Of Bondlings and Blesh Chapter 36

Chapter 36

The table was littered with official documents – craning my neck, I glanced at the nearest, but it seemed too dull to strain my eyes upon more than the first half dozen words. My knife sank too readily into the pieces of meat on my plate, from a boiled joint that had been overcooked. A continued scrabbling from the skirting boards betrayed the presence of unseen mice – my father disliked cats. Flickering light from a single inadequate lamp filled the room with shadow.

It was Briday evening, my weekend all but gone, and this was my first meal with father for six days. As neither of us seemed to care for the other’s company, our regular suppers together had lapsed by mutual – if unspoken – consent. But for my need to broach dancing lessons, I would have been elsewhere. During the ten minutes since I’d entered father’s dining room, our combined utterances amounted to no more than half a dozen words.

“Father,” I said, forcing myself to speak. “You said something about finding me suitors – with a view to marriage.”

“If you’re going to say that you prefer the wickedness of Surrey,[1] you can spare yourself the trouble.”

“No – father – I wasn’t going to say that.”

“Good! You’re what age, now?”

“Twenty-seven father.”

“In the names of Shabbath and Mottran[2], you’ll be no catch for your poor husband!”

“No, father.”

“As if your brand and tattoo aren’t bad enough – you’re a dozen years older than a bride should be. If I’d had my way, you might have been married at thirteen – fifteen at the very oldest. But your mother thought we should wait till you were at least were twenty – stupid cow! As to me – I didn’t want to offend her connections, a matter of politics, you wouldn’t understand.”

“No, father, of course not. I recognise how little I have to offer suitors. I’ve been trying to think about improving matters.”

“Obedience would help – and I hope Miss Miles is thrashing that into you.”

“Yes, father she is, that is she has thrashed it into me. I’m trying to be good. But I think I need more than that. In fact, father, I think I should learn to dance.”

“Dance? Whatever put that into your silly head?”

“I believe that dance has always played an important part in courtship, father.”

“Now you mention it, your mother and I stepped a measure or two before we were married. Stupid nonsense, of course, but you may have a point. Perhaps Miss Miles could be persuaded to take you for dance instead of drill. Not sure if she dances, though.”

“Miss Miles is a very sensible woman – I’m sure that dance is too giddy for her. I think I need a proper dance instructor.”

“You’re not trying to weasel out of Miss Miles’ lessons are you? If you are, I think that a heavier dose of the strap would be as good an answer as any. Something to have you squirming, my girl.”

“No, father! Certainly not! But I’m at liberty during the afternoon and evening. Better that I devote my time to something useful than to idleness.”

“Well – I can’t argue with that. I suppose a few dance lessons wouldn’t be so very expensive. They’d better not be – with all the calls, just now, on my poor purse. Much as I try to discourage frivolity, I’m sure there must be dance instructors in Lundin.”

“As a matter of fact, father, I took the liberty of making enquiries – and this lady was recommended.” I leaned over the table, handing him Sarah James’ card – otherwise Gloria Glitter’s.

“Eh? Who gave you this?”

“One of your generals was kind enough to supply it. Is that a problem, father?”

“One of my generals? Must be that popinjay, Eric Marsh – always wondered about him. I should ask Wilfred Addal to keep an eye out for flighty boys. Don’t want that kind of doing in my palace.”

“Indeed not, father! The very idea! Why…”

“How do you know about that sort of thing? That damn brothel, I suppose. No – don’t answer that. Thinking about it, you do need to become more of a lady, and some dancing lessons might help.”

“Thank you, father.”

“As long as it’s a strictly girly thing. No man of this palace is to be involved. And no gigolos or fart stoppers from the town, either.”

“Father!”

“No need to come the shrinking maiden with a brothel mark on your forehead, my girl. It won’t wash.”

“No, father.”

“So no real men, no lady fletchers and – above all – no back passage Bertie pies.”

“Of course not, father. I hoped that I might persuade a lady of your court to join me – and perhaps my slaves might make up the numbers.”

“That sounds all right, I suppose,” he studied the business card. “Sarah James? Can’t say I’ve heard of her, but then I wouldn’t. Not a very good address, I must say.”

“If she lives somewhere squalid, father, she’ll probably work cheaply.”

“Your argument appeals to me! I’ll pass the card to Mr Groat, and have him engage Miss James. Perhaps,” he added, brightening, “she’ll give you an extra thrashing or two. That couldn’t come amiss.”

The following two days found Miss Miles in a foul temper. She had decided that I should become the mistress of long division – and substantially improve my handwriting. When I failed to make much progress in either regard, she had recourse to spanking, the cane and finally the strap. As the governess applied her most fearsome instrument of correction, Mary made the mistake of giggling – and received the same treatment as me.

By the time the Sorday schoolroom lunch was over, leaving me at liberty, my bottom was throbbing. Returning to my room, I stepped carefully, to minimise friction between my knickers and my skin. It seemed a mercy that my pinafore dress was so brief, allowing easy circulation of cold Dankfog air about my warm nether regions. Nor, for once, was I sorry that no attempt was made to heat the corridors.

With thoughts fixed upon my strapped rear, I pushed open my door. The living room beyond did not contain its accustomed quota of persons and slaves. In fact, the only one present was Tipsi, grinning broadly and, I realised, dancing in excitement. Blinking at her, I didn’t have to wait for an explanation.

“Mistress – she’s here! Gloria Glitter! Or Sarah James, mistress. The London Follies, mistress!”

There was comfort for me in reflecting that people do not sit to dance. By way of reply, I nodded absently and forced a smile. It had not occurred to me that Tipsi would be so excited by Sarah James’ first visit. Perhaps, I thought, Bob Bosset wasn’t the only one who should take a slave to the Follies.

Tipsi continued to babble excitedly as she led me to the tradespersons’ audience chamber. There, I found that not only were Miss James’ prospective students awaiting us – Lisa-Louise, Barguin, and Diqui – but also Bob Bosset and Fluff. No doubt, the Sergeant General needed to be there to explain what kind of dancing lessons were required. His slave’s presence seemed to owe something to her sharing Tipsi’s excitement.

Had Fluff come purely for another glimpse of Gloria Glitter, after seeing the dancer’s stage persona, I might have expected her to be disappointed. In her street clothes, Sarah James was an attractive but unremarkable young woman, probably in her mid-twenties. She had collar length blonde hair, wore flat shoes, a black skirt and grey polo necked jumper. For all of that, Fluff seemed, if anything, to be more enthusiastic than Tipsi.

“Ah,” said Bob Bosset, “let me make the introductions. Princess Margaret, this is Miss James of the Lundin Follies. Miss James, this is Princess Margaret of the Blood Victoria. She’s in the pinafore dress because she’s come straight from her morning in the schoolroom.”

“The ways of the rich…” Sarah James began, “well – never mind. A Mr Groat tells me that you require dancing lessons. General Bosset, here, and Miss Lisa-Louise have assured me that’s correct.”

“Yes – that’s why we sent for you. Do you think you can teach us to dance?”

“I’m not sure that I’ll be the teacher you want. To be honest, I don’t know much about social dancing. What I know are show numbers – with a high kicking chorus line.”

“That’s exactly what they’re after,” said Bob Bosset. “Choreographed dance steps. It doesn’t have to be up to the standards of the Lundin Follies, of course – but it needs to be the same general kind of dancing.”

“Well – that’s err… unexpected. It’s none of my business why you want that – or why an army general’s involved – but…”

“If you imagine they’re trying to mount a poor imitation of the Lundin Follies, you’ll do fine. Let’s call it palace theatricals. And maybe I’m going to sell sweeties in the interval.”

“You’re not, are you?” asked Fluff.

“No, I’m not, Fluff. Never mind.”

“But the girls are going to learn to dance like the chorus at the Follies?”

“Yes, Fluff.”

“Ooh! Can I join them? Please, please, please – Bobby! Please!”

“Do you mind if Fluff joins you?” Bob Bosset asked.

“Not me,” said Lisa-Louse.

“Nor me,” I added.

“In that case, you’re in, sweetheart,” said Bob Bosset.

Fluff emitted a whoop of joy and danced a little jig. Bob Bosset smiled, obviously pleased to see her so happy. Lisa-Louise laughed – she and Tipsi joined Fluff in her little dance, while Sarah James looked bemused. It was at this point that Mr Groat entered the room.

“Goodness!” he said. “Miss Lisa-Louise, Fluff, Tipsi – you all seem very gay. And General Bosset – whatever are you doing here?”

“Fluff , bless her, wanted to join the dance classes. She didn’t know where the tradespersons’ audience chamber was, so I fetched her.”

“Oh, of course. For a moment, I thought… well, never mind. Is everything settled satisfactorily? I’ve agreed Miss James’ fee – but is there anything else you require?”

“Well, yes,” Sarah James replied. “How about the musicians?”

“Musicians?”

“Yes, musicians. Dance is movement to music, and you can’t have music without musicians.” She had adopted the tone one might use to an imbecile.

“Oh yes, of course. I hadn’t thought of that, silly me. Well, perhaps some members of the guard might step in. They certainly have drummers and buglers.”

“It has to be dance music. I’m not organising a cavalry charge.”

“Also,” I said quickly, not wishing to have possibly loose lipped guardsmen involved, “my father said that it was to be strictly a girly thing. I don’t think he’ll want his soldiers present.”

“Yes, of course, Princess Margaret, I can see that. But, really, I don’t think that we have any girl musicians in the palace. In fact, I’m all but sure of it.”

“Then, Mr Groat, we must hire some. Really, you should have thought of this. Perhaps Miss James knows some suitable girls.”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I know at least twenty girl musicians who would be glad of the work. I’m sure none of them would want a bigger fee than mine, they might even do it for a few coppers less.”

“Twenty? That would be…” Mr Groat was clearly doing sums in his head. “Oh, dear me, no – that would be far too much – there are limits to my petty disbursements.”

“A dozen, then?”

“Could you manage with just one? That way, I could easily take it from the contingency fund – and, if I did that, I’m sure that his highness wouldn’t question the expenditure.”

“No – I couldn’t manage with one. I’d need a drummer to establish the beat, and someone to play the melody, maybe on the flute, and…”

Eventually, they agreed upon three musicians, each to receive a penny ha’penny less per session than Miss James. We were to have a drum, a flute and a squeezebox. Our dance instructor said that this was inadequate, but in reality seemed happy enough with the arrangement. My impression was that she attempted to negotiate work for as many of her friends as possible.

It remained to determine what we would wear for the lessons – Bob Bosset and Mr Groat departed while the rest of us went to see Mrs Clay. It seemed, at first, that our dancewear would closely resemble my drill outfit, but without the skirt. Tipsi and Fluff, in particular, clamoured for sequins and tights, while Lisa-Louise and Barguin slowly absorbed their enthusiasm. Eventually, Mrs Clay agreed to glittery costumes provided she were permitted to join the dance classes.

Our first lesson with Miss James took place three days later, in the room used for drill in wet weather. It was Valday afternoon, and I’d broken from the schoolroom for the weekend. Miss Miles’ temper had improved so that my bottom felt a lot more comfortable than it had on the aptly named Sorday. With Fluff and Mrs Clay added to our numbers, there were now seven of we students, amongst whom only Diqui seemed free from a party spirit.

My shoes were the ones I wore for drill. Mrs Clay had found similar soft lace up footwear for everyone else. Her stitch slaves had done wonders in creating the glittery costumes, with snugly fitting tops, tiny shorts and shiny tights. Once unharnessed, Tipsi and Fluff squealed in delight as they dressed.

A girl called Amelia, who couldn’t have been more than eighteen, played the drum – she had long dark hair, drab clothing and an habitually serious expression. The flautist was Jane, perhaps a year or two younger – a redhead in a bright yellow dress, whose lips curved into a smile whenever they were not pursed at her instrument. A blonde of perhaps sixteen summers, named Harriet, provided the squeezebox accompaniment. Her dress was of a busy multi-coloured print, and she seemed perpetually on the point of dissolving into giggles.

Miss James was soberly dressed, wore a serious expression and carried a long staff. With a sense of alarm, I wondered whether the stick might serve to punish mistakes. It would have been unwieldy for that purpose, but my vision was of three or four of us bent over for a simultaneous whacking. To my relief, our tutor confined herself to using it as a pointer, and to beat the time for our steps.

Fluff’s and Tipsi’s enthusiasm was infectious and soon even Diqui – who had regarded both dancing and the costumes sourly – seemed to be enjoying herself. It was hard work, at least as arduous as drill with Miss Miles, but I was having fun. The music certainly helped to lift my spirits – all three girls were extraordinarily good in their own right, and together formed a fine ensemble. Miss James proved an excellent teacher, and the gaiety was enhanced by the fact that mistakes produced laughter rather than thrashings.

By Selday, although far short of professional chorus line standards, it was clear that we were making excellent progress. After verifying this with Sarah James, Bob Bosset returned us to dagger work. Our aim, now, was to combine dance steps with wielding the weapons. While much better than we had been twelve days earlier, the results fell short of the Sergeant General’s, Lisa-Louise’s or my expectations.

“That was an improvement,” Lisa-Louise said afterwards, “but it just didn’t flow right. There’s something missing.”

“I know what you mean,” Bob Bosset replied, rubbing his stubbly chin. “How would it be if we went back to the crossbow tomorrow while I takes another look at Alice Arrowshaft’s book? Fluff could make us all a lovely dinner and then we might talk it through over a joint of beef and maybe a bottle or two of best elderberry. What d’you say?”

“That sounds good to me. Fluff’s cooking is the best I’ve tasted in a long while. A glass or two of elderberry would slip down very nicely. And we’ve still got work to do on the crossbow.”

“When you say make us all a lovely dinner,” I asked, “do you have in mind Tipsi, Barguin and Diqui, too?”

“I don’t see why not – they’re in this thing as well. You’ll be relying on them to cover your backs. If we pull out the leaves, the dining table will sit us all. And I’ve plenty of bottles in me cellar.”

The following morning did not go well for me. Miss Miles included long division sums in the Comday morning test and I knew, without being told, that I had all of them of wrong. Then the early rain cleared up just in time for us to take drill outside – to the delight of the idlers. The wretches’ pleasure redoubled when the governess decided that I deserved a bare bottomed caning.

Mercifully, my day improved after a schoolroom lunch even more indigestible than usual – and having, as always, to eat it or receive the cane. The dance class in the early afternoon was excellent – even Diqui enjoyed the high kicks she attempted. The session with the crossbow was a lot less fun, but we made noticeable progress, with me moving back to the fifty yard line for the first time. Better still, while we were in the subterranean shooting range, Fluff had put the final touches to a magnificent roast.

“Here we are,” she said proudly, fetching in the joint on a large dish. Then, a little disappointed: “Oh! Where’s Mrs Clay? She doesn’t seem to be here.”

“I’m afraid Mrs Clay couldn’t make it,” said Lisa-Louise.

“Oh well, never mind. All the other girls are here – and darling Bobby, too. This is going to be such fun!”

She was right. Although I sat a little gingerly after my morning’s session with the cane, the dinner party was fun. Both the food and the wine were exquisite, and everyone at table made a contribution to the gaiety of the occasion. For the first time, I began to appreciate Diqui’s dry wit and Barguin’s rather droll sense of humour.

“Well,” said Bob Bosset, as Fluff and Tipsi – giggling together – started to remove the empty plates. “I’ve taken another look at Alice Arrowshaft’s book, and I’ve had a thought. Our arms training would be nearer to what she says if Sarah James and her musicians joined us. We really need to combine the fighting and dancing classes.”

“What happens to Mrs Clay and Fluff?” asked Diqui. “Are they in for learning to kill? Or are they out?”

“There’s the first problem,” Bill Bosset said. “I don’t know about Mrs Clay, but I can’t see Fluff making a killer, and even asking would be really upsetting for her, I’m sure of it. On the other hand, she loves the dance classes.”

“Hard to imagine Mrs Clay going for arms training, either. And it would mean trusting Sarah James and the musicians not to spread it around about our arms training,” said Lisa-Louise. “How far can we trust them?”

“We could maybe trust them a bit further if they were paid a bit more than the coppers Mr Groat shells out,” said Diqui.

“That’s true,” said Lisa-Louise. “And, if we pay them a bit more, I imagine they’d still provide the dance classes including Fluff and Mrs Clay – and then join the arms training afterwards. Truth to tell, I’d miss the dancing as much as anyone.”

“But where do we get the extra money?” I asked. “Sell more of mother’s jewels? Do any of us even know where to sell them?”

“I think we should try to avoid using the jewels, anyway,” said Lisa-Louise. “If too many vanish, there may be trouble. Tuerqui’s daddy isn’t all that stupid, nor is Uncle Wilfred.”

“I can’t promise,” said Bob Bosset, “but I may have the solution. It happens that I’m going to be talking tomorrow with Tuerqui’s dad about a budget for training irregular troops.”

“Irregular troops?”

“Fighting men – or, as it might be, girls – who aren’t part of a proper army, there might not be much difference between them and bandits. We expect civil war in Surrey some time – whenever Berenice Blackheart and Nadine Next fall out. That could be in a month or two, could be in a year or two. When that happens, and I don’t think it’s if, irregular troops might do a lot of damage.”

“And you think that you could pay for Sarah James and her musicians out of the budget for training these bandits?”

“Yes, I think I might. Tuerqui’s dad won’t let me experiment with training regular troops by Alice Arrowshaft’s methods. But I reckon that maybe I could sell him on experimenting for training the irregulars. Certainly worth a try.”

“Strange coincidence that the possibility comes up just when we need it,” said Diqui suspiciously.

“Cause and effect, I suppose.” Bob Bosset shrugged. “The pollygoggers were able to grab Tuerqui because of the disorder in Surrey. The same disorder makes Tuerqui’s dad think about training irregulars – it’s all part of the same pattern.”

“The tide of events that brought me back to Lundin – and has me seeking ways to leave – also contains the seeds of my return to Surrey,” I said in wonder. “It’s strange how things work out.”

“Perhaps it’s an example of the workings of the goddess,” said Barguin.

“Perhaps it is, at that,” I agreed.

“Is everyone up for gooseberry crumble?” Fluff asked.

The following day was Ruday, which found Miss Miles in a better temper. She was even a little apologetic about taking my knickers down to cane me during drill. It seemed a good opportunity to ask whether my private study might include geography – and the governess seemed pleased by the suggestion. My idea was that returning to Surrey would be easier with some knowledge of the alternative routes.

In the early afternoon, the dancing class proved even more enjoyable than usual. My impression was that the previous evening’s dinner party had strengthened the bonds between us. The increasingly firm friendship between Tipsi and Fluff was particularly marked. Diqui’s former reservations about learning to dance, and about the glittery costumes, seemed to have vanished entirely.

The Sergeant General was not about when we left Fluff at Bob Bosset’s quarters. Neither was he at the subterranean firing range. After waiting for five or ten minutes, we returned to his rooms. Fluff made us rose hip tea, which we sipped until Bob Bosset turned up wearing a satisfied smile.

“I’ve been talking with Tuerqui’s dad – and I’m free to use Sarah James and her musicians for training irregulars.”

“I’m a bit surprised that the old skinflint agreed,” said Lisa-Louise. “Not only will it cost him money, but I didn’t really think he’d go for even irregular troops training with dance movements.”

“Ah! I boxed clever there. Started by saying that using girls would be a good idea. In Surrey, people expect warriors to be girls – so they’d be less conspicuous than fighting boys.”

“And that convinced him?”

“Not one hundred percent. I said that, if we tried training girls to fight by Surrey methods, it might show up our enemy’s weaknesses. After all, I argued, it ain’t natural for girls to be warriors. He liked that.”

“I bet that money came into it as well.”

“Right you are, Miss Lisa-Louise. Money always raises its head when I talk with Tuerqui’s daddy. I said that, since we were already hiring Sarah James and the musicians, it wouldn’t cost too much extra to bring them into troop training. He really liked that.”

“So – he’s agreed to fund our training.”

“Well – I didn’t say which girls I was going to train. If he asks, I suppose there’s no harm in mentioning your name, Miss Lisa-Louise.”

“Does that mean I’m going to be an irregular soldier?”

“Officially, anyway.”

“So – when do we begin arms training with dance steps?”

“I’ll have a word with Sarah James and her girls tomorrow. Then maybe we can start on Olday. We’ll see. One thing – it doesn’t have to be secret any more, apart from Tuerqui’s part in it.”

“Anyone want more tea?” Fluff asked. “We’ve got rose hip, currant, camomile…”

On Olday, at liberty from Miss Miles for the weekend, our dance class occupied the late morning. A beaming Mrs Clay presented us with costumes more glittery than ever. Diqui, who usually seemed to despise anything girly, appeared as delighted as any of us. The stitch slaves had even prepared things for Sarah Jane and the musicians – only Amelia was less than wholeheartedly enthusiastic.

The class went extremely well – one of my kicks was certainly higher than any I’d previously achieved. As usual, Tipsi was the star of the show. Barguin and Diqui were more enthusiastic than accomplished. Lisa-Louise, Fluff and Mrs Clay all produced little short of professional performances.

Afterwards, we all shared a midday meal that Fluff had prepared. It was in every respect better than my schoolroom lunch of the previous day. There were patties filled with leftover beef from two nights earlier, and a sweet tart that might almost have passed for honeycake. For Sarah James and her musicians, this was their first taste of Fluff’s cooking – and they were especially appreciative.

Once we had eaten, Mrs Clay returned to the stitch room while I, and my fellow slaves, packed up the lunch plates and cutlery – hardly a crumb of food remained. That task completed, Fluff went home, carrying the things from our meal in a large basket. The rest of us set off, still in our dance lesson finery, for the shed in which Bob Bosset awaited us. As we entered, the Sergeant General grinned.

“Well,” he said, “this shed has seen shiny breastplates and plumed helmets – but nothing like this. When I said about you doing arms training in sequins and tights, I’m not sure that I was serious, but you’re a lovely sight. If you could show me some of your dance moves, I’ll see how they might fit in with weapons practice – and Alice Arrowshaft’s wisdom.”

We went through our moves and, afterwards, Bob Bosset supplied us with daggers. It was an instant success. Sarah James and the music took us through the movements. The Sergeant General’s orders turned our routines into the dance of death and, almost immediately, we began to acquire the skills that had been eluding us.

Unexpectedly, I found that I was no longer gripping the dagger too tightly. The weapon felt, for the first time, a trusted friend. A confidence surged through me, and – I think – through all of us. Moving to the music, I knew instantly that my every movement was right.

“Well, I’m amazed,” said Bob Bosset. “I’d figured that the Surrey victories must mean that Alice Arrowshaft knew something. But I never expected this. In ten minutes, you’ve picked up more than in all our previous sessions put together.”

“We’re good, aren’t we?” said Lisa-Louise. “All of us.”

“That you are – every girl Jill. Next session will be with the sword, and I’ve every confidence that each of you will soon be its mistress.”

Afterwards, I paid for the session with less professional distance – and more affection – than usual. After he had ejaculated, I smiled down upon Bob Bosset, tied to the bed like a shaftarama whore boy. My costume, now somewhat disarranged, was based on that of Berenice’s personal guard – minus the armour. Reaching down, I stroked the Sergeant General’s face.

“You know, Tuerqui,” he said, “whatever uniform you’re wearing, there’s a new gentleness in you tonight. It’s like you don’t want to be savage with me, now that you’ve got what it takes to kill.”

“I’m sorry. Today’s session was worth a good payment. I’ll try harder next time.”

“I’m not complaining. It was nice. Professional, but almost loving.”

“If you want loving, you should be lying with Fluff.”

“Yeah, I feel a bit guilty about that. Fluff loves me, and I love her, but… Well, even tonight, there was something in what you did. The touch of the craftswoman.”

“And Fluff is an amateur?”

“She’s no whore.”

“Would you like her to be? Truly? Let’s have no deception. Even the ghost of a lie would be unworthy of us, now that...”

“It would, wouldn’t it? Would I like Fluff to be a whore? If you mean would I like her to be opening her legs for every man who asks…”

“I know you wouldn’t like that. Of course not.”

“Fucking right I wouldn’t. Fluff is special. Not that I’m saying that you’re not special – or your friends from that brothel. Oh – I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“I think I know. What’s between you and Fluff is more than special. Touched by the goddess. It has divinity.”

“Maybe that’s it. And maybe something else, too. No woman should have to whore herself. Not that I’m ungrateful for the pleasure you’ve given me.”

“You don’t want Fluff to be a professional, but maybe it would be nice, sometimes, if she moved like one. Whorish loving, but just between the two of you. Making things extra special, a touch of magic.”

“Yes, maybe, I’d hate her not to be her sweet loving self. But – now and again – a little whorish trick might make things more interesting.”

“Would you like me to teach her?”

“If this is an excuse to lure her into Surrenity…”

“I don’t see Fluff as a girl’s girl.”

“Neither do I. Do you think I should talk to her? To introduce the thought that you might teach her a few tricks? Nothing too heavy, of course.”

“No – I’ll have a word first, plant the idea. If you do it, she’ll maybe think you’re dissatisfied with her – and neither of us want her to have that notion. It should be my idea, not yours. We’ll have a little woman to woman talk – OK?”

“Thank you, Tuerqui.”

“Fluff’s right. You really are a sweet man.”

A coarse army blanket scratched at my knees as I kneeled astride Bob Bosset. The bed smelt of his sexual fluids and mine. High on the wall, staring blankly at us, was the portrait of a moustachioed general in an antique uniform. Echoing from the square outside, a drill sergeant bawled at his men.

[1] Wickedness of Surrey – see Chapter 34, note 1.

[2] Shabbath and Mottran – legendary giants who were supposed to guard the halls of the damned in which the wicked dead were punished.

Shabbath and Mottran are mentioned in one of the fragmentary pieces in Tuerqui’s handwriting preserved in the archives of the University of Pain. It reads as follows:

Of Life and Legends

Comparisons between persons I’ve met and figures of legend.

My father had the idea that the souls of the wicked would, after death, be consigned to the Halls of the Damned, guarded by two giants called Shabbath and Mottran. As a child, the schoolroom seemed to me the Halls of the Damned. Miss Lace, my governess, was, of course, one of the fearsome giants. Her hard hand, cane and strap were her weapons. Much later, I was placed under another governess, Miss Miles, whose armoury was – if anything – even more terrible. If Miss Lace was Mottran, Miss Miles was Shabbath.

Maj. Ber. Yr. 9, Th. 12 – showed this to my mistress. She doesn’t think it has the makings of a book. If I mention anyone famous, my comparisons will either agree with received opinion (which would be dull) or disagree (which might be dangerous). She’s right, isn’t she?

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Of Bondlings and Blesh Chapter 35

Chapter 35

The wet afternoon was gloomier than the rainy morning had been, Miss Miles had recently lit a couple of extra lamps – but they didn’t seem to cast much light. The metallic smell of schoolroom ink, mingled with chalk dust, filled my nostrils. A sudden squall blew a fresh volley of rain against the window, drowning the scratching of nibs on paper. My bottom was only a little too sore to sit comfortably on the wooden seat, smoothed by spanked generations of squirming children.

It was Dankfog 14th, a Comday, bringing me a little more than half way through my afternoon detentions. The heavy rain had meant, that morning, drill had been conducted indoors – in a room with small high windows. Short of standing on ladders, it was hard to see how any of the idlers could have watched us. Better still, perhaps, it had been my first drill session with Miss Miles during which I had not been punished.

In spite of the weather, the governess seemed in an unusually good mood. The cane and the strap had remained idle all day, and the only punishment had been a hand spanking for Mary – a lenient response to a piece of obvious insolence. My less than comfortable bottom followed a caning the previous afternoon, occasioned by my continued failure at long division. Mercifully, there had been no arithmetic questions in our Comday morning test.

After lunch, Miss Miles had given me the Delgarde genealogy to study. All afternoon, I’d been looking through it with increasing frustration. My notes on the Warrick line included dates for Blanche and Laurence IV, which I’d double checked. Looking at what seemed to be the same years in the Delgarde line, there were half a dozen Blanches – but none of them could have been a daughter of the Duke of Warrick.

“Margaret, how are you doing with the Delgarde genealogy? You look troubled, child.”

“Yes, miss,” I said cautiously. “I’ve had some success. Think I’ve found your ancestors, miss.”

“Let me see…” She peered over my shoulder. “Ah – yes, indeed, Margaret. I do have the honour of descent from Colonel Miles – do you know much of him?”

“Only a little, I’m afraid, miss.”

“He was a very great commander, Margaret, and a brave man. When an unruly mob filled the streets of Brister – threatening King Lucas II, himself – Colonel Miles personally trampled the wretches under his horse’s hooves.[1] It was a glorious victory, for which he was awarded the Order of the Red Knights. The medal is amongst my father’s dearest possessions.”

“I’m sure it must be, miss.”

“But you still look a little puzzled. What is it, child?”

“Well, miss, you remember how royal Blanche, daughter of Laurence III of Warrick, married into the Delgarde family?”

“How could I forget, Margaret? Noble as the Delgarde line is, it has seldom had the honour of marriage to a king’s eldest granddaughter. Indeed, the Blanche who married Colonel Miles was descended from a younger son of the royal Blanche – so she is one of my own ancestors. Royal blood flows in my veins, young lady, remember that.”

“Yes, miss, of course I will. But, miss, I can’t find the royal Blanche in the Delgarde charts.”

“Are these your workings, girl?”

“Yes, miss.”

“They’re a bit messy – we really must attend to your handwriting.[2] I wonder whether I have been a little too lax with you.”

“Yes miss. Of course, miss. But see – this is the date for the royal Blanche from the Warrick charts – and if I look at the same period in the Delgarde line…”

“Margaret – you are a very foolish little girl. Such an elementary mistake – you should be ashamed of yourself! The Warrick dates are in the Meadowlands reckoning, based on the accession of Roderick I. The Delgarde dates are Westland ones, from the accession of Donald the Great – almost three hundred years earlier – of course the dates don’t tally, you silly child.”

“Oh, I see, miss. Thank you, miss. So, the royal Blanche, miss?”

“Is here, Margaret.”

She flicked quickly to the correct page and pointed to the entry. Although she could have had no idea that she was doing so, Miss Miles revealed the traitor who had colluded with the Duke of Lester on my enslavement. Under the name of royal Blanche’s eldest son was a paragraph of tiny spidery script. In the dim light, I couldn’t read it all – but four words sufficed – created first Lord Higate.

“Lisa-Louise!” I called jubilantly, as soon as I was back in my rooms after lessons. Then, realising that I wished to impart dangerous information, added in a lower voice: “Sorry, mistress – but can we have an urgent talk, please, mistress?”

“Tuerqui, you are an insolent slave – I should whip you for calling me by name, like that… In fact, but – no – I see something in your eyes… All right, I’ll put on a waterproof, and suggest you do the same, Tuerqui. It’s still pouring out there.”

She was right. Out in the derelict garden, the rain flowed down our waterproofs in miniature streams – larger and muddier rivulets coursed about our feet. Heavy drops rattled loudly on what remained of the gazebo roof. It was the sort of evening for which they make houses and fires.

“This had better be good, Tuerqui. My waterproof isn’t up to this weather. Rain’s finding its way into… Well never mind where.”

“Yes, mistress it is good, or perhaps I should say bad, mistress – because it’s about wickedness. The owner of the Warrick sword – the traitor who plotted my enslavement – is Lord Higate. I’m sure of it, mistress.”

“It makes sense, Tuerqui – and I don’t doubt you – but how are you so certain? Was it from Miss Miles’ genealogical charts?”

“Yes, mistress – it’s like this... Duke Laurence III of Warrick had no legitimate male heir – so the title went to Laurence IV, the son of a whore. Laurence III’s wife, though, was a king’s daughter, and she had three legitimate daughters – who must have had a very good claim to the dukedom. The eldest son of the eldest daughter was the first Lord Higate.”

“That’s it, Tuerqui!” said Lisa-Louise, kissing my forehead and showering me with rain drops. “We have our traitor – and Bob Bosset is in the clear. I think we should go and see the Sergeant General straight away – to negotiate arms training. Tuerqui – you’re a genius!”

“Thank you mistress. I think we should go straight away, mistress, before we get much wetter.”

The slave who admitted us to Bob Bosset’s quarters had the name Fluff branded on her thigh. She was about my build and not – I thought – so very much younger than me. Assuming that she had been selected – at least partially – as a concubine, my body should appeal to the Sergeant General, and – I thought – would make good currency for our transaction. With a quick movement of her foot, she slid a rug over the place where we had dripped before removing our waterproofs – Fluff didn’t seem to have been chosen for dedication to housework.

After tossing our wet outerwear into a sink, Fluff showed us through to Bob Bosset. He was eating – tucking into a beef joint better than any I’d seen on my father’s table since my return to the palace. A second place was set, with an empty chair and partially eaten meal. Evidently, the slave ate with her master.

“Princess Margaret, Miss Lisa-Louise,” the general said, looking up from his plate. “What a pleasant surprise. Not often I have attractive female company, other than Fluff, of course. Have you eaten?”

“Not yet,” said Lisa-Louise.

“Fluff! Two more plates and sets of cutlery.” Then, to us: “We have plenty to eat. Sit yourselves down, ladies.”

Suddenly aware of being still in my schoolroom things, I wished I’d taken the time to change. Lisa-Louise smiled pleasantly and took a seat opposite our host. This left me the chair to Bob Bosset’s left, and opposite the slave. Fluff, acting as the mistress of the house, filled my plate with food.

“Well,” the general asked, “is this just a social call? Or can I do something for you ladies?”

“There was something,” said Lisa-Louise giving Fluff a meaningful glance, “but it’s a private matter. Perhaps it might be better to talk elsewhere.”

“Well, Miss Lisa-Louise, there’s no need to mind Fluff. She was named for what separates her ears – and that suits me fine. There’s no one else here, and none of Mr Addal’s listening machines. You can rest easy that I made damn sure of that – I don’t like nosey parkers any more than I dare say you do.”

“That’s good – as time goes by, the palace gets more dangerous.”

“Indeed it does. I notice that you do the talking, not Princess Margaret. Maybe I should call her Tuerqui, eh?”

“You seem to have our measure, Sergeant-General.”

“And seeing as how you probably don’t want me to pose in the nude for the joy of lusting after me body, I reckon your business is arms training. Am I right or am wrong?”

“You’re right.”

“And how many do you want me to train? The two of you?”

“The two of us and three slaves, if that’s possible.”

“It may be possible, and there again it may not. How was you thinking of paying me, if I may ask?”

“We have Tuerqui’s mother’s jewels – or, at least, most of them.”

“And very nice they’d look on my best parade tunic, I’m sure. Think again.”

“You could sell them, perhaps.”

“And have more money than a Sergeant General’s pay? What would your Uncle Wilfred make of that?”

“Or you could have me,” I said in a quiet voice, speaking for the first time.

“Now you’re talking. That’s a coin I could maybe use. I love Fluff, but some dirty doings with a bit of extra… shall we say imagination… would come not amiss.”

He ran his hand up my thigh and wriggled it into the schoolroom knickers. His fingers brushed my genitals. Fluff smiled vacantly from across the table, Lisa-Louise looked away. Bob Bosset kept his hand on my intimate parts, his restless fingers exploring as he and my mistress continued to talk.

“Training for five is a tall order, but I reckon as we can come to an understanding. Why d’you want to fight?”

“I think that’s our business,” Lisa-Louise said rather stiffly.

“I’ll need to know. If you want to shoot a stag in the forest, you’ll need the bow. If it’s despatching a two timing lover, a dagger’s best. Revenge on a gang o’ men at arms, and it’ll be bow and sword both.”

“The last of those three is the nearest.”

“Well then, it’ll not be the sort of thing you want folk talking about, eh? That works out very well with the coin you plan to pay – his lordship ain’t going to be pleased if he finds I’m fucking his daughter, so it ain’t in my interest to open me mouth. So where are you reckonin’ to fight these men at arms – open country, forest, inside a building, or what?”

“It could be any or all of those.”

“Fuck me! You’re heading into dangerous country, and no mistake – going south, I reckon. None o’ my business why, o’ course.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“I don’t want to know, neither – there’s some things it don’t do to poke into – like wasps’ nests. Well – it’s a tall order – what you want – but it can be done. I’d recommend four weapons – bow, sword, dagger and mornin’ star[3].”

“Do we really need so many?”

“A bow’s good when danger threatens. You can maybe pick off an enemy afore he’s breathin’ down your neck. A longbow’s good, but I think a crossbow’d do you girls better. It takes time to reload, but you’ve got a winch t’ do the donkey for you.”

“The sword’s for closer work, obviously.”

“As you say, obviously. When an enemy’s close there’s nothing better. A good swordsman can fight off half a dozen at a time, or a good swordsgirl, if comes to that – as long as you don’t have too big and heavy a blade. The Surrey infantry sword’s designed with girls in mind – that would be ideal for you.[4]”

“Do you have any Surrey infantry swords?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. We haven’t lost every skirmish of the last few years, though I’ll admit we’ve not won many. A couple of months ago, we captured a patrol – their friends rescued them, killed half a dozen guards[5] – but we ended up keeping eight Surrey infantry swords. I’ve got them, so I can fix you up easily enough.”

“That’s good. But I’m still wondering whether we really need four weapons. Surely, a weapon for long distances, and one for close work, covers everything.”

“The dagger’s useful because you can hide it – an’ you can draw it faster than a sword. Walk up to an enemy with your hand on a sword hilt and he’ll have his at the ready, an’ all. The dagger’ll have him dead while he still thinks you’re goin’ t’ kiss him.”

“Nasty.”

“Killing is nasty, Miss Lisa-Louise, make no mistake. First rule is to fight foul, that way you get the bugger before he gets you. Forget about all the honour and glory crap some goes on about. You ever seen killing?”

“Yes,” I said with a shudder that set his fingers gliding – it was the first time I’d spoken since he’d started to explore me.

“What about the morning star?” asked Lisa-Louise.

“If you know how to wield it, you can use any mace or flail, and you can improvise. A fence post an’ a length of chain maybe. The morning star man – or girl, if it comes to that – always has a weapon ready, or almost always. You’ll not often get caught with your knickers down if you can use a morning star.”

“It sounds a lot,” Lisa-Louise said glumly, “but what you say makes sense. Perhaps we could make a start this evening, if you’re free. Do you want paying before or after the lesson?”

“I’m not exactly free – I’ve got me price.” He chuckled at the weak joke. “All the same, I can fit you in this evening. Ordinarily, I’d trust you to pay after the lesson – but tonight Tuerqui may as well pay while you, Miss Lisa-Louise, goes to fetch the three slaves.”

Fluff brought Lisa-Louise’s waterproof from the sink, and showed her to the door. Smiling, Bob Bosset removed his hand from my knickers. Raising his fingers to his nose, he sniffed appreciatively. Reaching back, he squeezed my thigh.

“Well – girly – I’ll want costumes, and equipment. But the schoolroom things will do fine for tonight. I’m looking for something, as you might say, a bit more exotic than what I does with Fluff. I’m sure you picked up a nice little trick or two in that brothel of yours.”

“Yes, I did.”

“You’re always best in the hands of a professional, eh? Well, that’s why you came t’ me o’ course. Anyways, we might as well get stuck in.”

By the time Lisa-Louise returned with Tipsi, Barguin and Diqui, Bob Bosset had finished with me. It left me feeling dirty but, with my Laughing Phallus experience, I was sure I’d given good value. Fluff looked a little hurt, and it occurred to me, for the first time, that she actually liked her master – perhaps was in love with him. Considering my feelings for Lady Isobel, it made some sense, however repulsive I found the Sergeant General.

“I’ll send over a list of the things we’ll need for your payments,” he said to me. “Better give it a bit of thought first, though. Even writing it down should be fun. No call to rush.”

“Fluff looks hurt,” I replied. “Be good to her, won’t you?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be nice to the girl. I’ve got a lot of time for Fluff. I do care about her – really. OK?”

“Thanks. Try to let her know that you and me just have a commercial understanding. You know?”

“Sure thing, Tuerqui. You’re all right – I mean that. Anyway, if you and your friends are to start your lessons tonight, we’d best get shifting.”

Lacing himself into a waterproof, Bob Bosset led the way to a training shed. He directed us to light the lamps while he selected six daggers for our lesson – one for each trainee and the other for him to demonstrate technique. Aware of how easy it is to nick oneself with leatherworking knives, I handled my weapon carefully. Diqui, less cautious, cut herself very quickly.

Bob Bosset took us through the correct way to handle a dagger, my main difficulty with which was an urge to grip too tightly. He also demonstrated killing techniques on a dummy, the target points gruesomely marked with red paint. The next step was to practice on less lifelike dummies formed of sacking stuffed with straw. The coarse fabric showed clear signs of repeated stabbing and clumsy repairs.

Unexpectedly, Tipsi was by far the quickest to learn. Less of a surprise was that Lisa-Lisa proved the second most promising student. There was little to choose between Barguin and me, while Diqui had the greatest difficulty. Naturally, I began to doubt whether she would be the most useful slave to protect my back – but it seemed prudent not to reach hasty conclusions, especially not before we had tackled all four weapons.

Miss Miles’ good humour continued the following day – I was not punished at all, and returned to my rooms feeling well enough pleased. As usual, in recent days, Barguin and Diqui were deep in conversation. In another corner, Fluff was talking to Tipsi and Lisa-Louise – I hastened to join their group. Bob Bosset’s slave was looking noticeably happier than she had the night before.

“Hello, Tuerqui,” she said, “I brought you a note from my master. You’re wearing the same things as last night. They look as if they’re meant for a little girl – less than half your age. It’s funny.”

“Hello, Fluff. I wouldn’t call it funny. My father is making me attend lessons with my little nieces – and their governess makes me dress like this.”

“You must have a lot of lessons, Tuerqui. Aren’t you having them from my master, too?”

“Yes, I am, Fluff – but those lessons are a bit different. They’re ones I actually want – and pay for. Which reminds me – I hope you don’t mind your master having sex with me. You looked a bit hurt last night.”

“That’s all right, Tuerqui. He explained it all to me after you went. What he does with you doesn’t affect me and him. He’s lovely, you know, very kind.”

Not knowing how to reply, I smiled – and read the note Lisa-Louise handed to me. It suggested a time for that night’s arms training, and asked that I might bring my drill kit – phrased, to my surprise, more as a request than a demand. There was also a list of suggestions for things to help me pay for future lessons – mostly costumes and equipment for correction or restraint. None of the items surprised me.

“I’ll have a word with Mrs Clay about the costumes,” said Lisa-Louise.

With several afternoon detentions remaining, it was not until Olday that I had time to attend Mrs Clay for a costume fitting. Using measurements made for more demure garments, her slaves had created a whore’s outfit. The clinging low cut top and short tight skirt fitted very well. Looking in the mirror, I was unexpectedly pleased with the effect, and reminded of trying to outdo the sluttishness of other Laughing Phallus whores.

“It suits you,” said Mrs Clay, confirming my feelings, and placing a hand upon my rump. “Is that how you looked in the brothel?”

“More or less. I wore lots of make up, of course. Stockings – quite often fishnet ones. Very high heels.”

“Maybe a boned basque underneath? I think I can fit you up with all of that. Did you ever have women clients – as well as men?”

“Yes I did, sometimes. Would you like me to demonstrate?”

Playing the whore for Mrs Clay was very pleasant – unlike the real thing at the Laughing Phallus. Subsequently, doing much the same for Bob Bosset was considerably less enjoyable. For all of that, the more I had to do with him, the more nearly it was possible to empathise with the way Fluff perceived him. He was clearly not the monster I had, at first, supposed.

The following Sorday – Dankfog 20th – my first period started since returning to father’s palace. While I continued to bleed, Bob Bosset trained us without expecting payment. There was a definite temptation to exaggerate how long the bleeding lasted – the Sergeant General, unlike Madame Scurf, had a poor grasp of such matters. Perceiving that it would be stealing to take free lessons to which nature did not entitle me, I resisted trespassing upon our arms tutor’s good will.

The day after my period began, I found Miss Miles more forgiving than usual of my failings at drill. Better still, it was the day of my final afternoon detention. At the end of lessons, without prompting, I apologised for the disobedience for which I’d been punished. A little to my surprise, I found myself genuinely contrite.

“I’m sorry, miss,” I said, pausing at the door.

“Sorry, Margaret?”

“Yes, miss, for disobeying you, miss. When I went to the trial, miss.”

“I’m pleased to hear that you’re sorry, child. You deserved to be punished.”

“Yes, miss. I deserved the strap, miss – and the detentions, miss. Thank you, miss.”

“Just doing my duty, Margaret. But having you apologise makes it feel a little more worthwhile.”

“Thank you, miss.”

“Well, your afternoon detentions are over, child. Tomorrow you should be at liberty after lunch. I hope that I won’t need to detain you again.”

“I’ll try to be good, miss.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Margaret. Now run along, child.”

Thereafter, we were able to make time for arms training during the early afternoon. Practicing with weapons by daylight was an advantage we had not previously enjoyed, except at the weekend. To my chagrin, the absence of lamplight shadows didn’t seem to help as much as I’d hoped that it might. Although Bob Bosset obviously knew his stuff – and was devoting effort to our training – progress was painfully slow.

Apart from a single disappointing session with swords, all of our lessons had been with the dagger. Lisa-Louise had become at least as proficient as Tipsi with the weapon, but was still not its mistress. My own efforts were better than Barguin’s and Diqui’s, but were distinctly unimpressive. Of the five of us, I seemed the most impatient.

“I’m not happy,” I said after the Ruday afternoon session. “About two dozen ways not to hold a dagger is pretty well all I’ve learnt. I know that I’m not paying you just now – but until a couple of days back I was giving good value. Wasn’t I?”

“Yes, you were, Tuerqui. It’s early days, but – truth to tell – I’m a bit disappointed myself. There’s some in Lundin might think so – but it ain’t that girls can’t fight. Them Surrey lasses are more than a match for our best troops – though I wouldn’t thank you for spreading it about as I’d said so.”

“What then? I want progress. Is that unreasonable?”

“No – it ain’t. I think your main trouble is stiffness. On the couch you can wriggle like a snake, but in the training room you’re as stiff as a plank. You’ve got to move.”

“I did move. Otherwise I wouldn’t have cut myself.”

“You didn’t move right. Otherwise you wouldn’t have cut yourself. I’ve got a thought, though. If you and Miss Lisa-Louise come back to my quarters, I’ll show you.”

Our three slaves returned to my rooms, while my mistress and I followed Bob Bosset. Fluff seemed disconcerted to see us. Her master, after nodding in her direction, went to a surprisingly well stocked bookshelf. He selected a slim volume and handed it to us – it was Some Infantry Training Techniques by Corporal General Alice Arrowshaft.

“A Corporal General called Alice,” Lisa-Louise said, “this has got to be a Surrey text.”

“Right you are, Miss Lisa-Louise, I heard that Alice Arrowshaft retired a couple of years back, but she was in charge of training Berenice Blackheart’s troops. Before that, she was with old Millicent Martial – one of the Nine, died maybe a dozen years back.[6] This is Surrey stuff, all right. And the girls she trained have won some impressive victories.”

“Isn’t that a bit too close to treason? Tuerqui’s father doesn’t much like Surrey sciences.”

“Dealing death knows no nationality, Miss Lisa-Louise. Not that I was able to use much of this.”

“Why not?”

“Ah – that’s what I was coming to. You see the title of the first chapter?”

“The Dance of Death.[7] It sounds like something from the Seven Sages .”

“Could be, probably some kind of quotation, anyway. But the point is, she’s talking about teaching the use of arms with choreographed dance steps. They weren’t having that in Tuerqui’s daddy’s army – said they were there to fight, not join a nancy boys’ chorus line. It might help you girls, though.”

“Because we’re girls? Because chorus girls are all right?”

“No! Well – yes – chorus girls are all right, but that’s not the point. I was thinking you wouldn’t be so oh, we’re manly men, we are. It’s worth a try from your point of view – and I’d be interested to see how it goes.”

“I suppose you’d like Mrs Clay’s slaves to run us up some sequinned chorus line costumes.”

“Now you’re talking, Miss Lisa-Louise. I could certainly appreciate that – I like a good show as much as anyone does. So does Fluff, as a matter of fact – she might enjoy seeing you in sequins, not in a Surrenity sort of way, though... Can either of you dance?”

“Not me,” Lisa-Louise looked glum. “Most of what I learnt – about anything – was to keep my head on my shoulders. Life hasn’t been easy. How about you, Tuerqui?”

“A lot of the time, my life hasn’t been easy, either. But, when I was little – back in the Belle House – a Miss Watson taught me dance for a bit. She spanked me every bit as hard as Miss Lace, or Miss Miles if comes to that, but I don’t think I learnt very much. And it was a long time ago.”

“Well, I don’t think there’s much call for a dance instructor in this palace. Not the way it’s been for the last few years. But have you heard of the Lundin Follies?”

“It’s a stage show,” said Lisa-Louise, “with dancing girls. You weren’t thinking of us auditioning for it?”

“Nah, though it’s a nice thought,” he chuckled. “But maybe if Tuerqui tells her daddy that she wants to learn to dance – so as to please suitors, as it could be…”

“He’d like that,” I interrupted. “He’s already been talking of finding me a husband. Mortalia[8]take him!”

“It sounds like you don’t want no husband.”

“I certainly don’t. You must know that I like girls?”

“I had thought maybe, but didn’t know for sure. And mostly I keeps me nose out of what’s not my affair. Still, you’re prepared to make a bit of an exception with me, eh?”

“That’s business. I’m sure you’re a really nice man, as Fluff says, and I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but…”

“That’s no problem, Tuerqui. I can understand that, and I’m sure as Fluff would rather it was that way.”

“Yes, she would,” Lisa-Louise confirmed.

“You know, if Tuerqui has unwanted suitors, we could always use them for weapons practice. You’re not ready for that yet, but when you start to become proficient…”

“Are you joking?”

“You won’t be fully trained without killing for real. If Tuerqui thinks that any of them deserve to die…”

“Perhaps,” I said, anxious to change the subject, “but that’s death – not the dance.”

“Oh yes – what I was thinking was that you, Tuerqui, could sell your daddy on dancing lessons for the five of you.”

“I’m sure I could persuade him that I need several of us for the lessons – persons or slaves. He might not be happy if he knew everything I like to do with girls, but I’m sure practicing dance would be OK.”

“That’s good. And maybe you could say that Glitzy Gloria Glitter from the Lundin Follies[9] would be the one to teach you. And she could train you in something more useful than the calf step. What do you think, Tuerqui?”

“I can’t see him going for the name Glitzy Gloria Glitter. Do you know what her parents called her?”

“Not off hand, but I can find out. It’s high time me and Fluff had a night out at the theatre – she likes a show, bless her heart.”

“Maybe you could go backstage and speak with Gloria Glitter,” said Lisa-Louise.

“If I wore me parade uniform I can’t see no one stopping me. Fluff’d like that, for sure. She likes me all dressed up. We both likes costumes, in our own ways.”

“And I don’t suppose Gloria Glitter would punish me the way Miss Watson used to do,” I said. Adding sadly: “And Miss Miles still does.”

“I don’t suppose she would at that, unless that was what you wanted. In the meantime, I could start you on the crossbow. It don’t seem to me such a dance accessory as the dagger and the sword. And you can’t start on the morning star until you can be trusted not to kill yourselves with it.”

The next afternoon, after I’d broken from Miss Miles’ lessons for the weekend, we had our first session with the crossbow. The indoor practice range was the longest enclosed space I’d ever seen. No more than six yards wide, it was over a hundred yards long and resembled a tunnel rather than a room. The resemblance was heightened by the fact that it was underground, and lit by torches even during the day.[10]

There were red lines across the floor at ten yard intervals, marking the distance from the targets. Bob Bosset started us off at twenty yards, which he reduced to ten for all but Lisa-Louise after our first try. Only her quarrel, far from the bull as it was, had even hit the target. Our performance had disappointed him as well as me.

In spite of the winch, reloading the bow was heavier work than I expected. It was fortunate that my weak pre-enslavement muscles were a distant memory. Some of the exercises in Miss Miles’ drill sessions also helped. For the first time, I felt grateful for those excursions from the schoolroom.

My second session with the crossbow, on Olday, brought a noticeable improvement in our aim – and all of us moved back to the twenty yard line. After the lesson, Bob Bosset gave me a business card. It bore the name Sarah James, and an address in one of the more squalid districts of Lundin. Looking at him in puzzlement, I didn’t need to voice my question.

“She’s Glitzy Gloria Glitter,” he explained. “Me and Fluff went to the Follies last night. It’s a great show, you ought to see it. I dare say that a girl of your tastes would like the chorus line – leggy, very leggy.”

“Thank you for the card. I’m not sure what father would say if I wanted to go the Lundin Follies – but did Fluff enjoy the show?”

“Oh yes, she loves music and dancing and glitz. And she dressed up in an evening gown – like a great lady, nobody would’ve taken her for a slave. Fluff scrubs up a real treat. Me in me parade uniform, too.”

“It sounds lovely.”

“It was! You know, there was no more handsome, or happier, couple in all of Lundin – a great night out, for both of us. Thanks for your part in the treat. Except for your arms training, I don’t know when we might have gone.”

Our voices echoed oddly, didn’t quite sound human, in the subterranean shooting range. The air felt slightly damp, and the place was pervaded by an earthy smell. Several torches flickered slightly as an intermittent chill draught caught them – suggesting connections to other tunnels. Stroking the stock of the crossbow, my fingers slipped easily along the polished wood grain.

[1] This was an unruly protest against oppressive taxation. The unarmed protestors were no match for Colonel Miles’ heavily armed troops.

[2] To judge from the manuscripts preserved in the University of Pain archives, Miss Miles didn’t make much progress with Tuerqui’s handwriting.

[3]The morning star flail was a heavy spiked metal ball, attached to a handle by a length of chain. As much a dangerous weapon for an unskilled user as for an opponent.

[4]A strengthening rib, running almost the length of the blade, allowed the Surrey infantry sword of Tuerqui’s day to be a light but highly effective weapon.

[5]The skirmish took place on Mistream 17th YD 731. None of the Surrey patrol were killed – and, because of their rescue, none were enslaved.

[6]Before entering Surrey politics, Berenice Blackheart served as commander in chief of Millicent Martial’s army, which was, by that time, certainly Surrey’s largest and best. When Millicent Martial died (seemingly of natural causes) in YD 718, Berenice retained control of her army. Corporal General Alice Arrowshaft (in charge of troop training) made a smooth transition from Millicent’s service to Berenice’s. Alice Arrowshaft continued to serve under Berenice for ten years until an honourable retirement in YD 728. Her last years were spent living quietly on the south coast. Some Infantry Training Techniques is one several books written by Alice Arrowshaft and is considered a military classic.

[7]In fact, Sage Romer employed the phrase several times.

[8]Mortalia – see Chapter 1, note 1.

[9]The Lundin Follies has never ceased to be a popular entertainment. During the early years of imperial rule, Gloria Glitter made use of the similarity between her stage name and the alliterating names of important Surrey persons by appearing with a troupe of dancers as Gloria Glitter (or, later, Gloria Glitz) and the Surrey Nine

[10]Lundin remains threaded with tunnels, many of which seem to date back to the Old Time. The one which formerly served as the Palace Victoria shooting range has not been identified with certainty. The most likely tunnel is considerably less than a hundred yards long – but must have been longer before part of the roof collapsed during the Fourth Battle of Lundin.

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Of Bondlings and Blesh Chapter 34

Chapter 34

The gloomy light of a rainy morning, augmented by inadequate lamps, filled the schoolroom with shadows. The air smelt of chalk dust. Rain rattled the window, like repeated handfuls of tossed pebbles. The wooden seat on which I fidgeted had been polished by inattentive generations of wriggling children’s bottoms.

Two hours into my lessons, Selday morning was not going at all badly. In spite of my thoughts often straying to the pollygoggers’ trial, my lapses in concentration had failed to bring retribution. Indeed, I had escaped punishment entirely, and only twice received so much as a sharp word. When Miss Miles spoke my name, my first thought was that my luck had broken.

“Margaret!”

“Yes, miss.”

“You said that you wished to study the genealogy of the Warrick line, did you not, child?”

“Oh, yes, miss, I did.”

“I have the charts for you. Keep them well clear of your inkwell, girl, they are a valuable part of the palace archives.”

“Yes, miss, I will.”

True to my word, poring through the charts and making notes, I was careful to keep my fresh ink separate from the neat handwriting of an anonymous archivist. It took me about twenty minutes to find that for which I was looking. Duke Laurence III had produced no legitimate male heir – his wife, Blanche, a daughter of King Roger II of the Meadowlands, giving birth to three girls – the oldest of them also named Blanche. The ducal line had descended to Laurence IV, the son of a courtesan named Violet Crosby.

“Yes!” I exclaimed.

“I beg your pardon, Margaret?”

“I’m sorry, miss, I didn’t mean to say that aloud. It’s just that I was interested to find a close parallel to my father’s line – and my line too, of course, miss.”

“Well, Margaret, I’d prefer no more interruptions from you, unless you raise your hand and I give you permission to speak. All the same, enthusiasm for study is a refreshing change, and I will overlook your outburst.”

“Thank you, miss.”

“Let me see what you have discovered, girl.”

“It’s this, miss.” She was now looking over my shoulder. “The line from Duke Laurence III to Laurence IV. It’s very much like the descent from my grandfather, isn’t it, miss?”

“Yes, Margaret, it is. Very much like it.”

“Only, miss, I suppose, Blanche’s descendants would have a better claim to the dukedom than my cousin Jenna does to the Chieftaincy of the Blood Victoria, because she was a king’s daughter. That is, miss, I mean that Blanche was a king’s daughter, not Jenna. Do you think that’s right, miss?”

“It seems quite possible to me, Margaret, that Blanche’s descendants could pretend to the dukedom. And they would certainly have a better claim to the title than your cousin does to that of the Blood Victoria. Princess Jenna’s claim – as you should know, child – rests entirely on the wickedness of Surrey[1]. But, my girl, it is better not to speak of that.”

“No, miss. Of course not, miss. I was just interested – and pleased – to see that there’s such a clear precedent for the line to which I have the honour to belong. It helps refute the wickedness of Surrey, miss – not that it really needs refutation, because it’s so obviously wrong.”

“That is well spoken, Margaret. Very well spoken.”

“Thank you, miss. The trouble is, miss, that the chart doesn’t say much of Blanche’s line – just that she married into the Delgardes of Westland. Miss, do you think I could explore that line? It’s fascinating, miss.”

“Well, I’m pleased that you should find it so, child. As a matter of fact, I have a connection with the Delgarde line, myself. It is an honourable and noble family, without the least whiff of scandal – a most suitable study for a young lady. I will bring their charts tomorrow, you may depend upon it.”

“Thank you, miss.”

It crossed my mind that Miss Miles might be the Warrick pretender. Much as I’d have liked to believe this, it made no sense for several reasons. For one thing, it was difficult to imagine her strutting about in general’s breeches – and impossible to think of her having guards with whom to search my rooms. Just as importantly, she had not been in the Palace Victoria at the time of my enslavement – hence couldn’t have been the Duke of Lester’s accomplice.

“You know, it’s strange, Margaret. A noble family like the Delgardes may place a daughter as a governess – but a royal line such as the Blood Victoria would never do such a thing. Had you come from a merely noble line, it might be you at the comfortable end of the cane. An exulted place in the world might not always be an advantage.”

She flexed her cane meaningfully, but – to my surprise – didn’t use it. In fact, I survived the entire morning, and the schoolroom lunch without punishment. It seemed too good to be true. Perhaps the Duck’s Ford ruby had finished with me.

As soon as Miss Miles allowed me to leave, I hurried to my father’s study. The outcome of the pollygoggers’ trial seemed obvious, but I had to know for sure. When I knocked at his door, there was so long a pause that it seemed father must be elsewhere. Eventually, he growled – possibly an articulate word, possibly not – and I entered.

He sat at his desk, with his back turned to the door, leafing through papers. Rather to my surprise, he was still in his judge’s robes. Turning, he didn’t look pleased to see me. Uncertain as to how to phrase my question, I was glad when he spoke first.

“What do you want, daughter?”

“Father, I was wondering about this morning’s trial.”

“Trial? There was no trial this morning. The damn rascals asked for an adjournment, so that they could prepare a case, and that fool Toby Slack said I should grant it. If you ask me, he’s as soft as scrumper’s shit – and I’ll not ask your pardon – I’m sure you heard worse in that damn brothel of yours.”

“So when is the trial, then, father?”

“About half an hour – plenty long enough for them to prepare. Prepare their case – pah! Prepare for the slave trimmer’s knife, more like!”

“Father, since I have no afternoon lessons, do you think that I could attend?”

“What if I say no?

“Then I’ll stay away, of course, father. I’ve learnt my lesson.”

“I hope you have. Attending a rape trial is most unsuitable for a girl – or a grown woman, whatever you are. Ordinarily, your presence would be out of the question.”

“Ordinarily, father?”

“Well, for one thing, there may be lewdness spoken – but probably nothing you don’t already know. Of course, there are wider questions about what is proper for a woman or a girl.”

“So may I go, father?”

“Matter of fact, I don’t think there’s any reason why you shouldn’t attend, so long as you keep your mouth shut.”

“I will, father.”

“Mind you do. No call for a woman to speak at a rape trial – it’s not seemly and it’s not her place – it’s men’s business.

“Of course, father, although I am the injured party.”

“Oh – is that what you think? Well, let me tell you, girl, that it’s not you but me who’s the injured party. If some wench is rogered – by her leave or not – what matter is it? The only question is the affront to her husband or father.”

“Yes, father.”

There was no use in arguing with him. Over the last week – could it really be so short a time? – I had become used to saying yes, miss to anything asserted by Miss Miles, whether I agreed with it or not. By contrast, I couldn’t recall responding yes, mistress to Lady Isobel with anything short of complete sincerity. Of course, the pollygoggers’ real crime had been to take me from my mistress, daughter and friends – but for that, I would have allowed my father to reward them, as he’d originally intended.

Such thoughts brought me to my responsibility for the arrest, trial and punishment of Daniel and Carp-Eye. Thoroughly regretting the business now, it was far too late for me to prevent it. Lisa-Louise was right – my revenge was the work of a slave wrenched from her mistress’ authority and consequently gone mad. The dominance, which the girl had exerted upon me, was to be thanked for the clarity with which I could now view matters.

While my father took the descending passage to the judge’s chambers, I climbed a staircase to the gallery. Doing so, it occurred to me that I was still in my schoolroom uniform. Even to my sensibilities, there seemed a conflict between my childish garb and the adult nature of the case. Whatever my misgivings, there was no time to change now, without missing the trial.

The gallery was full of palace staff and retainers, even a few slaves had sneaked in to view the proceedings. Someone in the front row shifted to make room for me – presumably in deference to my status as a princess. Taking my place, not only did I have an excellent view of the trial, but must have been clearly visible from the well of the court. The hem of my short pinafore dress rode up as I sat, exposing more of my thighs than I would have wished – to the point of raising the possibility of my knickers being displayed to those below.

Carp-Eye Smith and Dashing Daniel stood in the dock, flanked by heavily armed guards. The jury pressgang had clearly taken the jurors from a tavern, their objections to such a proceeding ameliorated by the provision of a barrel of cheap but strong ale. It was obvious that most, if not all, were already in an advanced stage of drunkenness. Sir Toby Slack sat at the prosecution desk, while the defence counsel was a young man I hadn’t seen before, with a face resembling a boiled pudding.

Everyone rose as my father entered and took his seat. Sitting down again, my skirt seemed to have ridden up further than before – and tugging at the hem didn’t make much difference. Dashing Daniel, looking up at me, appeared to be enjoying the view. To my surprise, he winked at me.

“Very well,” my father said. “Sir Toby, please be good enough to read the charges.”

“Daniel Eric Robins[2] and Charles Millard Smith, you are hereby charged that on Mistream 26th, or before, in year one hundred and thirty-four of the Sixth Condominium of Lundin, you jointly raped Princess Margaret of the Blood Victoria, contrary to law.”

“My lord,” began the defence counsel, “may we raise an objection to the jury?”

“On what grounds?”

“That they are clearly already drunk, my lord.”

“Are you saying that the men of Lundin are unable to hold their drink? They are not such milksops as the men of Surrey. To pretend that they are brings you perilously close to treason. Be mindful, sir, that you are not immune from prosecution.”

“My lord, I trust that I would shun treason with as much repugnance as any man in this court. And yet, I note that the prosecution has ingratiated itself with the jury through the provision of ale.”

“In the first place, the defence is as free to treat the jury as the prosecution[3]. That you failed to do so is not the fault of this court.”

“But, my lord, the treasury has confiscated all of the defendants’ assets. If they are found guilty, it is doubtful whether even I will be paid[4]. No trader would advance treats for the jurors in speculation on a favourable verdict.”

“The wealth or the poverty of the defendants is not the concern of this court. In my opinion, the wretches should be grateful for the provision of ale. It is likely to put the jury in a more kindly frame of mind. We have wasted too much time on a futile discussion of the jury – how do the culprits plead?”

“Not guilty, my lord.”

“Really? How extraordinary. Their guilt seems to me self-evident. I hope you won’t waste too much of my time with lies and misrepresentations.”

“I will try to be brief, my lord. I would like to call either Dr Silas Grimes or Mr Anthony Malvision to the witness stand.”

“With what object, might I ask?”

“If it please your lordship, according to a written statement from the prosecution, certain samples of bodily fluids were taken from the defendants. I feel, my lord, that the court should hear how these were analysed.”

“I fail to see the point, but very well. Fortunately, Dr Grimes is present. Call Dr Grimes!”

The physician rose from a seat next Toby Slack. His presence gave me the idea that, whatever my father had said, the doctor had expected to give evidence. Silas Grimes glowered from the witness box. Whatever his expectations, he was clearly displeased to be called to account.

“Dr Grimes,” said the defence counsel, “I understand that you analysed the samples of bodily fluids – revealing that they matched those taken from the defendants.”

“That, sir, is correct.”

“And yet, I believe, there are no facilities for microscopic analysis in Lundin. May I ask how you analysed the samples?”

“Microscopic examination is an example of Surrey trumpery – and I would have none of it, sir, even were it available in Lundin – which the gods forfend that it ever will be. In its place, we have superior metroscopic analysis. It reveals the tetrahydrite[5] count – which is unique to each individual.”

“Dr Grimes, I have never heard of either metroscopic analysis or the tetrahydrite count.”

“Your ignorance of science, sir, is no affair of mine.”

“Where,” my father asked, “is this line of questioning supposed to lead?”

“If it please your lordship, I am doubtful as to the validity of the procedures.”

“It most certainly does not please my lordship. It seems to me that you are coming perilously close to championing Surrey quackery against the true sciences of Lundin. To do so would be clear case of treason. Think, young man, before you proceed – I have plenty of time to try another case this afternoon.”

“I regret that I had not seen matters as clearly as your lordship. In that case, I have no further questions for the witness.”

“Sir Toby?”

“I have no questions, your lordship.”

“In that case, the witness may stand down. Can we please move on now, enough of the court’s time has been wasted. Has the defence anything else to say before the jury speaks, and I pass sentence?”

“If it please your lordship, the defendants cannot be guilty, and this for two reasons. The first is that the princess was a slave at the time of the alleged offence, and – under the terms of the Seized Enemy Assets Act – the property of the defendants. Can a man rape his own property?”

“Sir Toby – how do you answer that?”

“My lord, in the direct line of the Blood Victoria, Princess Margaret has personage in absolute. She cannot, therefore, have been legally enslaved. The defence is, therefore, a nonsense.”

“Exactly. What, sir, is your second line of defence? Quickly now!”

“That the princess was not raped, my lord, since she consented to sexual acts with the defendants. More than that, she actually instigated them.”

“Sir Toby?”

“Were we to need testimony to refute this assertion, my lord, it would be necessary to embark on the improper course of having a woman speak in a rape trial – fortunately that is unnecessary. While, in common parlance, your lordship, the question of rape sometimes depends on a woman’s, or girl’s, consent – this is by no means the state of the law. Rape, in law, is sexual connection with a female without the consent of her father or husband – or, in the case of a slave or servant, her master, mistress or employer. Since Princess Margaret is not married nor lawfully employed – and cannot be enslaved – the question is whether you, my lord, consented to carnal relations between your daughter and the defendants.”

“I most certainly did not. The case against the defendants is clearly proved. Does any member of the jury disagree? The ale, of course, is the jury’s to finish – a verdict will not reduce their drinking time.”

“No one dishagrees, lordshipsh,” lisped the foreman.

“Excellent! Well – you two have been convicted, on the clearest evidence, of the vile crime of rape. I am a lenient man and will content myself with a sentence of enslavement with immediate effect. All of your property will revert to the treasury – case closed!”

Martello Brown, approaching the pollygoggers’ guards, said: “Take them to the trimmer’s shop. Tell Jack White to brand them, as well as lop off their bits. This one,” he indicated Daniel, “was wearing ladies’ undies, so I think Nanci would be a good name. He can choose whatever name he likes for the other.”

Feeling wretched at the thought of what must be about to befall Daniel and Carp-Eye, I left the courtroom crying. My revenge stood fully revealed as the cruel and shabby thing it was. The others shuffling from the gallery stared at me – reacting to my tears, I thought. No sign of sympathy for the pollygoggers showed on their faces.

“Girl at a rape trial,” I heard someone remark, “most unsuitable. No wonder she’s crying.”

“Serve her jolly well right. And in her schoolroom uniform, too,” was the reply. “I just hope that Miss Miles gives her something to cry about.”

Returning to my rooms, Tipsi was sympathetic and attentive. Diqui and Barguin were too wrapped up in one another to pay attention to me. Lisa-Louise smiled enigmatically. My impression was that she knew something about the pollygoggers’ fate that I didn’t.

“Your father’s judgment may not be the end of the matter,” was as much as she was prepared to say.

At our evening meal, I found my father in a foul mood. Having already started eating, he said nothing as I entered the dining room. Scowling, he stabbed at a roast chicken as though it were an enemy. My first guess was that he’d decided, in Miss Miles words, the very idea of a girl attending such a trial is a piece of wickedness.

“I’m sorry, father,” I said, “but you did say that I might go.”

“Whatever are you talking about, girl?”

“My attending the trial, father.”

“Oh – that. Well, by rights, you shouldn’t have gone. But that’s not what’s on my mind.”

“What, then, father?”

“The damn rapists – slaves I should say, after I sentenced them – have escaped. I’m not sure how, but those sample-gathering harlot-slaves must have been involved. They’re missing, as well. Slaves are tuppence ha’penny apiece – but four horses are gone from the stables, too.”

To judge from her cryptic remark, Lisa-Louise must also have had a part in it – but, of course, I kept that to myself. It pleased me that Piqusi and Curvi had evidently escaped with the pollygoggers. Since the sample-gathering expedition, I’d considered my use of those two inexcusable. Having myself suffered brothel life, I should have known better than to exploit my fellow slaves sexually.

“So the rapists – and the slaves we sent to them – are at large, father?” was all that I said.

“Miss Miles seems to be thrashing into you the ability to listen.”

“Yes, father.”

“Four guards dead, too. The pair who were guarding the rapists on the way to the trimmer’s shop – plus a couple more at the north gate. And honest old Jack White, the slave trimmer – not dead, but trimmed with his own knives. It’s infamous!”

“I’m sorry, father.”

“You’re sorry, I’m sorry. The worst is that I’m out of pocket. We have the wretches’ boat and other things – but they’re not worth the price of two fine horses, let alone four. And there’s weapons missing from the gatehouse – it all adds up.”

After the meal, I led an unresisting Lisa-Louise out to the neglected garden, so that we could talk. Darkness had fallen, the sky was clear, a thin crescent moon was just above the roofline, and stars shone overhead. It was cold, but we were wrapped in thick black cloaks. In the deep shadow of her hood, I couldn’t see my mistress’ face.

“You arranged it, didn’t you, mistress?” I said.

“The pollygogger’s escape, Tuerqui? I may have had a little to do with it. The jewel thief helped, too.”

“The jewel thief, mistress? I thought he’d finished with us.”

“Maybe he has, now. He sold the ruby almost immediately, and for a better price than he expected. I believe that someone in Surrey[6] wants it. He felt he owed us something, especially as the sword has vanished.”

“I don’t think I like that, mistress.”

“Why not, Tuerqui?”

“Mistress, I may be wrong, but… Well, mistress – if I’ve… if we’ve received favours in exchange for the ruby – I think the stone will want me to suffer in return.”

“Truth to tell, the thief also took a few small gems – to cover out of pocket expenses. Do you think that helps, Tuerqui?”

“Not much, mistress. Not if the favour was in exchange for the ruby, and the gems are just for expenses.”

“Too late to do anything about it now, Tuerqui. Daniel, Carp-Eye, Piqusi and Curvi have left town. I think the jewel thief is going as well – may have already left. He thinks that life in this palace has grown too dangerous.”

“I think he may be right, mistress.”

“Me, too, if we knew how to fight, we’d be gone. I can maybe use a knife a bit – but that’s not enough.”

“A knife, mistress – that reminds me. It seems strange that Carp-Eye and Daniel hung on long enough to trim the slave trimmer.”

“I think that was Piqusi or Curvi – or both. Revenge for castrated lovers. Served the old pervert right, anyway. He liked his work too much – and had it coming, or perhaps I should say had it going.”

My laughter was forced. The idea brought back memories of the slow castration I’d witnessed in Berenice’s camp. Although I’d never failed to find men’s genitals repulsive, they had surely been created with the good will of the goddess – and for a purpose. Moreover, the misfortunes I’d engineered for the pollygoggers left me with a distaste for even the most merited revenge.

That night – whatever my waking disquiet – I slept peacefully, and in the morning Tipsi ensured that I made a good breakfast. With sausages and eggs under my belt, I was in plenty of time for Sorday morning lessons. After a misty dawn, sunshine was streaming through the schoolroom window. Perhaps, it seemed, my fears concerning the ruby’s malice had been misplaced – but, as soon as Miss Miles arrived, it was clear that I was in trouble.

“Margaret! Step to the front of the class – this instant, you wretched girl.”

“Yes, miss,” I said, doing as I was bidden.

“I have spoken to your father, young lady. He tells me that you asked him whether you might attend that trial – and, in a moment of abstraction, he consented. Is that, or is that not, true?”

“Yes, miss, I asked my father, and he said that I could, miss.”

“And what did I tell you at Valday lunchtime? Well, child? Did I say that you might go?”

“No, miss, you didn’t.”

“Did I, in fact, forbid you to go – in the strongest possible terms?”

“Yes, miss, you did.”

“Very well, young lady, did you tell your father that I had forbidden it?”

“No, miss, I didn’t.”

“So, you came upon your father pondering weighty matters – and asked for permission to do precisely what I had forbidden. Is all of that correct, girl?”

“Yes, miss, it is.”

“And – furthermore, child – is it true that you had the effrontery to wear your schoolroom uniform to the shameful trial? A trial, girl, concerning acts of lewdness?”

“Yes, miss, I did.”

“Are you aware – you wretched girl – that doing so associated me, and my lessons with that sordid business?”

“Yes, miss.”

“You’ve let me down, you’ve let the schoolroom down, you’ve let down the entire Palace Victoria, your bloodline and birthright. You are a wicked and shameless creature. It is hard to know how to deal with you sufficiently harshly.”

“Yes, miss.”

“And what would you expect me to do about it?”

“Thrash me, miss.”

“I discussed the matter with your father – and, you may be pleased to hear, you shall have your thrashing.”

“Thank you, miss.”

“In fact, you wicked girl, your father urged me – in the strongest possible terms – to acquaint you with the schoolroom strap. I could only agree. We agreed, in fact, on a dozen and a dozen. Do you know what that means, child?”

“Two dozen strokes of the strap, miss?”

“No, Margaret, it does not. You will receive only a dozen with the strap, which is lenient, but you will wait for them until tomorrow morning – it will give you something to think about. The second dozen will last considerably longer – they are detentions. You will attend afternoon lessons, young lady, as well morning, for the next twelve schoolroom days, starting today.”

“Yes, miss.”

“We considered, vile child, having you attend in the afternoons until further notice. But I pointed out that a prospect of the restoration of your afternoon liberty would give you an incentive to improve your behaviour. Your father agreed, said something of carrots and sticks.”

“Yes, miss.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

“Thank you, miss.”

“Good. You will attend in the afternoon up to and including Comday of the week after next.”

“Yes, miss, thank you miss.”

“And do you know for what you are thanking me?”

“Please, miss, for my afternoon liberty after Comday of the week after next?”

“No, Margaret. Guess again.”

“For the tomorrow’s thrashing, miss?”

“Quite right… and?”

“And the twelve afternoon detentions, miss.”

“Indeed. It’s all for your own good. You need to think about that, as well about tomorrow morning’s dose of the strap. I can assure you that you will not sit easily afterwards. You’ll be glad to leave your desk for drill – very glad.”

“Thank you, miss.”

“It was my intention to allow you to study the genealogy of the Delgarde line today. However, that privilege is not for a wicked and wilful little girl. It will have to wait until I see some sign of repentance from you. So – children – I have decided to devote today to arithmetic – a subject in which Margaret is sadly deficient.”

Phoebe and Mary groaned. The governess smiled – her objective, I gauged, was to render me unpopular with my classmates. If so, to judge from their glances, she succeeded admirably. It scarcely seemed possible, but, after a significant pause, the venom of her words increased.

“Considering Margaret’s waywardness – and considering that it is my clear duty to prevent my other charges from developing in the same way – it seems to me that I have been too lax, far too lax. That being so, for today at least, I will not ignore the slightest error. Every mistake will mean a spanking or the cane – or both. I see that is unpopular – well, you can blame Margaret – she is a very wicked little girl.”

We started with simple addition and subtraction, with very few errors made – even by me. Then Miss Miles introduced long multiplication, followed by long division – my correct answers dwindled before vanishing completely. The nightmare day ended with us all receiving a full hour’s detention. Mary and Phoebe, whose conduct had been adequate, although not perfect, held me entirely to blame.

“I jolly well look forward to the sight of you getting the strap, tomorrow,” Phoebe said.

“Yeah – I hope she lays it on really hard,” Mary added.

That night, contemplating the coming morning’s punishment, I slept very poorly – as was, presumably, Miss Miles’ intention. In the morning, Mary’s hope was fulfilled, the governess seemed to be exerting her full fury. The strap was, in any case, a great deal more painful than the cane. Afterwards, I wept almost until it was time for drill.

The previous day’s dry weather continued, so – once we were changed – Miss Miles urged us out into the yard. Our audience of loafers was larger than the previous week, doubtless tales of star jumps and the cane had spread. Making unrelenting effort, an especially picky Miss Miles was only once able to fault my performance. It meant a bare bottomed caning, at the commencement of which there was an audible gasp from the onlookers – a reaction, I thought, to the marks left by the strap.

As the week wore on, Miss Miles’ foul temper abated. On Valday she allowed me to take my first look at the Delgarde genealogy – contained in an intimidatingly thick leather-bound book. Discovering the line from the daughter of Duke Laurence III, however, proved unexpectedly difficult – Blanche was an annoyingly common name in that family[7]. It was not my quest, but I did find the governess’ line – originating when one of the innumerable Blanches married a Colonel Miles, commander of Westland’s eighteenth regiment of foot.

We broke for the weekend with my still not having identified the pretender to the Dukedom of Warrick. In spite of that, the prospect of two days away from the schoolroom was even more welcome than it had been the previous week. Miss Miles had not strapped me a second time, but my bottom was in urgent need of a break from her punishments. The last time I’d sat comfortably had been on Sorday morning.

Lisa-Louise, while maintaining sufficient authority over me, was acting as an increasingly kind mistress. Tipsi, certainly aware of my distress, made every effort to comfort me. Barguin and Diqui continued to be great deal less sympathetic. Aware that we would need them, when the time came to leave the palace, I tolerated their apparent indifference to my misery.

By Briday night, I’d decided that – however unwelcome my full days in the schoolroom – there was some comfort in slowly approaching their completion. Already I’d done four of the twelve, and it required no long division to calculate that I was a third of the way through. By next weekend, it would be nine which, with only a little more struggle, I calculated as three quarters. All right, I thought, let’s get on and do this thing.

“You look a little happier, Tuerqui,” said Lisa-Louise.

“Just looking forward, mistress, to the end of my afternoon detentions.”

The fire crackled loudly, emitting three or four sparks – sand in one of the logs, perhaps. Tipsi hurried to smother a wisp of smoke from the fireside mat, leaving a smell of charred wool. Barguin shrieked with laughter. Turning, I saw on Diqui’s face, the complacent look of one who has told an anecdote well.

[1] Wickedness of Surrey. There may be a double meaning, here. In Tuerqui’s time, wickedness of Surrey could be used to mean Surrenity, sexual relations between women. There seems something tongue in cheek about the repetition of the phrase in the next paragraph.

[2] The Robins line was an important one in Westland – confirming the idea that Dashing Daniel’s origins were in the south west.

[3] Outside Surrey, where the practice was illegal, it was usually at least theoretically possible for defendants to treat the jury. In practice, the prosecution could usually prevent it either by impounding the defendant’s property, intimidating traders or simply guarding the courthouse to prevent unwelcome deliveries. Three years before the trial of the pollygoggers, fresh objections to the system were raised by the trial of Oswell Blakestone in Lester. Blakestone was accused of inheriting a fortune by murdering those in his way – mostly by poison. He circumvented prosecution attempts to prevent the provision of a lavish feast for the jurors. Blakestone was found not guilty, but several jurors died, apparently poisoned – and he was subsequently convicted of murdering jurors. It was pointed out that Blakestone had no obvious motive for poisoning the jury – and the suggestion was made that they had been poisoned, or otherwise killed, by the prosecution to ensure conviction at a second trial. Whatever the truth, juries were subsequently reluctant to accept food or drink from defendants.

[4] Defendants’ property being commonly impounded, the defence counsel was often unpaid. Young lawyers usually accepted defence cases only with a view to gaining experience that would help their careers, and pave the way to well paid legal positions.

[5] Metroscopic and tetrahydrite are words unknown from any other context. See Chapter 29, note 1.

[6] The someone in Surrey was presumably Nadine Next – see Chapter 32, note 1.

[7] The name continued to be common in that family. Perhaps the best known Blanche Delgarde was Governess of Scotia Minor under Berenice III and Berenice IV.

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Of Bondlings and Blesh Chapter 33

Chapter 33

My living room smelt of polish – beeswax and linseed oil, the woodwork gleamed in the afternoon sunshine. In harness, and bare foot, the deep pile rug was springy under my feet. Lisa-Louise was deep in conversation with Barguin, taking turns to sip from a large glass of red wine – just as they had three days before. My head bowed, I served them while Tipsi folded my discarded schoolroom things.

“Tuerqui,” said Barguin, “there’s a box of honeycake candies Tipsi’s tidied away somewhere. Fetch them – there’s a good girl.”

“Yes, your ladyship.”

There was no need for her to tell me where candies had been placed. Hoping to eat a few myself, I’d been watching carefully as Tipsi included them amongst the objects stacked on a small table in the far corner. While I hurried to fetch the sweets, someone knocked at the door. Still haunted by the Duck’s Ford ruby, I scarcely registered the fact.

“Answer that, Tipsi,” said Lisa-Louise. “Tuerqui’s busy.”

Still with her arms full of my schoolroom things, Tipsi went to the door. As she opened it, Martello Brown was revealed – his eyes seemingly questing every detail of my living room. Having just picked up the box of candies, I stood directly in his gaze. Face flushed, I realised, from drink – a foolish grin creased the Slavemaster’s features.

“It’s not often,” he said, “I see a slave in this palace who isn’t on my books. I’d better come in. And the sooner you close the door the better, Tipsi. Don’t expect you want to have his lordship’s daughter displayed in harness – not so as the whole house can see.”

“Are you about to make trouble?” Lisa-Louise asked bluntly.

“That wasn’t my intention. I hope I have an understanding with your charming little slave, Miss Lisa-Louise. We share a secret or two – and, of course, an extra one now. She could make things uncomfortable for me, I dare say, and I could certainly make things uncomfortable for her – you must know as well as anyone how these things work.”

“I suppose I must. Anyway – what’s your business, here?”

“You seem almost unfriendly. If you think I want to screw you, forget it – you’re too young and too skinny for me – and you’re not his lordship’s daughter.”

“You want to screw your lord by screwing his daughter? Is that it?”

“Well, Tuerqui is certainly a woman to interest me – and I did wonder if she and I might… That is to say, I thought it possible that she might wish to trade her affections for a favour from me. But perhaps you’re the one I need to address for the negotiations.”

“Perhaps. What did you have in mid to trade?”

“Well – it probably amounts to nothing, my calculations seem a bit awry. It’s just that I thought, when Tuerqui asked for Isobel Ironhand’s cousin, she was looking for someone to act as her mistress. As you and I know, Miss Lisa-Louise, Tipsi is not the girl for that – and it seemed to me that Diqui would serve a lot better. But the position of mistress seems to have been filled.”

“Diqui? I don’t know… But maybe… Tell you what, I’ll have a chat with Tuerqui, and maybe come back to you.”

“You seem to be melting a bit, Miss Lisa-Louise.”

“Yeah, well, it helps to know that it ain’t me you’re planning to paw.”

“How delicately you put it. Well, I’ll be on my way. Oh – before I go – Tuerqui may be interested to know that the pollygogger’s trial is set for Selday morning. A messenger from his lordship told me because they’re to be enslaved, and I’ll have to deal with them. His fucking highness is too busy to talk to me directly, of course.”

“Is that right?” Lisa-Louise asked. “Maybe that has something to do with the way you’re so keen to screw his daughter.”

“Maybe – but yeah, if it wasn’t for the enslavement, I’d be told no more than any bugger else. Tuerqui’s daddy treats me like shit. Mind, not as bad as he’s treating the poor old pollygoggers. The word is that they’re to come to the palace expecting pardons, or some such, the day after tomorrow – what a lovely surprise they’ll get!”

“Bills of absolution and letters of marque,” I said.

“Oh – whatever, Tuerqui. The main thing is that they’re to be arrested come Olday. That being the weekend, they’ll lock the poor buggers up till Selday, when his lordship can finally be arsed to sentence them.”

“Rat arsed!” said Lisa-Louise, when he had gone. “He needs to watch what he says in his cups. I won’t breathe a word of it, but there’s plenty who would.”

Tipsi, in spite of her name, made no move to drink any of the wine. Instead, she and I worked contentedly through the afternoon. Regrettably, as the evening progressed, my contentment evaporated. Becoming fidgety and itchy, it took me some time to identify my disquiet as an urge to gaze once more upon the Duck’s Ford ruby.

“Tuerqui,” Lisa-Louise said. “I’ve been thinking about the ruby you plan to trade with the jewel thief. It’s got to be worth more than twenty swords. Give him a gem worth half as much, and you’ll still be too generous.”

“No, mistress.”

“What? You dare to say no to your mistress?”

“Yes, mistress – when it’s for the sake of your soul, and mine. Whip me, please, mistress – but no. The cursed ruby doesn’t want me to give it to the jewel thief – I feel its power – don’t you? But if it’s not to be our mistress, yours as well as mine, we must rid ourselves of the horrible thing – and that as quickly as possible.”

“You’re right, Tuerqui, and I’m wrong. Its power is starting to grip me as well. I’m going to whip you – but not as a punishment for your defiance. The whipping will be an offering to the ruby – maybe it will accept a willing libation of pain, and pass in peace from our hands.”

“Thank you, mistress. I freely offer my pain to appease the jewel.”

Perhaps the ruby was pleased by the offering, for I slept peacefully that night. Waking early and refreshed next morning, I was up while Tipsi still snored softly. Gazing upon the lovely slave in perfect repose, it seemed a pity to wake her – especially on a chilly second day of Dankfog. Barguin and Lisa-Louise would obviously not be stirring for some while.

Beyond my window, dawn embodied the month name very well. Dark coils of a heavy fog rolled over a dismal yard – only the hour glass showed it to be morning. Passing into my kitchen, I banked up the stove and set a kettle to boil. Returning to the bedroom, Tipsi jolted into wakefulness.

“Mistress! What time is it? I’ve slept in, mistress. I’m a bad slave.”

“Hush, my sweet. It’s still early enough. There isn’t a better slave in all of this palace. I’ve put the kettle on, perhaps you could attend to the porridge pot.”

“Of course, mistress. At once, mistress. I don’t think a slave ever had a kinder mistress, mistress.”

“I seem to remember saying something of the sort to your cousin.”

With Tipsi’s help, I was in the schoolroom with ten minutes to spare and a hot breakfast inside me. Phoebe and Mary were full of restrained high spirits. It didn’t take me long to realise that, it being Valday, they were excited by the prospect of no lessons for the next two days, while careful to avoid an Olday morning detention. Thinking on the passage of days, I raised my hand to speak.

“Yes, Margaret?”

“Please, miss, do you think that I could have some time off on Selday morning, miss? I could make it up on Selday afternoon if you like, miss.”

“And what, pray, is so important that you propose to disrupt my schedule?” She fingered her cane menacingly.

“Please, miss, it’s the pollygoggers’ trial on Selday morning. I was wondering if I could go, miss – it does concern me.”

“And how, child, does it come that you know the court schedule?”

“Martello Brown mentioned it to me, miss. My father asked him to prepare to take charge of the pollygoggers, once they’re enslaved, miss.”

“Mister Brown, to you, Margaret, you insolent little girl. It seems to me that a few strokes of the cane would not come amiss. You may not call the Slavemaster General – or any high official – by his first name. Step out to the front, and place yourself over the stool – at once, girl!”

Rising from my place and stepping forward, I bent over the tall stool next to Miss Miles’ desk. With me poised ready for punishment, the governess first delivered a lecture to the effect that her charges were not to refer to their elders and betters by their first names. It was, she said, the kind of insolence for which, in future, I might expect the strap. To my relief, the formidable length of split leather remained on its hook, and she contented herself with the cane.

Afterwards, I resumed my seat a little gingerly – but it could have been a lot worse. The beating left me with the general impression that the governess did not favour my attending the trial. She was in no hurry to express an explicit view on the matter, and I preferred not to court further trouble by asking again. For the rest of the morning I escaped further retribution, and – until lunchtime – Miss Miles did not mention my hopes for Selday.

“Margaret,” she said, “there is a matter with which I must deal before you break for the weekend.”

“Yes, miss?”

“You asked whether you might attend the trial on Selday morning. I was too shocked by the idea to answer at the time, but you may take your thrashing as punishment for your scandalous question, as well as for your insolence toward Mr Brown.”

“Yes, miss. And that means that I can’t go, miss?”

“Indeed it does! You must be aware that the wretches face a charge of rape.” She lowered her voice for the final word, speaking it in scarcely more than a whisper.

“Yes, miss, I know. It was me, miss, that they…”

“Silence, child! I wish, now, that I had chastised you a great deal more thoroughly – because I find that you, Margaret, are little better than a shameless hussy. The very idea of a girl attending such a trial is a piece of wickedness. I shall have to work a great deal harder on instilling in you a sense of decorum.”

“Yes, miss. I’m sorry, miss.”

“I sincerely hope that you are sorry. If you are not, be sure that I have the means to instil sorrow. Now let us drop the subject. You will be at liberty for the next two and half days, but I will expect you at your desk at the usual time on Selday morning – is that perfectly clear?

“Yes, miss.”

“Good. Mary! If you are thinking of taking so large a mouthful, think again, young lady. Margaret isn’t the only one in whom I can instil sorrow.”

In spite of my disappointment over the trial, I returned to my rooms after lunch with a light heart. The prospect of no schoolroom for two and half days seemed almost too good to be true. My mood was still buoyant when, before I’d had time to remove Miss Miles’ uniform, the jewel thief arrived. Secreted under his cloak was a long oilskin package which obviously contained a sword.

“I’ll fetch your ruby,” I said.

My words produced in me an odd mixture of emotions. At an outer level, the idea of being rid of the cursed stone was a far greater boon than a couple of days without lessons. Competing with the enormous relief, was a dark desire to keep the jewel – and also a dreadful foreboding. Inescapable was the idea that – in spite of my offering of pain the night before – the ruby would exact its revenge for this transaction.

“You go and fetch the stone,” said Lisa-Louise. “As you know, I’ve something else to ask our thievish friend.”

Not caring to encounter the stone by chance, I’d placed the ruby – in its case – on a high shelf of my cluttered and ill-frequented store room. With rising panic, I saw that it was not where I’d left it. My first thought was that it must have fallen to the floor, but couldn’t see it there, and moving several nearby objects proved of no help. It remained to return to the living room for help.

“Where’s the ruby?” Lisa-Louise asked.

“I don’t know, mistress. It isn’t where I put it.”

“A thief had better not have taken it – saving the feelings of present company. Tipsi, Barguin – go with Tuerqui to look. I’ll explain to our friend about our trouble on the roof – the collapsed storage hole ceiling.”

It was Tipsi who found the jewel case behind a large and heavy chest filled with footwear and clothing several sizes too big for me. As far as I could see, there was no natural means by which the box could have got there. My feelings of relief, at the prospect of losing the ruby, were mounting. Dark desire for the stone submerged more deeply.

“Not just this afternoon,” the jewel thief was saying, as I re-entered my living room, “I’m not going back on that roof – ever.”

“Come on – ever is a long time,” Lisa-Louise protested. “And we’ll need to check the place out, to see how we stand.”

“How you stand. Once I have the ruby, I’m out of this business. Sooner or later, someone’s winding up dead over this – and I’m making bloody sure it isn’t me.”

“I thought we were friends. Can’t you…?”

“Whatever it is, I can’t… Except – well – for the sake of friendship, I’ll show you as well as I can, and still keep my head. Maybe Tuerqui and Barguin should come too. They’re in this as well.”

Mindful of the chill, I draped a cloak over my shoulders – and Barguin followed my example. The jewel thief led us to a balcony from which my father and his generals reviewed military parades. The early fog had cleared, but the damp flagstones, thirty feet below, looked thoroughly cheerless in the grey light. The thief nodded meaningfully in the direction of a tall tower ahead and to our right, at the opposite corner of the parade ground.

“It’s the only spot with a really good view of the flat roof. Do you see the glint in the window? And do you know what it is?”

The tower had only one opening on the parade ground side – a patch of darkness near the top. At first, I could see nothing out of the ordinary. Then something glinted in the dull light. Someone was at the window with a shiny object.

“It’s a spyglass,” the jewel thief answered his own question. “And it’s trained on the flat roof. There’s no way we can get a really good look, but I’ll show you as much as I can.”

He led us from a familiar passageway into one I didn’t know – and then up rickety flights of stairs. Eventually, we arrived in what was obviously an attic, a sloping roof rising to an apex just above my head. At the far end of the loft was a tiny gable window. Taking turns, and craning our necks, we were able to see a small part of the flat roof.

When it came to my turn at the window, I couldn’t, at first, make sense of what I saw. Then, as he moved, I realised the flesh coloured blur was a trimmed he-slave’s crotch. Twisting my head this way and that, I decided that he was dropping a shovelful of rubble into a barrow. A pair of legs strode past – lost to sight above mid thigh level – they were clad in black riding boots and sky blue breeches, the outer leg adorned with two narrow yellow stripes flanking a broader one of red.

“A general!” I whispered.

“What was that, Tuerqui?” said Lisa-Louise.

“I saw a pair of legs, mistress,” I said, relinquishing my place at the window. “The breeches were part of a general’s uniform. Sky blue with the yellow and red stripe.[1]”

“You saw just the legs?” the jewel thief asked. “No part of him you could give a name?”

“No, lord thief[2], just the legs.”

“Well that’s a mercy. We’ve seen more than enough. I shouldn’t have brought you here. To hide his secret, the general on the roof will have someone killed – will not would.”

“Before the day’s out,” said Lisa-Louise, “he’s going to be hunting for the Warrick sword.”

“Exactly – and Tuerqui’s rooms are sure to be one of the places his men will look. You need to find a safe place for the Warrick sword. If it comes to that, you should find a place well away from your rooms to keep the fighting sword I brought today. Its presence can only arouse his suspicion – and someone’s likely to pay with their life, just for being a suspect.”

“There’s an empty cupboard – used to be full of boots, but it was cleared last week – off the passage by the foot of the stairs below Tuerqui’s rooms. That would do fine for the fighting sword,” Lisa-Louise said after a little thought, “it’s handy to reach, and there’s no reason for anyone to link it with us. The Warrick Sword is a headache. I hate to say so, but the only safe place I can see for it is in Uncle Wilfred’s care.”

“And how are you going to give it to him? He’s bound to ask questions.”

“Leave the sword in this attic, maybe – then slip a note under his door, to let him know it’s here. But he knows my writing, and probably Tuerqui’s, too. He can’t know the hand of every slave in the palace, though. Barguin, can you write?”

A little, but…”

No buts, Barguin. I’ll dictate the note, you write. Then, if anyone asks, you don’t know an A from an aviary, a B from a beehive, a C from an ocean. OK?”

So it was decided, and we hurried back to my rooms. Once there, the jewel thief took the Duck’s Ford ruby and departed. Lisa-Louise started to dictate the note, while Barguin scribbled in spidery but quite legible letters. Concealing the Warrick sword under my cloak, I hurried back to the attic – Tipsi took my killing sword, wrapped in laundry, to its cupboard.

Having secreted the Warrick sword, covered with sacking between the joists, I returned twenty minutes later. We had been none too quick – guardsmen were already in my rooms – searching every nook and cranny. Lisa-Louise and Barguin sat looking sulky. Tipsi hurried after the soldiers, tidying whatever mess they made.

“What’s the meaning of this?” I demanded of the sergeant, trying to be my father’s daughter.

“Beggin’ y’ pardon, ’ighness,” he replied, “we ’as t’ search. There’s treason afoot. O’ course we all know as ’ow you cou’n’t be involved – but that there Lisa-Louise ain’t above suspicion.”

Removing my cloak, I revealed the schoolroom uniform. For once, I felt pleased to have it on – the garments seemed to radiate innocence of all but trifling infractions. The sergeant and his men seemed a little shamefaced, but completed their search. Fortunately, they merely looked for what was there – a search for what wasn’t there might have revealed the suspicious disappearance of the ruby.

“We need to talk,” said Lisa-Louise, after the soldiers had left, “Tipsi included, she’s in this thing now, whether she likes it or not.”

Barguin and I resumed our cloaks, and Tipsi followed our example. The flat roof out of the question, Lisa-Louise led us to a derelict gazebo in what had once been a garden. Now, it was a weed-choked quadrangle in which only a few straggly shrubs showed that the mud had formerly been cultivated.[3] Our leaky shelter offered scant protection against the cold rain which was now falling.

“Well,” Lisa-Louise began, “Tuerqui wanted to learn to fight so she could leave this palace. Now, it seems to me, we’ll all have to go, sooner or later. And we’ll all need to know how to defend ourselves.”

“Even me, mistress?” Tipsi said, sounding shocked, and addressing her question to me rather than Lisa-Louise.

“Even you, Tipsi,” I said as gently as I could, sorry now to have involved her. “Lisa-Louise is right.”

“Damn sure I’m right. All the same, I can’t see Tipsi becoming much of a swordswoman. The way I see it, we’ll need to set off separately, in two parties – me and Barguin, Tuerqui and Tipsi. I can’t see me and Tuerqui being allowed out of the palace gates together.”

“No, mistress,” I said, “I don’t think we would be.”

“If Tipsi isn’t going to be much of a hand with a sword, Tuerqui’s party is going to need a bit more muscle. You remember how Martello Brown was trying to interest us in Diqui. Well – Diqui’s about the fiercest slave I can think of – maybe we should take her. What do you think, Barguin?”

“I wouldn’t like to meet Diqui with a sword in her hand, that’s for sure.”

“Never mind, Barguin, she’s more likely to ravish you that kill a pretty slave. It might not be so bad. Anyway – does anyone not want Diqui in?”

Lisa-Louise paused for possible objections, but there were none. A sharp squall of rain had us wrapping ourselves more tightly in the cloaks. With the hoods pulled over heads, an observer might have taken us for ghosts. In the shadows of approaching evening, we might not have been seen at all.

“Good,” she continued. “That makes five of us in need of training in arms. Any ideas about that?”

“What about Bob Bosset?” said Barguin. “He’s in charge of military training, and I reckon he’s corruptible. We ought to be able to buy him – either with sex, or with Tuerqui’s mother’s jewels, or maybe both.”

“Yeah,” said Lisa-Louise, “I was thinking of him, too. An obvious choice. Trouble is that Tuerqui caught sight of a general’s breeches up on the flat roof. There are only four men in this palace who strut about in such fine panties – and Sergeant General Bob Bosset is one of them.”

“Mistress, unless there were changes while I was in Surrey, the others are the Honourable Eric Marsh, Sir Garrafad of the Mount and Lord Higate.”

“Still the same four, Tuerqui, and…?

“Well, mistress, I was just going to say that Bob Bosset is the least likely to have any claim to a dukedom. Nothing noble about him, mistress. He’s a horrible, vulgar…[4]”

“Yes, yes, yes. I can see what you mean, Tuerqui, but that’s a dangerous assumption. And if you’re wrong, it could get us killed.”

“So, mistress, we need to know who the pretender to the Dukedom of Warrick is – and we need to know it as quickly as possible.”

“Exactly, Tuerqui. Any helpful ideas? Come on, it’s fucking perishing out here.”

“Yes, mistress. I’ve already asked Miss Miles if I might look at the genealogy of the Warrick line. She’s going to bring the documents for me to study.”

“Tuerqui, you’re brilliant! I think that wraps it up – time to get back to the fireside.”

Returned to the warmth of my rooms, Lisa-Louise sent a note to Martello Brown, saying that we were interested in having Diqui in our circle. The Slavemaster General came a couple of hours later, this time he seemed to be sober. He was armed with a sword and whip, and was accompanied by a chained slave, Diqui branded on her thigh. It was the first time I’d seen the girl – she was tall and well-muscled – but the strongest first impression was of a burning unquenchable personage glowing in her eyes.

“Here she is,” Brown said, “as requested. The sword and the whip are a precaution – she isn’t what I’d call tamed, and she really doesn’t like me very much.”

“I can’t blame her for that,” said Lisa-Louise.

“Oh, Miss Lisa-Louise – and we seemed to be getting along so well last time. I’m almost inclined to ask to roger you. But, no, my fee – as ever – is his lordship’s daughter. And, for this beauty, I’d like to take her in the things she wore for drill on Comday morning.”

“I suppose you were another of those watching,” I said.

“As a matter of fact not, young lady. Your daddy was keeping me far too busy. But I heard all about it, and would like to see for myself. And I’d like to see those bouncy bouncy star jumps – close up and personal.”

Resisting the temptation to reply in your dreams, I took stock of Diqui. Lisa-Louise was right – Tipsi was unlikely to make much of a swordswoman, but I had to bring her with me into Surrey. Not only did Tipsi now know too much to be left behind, but I felt the slave’s deliverance was owed to my true mistress, her cousin. By contrast, Diqui looked to be exactly the woman we would need to guard our backs.

“All right, Mr Brown,” I said. “It’s yours – star jumps and all. I’ll go and change.”

“No, Margaret – or Tuerqui – or whoever you want to be, just go and fetch your drill kit. I’d enjoy watching you change from your schoolroom things. I’m surprised to see you still wearing those, but pleased. You look simply scrumptious.”

It came as almost a surprise to realise that I’d omitted to change from my schoolroom uniform. The afternoon had been so eventful, so filled with urgent matters, that – apart from wrapping against the cold and wet for the derelict garden – my mind had been far from the way in which I was dressed. With a sigh, I went to fetch my drill kit, hoping that Diqui would be worth it. Appearances can sometimes be deceptive.

“I’d like you all to stay,” said Martello Brown, as I re-joined the company. He was responding to moves on the part of Lisa-Louise, Barguin and Tipsi to leave the room. “Stay for the whole performance – including me giving her a good shafting. I hope you all enjoy the spectacle.”

So they remained to watch as I started to peel off my schoolroom uniform. Diqui’s scrutiny was as close as anyone’s. Not only personage, but Surrenity, burned in her eyes. It would not be long, I felt sure, before she took me.

“Just a moment,” said the Slavemaster. “Girl – put that dress back on – you’re stripping way too fast. Make a show of it – slowly, now. And I’m not the only one who’ll enjoy it – eh, Diqui?”

So I resumed my schoolroom pinafore dress and started to strip a second time, slowly now. Once naked, I paused until Martello Brown urged me on. Keeping to much the rhythm with which I’d stripped, I slowly assumed the drill kit. Once dressed, I did my star jumps for the assembled company.

“Enough jumps for the moment,” Martello Brown said at last, “lovely though they are. I’ll have you over my knee for a spanking, you minx!”

Bent over his knee, nothing further happened for several minutes. My bottom tingled in expectation. Then I felt him fold back the short skirt and the spanking began – heavy, measured slaps that stung a great deal. After the first dozen or so, he tugged down my knickers and continued.

“Right –” he said at last, “up, girl, and we’ll have a few more of your lovely star jumps before I fuck you.”

Pulling up my knickers, I resumed the jumps. After perhaps another dozen of them, he fell upon me. What followed was neither more nor less unpleasant than much of what I’d done in the Laughing Phallus. My brothel experience helped take my mind from the nasty business – useful training in that regard.

Diqui, unchained by Martello Brown shortly before he left, accompanied us back to the neglected garden. She showed no surprise on being asked to don a cloak and join us on an unspecified expedition. It was well after nightfall, now – the rain had stopped but the temperature was dropping sharply. Diqui seemed to like our plans, although her expressions were not always easy to read.

Later, back in my living room, she took me in front of the fire, the heat almost burning my right flank. She was more rough than the Slavemaster had been – biting and scratching. The painful aspects of what she did – and the burning fire – seemed to help drive out the pollution of having Mr Brown’s penis inside me. Clinging to her, I willed ever greater excess.

Thereafter, the weekend passed nervously. My expectations of practicing with the sword were dashed when it proved missing from the cupboard in which Tipsi had put it. Unexpectedly, by Olday evening, I found myself looking forward to resuming my place in the schoolroom on Selday morning. If I could begin my genealogical studies, it might be possible to clear Bob Bosset of treason – and negotiate arms training.

On Briday evening, with Miss Miles’ next lesson only twelve hours away, I anticipated my return to classes with a lot less pleasure. The humiliation of being treated as a child, and the schoolroom punishments, weighed increasingly upon me. Two and a half days of liberty seemed to make the prospect of the schoolroom significantly less tolerable. But the consequences of non-attendance were not to be contemplated – not without arms training to ensure that I never had to return.

Diqui had Barguin in her arms, lips about to descend upon her companion’s. Lisa-Louise, in another corner, was talking quietly with Tipsi. Sitting alone by the fire, I stared at the patterns formed by the flames, trying not to see them as vengeful troops about to descend upon us. Try as I might, a pleasant interpretation of the flickers continued to elude me.

It seemed all too likely that the troubles of recent days were the vengeance of the Duck’s Ford ruby. The sense that it didn’t wish to pass to the jewel thief was too strong to be denied. A piece of corroborating evidence was that the fighting sword – the price paid by the thief – had vanished, leaving me with nothing for the transaction. More importantly, perhaps, I wondered whether the jewel had done with me – or had a further misfortune in store.

Gentle hands started to caress my shoulders. Turning, I saw Lisa-Louise smiling down on me. Tipsi stood a little behind, looking worried. Returning their gaze, attempting to appear happier than I was, my mouth twitched unconvincingly.

“Tuerqui, what’s the matter?” she asked.

“I’m all right, mistress.”

“Are you?”

“I was just thinking, mistress, about the sword, and the ruby, and tomorrow.”

“Vanished sword, vengeful ruby and the schoolroom cane?”

“That’s about the size of it, mistress.”

“You think that the ruby is the cause of all the trouble, Tuerqui?”

“It had occurred to me, mistress, and I’m not sure that it’s done with us yet.”

Heat from the fire caressed my breasts and abdomen, Lisa-Louise’s warmth soothed my back. The room was filled with flickering shadows and smelt a little of smoke. Wind-driven rain rattled the windows loudly. Beyond the panes, blackness reigned unchallenged.

[1] At this time, such breeches were common to the generals of all Surrey’s enemies. By contrast, Surrey generals wore dark blue breeches or skirts with a plain red stripe. Meadowlands generals, to assert a certain neutrality, wore green breeches with a yellow stripe.

[2] Lord thief – it is unclear whether the title was intended respectfully or as a piece of mockery.

[3] It seems that, after his estrangement from Tuerqui’s mother, Tuerqui’s father allowed the few gardens of the Palace Victoria to pass into extreme neglect.

[4] Such evidence as survives, suggests that Sergeant General Bob Bosset was a rarity at the Palace Victoria, in that he rose to high office from humble origins. It appears that his mother was a housekeeper (possibly Mrs Clay’s predecessor) and his father a leather worker (probably owning a small business). He seems to have been the most able of Tuerqui’s father’s generals – but remained restricted to having charge of military training. He almost certainly left the Palace Victoria before the Fourth Battle of Lundin and definitely took up a more active command in the Meadowlands army. The general was probably killed at the Battle of Burbingham (Litnight 4th to 15th of Berenice I’s twelfth regnal year). If he survived, nothing is known of his subsequent fate.

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Of Bondlings and Blesh Chapter 32

Chapter 32

The pale light of an overcast morning filled my bedroom. Spine relaxed deep into the feather mattress – I lay deliciously comfortable. Someone was singing softly, but I could neither identify the tune nor make out any of the words. Perfume – lavender oil – filled my nostrils.

An unfamiliar voice said “I’ve run your bath, mistress.”

Blinking, I saw that the speaker was Tipsi. Martello Brown must have responded to my note by sending her either in the middle of the night, or at dawn. She was gazing at me with what was almost Lady Isobel’s face, but relaxed into a softness I’d never seen in her cousin’s. Blinking, I tried to see a fierce personage unsubdued by slavery – but it simply wasn’t there.

For the first time since my return to the Palace Victoria, I’d rested well – slept remarkably well in spite of some disturbing dreams. My sense of loss, uprooted from my mistress and daughter, had not troubled my sleep. Disquiet occasioned by Miss Miles or my father had not brought me another restless night. The visions in the darkness had been scarlet – pain and pleasure inextricably tangled, triumph and dread indistinguishable one from the other.

Shortly before retiring the previous evening, I had glanced though my mother’s gems, and chanced to remove the Duck’s Ford ruby from its case. A drop of blood on a golden chain, the stone must have fitted between the wearer’s breasts – just as my goddess did. My mother had, beyond doubt, never worn it – and I would never wish to do so. Gazing upon the jewel, its redness had exerted a fascination upon me, and also a sense of dread.

The red droplet, glinting in the lamplight, was one with so much spilt blood. The stone had once belonged to the Countess of Duck’s Ford. No doubt there had been a series of blameless women proud of the Duck’s Ford title. The ruby had been owned by the only lady of that line whom anybody remembers – the far from blameless countess.

Dangling on its chain, the ruby had seemed to wink at me. With a shudder, I’d returned the jewel to its case. It was a memento of infamy I’d have preferred not to inherit. It had occurred to me that perhaps the jewel thief might be persuaded to take the stone – but, with a sick feeling, I sensed that the gem did not want me to pass it on[1].

Scarlet dreams had fallen away – and stretching sensuously – I was enjoying my bed, a soft warm nest. It reminded me of the bed I’d shared with Passibelle on my first night at the University of Pain. Dipping into the recollection of the pleasure we’d shared was a luxurious delight until there dawned an urgent sense of immediate reality. It was broad daylight – surely I’d be late for Miss Miles, with consequences all too easily imagined.

“Tipsi!” I shouted, leaping from the bed. “What time is it?”

“It’s about seven o’clock, mistress. You have plenty of time. Don’t worry, mistress, about the schoolroom cane.”

Relaxing in a bath liberally laced with lavender oil, Tipsi washed me – attentive to my needs, gentle with her touch. When I stepped from the tub, she dried me with a soft, fluffy, perfectly clean towel. That done, she dressed me in my schoolroom uniform. As far as I could observe, she was perfectly happy in her work.

“Tipsi?” I asked. “You seem such a good slave – but you’re doing everything – don’t you think that Barguin should be helping you?”

“I try to be a good slave, mistress. I think, mistress, that Barguin’s still asleep, perhaps she had a hard day yesterday. But it’s not for me to say what she should be doing, mistress – that’s for you to judge. Mistress, it’s not my place to ask, but…”

“What is it, Tipsi? Ask what you like.”

“The others, mistress, the other slaves – and persons too – say that you were my cousin’s slave. I saw the mark, on your thigh, mistress…”

“Yes, Tipsi, I was Lady Isobel’s slave, and proud of that. She’s a great lady in Surrey and – the last time I saw her – she was very well. I love her, and tried – like you – to be a good slave. That’s something I can respect in you.”

“Thank you, mistress. And, mistress, if I may say so?” Having knotted the schoolroom tie, she started to brush my hair.

“Speak freely, Tipsi, and please don’t keep asking permission. Or should I have said that? I don’t know – I’m trying to be your mistress, but personage feels strange, heavy on my shoulders. But say what was on your mind – please do.”

“It was just that I respect your trying to be a good slave as well, mistress. I’ve had enough hard times, mistress, since I was enslaved. I expect it was sometimes hard for you too, mistress. The mark on your forehead?”

“Yes, that was hard, Tipsi, quite a lot of it was hard. And yet… Are you happy, Tipsi?”

“Oh yes, mistress. It was all right being one of Mrs Clay’s domestic slave pool – much better than the kitchens, where I was before, mistress. But ever since – well, for a long time, mistress, I’ve wanted to be a lady’s body slave. Brushing your hair is lovely, mistress, a girly thing – you know...”

“I think I know. You see yourself as a girly slave, Tipsi?”

“Well, mistress, I am a girl – and glad to be so, mistress.”

“That’s good, Tipsi. I’m happy for you, and I’ll try to make your place with me as girly as I can.”

“Oh, thank you, mistress. You’re lovely, mistress, really lovely. It seems too good to be true, mistress. And, mistress, if I could have chosen any lady to serve, she would have been you.”

“Because of Lady Isobel?”

“A bit of that, mistress. But everything I’ve heard of you, mistress, has made me admire you more. You valued your own slavery, mistress, and I think you’ll respect both me as a slave, and my slavery. I hope I haven’t spoken out of turn, mistress.”

“No, Tipsi, that’s fine. I respect your girlishness, understand your need for a mistress, and I’ll do my best for you. It won’t be easy, but I’ll try. Please bear with me when I fail, that’s all.”

“Thank you, mistress. I could ask no more. Your hair’s lovely, mistress, so shiny. A pleasure to brush, mistress.”

“I think that’s to do with diet, Tipsi. You should thank the swill your cousin gave me.”

After a bowl of porridge into which Tipsi had put exactly the right amount of honey, I hurried to the schoolroom. Tipsi had reminded me to fetch my games kit for drill. It seemed common knowledge that, on Comday morning, Miss Miles took Phoebe and Mary into a yard for physical exercise. This confirmed my hunch that there would be spectators.

After hurrying, with the idea that time was short, I was in the schoolroom with five minutes to spare. My two fellow pupils were already at their desks. Miss Miles arrived two or three minutes later. Emulating Phoebe and Mary, I rose to my feet and stood very straight while our teacher subjected us to a close scrutiny, flexing her cane as she did so.

“Well, Margaret,” she said at last, “you are not only on time today, but very well presented. I see that you have remembered your games kit, too. Continue like this and you may reach lunchtime with your bottom still comfortable.”

“Thank you, miss.”

“You, Mary – on the other hand – are a disgrace. Just look at you…”

It transpired that Mary had a crumpled uniform and dirty fingernails. Miss Miles gave her opinion of these faults at some length before spanking the child. She did not use the cane or the strap, but my previous day’s experience assured me that the slaps were sufficiently painful. Clearly well pleased with her chastising prowess, the governess sent the girl back to her desk.

“Right,” Miss Miles said, “the Comday morning test. “This is your first, Margaret. I write questions on the blackboard, you write the answers – the procedure is not hard to follow, even for the dullest girl. Don’t forget to mark each page with your name, inch wide margins on either side of the paper, and don’t neglect to write neatly.”

Thereafter, we settled to an hour’s written work. After writing the first dozen questions on the board, Miss Miles looked over each of our shoulders in turn, evidently to scrutinise the papers, although she may also have aimed to disconcert us. Although the governess expressed reservations about my handwriting, I escaped punishment – the morning seemed to be going rather well. The test covered a wide range of subjects, but seemed easy enough, with the exception of some arithmetic problems.

“Time to hand in your papers,” Miss Miles said eventually, “and then we’ll go for drill.”

Once she had collected our work, we followed her from the schoolroom, games kit under our arms. We stepped demurely to what I’d thought to be a store room, and perhaps it once had been. Now, it was empty of stores, scantily furnished to serve as a changing room. It smelt of soap with more than a hint of stale sweat.

A form and coat hooks were sited along a wall punctured with small high windows, at which we looked as we entered. A screen reaching to shoulder level partitioned off a space, perhaps six foot wide, by the shorter wall to our left. The only other furnishing – apart from anything that might have been hidden behind the screen – was a long table laden with soap, flannels, towels, washing bowls and jugs. This was positioned between the door and the screen.

Miss Miles slipped behind the screen and evidently started to disrobe beyond our gaze. Standing by the bench, Mary and Phoebe began to undress – I followed their example, feeling less embarrassed than – I think – our teacher hoped. The governess, only her head and shoulders visible, kept a watchful eye upon us. Once we were naked, the two little girls and I sat on the form to assume our games kit.

The things into which we changed comprised a singlet, a very short pleated skirt, a pair of knickers more substantial than those we wore for lessons, ankle socks and soft lace-up shoes. The skirt and knickers were navy blue – the rest was white. The skimpy top looked very different on me from it the way it appeared on Phoebe and Mary. The support of a bra would have been welcome, but none had been included with the schoolroom uniform or the games kit, and I felt certain that wearing non-regulation underwear would have been punished.

By the time Miss Miles stepped from behind her screen, she was similarly clothed – except that her top was more substantial, with short sleeves, and her skirt perhaps six inches longer. It was also clear that she was wearing a bra, although the governess’ breasts were smaller than mine. She carried the cane tucked under her arm – something that put me in mind of a sergeant’s swagger stick. A silver-coloured whistle hung from her neck on a chain of the same metal.

She led us at trot along a passageway and through another door. It brought us into a large open yard overlooked by many windows. Our drill was clearly a popular entertainment – not only did faces peer from the windows, but eight or ten men sat on packing cases on the other side of the court, and half a dozen guardsmen leaned on their halberds. My expectation was that, although she might be unable to clear the windows, Miss Miles would at least send the idlers about their business – but she made no move to do so.

“Right, girls – form into a straight row – and running on the spot – now!” She blew her whistle. “Knees higher, Mary! More effort, Margaret, much more effort! Come on!”

My reprimand came as I realised just how the exercise set my unsupported breasts into motion. Certain that the men were enjoying the spectacle, I’d slackened my pace. After a moment’s consideration, I decided not to express my concern, but to follow instructions. Miss Miles would almost certainly have interpreted my dislike of being ogled as an excuse – and the cane seemed her invariable answer to excuses.

“Right girls,” she blew on her whistle again, “that’s enough. Star jumps next. And go!”

At yet another blast of the whistle, we started to jump. Immediately, I was aware that the exercise had an even more dramatic effect on my breasts than did running on the spot. My efforts to ignore the spectators were only partially successful. After a chorus of cheers and whoops from the idlers, I slackened my stride.

“Margaret! More effort! I’ve warned you before, and won’t warn you a third time. I will not tolerate laziness.”

So I put in more effort as the idlers’ cat calls redoubled. As far as it was possible to tell, Miss Miles had no objection to their interest. It was a great relief when the governess’ whistle signalled an end to the star jumps. There followed some stretching and bending exercises, then push ups and sit ups, which seemed to make my breasts bounce a great deal less. After that, a second round of star jumps produced immediate enthusiasm from the spectators – and had me slackening my pace without thought of the consequences.

“Margaret! I have warned you twice about idling. I said that I wouldn’t warn you a third time. Come here and bend over, girl – this instant!”

Doing as I was bidden, I felt my skirt folded back – something that seemed scarcely necessary as the act of bending in those short pleats must have fully exposed my knickers. My brief schoolroom experience suggested that she might also tug down my underwear. To my considerable relief she did not do so. The cane swished on a couple of trial strokes.

“Brace yourself, girl – clasp your shins. I intend to strike hard. On this occasion, your knickers may remain in place. Do not expect that privilege should you require another thrashing this morning.”

The thwack of the first stroke was submerged by a resounding cheer. The men clearly found my punishment even more entertaining than the star jumps – something which did not surprise me in view of my Laughing Phallus experiences. The instruction to brace myself by clasping my shins had been timely, for Miss Miles struck even harder than usual. She delivered six strokes, none of them less fierce than the one before.

After that, I completed the drill session without minding the eyes that feasted upon every bounce of my breasts, and – as a result – was not caned a second time. Mary and Phoebe were at pains to give no sign of slackness and were not punished at all. This left me sure that the presence of spectators was a regular event, and wasn’t purely on my account. Considering the men’s attention fixed on the little girls reminded me of the popularity of Madame Scurf’s whore children.

At last, the drill was over and we trotted after Miss Miles back into the building. Once returned to the changing room, we stripped and washed ourselves thoroughly, as the governess barked orders from behind her screen. It was my first cold water wash since returning to the Palace Victoria. Although unable to see our teacher very well, I felt pretty sure that her water was warm.

Taking our seats in the schoolroom, there remained only half an hour till lunch. Miss Miles occupied the time with explaining some of the mathematical questions from our test. It confirmed my idea that I couldn’t have done well with that part of the examination. The governess did not say whether her reactions to lack of academic effort were the same as those to failings at drill – but I suspected that too many wrong answers could result in a bottom at least as warm as the water with which our teacher had washed.

As on the previous day, schoolroom lunch was an uncomfortable meal – plain fare eaten under Miss Mile’s stern gaze – but afterwards I was at liberty. The caning in the yard had remained my only punishment of the day, and there arose not the least suggestion that I might face a detention. With a light heart and a girlish skipping step, I returned to my rooms, games kit tucked under my arm. There, I found Lisa-Louise in conversation with the jewel thief, Tipsi attended them while Barguin’s occupation was unclear.

“You wanted to see me?” the thief asked, turning in my direction.

“Yes, I did. I’ll be with you as soon as I’m out of my schoolroom clothes.”

“Don’t change, Tuerqui,” said Lisa-Louise – it was a command, not a request. “I think you look rather smart, and we need to be elsewhere, so I shan’t harness you. Of course, if our light fingered friend would rather see you dressed for drill…”

“I appreciate the offer, Lisa-Louise, I really do, but think I’ve already seen sufficient of the games kit for one day – don’t want to overdo it. Still and all, she did look fetching in that skimpy little singlet and tiny pleated skirt. Squirmed exquisitely under the cane, too – oh yes! Very nice, but seeing it all again can wait till next Comday – it’ll be a treat.”

“You were watching me?”

“I happened to be by a window and chanced to see you.”

“And how long, may I ask, did you happen to be by the window?”

“Truth to tell, for the entire performance. That Miss Miles certainly knows how to take a class for drill, although a few more star jumps wouldn’t have come amiss – bouncy bouncy, and all that. And she has a strong arm when it’s needed – excellent cane work. All very jolly, you can’t blame me for taking a little peek.”

“Tuerqui!” said Lisa-Louise, “stop this inquisition at once! This is not your business with the good thief. Of course he watched – so did I, Barguin and Tipsi because we’re concerned about you.”

“I’m sorry, mistress.”

“I should think so, Tuerqui. Now, as I said, we need to be elsewhere to talk. Barguin, fetch the rolled up rug, Tipsi you stay here. Let’s go.”

We set off, in single file up the narrow stairs to the roof. Lisa-Louise went first, I followed still in schoolroom uniform. Barguin stepped behind me, carrying the ceremonial sword wrapped in its rug. The jewel thief brought up the rear.

The roof was by no means as sheltered as the drill yard – a chill wind blew and the cloak of the previous night would have been welcome. As it was, I folded my arms beneath my breasts, hugging myself for warmth. At least I was better off than Barguin clad only in slave harness – she unwrapped the sword and placed the rug about her shoulders. The jewel thief started as the blade was revealed.

“That!” he exclaimed, “I might have known.”

“You know the blade?” Lisa-Louise said.

“I do, indeed – and I don’t think you could have found a more dangerous sword. It carries secrets that someone would kill to hide.”

“The symbols on the hilt – and engraved on the blade?” I asked. “But I’m sure they’re not devices used in Surrey. If they were, I’d probably recognise them.”

“You probably would,” said the jewel thief, “you were there long enough. No, not Surrey, Tuerqui.”

“Where, then?”

“They’re the arms of the Duke of Warrick,” Lisa-Louise said.

“But surely that’s all right. The Duke of Warrick is my father’s friend.”

“Yes, of course,” said the thief. “He’s your father’s ally.”

“So – why?”

“I think we’ve said too much already. Let it drop, Tuerqui. You, too, Lisa-Louise.”

“A pretender to the dukedom, it’s got to be,” I said. “It can’t be anything else. Here in the Palace Victoria. But who?”

“Better not to ask, Tuerqui. It’s very dangerous knowledge.”

“A pretender – isn’t it?”

“If you insist.”

“So that’s how it was done.”

“How what was done, Tuerqui?” Lisa-Louise asked.

“How they arranged for me to be enslaved. The Duke of Lester fixed it – to provoke my father to invade the Meadowlands, because he wanted to discredit the Duke of Warrick. But Lester would have needed a contact here, in the Palace Victoria. Jenna couldn’t have done it – Wilfred Addal must have had her too carefully watched.”

“These are dangerous thoughts, Tuerqui. Drop them. Persons have been killed for less. Please – ideas can cut deeper than swords.”

“Someone in this palace is a friend to the Duke of Lester. They’re allies because they’re both enemies of the current Duke of Warrick. The Duke of Lester is Surrey’s friend. Perhaps the pretender would help me return to Lady Isobel.”

“Perhaps not Tuerqui – in fact almost certainly not. There are no friends in this business. Any man in this palace willing to aid the Surrey cause will murder to cover himself – he’d have no choice. We shouldn’t have said anything – and Lisa-Louise should have left this sword in its hole.”

“You’re right,” said Lisa-Louise, “it was a mistake to disturb the sword. I’m sorry. You’re probably right about me, too – I am like an unsecured ship’s catapult, as like to put a boulder through our hull as the enemy’s. Can you find Tuerqui a sword – a useful one?”

“Can she use a sword?”

“No, that’s why she needs to practice.”

“In that case, I advise her to take proper lessons. Even an ordinary sword is a dangerous toy.”

“If I offered to pay you?” I asked.

“Business is business. What price did you have in mind?”

“I have the Duck’s Ford ruby amongst my mother’s jewels.”

“I am aware of that. The ruby could buy anything that it is in my power to supply, and that includes a sword. If, on the other hand, you wanted the blade as a favour – I’d offer an act of kindness, and give you sensible advice instead.”

“Not to play with swords?”

“Exactly.”

“In that case, the Duck’s Ford Ruby is yours. Or will be on delivery of my sword.”

“Then, with some regret on my part, it is agreed. A sharp and dangerous fighting sword will be yours by Olday, at the latest, and you’ll be able to practice with it over the weekend.”

“Weekend?”

“Yes – you can’t have forgotten about weekends. An advantage of the schoolroom over slavery is that there are no lessons on Olday or Briday. After Valday lunch, you should have two and a half days off – barring your being foolish enough to annoy Miss Miles by turning up late, or some such. And, if you don’t mind cutting yourself with a sword, you’re probably stupid enough for anything.”

“I really had forgotten about weekends, so long since I had one. Oh – wow! Well, I should certainly have time to practice with the sword. Might even start to get a bit handy.”

“Handy, footy or heady, I hope you don’t cut yourself too deep.”

“And I hope you sleep well, with the ruby in your care. Don’t keep it too long. It isn’t nice. There’s something downright nasty about it.”

“I had the hour glass diamond[2] for a short while, so it won’t be the first cursed stone to pass through my hands. Don’t worry about me, I know where to sell jewels, even famous ones. I’ll see you on Valday, or Olday at the latest, with the sword. Good afternoon – Tuerqui, Barguin, Lisa-Louise.”

Turning, he walked to the stairs, and back down into the palace. We stood, watching him go. The wind was growing stronger – and with a sharper edge. Barguin shivered.

“Let’s go,” she said. “I’m cold.”

“First, I need to put the sword back,” said Lisa-Louise “– and I’ll want that rug to wrap it.”

With obvious reluctance, Barguin surrendered her rug. Lisa-Louise carefully wrapped the ceremonial sword and carried it, almost reverently, to the store room whence it had come. Opening the cupboard-shed door, my eyes and throat were filled with dust. Choking, coughing and rubbing my eyes, I made a rapid retreat.

“Shit!” exclaimed Lisa-Louise.

“What is it?” asked Barguin.

“Poking in here last night, I brought the fucking ceiling down. Well – the sword ain’t going back in there – no way!”

As the dust settled, it was clear that she was right. The storage space was filled with debris and filth – spilling from the door we obviously wouldn’t be able to close, and leaving insufficient space to insert a three foot long sword, especially not one wrapped in a bulky rug. Barguin and Lisa-Louise stared at the devastation, open mouthed. Still coughing, I blinked rapidly to shift the grit from my eyes.

“What’re we going to do?” Barguin asked.

“For now, I don’t see we’ve any choice but to take the sword back to Tuerqui’s rooms – and try to pretend we were never here.”

So we took the sword back to my apartments and settled to an uneasy afternoon and evening. Every practical stratagem to cover our tracks seemed to involve enlisting the help of the jewel thief. Clearing the mess would not only call for sufficient labour – preferably that of he-slaves, I thought – but wheelbarrows and shovels. The thief had said: the ruby could buy anything that it is in my power to supply – and other gems would doubtless make good currency – but we were uncertain as to what lay in his power.

“In any case, I’ve no idea how to find him again tonight,” said Lisa-Louise, raising a fresh difficulty. “But he’ll be here with the sword in two or three days, and maybe it could wait till then. I know most of what there is to know about this palace, but don’t know where the thief lays his head. Anyway, usually, I don’t think anyone, apart from me, goes up on that roof from one month’s end to the next.”

“But – if someone does, mistress?”

“I don’t see that we have any option but to wait, Tuerqui. We can’t shift the debris ourselves, it would take us days – you, me, Barguin and Tipsi. And I don’t see how we could recruit anyone else, apart from the jewel thief. There aren’t many we can trust – persons or slaves.”

“Mrs Clay, mistress?”

“Not with this business. Not when our lives might be at stake. The jewel thief was right – the owner of the sword would definitely kill to keep his secret.”

“I could tell my father that I needed to see the jewel thief to open another box, mistress. But he’d probably think I was very careless with keys, mistress, and not see that there was any hurry.”

“Worse – it might arouse his suspicion, Tuerqui, he’s not an easy man. In any case, your father could only contact our thieving friend through Wilfred Addal. We definitely don’t want the spymaster to start wondering what we’re doing – not more than he already is. Better by far to leave it.”

Towards bedtime, Lisa-Louise asked to see the Duck’s Ford ruby. Fetching the stone from its box, its redness was even more disturbing than it had been the night before. Experiencing an almost physically painful sensation, my interpretation was that the gem resented being offered to the jewel thief. A mounting desire to be rid of the thing competed with a thirst to keep it – a thirst that gripped me, but seemed not to be mine.

“May I put it back into its case, mistress?”

“In a minute, Tuerqui, I just want to look for a little longer.”

“Mistress, do you believe that a jewel can have a soul of its own?”

“You think that this one has a soul, Tuerqui?”

“Yes, mistress, if any stone has a soul, this one does – and it means no good to slave nor person. I don’t like the way it makes me feel, mistress.”

“I think I can sense what you mean, Tuerqui,” she said after a long pause. “Best put it away.”

That night, the scarlet dreams were worse, more beautiful, more horrible, than they had been the night before. In the morning, I emerged from disturbed sleep into troubled waking. Bathing, dressing and breakfast were all accomplished efficiently enough, yet I felt a distance from the routine, almost as though observing someone else preparing for class. The boundary between the worlds of dream and waking seemed fragile, if not actually broken.

To my surprise, I was the first to arrive in the schoolroom – in that dreamlike state, it felt impossible that I could be there in time to avoid the thrashing and detention awarded for lateness. Curiously, the sense of tardiness aroused no panic, as though I would observe the punishment, rather than experience it. Seated at my desk, while not precisely inattentive to Miss Miles’ lessons, I found it hard to forget the ruby – one from so many drops of blood, petrified and preserved. The governess soon noticed that something was amiss – and, unexpectedly, her first resort was not the cane, but evident concern for my welfare.

“Margaret, is something the matter? There’s a look about you – almost fey. What is it, child?”

“I’m sorry , miss,” I replied, scarcely noticing the incongruity of being addressed as child by a woman younger than me. “Last night I looked at the Duck’s Ford ruby.”

“Haunted by the wicked countess?”

“Yes, miss.”

“You’re a foolish little girl, Margaret.”

“Yes, miss.”

“All three of you attend. This is a valuable lesson. Consider my cane. Phoebe – does it hurt the body?”

“Yes, miss. It certainly hurts mine!”

“Indeed, and so it should. Mary – does it hurt the soul?”

“No, miss.”

“No, indeed. It hurts the body, but not the soul. In fact, it’s good for the soul – driving out wickedness, ignorance and folly. Margaret – what does it drive out?”

“Wickedness, ignorance and folly, miss.”

“In your case, Margaret, we may have to work on the folly.”

“Yes, miss.”

“Mary – tell me something else that it drives out.”

“Laziness, miss.”

Yes, indeed, Mary – as Margaret found during drill, yesterday. A cursed stone, on the other hand, may serve as a focus for ancient evil. Phoebe – how do we spell focus, and what does it mean?”

“F-o-c-u-s, miss – and it means that something concentrates something else, miss.”

“Correctly spelt, Phoebe, but it is more a matter of drawing to a point than concentration. Such a stone, then, may harm the soul without hurting the body. We may say that it is diametrically opposed to my cane. Margaret – how do we spell diametrically, and what does it mean?”

The governess continued tolerantly, delivering only one spanking all morning – that to Phoebe when she was definitely insolent. My feeling was that the girl was testing how far she could go before retribution would fall. Even then, I felt that Miss Miles delivered a lighter punishment than expected. For my own part, I preferred not to test our teacher’s limits, content to sit easy.

“Right,” said Miss Miles with perhaps an hour to go till lunchtime, “let’s look at yesterday’s tests.”

Mary and Phoebe groaned, but the governess corrected their errors gently enough. She was quite pleased with my test paper, marking only one question wrong, apart from my arithmetic blunders. The supposed mistake concerned Surrey geography – the relative positions of Red Hill and Dorking. Having pulled Sam’s cart along those roads, I knew that my answer was right, but made no objection to Miss Miles’ marking.

“You clearly need mathematics tuition, Margaret,” she said, “your arithmetic is little short of appalling. But most of your answers are very good indeed. Perhaps, instead of working with Phoebe and Mary, you might devote some class time to private study. Do you have any subject you would like to explore?”

After a moment’s thought, recalling the matter of the ceremonial sword – and the pretender to the dukedom of Warrick – I said: “Please miss, do you think that I might study genealogy?”

“A splendid choice, Margaret, most suitable, most improving. Now, Mary, how do we spell genealogy and what does it mean?”

“G-e-n-e-o…”

“Wrong, Mary, but you may sit easy. Since it is not a word we have previously considered, I cannot punish your ignorance. Margaret – you tell her.”

“G-e-n-e-a-l-o-g-y, miss, and it means tracing families from generation to generation.”

“Quite right, child. Did you have any particular family in mind, Margaret?”

“I thought perhaps I might start with the line of the Duke of Warrick, miss.”

“One of our noble allies – an excellent choice, and that for several reasons. You may know, Margaret, that your father’s right of succession depends on whether the line should descend through a legitimate daughter or an illegitimate son. The same principle affected the Warrick inheritance a hundred, or perhaps a hundred and fifty, years ago. Most fascinating.”

“I did wonder if there might be a parallel, miss.”

“I’m sure that I can find material for your study. I shall visit the archives. Now – Phoebe – how do we spell legitimate, and what does it mean? And be sure to express yourself without coarseness, child, or my cane will know its duty.”

“L-e-g-i-t-i-m-a-t-e, miss, and it means that someone’s mother and father were properly married, in the eyes of the gods and the law.”

“Quite right, Phoebe – a splendid answer. Of course, here in Lundin, the eyes of the gods and the law are completely agreed – as we know, this is a just realm. But that is not always the case – in Surrey, as is obvious, there are monstrous, even blasphemous, laws that the gods abominate. Yes, Mary, you have your hand up.”

“Please, miss, that’s why our guards will defeat them. You can’t beat the gods, miss. You may seem to win for a little bit, but that’s not real, miss. Divine retribution,” she was obviously very pleased with this phrase, “falls on wicked lands as surely as your cane falls on the bottoms of naughty pupils – like when Margaret was lazy at drill – and jolly well serve them and her right too, miss.”

“Exactly so. That is extremely well put. Once we move against Surrey, victory is assured…”

Chalk motes danced in the bright morning sunshine. The room smelt of disinfectant. Beyond the window, thrushes were singing. The seat on which I wriggled my bottom was hard, but worn smooth by fidgeting generations of inattentive children.

[1] Within two months of this date, the Duck’s Ford ruby had passed into the possession of Nadine Next. After Nadine’s defeat, Berenice refused to take the gem, or allow it to be taken by any of her supporters, believing it to be cursed. Instead, she presented it to the Surrey Museum where it remains to this day.

[2] The hour glass diamond is so-called because some of its facets are very dark, and it consequently often looks to be the shape of an hour glass. This is an illusion, it is actually an oblong with rounded ends. On Iceflake 23rd YD 727, at Watt’s Ford Gap, the hour glass diamond disappeared from the baggage of Duchess of Warrick – presumably stolen by the jewel thief. Within six months, it had reappeared in the possession of Daphne Deicide. As with the Duck’s Ruby, Berenice showed her dislike of reputedly cursed gems by presenting the hour glass diamond to the Surrey Museum, where it is still housed.

For chapter 33
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