was evidently a speaking tube.

“Daniel’s girl – now!” the spymaster hissed. “Hurry!”

The urinal mirror showed Carp-eye speaking to the guard, having spat his scratching into the trough. According to the plan, their discussion was to propose a contest to see who could splash highest on the wall. It seemed that the pollygogger was unwilling to cooperate. The guardsman fingered his sword hilt.

Shifting my gaze back to the bar room, I saw Piqusi entering. She wiggled to the bar, precisely according to instruction. Dashing Daniel stared at her, slack jawed. The plan was working.

The girl received her drink and, turning, spilt it over the pollygogger. As planned, the front of his breeches was soaked. Doubtless gasping apologies, as she’d been ordered to do, Piqusi produced a lacy thing from her bag and dabbed at his flies. Her touch was clearly coaxing him into erection.

Dashing Daniel ran his hands over Piqusi’s bottom. A minute or two later, they left the barroom hand in hand. Carp-eye, delayed less than Wilfred Addal had intended, only just missed seeing his partner’s exit. He glanced round the room in evident puzzlement and concern.

“Smith’s girl – go!” the spymaster said into the speaking tube.

Wilfred Addal turned to Dashing Daniel’s bedroom mirror. My eyes followed his. The pollygogger entered with his arms clasped about Piqusi. Starting to peel off his clothes, he paused to examine, with clear delight, the lingerie in Piqusi’s bag.

Meanwhile, the barroom reflection showed Curvi’s entrance. The guardsman at the bar advanced aggressively upon the girl. Had I not heard the plans, I’d have believed it a genuine quarrel. The struggle ended with the guard seemingly striking his head on the bar, while Curvi was thrown into Carp-eye’s arms – it was all done very neatly.

The landlord, examining the apparently unconscious man, said something. His rehearsed speech had been you’d better clear off, both of you, before the guard arrive. In so far as I was able to read his lips, the actual words seemed different. Presumably, they conveyed the same sense.

Carp-eye and Curvi quitted the barroom at once. Had the pollygogger returned quickly, he’d have seen the guardsman rise from the floor to continue drinking. Instead, he went to his room with the girl. Twenty minutes later, she joined us in the attic.

“Spymaster, I’ve got the sample,” she announced.

“Good! And what did you tell him?” Wilfred Addal continued to address her like an imbecile.

“That I had to go to the toilet – as instructed, spymaster.”

Dr Grimes was already probing inside the unfortunate girl. I had reason to know that he was clumsy and was almost certainly scratching her. The physician labelled the sample in a neat hand that contrasted with his professional clumsiness. As Dr Grimes worked, the spymaster repeated Curvi’s instructions.

“You’re to rejoin him, stay the night – perhaps longer, we’ll see. Say or do nothing to arouse the least hint of suspicion. Fail in your duty and you won’t escape with just a whipping. Do you understand, girl?”

“Yes, spymaster.”

“You’d better. Now repeat what you’re to tell him if he remarks on your branded thigh.”

“That a corrupt noble – we’re to say Lord Higate, saving his pardon – lusted after Piqusi and me. When we wouldn’t lie with him, he framed us for a burglary and had us enslaved. Now we’ve escaped and are on the run, trying to prove our innocence, if we can.”

“That’s good. And, whatever you say, don’t pretend to have been rescued by pollygoggers. I’m sure he can recognise a Lundin brand when he sees it.”

Yes, spymaster.”

“I see that Dr Grimes is finished with you. Off – girl – back to the pollygogger. Hurry!”

He despatched her with a sharp slap on the bottom – more impatience than lust, it seemed to me. Dashing Daniel’s mirror showed the pollygogger wriggling into the lingerie we’d provided. He looked almost convincingly feminine. Piqusi withdrew a tawse from her bag.

Smiling – quite naturally, I thought – Curvi re-entered Carp-eye’s bedroom. Dashing Daniel bent over to receive the strap. Piqusi brought it down with obvious force, perhaps motivated by anger aroused by the thrashings she’d received since enslavement. An ominous damp patch appeared on the pollygogger’s pink satin briefs.

“Perhaps she’s hitting him too enthusiastically,” I said. “We might not have our sample tonight.”

“Possibly,” the spymaster agreed, “but – as yet – it’s only a smear. He hasn’t shot his load.”

“Begging her highness’ pardon,” Captain Headley reproved.

“I’m younger than her,” said Lisa-Louise. “Does no one beg my pardon?”

“Not me, not to such a creature,” Addal said unpleasantly, “you both need taking in hand. You see what you choose to see. The same goes for Lady Margaret. Where’s the point in begging either pardon? – a female who would choose to be here is neither more nor less than a slut.”

Carp-eye and Curvi lay in bed, cuddling, possibly asleep. Dashing Daniel changed costume several times, and sampled each instrument of correction. Eventually, Piqusi tied him, spread over the bed like a shaftarama whore. Mounting the pollygogger, she bucked and thrust.

Curvi and Carp-eye shifted a little under their blankets. Piqusi rose from Dashing Daniel. Leaving him tied to the bed, she quit the room. Dr Grimes collected her sample – then Wilfred Addal despatched her back to the pollygogger.

Lisa-Louise, Captain Headley, Wilfred Addal, Dr Grimes and I left the inn together. The two plain clothes guardsmen remained to keep an eye on matters, in case the pollygoggers became suspicious or the sample collecting slaves disobeyed their orders. Piqusi and Curvi remained with Dashing Daniel and Carp-eye. The spymaster felt that their departure would lead to our victims sensing a trap.

On the way back to the palace, only Lisa-Louise and Captain Headley spoke. I wasn’t paying attention, and can’t recall what either of them said. The only thing to remain with me was that Lisa-Louise was the only one of us to appear cheerful. That – and me feeling dirty, ashamed, wretched – wishing that I hadn’t started my vengeance on the pollygoggers.

Once back in my room, I stripped so that Lisa-Louise could harness me. She had said – before we went to the inn – that she would punish me for answering back, and she made good that promise. It was the first time she had needed to beat me, and I was surprised to find that she had a good quality whip of Surrey manufacture. The pommel, I noticed, carried Berenice Blackheart’s mark – it was entirely possible that it was of my workmanship.

Sleeping fitfully, I passed an uneasy night. Breakfast with father was a miserable affair – even by the standard of meals the previous day. My restless night – and distaste for the business at the inn – left me with little to say. My father was monosyllabic.

When a messenger slave came at mid morning to summon me to my father, I knew that Wilfred Addal had reported my disobedience. Reluctant to go, I realised that ignoring the summons could only make matters worse. Contemplating what was before me, it occurred to me to wonder whether he would thrash me himself, or instruct someone else to do so. The latter seemed more likely, but I had no idea as to whom my executioner would be.

Reaching his room, I found father even more forbidding than I’d anticipated. He was not alone – a girl perhaps five years younger than me occupied a chair on his right hand. Father didn’t introduce her at first, but I knew that she would be the one to beat me. My first guess was that she might be his concubine – but her aspect was as grim as his – smiling, she might have been pretty, but scowling it was hard to see her as the object of anyone’s sexual desire.

“This morning,” father began abruptly, “I’ve received two reports about last night. The more welcome was from Dr Grimes – the samples match perfectly[1]. There can be no doubt of the wretches’ guilt, not that there ever was any doubt. The other report…”

“Was about me, father?”

“Indeed. Against my express wishes, you went to that den of shame, that sink of vileness – and looked upon scenes entirely unfit for a lady. Worse, you said that I’d given you permission to go. Do you deny any of this?”

“No, father, but perhaps I misunderstood you?”

“You did not – you told a deliberate lie – and any attempt at obfuscation only serves to enmire you further in the filth of deceit. In spite of whatever training you received in slavery, you are a wicked and wilful girl. I will not tolerate it. You are to be taken in hand.”

“May I speak?” the girl asked.

“In a moment, Miss Miles. Perhaps I’d better introduce you first. Margaret – this is Miss Miles, currently employed as governess to young Phoebe and Mary.”

“Phoebe and Mary, father?”

“You can’t have forgotten – your brother’s eldest children. As you should recall, the whore he took as a first wife gave him girls in place of an heir. The strumpet deserved worse than she received – far worse.”

“The babies?” I asked, ignoring his attack on a lady of whom I had nothing but fond memories.

“Perhaps they were babies when last you saw them. Phoebe is eleven, now. Mary is ten. Miss Miles is, as I say, their governess.”

“I think that I’m introduced now,” Miss Miles said. “May I speak?”

“Do so, Miss Miles.”

“Very well. Your father has called you a wicked and wilful girl – I agree entirely. He thinks that you need a firm feminine hand – again I agree entirely. He thinks that I have that hand – I trust that he is correct.”

Miss Miles rose from her chair and crossed the room. She picked up a cane that I’d failed to observe, flexing it with menace. It was clearly supple in the extreme. The whippy object would certainly sting – and it was obvious that I would be the next to feel its force.

“This,” she said, “is my school room cane. I’m going to thrash you.”

There followed an extremely painful session, without the traces of love I’d detected in Mrs Clay’s whip work, or the essential kindness of the punishment I’d received from Lisa-Louise. Miss Miles was, I felt sure, even more adept with the cane than Miss Lace had been. By the time I was allowed to straighten, tears obscured my vision. It was necessary to wipe my eyes repeatedly before clear sight returned.

“You’ve done well, Miss Miles,” my father said. “Margaret – starting at half past eight tomorrow, standard palace time, you’ll take morning lessons with Phoebe and Mary. If you give further cause for complaint, you’ll attend in the afternoon as well – but, for now, you are at liberty after the school room lunch. You may go now.”

Leaving the room, I felt miserable in the extreme. Slaves enjoying more freedom than persons might sometimes be true in ways that Whipfelle couldn’t have guessed. Being treated as a child, it seemed to me, lacked such dignity as there is in slavery. Miss Miles would certainly put her cane to use in the lessons – but that wasn’t my chief misgiving over attending classes with the two little girls – rather, it was being treated as less than half of my age.

There was no surprise, but some pleasure, in finding Lisa-Louise close to my father’s door. She placed her arms about me, and I wept on her shoulder. After what seemed a long time, she gently disengaged herself from me. Although she was smiling, there seemed sadness in her eyes.

“Tuerqui,” she said, “we need to talk. Privately. Come on.”

I followed her up a dark, narrow, unfamiliar staircase. It brought us out into open air – a flat roof perhaps fifty foot long by ten feet wide. Above us, loomed a complex of sloping roofs and valley gutters that reminded me of picture book mountains – the only thing missing was snow. A crenulated parapet rose between us and a dizzying drop.

“Tuerqui,” Lisa-Louise asked, “what do you think is the most beautiful thing about the mistress and slave relationship?”

“I’m not sure, mistress, but it might be the slave’s perfect submission – and the mistress’ acceptance of that submission. Her submission is the slave’s greatest possession – and her greatest gift.”

“Perhaps, Tuerqui, but that wasn’t what I had in mind. I was thinking of the truthfulness of the relationship. Persons lie all of the time – persons who think they are in love with one another. But for a slave to lie to her mistress would be a treason against her submission, and for a mistress to lie to her slave would be beneath her dignity.”

“What you say is true, mistress.”

“Well, then, Tuerqui – as you value your submission tell me the truth. You blame me for Miss Miles thrashing you – and for having to attend morning lessons?”

“Yes, mistress, I do. Had you not ordered me to accompany Piqusi and Curvi, mistress…”

“Your father wouldn’t have punished you. But you take too narrow a view, Tuerqui. What do you think happens to a slave – a true slave – deprived of her mistress’ authority?”

“She goes mad, mistress.”

“And, Tuerqui, in the short time the pollygoggers had you, that process had begun. Think! Your elaborate revenge on Carp-eye and Daniel? Whipping Mrs Clay – on the pretext of her reacting to the real slavery she couldn’t help sensing within you?”

“I was going mad, mistress. All you say is true. I hadn’t realised, mistress.”

“And your madness would have led you to defy your father – going to the inn with Piqusi, Curvi, Wilfred Addal, the guardsmen and all. That’s why I had an easy conscience ordering you to disobey him. Without me, you would have done it anyway. I was doing you no harm you wouldn’t have done yourself.”

“You’re right, mistress. I see now that I was wrong to blame you – even for a moment.”

“The truth is, Tuerqui, I want only what is good for you. You need my authority – ordering you to disobey your father, and meet certain punishment, helped us to establish that authority, you and I. Your questioning my command, an insolent slight to my authority and a vestige of your madness, showed that it really was necessary to order you to invoke an unpleasant consequence of some kind. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, mistress, I understand. Thank you, mistress, for every bit of your kindness.”

“And, Tuerqui, you must know that I’m not a thief. I will be your mistress while you remain in this palace, but I have no intention of stealing you from your rightful owner. You must return to the University of Pain – but that will not be easy.”

“No, mistress, it won’t.”

“You can’t just go back to Surrey and give yourself up to the guard. If you did, I think they’d probably sell you at public auction – in theory, at least, with part of the proceeds going to Lady Isobel. After that, she might trace you – or she might not.[2]”

“I think you’re right, mistress. Doubting you would be a vestige of my madness – but, mistress, your words ring true.”

“It’s not as though you were just any slave. A skirt would hide the brand on you thigh – but not the RBS mark on your forehead.”

“Perhaps, mistress, I could wear a mask, or something…”

“Can you fight, Tuerqui?”

“No, mistress. Why do you ask?”

“Curious persons, such as the Petty Girls[3], are sure to wonder what’s behind the mask. If you could fight, you might reach the University of Pain with a little blood on your sword. Otherwise…”

There was no need for her to complete the sentence. In order to avoid spending years in the Palace Victoria, I would need to acquire the art of killing. More than once I’d seen blood spilt. The idea of doing it myself made me feel sick.

“I’m not sure whether I can do that, mistress.”

“It’s up to you, Tuerqui. I won’t order you to become a killer. But if that’s what you need to do, I’ll help.”

“Thank you, mistress.”

Crows circling above our heads sounded their dismal note. A strong breeze ruffled my hair, and I shivered, a little cold. The streets of Lundin stretched far below – buildings tiny as children’s toys, the people scarcely bigger than ants. A few drops of moisture caught my face – not tears, they were wind-blown flecks from the clouded sky, insufficient to be called rain.

[1] Presumably, the physicians invented the desired result without reference to the samples. Facilities for the microscopic examination of bodily matter – necessary to establish whether the samples matched – were certainly not available in Lundin at this time. The closest such facility would have been that of gynozoa researchers at the University of Pain.

[2] This account of what might have happened is substantially accurate. Lisa-Louise seems to have been remarkably well informed. The Statute of Slavery Protection had been passed, but its provisions not fully implemented. The relevant temporary measure was The Displaced Slaves (Emergency) Provision. Under this provision, until the Slavery Protection Board could assume full responsibility for displaced slaves, such slaves should be wards of the guards who held them. The guards were free to sell their wards by public auction – some compensation to the owners of the slaves was to be offered, should those owners be traced.

[3] Petty girls – Protection and Enforcement Troopers – see Chapter 16, note 5.

For Chapter 31 click
http://bondlings.blogspot.com/2007/09/of-bondlings-and-blesh-chapter-31.html

Of Bondlings and Blesh Chapter 29

Chapter 29

Barguin, my new body slave, was plumping cushions, creating puffs of dust picked out by the strong sunlight. She was humming a melody which seemed to be that of The Surrey Pollygogger. The room smelt of the polish she had lately applied to my finger and toe nails. The honey with which Barguin had sweetened my breakfast porridge lingered on my tongue.

It was my first morning back in the Palace Victoria. Barguin had been assigned to my service the previous day, shortly after Lisa-Louise had finished taking stock of me. Barguin’s outward demeanour seemed to befit a slave – and her manner would certainly have satisfied the Lady Margaret of old. Tuerqui, however, knew slavery sufficiently well to trace resentments stored from a brutal conclusion to my body slave’s years in personage.

The previous afternoon, a journeyman locksmith had attempted to remove my harness. He had soon recognised that the locks were beyond his skill. A messenger had been sent to fetch the master, but he was otherwise engaged. No explanation had been offered as to what was more urgent than my unharnessing.

The master locksmith, now with me, tugged at my collar, constricting my throat uncomfortably. He was a dusty man of middle years with long and clever fingers. A leather apron hung at his waist. He smelt of oil as well as dust.

The fellow had been with us for perhaps three quarters of an hour, fighting a losing battle with my harness locks. He had given up on those of my bracelets and anklets and was now at the nape of my neck. It was clear that he was meeting with no greater success, unless his aim were to choke me. Resuming some of the attitudes of personage more quickly than I would have expected, my patience was exhausted.

“Have you nearly done strangling me?” I asked.

“I’m sorry, your ’ighness,” he replied, releasing my collar. “The locks ’ave beaten me. Finest Surrey work they are – an’ y’ don’t get better than that.”

“Listen – my harness has to be removed – and it isn’t to be damaged. No excuses.”

“Well, beggin’ your pardon ’ighness, there ain’t but the one man in Lundin as could shift them locks.”

“If there is such a man, fetch him.”

“Savin’ y’ pardon, ’ighness, he ain’t what I’d call a proper person.”

“Fuck my highness’ pardon – for crying out loud, just fetch him!”

He bowed low and, muttering incoherently, backed towards the door. His exaggerated respect not permitting him to look where he was going, the locksmith tripped over a small table. He fell heavily and his tools clattered to the four corners of the room. Barguin helped to pick them up, steered him doorwards, and then he was gone.

“He seemed to be overdoing the respect,” I commented.

“Perhaps, mistress, he’d heard about you whipping Mrs Clay.”

“These days, a little whip work seems to go a long way in this house. Barguin – I want you – I want you carnally and I want you now. Sit on my lap.”

She obeyed immediately, and I placed my arms about her. My lips were approaching hers when a there came a loud rap on my door. I grimaced, and again prepared to kiss my slave. The knocking was renewed, louder than before.

“You’d better see who it is,” I said.

As she rose from me, I slapped her bottom – just once, but quite hard. The impact could be heard quite distinctly above the continuing assault upon the door. There was in the smack a little of vexation on being interrupted, but it was mostly that the curve of her bottom was too tempting to resist. My eyes fixed upon her buttocks as she wiggled – rather lasciviously, I thought – to answer the knocking.

Barguin opened the door, revealing two men in the black gowns and white ruffled collars of physicians. One was short and fat, the other tall and lean. They doffed their soft caps and bowed in unison before stepping over the threshold. The effect was comic – but, with some effort, I suppressed my laughter.

“I am Doctor Silas Grimes, physician by appointment,” the short fat one introduced himself, as Barguin closed the door.

“And I am Mister Anthony Malvision, surgeon at court,” his companion added. “We have come to examine you, at your father’s command – and to take samples of a delicate nature.”

Whatever the nature of the samples, there proved nothing delicate in either man’s touch. They poked, prodded and scraped me without gentleness or discretion. Their actions hurt a great deal – but the physical pain was not the worst of it – servicing the pollygoggers had been a lesser evil. However, they were done at last, and departed with their carefully labelled jars.

After their departure, I prayed before taking a cup of rose hip tea. Feeling restored by both my devotions and the beverage, I invited Barguin back on to my lap. My lips were about to close upon hers when we were interrupted by another knock. It was more gentle than the physicians’ thundering, but – for all of that – seemed to require my immediate attention.

Rising from my lap, this time without a smack, Barguin admitted a slightly effeminate-looking man with a smoothly shaved chin and long, wavy, ash blonde hair. He was of about my age, and no more than an inch or two taller than me. His jacket was crimson velvet slashed with green, a matching bag dangling from one shoulder. His hands were soft with remarkably long fingers.

“Your highness,” his tone of voice belied the respect implied by the form of address. “I’ve come to spring your harness locks. Highness’ harness – it’s a bit of a mouthful, isn’t it?”

“How much of my harness do you need to reach?” I asked, ignoring his play on words. “All of the locks?”

“I’m tempted to say that I need to reach them all – you’re easy enough on the eye. But – no – my method is to measure the locks and make keys. Experience suggests that we should only need two – one for the harness proper, the other for the bracelets and anklets. So I only need to reach your neck and wrist, more’s the pity.”

The frank lewdness of his opening sentence, and closing words, puzzled me. He must know that I could have him whipped – or punish him myself – he had probably heard about Mrs Clay. Perhaps, I thought, that was what he desired. My time in the Laughing Phallus proved that plenty of males enjoy a thrashing.

Extending a braceleted wrist toward him, I frowned. He opened his bag to produce pencil, notebook and a set of obviously delicate instruments. Probing the keyhole at my wrist with a length of fine wire fixed to a bone handle, he repeatedly checked it with callipers and protractor, making notes in the book as he did so. Moving on to the lock at my neck, he whistled long and low.

“Your mistress in Surrey certainly loved you,” he said.

“What d’ you mean?”

“I haven’t seen better locks anywhere – nor real sapphires on a slave.”

“Blue glass,” I lied.

“Yeah, right. Not only real sapphires, but good ones, and I’m sure you know it, you little minx. Men have been enslaved for taking far worse. You don’t get my skill without developing an eye for gems.”

“You mean you’re a jewel thief?”

“Well, let’s just say that a few stones have passed through my hands – and some might quibble over their ownership.”

“Then you are a jewel thief. As you say, men have been enslaved for it – but not you?”

“Obviously. I have my uses to those in power. Not least to Wilfred Addal.”

“I might have known you were Addal’s creature.”

“I may perform services for him – but I am my own creature.” He sounded offended.

“Like Lisa-Louise?”

“What?” He paused, seemingly startled by my suggestion, then laughed. “You’re the first to put it that way. She’s a crazy and dangerous girl – but we’ve both been of use to the spymaster, and we’re both our own persons.”

“You think she’s dangerous?” I didn’t question crazy.

“If you think of this palace as a warship, she’s a catapult that hasn’t been lashed to the deck. She’s as like to send a boulder through our hull as through the enemy’s. Yes, she’s dangerous.”

“That’s interesting. But people say that Addal still uses her. Do you think the spymaster would agree with you? Maybe he’d like to see the palace sunk.”

“Who knows? I doubt that he shares his secrets even with himself.”

“Do you know anything of their connection? Addal and Lisa-Louise, I mean.” I was wondering how safe my secrets were with the girl.

“She certainly passes some information to the spymaster. I’m pretty sure she keeps most of what she knows to herself. If it were otherwise, some that I can think of would be dead for sure. Hard to say how she gets away with it – some say that Lisa-Louise is his niece, some that she’s his concubine, others that she’s both.”

“I find it hard to imagine her lying with the old buzzard,” I said, shuddering at the thought.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think he has sex with anyone. Too afraid of what he might say caught off guard – or mutter in his sleep. Maybe she really is his niece. Even Addal’s human – I suppose he must come from some sort of family.”

An image of the spymaster as a baby sprang unbidden to mind, and I grimaced. The conversation died. Perhaps the jewel thief had envisaged something similar. His manner now seemed more businesslike than before.

Eventually, he completed his notes on the working of my locks. My suspicion was that – at least before we fell silent – he had lingered more than necessary over the measurements. More precisely, I felt that he had touched me more often and on more parts of my body than he needed to do. But there was something in his insolence that I admired and – although he deserved a whipping, at the very least – I made no complaint against him.

After his departure, I amused myself with Barguin. Sadly, our delayed kiss was less satisfactory than I’d anticipated. Hurrying on to more intimate touching, certainly too quickly, my sense of disappointment increased. It was almost a relief when we were interrupted by yet another knock.

This time it was a summons to a late lunch with my father. The messenger slave looked at Barguin and me in a manner suggesting that he could guess our embrace. Turning upon him as haughty an expression as I could manage, I was aware that it was not wholly successful. I wished that Lisa-Louise was there to disconcert his insolence.

After trotting behind the slave, itself an affront to my station, I arrived in father’s dining chamber a little out of breath. The meal was an uneasy affair – the gaunt man with whom I shared the table seemed at loss to address me. Mostly we ate in silence. Once the plates were empty, he made to leave – and I followed.

Pausing at the foot of the stairs, he said, “You must excuse me, I have a meeting.”

“Affairs of state, father?”

“A delicate business.”

“Oh?”

“To be blunt – the seizure and prosecution of the pollygoggers.”

He passed into a crowded chamber, perhaps ten feet long and half of that in breadth, presumably not expecting me to follow. When I did so, he made no move to stop me beyond frowning in my direction. The frown would have halted the Princess Margaret of seven years before. Paradoxically, the experience of slavery seemed to have left me, in some respects, more assertive.

When my father took his seat at the head of the table, all eight chairs were occupied – a further indication that I was not invited. After three or four minutes of uneasy silence, a clerk rose to his feet and offered me his place. He seated himself on a chest near the inadequate window that provided the room with a little illumination. As he did so, his elbow dislodged a curtain.

For a moment, as a shaft of sunlight flickered, I thought I glimpsed Lisa-Louise in an alcove. Then, if it was her, she vanished into deep shadow. Turning from the darker shadows to those at the table, I started to recognise faces – seeing without surprise that Wilfred Addal was present. I wondered whether the spymaster was aware of the girl’s presence, assuming that I had not been mistaken.

Mr Addal’s expression was, as always, unreadable. Toby Slack, the Attorney General, was the only one to greet me with a smile. Most venomous of all, was the look I received from the two examining physicians, seated side by side. Captain General Lord Higate smiled distantly – while Cornelius Lock, the tax gatherer, retained his all-purpose unpleasant expression.

“Very well,” my father began the meeting. “I think that we all know why we’re here. My daughter has been violated by the pollygoggers, and I must decide how to act. Perhaps Mr Anthony Malvision would start with his medical business.”

The clerk, still seated on the chest, had started to scribble – presumably taking minutes. He did so with a bent back, notebook resting on his knees. The one person in the room who needed the table was denied it. I considered suggesting that the clerk should change places with one of the physicians – but realised that I was more likely to lose my place.

“If it please your highness,” the surgeon began. “The evidence is of an… err… delicate nature… and I hadn’t expected your daughter to be present. Do you think it right for her to join us?”

“I am a princess of the Blood Victoria,” I said before my father could reply. “If people will speak of me, let them do it to my face. For those who speak truth, it is well. For those who speak treason, let them be mortalled.”

“Of course,” Malvision agreed, but without conviction. “Well – my colleague, Dr Grimes, and I have taken samples from Lady Margaret. There can be no doubt that she has recently been violated by more than one man. Examining the seed from within her, we found traces of hydrochlormasiac, a chromosome indicating genetic villainy of the worst possible kind.”

“We also found salmusion tetrathoride, the gene of slavery[1],” Dr Grimes added. “There can be no doubt at all that the villains are genetic slaves. The sentence of enslavement will help to bring the world back to its proper appointed course.”

“Good,” my father nodded approvingly. “The case is quite settled. The sentence is clear.”

“Father,” I asked, afraid of being silenced – should I attempt to say my piece without permission. “May I speak?”

“It seems to me that you have spoken already. But speak again if you must. Hurry – we are busy men, and have little time for a woman’s prattle.”

There was a murmur of agreement, most heartily from the physicians. The clerk’s adding his approval may have been annoyance at losing his seat. For Cornelius Lock, I felt, misogyny was more deeply entrenched than even misanthropy. Only Toby Slack and Wilfred Addal remained silent – the latter certainly not motivated by affection for me or my sex.

“In my view, it’s obvious that we require semen samples from the pollygoggers – to show that they match those taken from me.”

“Daughter! I have warned you before! Now I warn you again – the S word has no place in a lady’s mouth. I tell you this – if I hear it again I will have Miss Miles, your nieces’ governess, wash your mouth with strong soap.”

“With respect, your highness,” Toby Slack said, “I think that we need to pardon much in one who has been so long in Surrey. And, aside from her highness’ choice of words, there seems to me some sense in what she said. It would raise the question, however, of the manner in which we are to collect the… err… samples.”

“Perhaps my spies might do it,” Wilfred Addal offered. “Though perhaps scraping bed sheets might not suffice[2].”

“It seems easy enough to me,” I said. “A couple of comely slaves, despatched to the sign of the Shafted Surrey Lass will soon gather sufficient – and more. You may leave the selection of the girls and their equipment to me. I know the tastes of these gentlemen.”

“Yes, that would be well done,” admitted Wilfred Addal. “The sign of the Shafted Surrey Lass is well chosen, too. I can guarantee a good view of the pollygoggers’ rooms.”

“Very well,” my father summarised, “our proceeding is settled. Spymaster Addal will take command at the inn. Lady Margaret is to arrange the preparations here – but not, of course, join the sample collecting party. I am pleased to reflect that it should not cost a great sum.”

“In fact,” Cornelius Lock said, “judicious confiscations should allow the business to make a fine profit. We have the pollygoggers’ valuables in store – and their mule. The boat is moored by the Pier Victoria and will be easy to seize. I urge most strongly that all should revert to the treasury.”

“Their sentence will naturally include seizure of all their goods,” my father agreed. “Justice demands nothing less.”

“As to sentence,” the tax gatherer continued, “enslavement would certainly be the most fiscally advantageous.”

“Splendid!” my father said. “The only one from whom we have not heard is Lord Higate – whose men will, of course, have responsibility for the actual arrest.”

“It occurs to me,” Lord Higate said, “that it would be good for public order if the villains were arrested in the palace. Inns are, at best, focuses for discontent and, indeed, rowdiness. I believe that the felons are to come here in a week’s time – to receive a bill of absolution and a letter of marque.”

“There can be no thought of that now,” Toby Slack corrected him.

“Naturally not – but, were they to come to the palace expecting such papers, it would be very little trouble for the guard to seize them.”

“That would mean no trial for a week,” my father objected. “Should we wait so long?”

“I don’t see why not, your highness. We need some time to prepare our case. The samples must be collected. Toby Slack will need to prepare the legal pretexts and details.”

“I wouldn’t call them pretexts and details – but I will need to prepare.”

“Cornelius Lock may wish to assess the value of the confiscations.”

“A tax inspector will look into the matter within a day or two.”

“Very well, Lord Higate,” my father agreed, “your point is taken. We have a week to prepare for the arrest and conviction of the villains.”

The conference broke up into several knots of men, each talking separately. Wilfred Addal steered Lord Higate into the corner opposite the one in which I’d thought to see Lisa-Louise. More openly, Toby Slack was debating a matter with Cornelius Lock. I hastened to gain my father’s ear.

“So, father,” I said, “I’m to select and equip the sample gathering slaves?”

“It is ill work for my daughter – but that seemed to be the decision.”

“Who shall I see to arrange access to slaves and any needful items?”

“Hmm… Well – I think that Mr Groat would be as well fitted as anyone to organise the details. I’ll send him to your room.”

“And can’t I go to the inn, father?”

“Certainly not! The very idea!”

“Oh please…”

“No! I refuse to discuss the matter. Off to your room, now girl, and await Mr Groat.”

My mind turned to how I would occupy myself, awaiting Mr Groat. One possibility was seeking pleasure with Barguin, another was prayer. Thinking of the goddess, it occurred to me that my harness image would soon cease to be my constant companion. The ideal arrangement was probably a goddess on a chain about my neck, to fit snugly between my breasts.

“Father?” I asked. “Do you think that a gold or silver smith might fashion something for me?”

“Of course you must make yourself pretty. It’s long past time that you formed an advantageous match. A woman without a husband is like a ship with no rudder. However, I hardly think this is the time…”

“No, father – not an ornament. I had in mind a religious image.”

“Well, religion is a good thing for a woman, no doubt about it. Teaches her obedience. I’ll mention the matter to Mr Groat. Now, my dear, I have business – and really can’t attend to any more silly female prattle.”

Back in my room, I found a small package awaiting me. It contained two keys and a note from the jewel thief. Slipping out of my clothes, I unlocked my harness – the keys fitted perfectly. Reverently, I put my beautiful harness away before re-reading the note.

My Lady,
Here are your keys. Don’t worry – your sapphires are safe from me, I would not rob so lovely a slave. I hope that one day your beloved mistress will harness you again. Your secrets are safe with me, as well as your stones.
Your own jewel thief.

It was the closest I’d come to receiving genuine affection since my abduction from the University. Doubts assailed me – perhaps I would be better liked if I were more likable. For the first time, I regretted taking revenge on the pollygoggers – but that process seemed no more reversible than a boulder toppling from a cliff. Some of my anger with Dashing Daniel and Carp-eye had been vented on Mrs Clay, and it might be possible to make amends with her.

My thoughts were interrupted by a gentle tap on my door – a timid sound. Barguin hesitated. My nod sent her to answer the knock. Mr Groat stood on the threshold, as I knew he would.

“Ah, Princess Margaret,” he sounded almost surprised to see me. “You need some help, I understand, to organise the err… Well, I don’t know how to put it delicately.”

“That’s because there is nothing in the least delicate about it, Mr Groat. The business is to collect samples of semen. And the vessels to hold the samples are slaves’ genital organs. I will require two slaves – female, beautiful – but it would be well to have more from whom to select, half a dozen perhaps.”

“Princess Margaret! I… err… that is…” Mr Groat was clearly discomforted by what I’d said. “Well – I’ll have Martello Brown send suitable slaves for the… err… purpose.”

“Stop squirming, Mr Groat. As I said, there is nothing delicate about this matter. It is a sordid business, and to dress it in lace with pretty bows would be an affront to the goddess. Are you a religious man, Mr Groat?”

“I always keep the great festivals – and try, as well as I can, to observe the divine balance. Which reminds me, on the matter of religion, your father said there was something about an image.”

“The divine balance – exactly – deceptive words are an outrage against the balance. We must speak true. And – yes – an image, I wish a goddess on a slender chain to hang about my neck. I’d better sketch her.”

Putting pencil to paper, I began to draw. Usually, I’m not much of a hand with depiction. More than once, my early sketching attempts had earned me painful sessions with Miss Lace’s schoolroom cane. On this occasion, perhaps, the goddess guided my hand – for the picture I presented to Mr Groat adequately served its purpose, in spite of being no work of art.

Receiving the picture, the under chamberlain thanked me and bowed, evidently intent on leaving. Barguin, too, obviously assumed that the interview was over – and stepped to the door. There seemed something comic in their misunderstanding. I allowed Mr Groat very nearly to make his exit before calling him back.

“Did you ever have a birthday parcel, Mr Groat?”

“Indeed I have, your highness – but it’s not my birthday.”

“I didn’t think that it was. But did it never strike you that the wrappings are as important as the gift itself?”

“No, I don’t think it did, but I don’t see…”

“No you don’t, do you? Nor do you see why we have to gift wrap the slaves. I’ll need fabrics – satin, lace, ribbon and the like – shiny leather as well – enough for several outfits. I’ll also need stitch slaves.”

“I will pass your message on to Mrs Clay. Will that be all, your highness?”

“Mrs Clay – excellent – I really need to see her on another matter as well. But, yes, that is all. Thank you for your cooperation, Mr Groat. May the goddess bless you, and your family.”

“Seeing Mrs Clay on another matter,” said a soft voice behind me, seconds after Mr Groat departed.

Spinning round, I saw Lisa-Louise curled cat-like on my settee. Turning to Barguin, I could see without asking that my body slave had also been ignorant of the elfin girl’s presence. The questions of how or when she had entered the room were mysteries. After her assertion of authority the previous day, I did not care to ask for explanations.

“I assume,” she continued, “that you now wish to make peace with the housekeeper. Don’t worry about that, Tuerqui – your mistress will see to it. But poor little Barguin looks puzzled. Perhaps it would be best for me to explain.”

“Yes, mistress,” I said.

“Barguin, you may think that this creature is Princess Margaret of the Blood Victoria. That is what she may once have been, but now she is Tuerqui, a slave like you – property of Isobel Ironhand, chancellor of the University of Pain. Lady Isobel isn’t here, so – while poor owner-bereft Tuerqui is in this palace – I am her mistress. Isn’t that right, Tuerqui?”

“Yes, mistress, it is.”

“Tell Barguin that you are her fellow slave.”

“Barguin – I’m a slave, like you.”

“Good. I see that you are out of Lady Isobel’s harness now, but I have one of my own – white leather. I’ll place you in it later today. There’s no hurry.”

“Thank you, mistress.”

Perhaps twenty minutes later, another knock at my door announced six of the loveliest slaves I’d ever seen. Martello Brown clearly had an eye for female beauty – and his was an interesting selection. The girls formed as though for a military parade. Lisa-Louise was cast in the role of inspecting general, Barguin and me at her heels as lieutenants.

“This one’s got a nice bum,” Lisa-Louise said. “What do you think, Tuerqui?”

“Yes, mistress, I think that Carp-eye might go for her.”

“He might at that. Lovely arse – but this one has a better pair of tits. What do you think, Barguin?”

“Yes, mistress, she has lovely breasts.”

The choice was not easy – most certainly I would have gladly bedded any of the six. Watching Lisa-Louise assessing their charms – running her hands over their firm warm flesh – I became damp at the crotch. Lisa-Louise’s selection seemed to argue an unexpectedly accurate assessment of the pollygoggers’ taste in women. Casting my mind back, I wondered whether she had been lurking at the wharf – perhaps observing my seduction of the two men.

For Dashing Daniel, she chose Piqusi, a girl with tight blonde curls and large blue eyes. Her figure was slightly – but not excessively – boyish, a mischievous smile was seldom missing from her face. Carp-eye’s was Curvi – with, as her name implied, a more rounded figure with ample breasts and buttocks. Her hair was straight and dark, her face habitually assumed a serious expression.

Lisa-Louise had only just dismissed the other prospective semen gatherers, when Mrs Clay arrived, attended by three slaves. One – Drorer – carried a pencil and drawing pad, the other two – Fech and Carri – bore fabric samples. The housekeeper had a whip – longer and better made, I noticed, than the one I had used on her the previous day. In spite of regret over the whipping, I was momentarily annoyed that she had presented me with a lesser implement for her chastisement.

Producing a tape measure from her pocket, Mrs Clay measured Piqusi and Curvi. Fech and Carri held their fragments of cloth against the semen gatherers – so that we could gauge the effect of each. Drorer sketched Lisa-Louise’s costume ideas. The drawings put my recent effort to shame – but Drorer’s name presumably implied a long-standing skill with her pencil.

Rather to my surprise, Mrs Clay seemed unperturbed at Lisa-Louise taking charge. In dealing with Drorer, Fech and Carri, the housekeeper emphasised her points with the whip. The punishment of the previous day had, I thought, shortened her temper. When the costume designs were settled, she made to follow Piqusi, Curvi, Drorer, Fech and Carri from the room.

“Stay with us Mrs Clay,” Lisa-Louise said. “The slaves can sew without supervision for a while. Things are to happen here which will interest you. Won’t they, Tuerqui?”

“Yes, mistress,” I said.

“You hear that, Mrs Clay? You hear the slavery in her voice? I’m sure you sensed it yesterday when you entered without knocking. She was a very bad slave to pretend personage and whip you – weren’t you Tuerqui?”

“Yes, mistress, I was.”

“I am about to put the wicked creature back into harness – where she belongs. Once I have done that, I think – Mrs Clay – it would be entirely appropriate for you to whip her.”

“Whip her? Whip Princess Margaret? It could cost me my position,” said Mrs Clay. “I’d be bankrupt and enslaved within the month.”

“Ah, but that won’t happen. You won’t be whipping Lady Margaret, you’ll whip Tuerqui – a slave who thoroughly deserves to be chastised. And, most certainly, no one will breathe a word beyond this room. Will they, Tuerqui?”

“No, mistress.”

“You must hear the slavery in her voice. And your heart won’t be easy until you have given her a little of what she merits. Isn’t that true?”

“Yes, Lisa-Louise,” Mrs Clay agreed, “it is true. It will be as you say.”

“Good – I knew you’d see sense. As for you, Tuerqui, didn’t I say that I was about to harness you?”

“Yes, mistress, you did.”

“In that case, slave, I suggest that you strip off those person’s clothes – and quickly!”

“Yes, mistress,” I replied, already undressing.

When I was naked, Lisa-Louise, Mrs Clay and Barguin surveyed me. Without bidding, I sank to my knees before them. When first playing slave games with Jenna, I had felt ashamed in like circumstances. Now I kneeled, proud of my slavery.

“Please, mistress,” I said, “will you harness me?”

“That, Tuerqui, is what I am about to do. Then, Mrs Clay, you will have the goodness to thrash her.”

“Yes I will,” the housekeeper said, as the collar lock clicked at the nape of my neck.

It seems to me now that persuading Mrs Clay to whip me was remarkably easy. The housekeeper really could have been dismissed from her post for doing such a thing – and that would almost certainly have led to bankruptcy and enslavement. It occurs to me to wonder whether Lisa-Louise had, in reality, already convinced her that no ill consequences would ensure. If that were so, perhaps the whip – longer and better made than that of the previous day – had been brought especially for me, and possibly provided by the elfin girl who asserted her position as my mistress.

“Mrs Clay,” Lisa-Louise said, continuing to fix my harness in place, “you see that tattoo on her forehead? Do you know what RBS stands for?”

“No, I’m not sure that I do.”

“Registered Brothel Stock – it is the mark of a whore. I see Surrenity in your eyes, Mrs Clay. Once the punishment is done, I think that you should take her – take her as your concubine, as the whore that she is.”

“It will be my pleasure, Lisa-Louise.”

The afternoon sunlight slanted through the windows of my chamber. I heard a tide of sound, no longer aware of the words, as Lisa-Louise and Mrs Clay continued to talk, Barguin occasionally adding her piece. The harness was less physically comfortable, heavier, of coarser grade leather, than Lady Isobel’s – and, in that, I found deep satisfaction. Glancing shyly into a tall mirror, I saw my reflection – my new mistress’ property.

[1]The remarks of both physicians are nonsense. Neither hydrochlormasiac nor salmusion tetrathoride exist. There is no chromosome indicating genetic villainy, nor a gene of slavery. There are three possible interpretations of this passage:
1. The physicians spoke nonsense.
2. Tuerqui was unable to recall their remarks, and substituted something of her own invention.
3. Tuerqui here intended to satirise the physicians.
Possibly, all three interpretations are simultaneously correct.

[2]Compare with the jewel thief’s assessment of Wilfred Addal: For what it’s worth, I don’t think he has sex with anyone. Here, the spymaster seems automatically to associate semen with masturbation.

For Chapter 30 click
http://bondlings.blogspot.com/2007/09/chapter-30-table-was-spattered-with.html

Of Bondlings and Blesh Chapter 28

Chapter 28

We stood in the shadow of the Grand Ceremonial Gateway, but it offered no shelter from the rain that was beginning to fall. Fumbling at his pack with his left hand, the sentry was attempting to remove his waterproof – while pointing a halberd in our direction with the right – and doing neither thing efficiently or well. Behind us, a group of schoolgirls, caught in the shower, shrieked as they ran for cover. As the spattering turned into a downpour, miniature waterfalls from either shoulder converged upon my cleavage.

“Oi!” the guard challenged. “This gate’s fer nobles an’ gentries only. Mules is delivered t’ the Stableyard Gate, slaves an’ provisions t’ the Traders Gate. ’Op it, an’ smartish.”

“Hold hard, my good fellow,” Dashing Daniel replied, doffing his now dripping hat with an extravagant flourish. “Things stand quite differently from the manner in which you suppose. We are by no means deliverers of mules, or traders in slaves and provisions.”

“Ho hindeed not,” Carp-eye added with a chuckle, his attempt at a refined accent notably less convincing than Daniel’s.

The guard now menaced us with his halberd clutched in both hands. The soldier had abandoned the waterproof, wedged half in and half protruding from his pack. The forsaken cape was clearly wet inside and out. Rivulets flowed down the sentry’s breastplate – his tunic and breeches sodden.

On the other side of the parade ground, I saw the guardhouse door open. Three soldiers emerged, followed by a sergeant resplendent in a scarlet waterproof trimmed with gold. Had the sentry been fending off an armed assault, the reinforcements would certainly have arrived too late. My conclusion was that the palace was no better guarded than it had been seven years before – and perhaps manned a little more carelessly.

“Orl right – ’oo are yer, then?” The guard’s tone mingled suspicion and contempt.

“My colleague and I,” Dashing Daniel said, rather overdoing the refinement, “are the Duke Daniel and Lord Smith, Marquis of the Great Smitherlands. We are western nobles[1] – and the two boldest pollygoggers who ever ventured into Surrey – our exploits are legendary. We have here Princess Margaret, daughter of this august house, newly returned from captivity. Hurry, now – her highness grows cold and damp as you indulge us with your idle words.”

At the end of this speech, the mule brayed loudly as though to endorse the pollygogger’s claim. The guardsman shifted uncertainly, spraying rainwater almost like a shaking dog. His eyes were averted from me. Presumably, he felt that if I were Lady Margaret he should not gaze upon me clad in nothing more than slave harness.

“Orl right, orl right,” the sergeant – now only a few yards away – bellowed. “What’s orl this then?”

The sentry saluted smartly – spraying more rainwater as he did so. Glaring at the guard, the sergeant flicked some of it from his eye. The accompanying soldiers shuffled nervously, perhaps unsure whether this constituted a breech of military discipline. The rain trickled from their waterproofs.

“Watch it, lad!” the sergeant said. “Get your waterproof on – and report.”

The guard leaned his halberd on the sentry box to grapple with the cape. It had wedged firmly and had to be pushed back into the pack before it could be extracted. Emerging properly this time, it sprayed yet more rainwater in the direction of the sergeant. I giggled – the performance reminded me of a pantomime.

“Sez they’re pollygoggers, serge,” the sentry said, “an’ the slave… or ’ighness, savin’ ’er pardon if she should be, is Princess Margaret.”

“Well – in case she is ’oo they says she is, get yer cape off, lad – an’ cover ’er up. We ain’t got no business seein’ whether an ’ighness’ carpet matches ’er curtains[2].”

The unhappy sentry unlaced his waterproof, spraying yet more water as he did so. Stepping back a little, the sergeant growled. Placed over my shoulders, the cape felt clammy. I had been more comfortable without.

“Pollygoggers, eh?” the sergeant continued. “Well – if she ain’t what y’ say, you two rogues are f’ the ’igh jump – a whippin’ at least – enslavement, if t’were up t’ me. Wastin’ the time o’ the guards is a serious business. I’m as liberal as the next man, but the way things is now is soppiness gone mad.”

“There’s no need…” Dashing Daniel began, sounding deeply offended.

“Williams – back into y’ sentry box,” the sergeant interrupted. “Saunders – fetch Mr Groat – Brice inform Mr Addal – at the double, the pair o’ yer! ’Ighness – or slave as it might be – Jameson, an’ pollygoggers wi’ me t’ the guard ’ouse.”

The sentry scurried back into the shelter of his box. Two other guardsmen trotted off in different directions. The sergeant, the remaining soldier, the pollygoggers, and I stepped briskly across the parade ground. The mule kept pace with us, but seemed sulky, probably miffed at being kept standing in the rain.

The guardhouse smelt of wet socks. As we entered, three soldiers rose quickly to their feet, and saluted the sergeant. The mule followed us through the door – and resisted the guards’ attempts too shoo it out. Red faced, the sergeant said nothing – possibly beyond words.

For the second time, glancing out at the parade ground, I saw the elfin girl. The rain was falling heavily with splashes like dancing fairies, their motion reflecting the girl’s. She was clearly very wet, short hair now plastered to her head, a close-fitting helmet. Almost immediately, she vanished into the shadows of a colonnade – again, I doubted the reality of the vision.

The sergeant was now tapping a news sheet furiously – “Look at this!” he snorted. “The Nine o’ Surrey at each other’s froats. ’Ow come we ain’t gone in there an’ slaughtered every girl Jill of ’em? You can be bloody sure that when I were…”

“Serge,” one of the guards interrupted, “Mr Groat’s comin’.”

Sure enough, the gaunt and stooped figure of the under chamberlain was shuffling, collar up, from the house. He wore no adequate protection against the rain. The guardsman sent to fetch him was attempting to keep pace. His trying to match a military step with the old man’s gait was comic – but, after only a moment my laughter died, it was also pathetic.

I’d expected Wilfred Addal to arrive before Mr Groat. Presumably, my return was not the spymaster’s most important concern. Addal’s slowness to respond was a stroke of good fortune. His piercing gaze might well have revealed that I intended no kindness toward my father’s house.

Abruptly, the guard who had been sent to inform Wilfred Addal emerged from the shadow of a colonnade. To my relief, he was alone. Stepping smartly he was at the door well ahead of Mr Groat. The soldier stamped and saluted.

“Mr Addal thanks you for the information, serge, but says as ’e already knows. Says Miss Lisa-Louise tole’ ’im. Beggin’ y’ pardon, serge.”

“’Er…” the sergeant said venomously. “I’d like t’…” but broke off without specifying what he’d like to do.

Rather timorously, the dripping figure of Mr Groat pushed its way past the mule and into the guardhouse. The guardsman followed with little less caution – concerned, no doubt, that the beast might kick. The under chamberlain mopped his wet brow ineffectually with one cuff before producing a pristine handkerchief with which to wipe his spectacles. Rain from a tuft of white hair trickled over the lenses as soon as they returned to his eyes.

“Whatever is the beast doing in here?” Mr Goat’s voice was thin and quavering.

“That’s what I’d like t’ know,” the sergeant replied more heartily. “Now, as to matters in ’and – these ‘ere gennlemen,” the word sounded like an insult, “says as they’re pollygoggers an’ the slave – or ’ighness, savin’ ’er pardon…”

“Is Princess Margaret. Yes, yes – quite, quite – the guardsman told me. I just need to have my spectacles dry. Can hardly see a thing at the moment.”

“Roach – dry Mr Groat’s glasses for ’im,” the sergeant barked. “An’ – Silver – you towel ’is ’air. Quick abaht it, lads!”

Springing into action were two of the three soldiers who had not been on active service in the rain. One gently lifted the spectacles from Mr Groat’s eyes and attended to them with a polishing cloth. The other acted with less gentleness to dry his hair. The remaining guardsman to have avoided the rain put his feet up and lit a pipe.

The pollygoggers shuffled nervously. Presumably, they were worried lest Mr Groat fail to recognise me. The sergeant regarded them without affection. I felt sure that he would enjoy their whipping.

“Upon my soul, I do believe it is,” the under chamberlain said, finally able to see. “Princess Margaret, as I live and breathe. Oh – child – what they done with you?”

“Don’t worry about me, Mr Groat.” It was the first remark I’d made since seducing Dashing Daniel.

“You recognise me!” He sounded surprised and delighted. “Sergeant, we shouldn’t tarry in the guardhouse. Princess Margaret must be taken into the palace.”

“Of course, Mr Groat,” the sergeant agreed. “Where ex-ackerly shall we escort ’er, sir?”

“The Blue Lounge, I think, for her highness. The two gentlemen must be taken to the petty envoys’ audience chamber. The stable for their beast, obviously.”

“That there mule’s got all our treasure aboard,” Carp-eye objected without trace of feigned refinement.

“It’ll be safe enough with me guards,” the sergeant replied testily. “They know better than t’ steal. If so much as a ha’penny goes missing, somebody’s gonna get mortalled for it. There’s war comin’ – mark me words – an’ we can’t get enough mortlings f’ target practice – not be ’alf we can’t.”

“All the same,” Dashing Daniel said, “our bags would surely be safer under lock an’ key in the treasury.”

“Oh, orl right then – Saunders an’ Brice – take the mule t’ the treasury – mind it don’t beshit the parade ground – drop off the bags with the turnkey, then deliver the beast t’ the stables. Jameson – go with ’em as far as the treasury, then take the pollygoggers t’ the petty envoys. Roach an’ Silver – you come with me t’ escort ’er ’ighness. Barker – you stay ’ere an’ mine’ the shop.”

The rain was slackening, now, and the mule consented to be led from the guardhouse. Before setting foot on the parade ground, it deposited a pile of dung on the floor. Unexpectedly, the sergeant didn’t bawl. Instead, he grinned.

“A little somethin’ f’ you t’ take care of, Barker,” he said. “The cushy watch ain’t always what it’s cracked up t’ be.”

We entered the palace through the State Doorway, flanked on either side by a stone griffin each clasping a shield marked with the crossed arrows of the Blood Victoria. Turning sharp left, my escort left me in the Blue Lounge – the sergeant and his guards saluting smartly as they departed. With its powder blue walls, and darker soft furnishings, it reminded me of a bedroom at the University of Pain. The memory brought fresh tears to my eyes.

For a moment, I thought that I was alone. Then I saw that the elfin girl with the short wet hair was curled, almost like a kitten, on the sofa. With an enigmatic smile, her eyes were fixed upon me. She stretched languidly, more feline than ever.

“You don’t know who I am – do you?” she said. “I know who you are. It’s my business to know things.”

“Who are you?” I replied. “And shouldn’t you call me your highness?”

“There are lots of things I should do – and half of them I don’t. I think you’d rather I called you slave, in any case. Am I right?”

“What makes…?”

“I’m Lisa-Louise,” she interrupted. “I’m going now, but I’m sure I’ll see you again.”

With that, she sprang to her feet and flitted across the room. The girl was swift – and light on her feet – like a shadow flickering in firelight. Turning at the door, she paused briefly to look at me. Then Lisa-Louise was gone.

A moment later, a housekeeper entered without knocking, a ponderous bunch of keys swinging at her hip. While recognising her abrupt entrance as insolence, I didn’t protest. Behind, came a bevy of slaves, each heavily laden. One had a bowl almost big enough to serve as a bath, another bore a large and obviously heavy jug, others carried bundles of textile.

Without pausing to speak to me, the housekeeper took a formidable pair of snippers from a slave’s hand. I had used a similar tool to cut the marked hide on starting a new whip. Still silent, she advanced upon me, leather cutters upraised. The situation had the aspect of nightmare – my beautiful harness, having escaped the pollygoggers, seemed destined to fall victim to this servant.

Then, suddenly calm, I simply said “no!” with as much authority as I could command.

“No?” she asked, pausing irresolute, sounding puzzled.

“No,” I confirmed, confidence rising, but unsure of what to say. “Do you know who placed this harness upon me?”

“No, you highness,” it was her first token of owing me respect – and I knew that I had won.

“Lady Isobel of the University of Pain.” I still didn’t know where my explanation was going, but it didn’t matter. “She used to be my slave, Inqui, perhaps you recall her?”

“No, your highness, I’m sorry but I don’t think I do.”

“Perhaps some of your girls will remember,” I was trying to discomfort the housekeeper by appealing directly to her slaves.

“I do, mistress,” said one called Druj

“Me, too, mistress,” said Whippibelle.

“Good,” I was now totally in command –and enjoying it. “Whippibelle – how do you recall her?”

“Well, mistress, she was always nice and friendly to me. I’ve no complaint against her, but, saving your highness’ pardon…”

“But?”

“Well, mistress, I hope it’s not speaking out of turn, but I always thought Surrenity was in her. And, mistress, if I may say so…?”

“Speak freely.”

“I thought, mistress, as she would have liked to take you. As between the sheets, I mean, mistress.”

“Thank you, Whippibelle. I think that we all follow your meaning. And – Druj – what was your impression?”

“Much the same as Whippibelle’s, mistress. She sometimes looked at you, mistress, like a moon-struck youth. And, you know, mistress…”

“Yes, Druj, I know. I think that we all do. And – housekeeper, do you see?”

“Yes, your highness, but…”

She didn’t complete her sentence, and I paused – for thought, as well as for effect. It crossed my mind to say something of my love for Lady Isobel – but a moment’s consideration showed that to be a bad idea. Tuerqui, lover of her mistress, could not live in this palace – at least not without great caution – I must dissemble, create a princess identity. In another heartbeat, consideration of the fictitious lady’s attitude produced the speech I needed.

“A slave – a lustful slave girl – harnessed her mistress. Do you have no conception of what that means? The harness must be preserved. When Surrey is defeated – as we all know it will – I must lock it upon the wretch.”

“Yes, your highness. I understand, of course, your highness. We’ll need a locksmith, your highness.”

“Tell me, housekeeper, what is your name?”

“Mrs Clay – if it pleases your highness.”

As I grew more assertive, she became commensurately meek. It felt like a game – and one that I was enjoying. Realisation came that, having observed Lady Isobel in her power, I now knew how to carry myself as a mistress should – carry more command than the Lady Margaret of old ever had managed. My revenge on the pollygoggers was slow to come, and I had anger to discharge.

“No, Mrs Clay, it does not please me. You have treated me with gross discourtesy from the moment you entered without knocking. How would you treat one of these slaves if she behaved thus?”

“If it pleases you, your highness, I should whip her.”

“This time it does please me, Mrs Clay. Have the goodness to fetch a whip. Make it a suitable chastising vehicle – I intend to thrash you. Oh – and you may call me mistress. A servant like you isn’t so very far exulted above the slaves, is she?”

“No, mistress, she isn’t. And yes, mistress. Of course, mistress.”

She hastened from the room. The slaves fidgeted nervously, perhaps wondering whether they should follow the housekeeper. With a flick of the wrist, I bade them stay. After a few minutes, Mrs Clay returned with a stout length of plaited leather.

“Mistress,” she said with a curtsey, “may I discharge the slaves?”

“You may not, Mrs Clay. It is my wish that they should see you punished. Now, if you would be good enough, housekeeper… And – Druj – perhaps you could divest me of the guardsman’s cape.”

Curtseying again, Mrs Clay handed me the whip. It was no torment instrument, but it would suffice. Druj unlaced the waterproof and lifted it from my shoulders. It would have hampered the whipping.

There was an audible gasp from the assembled slaves as I stood revealed in harness. Perhaps they recognised the fine workmanship of my slave wear. Possibly it was seeing me exposed as they were – as a bondling. But my feeling is that, paradoxically – combined with my stance of authority – it made me seem more than ever the mistress.

“Out of your dress, Mrs Clay,” I said gently, there was now no cause to raise my voice. “I need to see the welts – no point in working blindfold, is there?”

“Druj?” I asked as Mrs Clay struggled from her dress, “do you know a girl called Lisa-Louise?”

“Yes, mistress. Of course, mistress. Everyone knows her, mistress.”

“Except me.”

“Oh, yes, of course, mistress – except you, mistress. She’s an extra pair of eyes for Mr Addal – or she’s supposed to be, mistress.”

“What does that mean, Druj?”

“She’s a strange girl, mistress. I don’t believe that she tells the spymaster a quarter part of what she knows. She’s her own person, mistress, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I think that I do, Druj. Now, I see that Mrs Clay is disrobed. Let me see – Scrubba, Fetcha – take one of her arms apiece. Hold her tight. I expect her to writhe.”

The two slaves took a firm grip – they’d been the bearers of the water pot and bowl – I’d selected them for their evident strength. As I landed the first stroke, Mrs Clay writhed every bit as much as expected. The second stroke was even harder – I was immersing into the swing of it. When I had finished, she knew that she had been punished.

“We’re done, Mrs Clay,” I said gently, half-regretting how much I had hurt her, “you took that well. Get dressed.”

“Please, mistress,” Workibelle said, “which fabric would you like for your dress?” Evidently, she was the lead stitch slave.

Wiping her eyes, Mrs Clay directed the slaves. Her authority seemed undiminished – perhaps they respected her more for taking the whip, and taking it well. Scrubba and Fetcha washed away the grime of my journey. Blondi measured me, and – after I had selected the textile – the others worked with dress making scissors, needles and thread.

My gown took shape rapidly, in royal blue reminiscent of Lady Isobel’s livery. The design, with collar high enough to hide the leather strap about my neck, was Workibelle’s conception. The skirt was floor length. Taken as a whole, the garment was well cut and flattering.

Blondi left the room, her work with the tape measure done. Perhaps ten minutes later, she returned – underwear piled in her arms. My selections were based upon the contents of Lady Isobel’s lingerie drawers. I needed a model for assuming a character as a person – and who better than my mistress?

Once I was clothed, slaves dressed my hair and applied cosmetics. Scrubba and Fetcha brought me a large mirror. I contemplated my reflection – practicing the most effective facial expressions. I was now ready to see my father.

He awaited me in his study. The years had not touched him lightly – his face was shrivelled, his eyes sunk into deep pits. Rising slowly to greet me, his knuckles were white against the arms of his chair. Breath rasped in my father’s throat.

“Margaret,” his voice carried the suggestion of a chest infection, “what have they done to you?” Before I could answer he raised his hand to add: “No – don’t tell me, I’m sure that I could not bear it.”

“Father – are you ill?”

“I’m well enough.” He dismissed all diseases with a sweeping gesture. “What of you? Your health, child?”

“Better now – and at least I’m out of the clutches of the wretched pollygoggers.”

“Come, daughter, ingratitude ill becomes a princess.”

“But, father…”

“Tush, now, girl. They have delivered you. What else matters?”

“Father – you don’t know them. I served as a slave in brothel, and those two…”

“Enough!” he cut in before I had time to lie. “That was then. This is now. Let us be thankful.”

“But even on their boat – on the way here – they took their filthy things and…”

“Villains! You mean they…?”

“Yes, father, both of them – they took me – took me as only a husband is permitted to do.”

“In that case, the gods be praised for the residency qualification.”

“Residency qualification, father?”

“Yes, yes… You’re only a woman and can’t be expected to understand – but they’ve applied for a bill of absolution and letter of marque. Legal documents – and, should I have granted them, they would be immune from prosecution – no matter what vile things they’d done to you. For a mercy, I can only issue such papers to men residing in Lundin for at least a week.”

“So they’re still here, father?”

“They’re lodging under the sign of the Shafted Surrey Lass, at my expense. Of course, I’ll have them arrested at once.”

“No!” I stayed his hand, reaching for the bell rope. “We first need to assemble our evidence.”

“Evidence! What evidence do we need, you empty-headed girl? They’re guilty aren’t they?”

“We need a physician – better two of them. I must be examined. They need to find the pollygoggers’ semen.”

“Ridiculous! The word of my daughter is better than any evidence. And – on the subject of the word of my daughter – I forbid you to utter such foulness as that S word. It ill becomes a princess.”

“I’m sorry, father, I have been too long in Surrey. But it isn’t ridiculous – really. Without solid evidence people will talk, say that years in harness have addled my brain.”

“A woman hasn’t enough brain for addling! In any case, who dares utter such treason? Let them be mortalled!”

I was determined that my having sex with the pollygoggers should not be a wasted defilement. If my father had his way, I’d be spared an undignified and probably painful examination, but that was insufficient reparation. Biting my lower lip, I sought an argument that would appeal to him. Of course – how would he know who spoke treason?

“Father, your spies have better things to do than listen out for silly gossip concerning a mere female. As you say, I’m only a woman. Mr Addal’s men need to keep watch for Surrey’s agents, peeping slyly at our defences, I do not doubt. You must also consider the expense…”

“Daughter, you show more sense that the whole of the rest of your sex put together. My spies have plenty of work already – and there are too many calls upon my poor purse. It will be as you suggest.”

Emerging from my father’s study, I thought the passageway empty until Lisa-Louise emerged from a patch of deep shadow. She made eye contact, but her expression was unreadable. Unable to meet her gaze for more than a few seconds, I turned my head. Glancing back towards her a moment later, she wore a look of triumph.

“Silly Tuerqui,” she said. “You didn’t need to have those horrible physicians poking about in your girl parts.”

“Listening at doors is contemptible,” I replied. “Listening at my father’s door is probably treason.”

“But I was forgetting,” she continued, ignoring my remark. “If the doctors didn’t poke into you, there’d have been no point in seducing the poor pollygoggers. And you only liking girls – poor Tuerqui.”

“If you breathe that lie again, I’ll kill you.”

“Kill me? I doubt it – but your revenge might be nasty enough – look at what you’re doing to the poor pollygoggers. Some would strike first to silence me, but you’re not one of those, are you? Don’t worry, Tuerqui, your secrets are safe with me.”

She stepped forward and ran her fingers lightly from my breasts to my thighs. Her lips brushed mine – an ambiguous kiss, neither chaste nor sexual. Seemingly without effort, she evaded my questing fingers as I raised a hand to touch her. Meeting her eyes again, I was still unable to read anything in their unfathomable depths.

“Lisa-Louise…?”

“I’d rather you called me mistress, Tuerqui. I think you would – and will – prefer it too.”

“Now look here…”

“Oh, I know that Lady Isobel owns you – body and soul. She owns you by right of purchase, by right of her authority and by right of the love you bear her. But she isn’t here, is she? I am here, and I think that I may own you by right of what I know.”

“If this is some kind of game…”

“Some kind of game, mistress, I’m not Lady Isobel, but I’m not Jenna either. It’s no game, Tuerqui – so say it.”

“Say what?”

“Say: If this is some kind of game, mistress.”

“If this is some kind of game, mistress,” I repeated dutifully.

“There, that felt better, didn’t it? I own you by right of your need for an owner.”

She was right. I did need an owner. Lisa-Louise was not someone I would have chosen for the role, but a slave does not choose her mistress. With a sense of wonder, I realised that I would be hers for as long as I remained in the Palace Victoria – although I had no idea what being hers would involve.

“When I first saw you, I could see that you belonged in harness. Come, slave, let’s go where I can take stock of you without that silly dress. It doesn’t make you a person, does it?”

“No, mistress.” The word mistress expressed a deep longing. “Mistress – if I may ask?”

“Yes, Tuerqui?”

“Do you wish to make love with me, mistress?”

“If I do, Tuerqui, it will be of my choosing. For the moment, it is enough to assert my ownership. You do not need to, and shall not, know where it will lead. And now you will follow me – one pace behind, as a good slave should.”

Lisa-Louise, stepping ahead of me, was in animated motion – skipping like a little girl. From the beyond the windows, I could hear the sergeant barking at his men. Beneath my feet – still bare – the floor was smooth enough, but the ghost of roughness proved that the wax had not been applied with the love of we who were Lady Isobel’s property. Passing a south-facing casement, I saw that bright sunshine was breaking through the clouds.

[1] The titles were, of course bogus – but Dashing Daniel’s claim that they were western nobles may be another indication that his origins were in Westland.

[2] Carpet matches her curtains: A coarse reference to whether the hair of Tuerqui’s head was the same colour as her pubic hair – or was dyed.

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