Of Bondlings and Blesh Chapter 49

Chapter 49

A blackbird sang, there was a smell of newly turned earth – the gardens had begun their return to peacetime. Soft mud, churned by the departing regiment, squeezed between my toes and sank beneath my heels. Perhaps fifty warrior girls in gleaming cuirasses and buff shirts adjusted their saddle packs before mounting. Sunshine, and a breeze, played gently upon my skin – there was luxury in being harnessed rather than clothed.

“Well,” said Modesty, “this is goodbye. I’ll miss you all – Lisa-Louise, Diqui, Barguin, Tipsi, Jane – and maybe Tuerqui most of all.”

“Thank you, Modesty,” I said. “I’ll miss you, too. It’s been a privilege… I thought that some of the others would be riding with you – Jane, maybe.”

“Not me,” said Jane. “Modesty’s good with a sword. It was only luck that saw me through the fight with Sir Garrafad’s men. But I kind of expected Lisa-Louise to join the army – she was our captain.”

“Maybe that’s why I’m not riding with Modesty,” said Lisa-Louise. “I didn’t think about it at the time, but sending a young girl to what was more than likely her death… Well, you survived, Jane, so that isn’t on my conscience. But war’s not for me.”

“Maybe it ought to bother me more than it does,” said Modesty.

“Someone has to defend Surrey – make it safe for the girls left behind. I admire you for doing it, Modesty, and – in a way – wish I had it in me to do it. And I’m sorry it’s come to time for goodbye.”

“It had to come to that sooner or later, but I’m sorry too.”

“I’m sure we’ll meet again,” said Lisa-Louise. “Follow your star, sister. It was a pleasure to ride and fight with you.”

Modesty, magnificent in buff uniform, shining armour and boots, was the first of us to leave the University. She had accepted an ensign’s commission in the regiment, and was joining the last batch of soldiers to depart. Colonel Slaying, favourably impressed by our despatch of Sir Garrafad and the remainder of his men, had offered a commission to any of us who desired it. That, presumably, didn’t apply to me – although I hadn’t asked, of course – and only Modesty had accepted the offer.

“Jane,” said Diqui, “I don’t think it was just luck that saw you through the fight with Sir Garrafad’s men.”

“What, then, the goddess?”

“Tuerqui would say that – and maybe she’d be right. But I was thinking that you have the best night vision of anyone I’ve ever met.”

“Yeah, well, you can probably thank my dad for that – locking me in the cellar. A girl can get used to it.”

Diqui had considered a military career, but having enough of following orders during her time in slavery, had said that she would, with Barguin’s assistance, help restore the University gardens. Jane had been persuaded to join Lisa-Louise in taking up one of the newly-founded Empress Berenice Scholarships[1] to study sciences at the University. Once it was built, Tipsi was to take charge of an establishment to offer beauty and relaxation treatments to the great ladies of Surrey[2]. All five of them, together with my mistress and me, had assembled to bid farewell to Ensign Clay.

There was no need for anyone to hold her horse’s head as, with practiced ease, she swung herself into the saddle. Modesty walked her mount slowly, while we followed on foot. Reaching her new comrades, she turned to us and saluted smartly. Lady Isobel took her gauntleted left hand, and kissed it.

“Thank you, my lady,” Modesty said, smiling. “You do me honour.”

“Modesty,” I said, “I just wanted to say… but there are no words for it.”

“There are words, Tuerqui, but they’re not enough.”

We watched the soldiers ride away, dwindling to a dust cloud far down the road. Finally, by common consent, each of us turned our aching eyes from the highway to the University grounds, where work to restore the gardens’ beauty had already started. Since Diqui and Barguin were to work on the project, my mistress led us to where the first plantings began. There, a familiar figure – now harnessed as a slave, and singing softly to herself – knelt to ease the roots of bedding plants into the soil.

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

“Of course you may, Tuerqui.”

“Mistress – that girl – she’s Fiona, the daughter of Sam the carter. She was a person, guilty of nothing worse than dreaminess. Now she’s enslaved. Why is that, mistress?”

“It’s sad, Tuerqui – her mind has gone completely – mostly, I guess, because of the horrible things that were done to her… And the things she saw – especially, I think, what they did to her mother. There was no option but to place her in protective slavery[3]. She can’t relate to persons, slaves or animals – but seems to have an unusual rapport with plants.”

“So she’s doing something to heal the wounds of war,” Lisa-Louise said. “That’s good.”

“And she seems happy enough,” said Tipsi.

“As far as anyone can tell, she is,” Lady Isobel said, “…Now, Diqui and Barguin have you had any specific thoughts about what you’d like to do out here?”

“Yes,” said Diqui, “I’d like to restore the fountains. You OK with that, Barguin?”

“Yeah, sure – why not?”

That night, I dreamed – but not of my mistress, or of the companions who had ridden with me. Instead, Our Lady of the Lamp, skirt slit almost to the waist, took me by my left hand. After a few steps, Tuerquelle emerged from a swirling bank of mist to take me by the right. Hand in hand, the three of us strode along a dimly seen road until a fourth figure appeared ahead – someone whose features were, at first, shrouded by fog.

With sudden realisation, and sick panic, I recognised the newcomer as my poor murdered mother. Struggling towards waking, I all but emerged from the world of dream. Then, soothed by the gentle touch of the goddess and my daughter, I allowed them to turn me so that I could look upon my mother’s face. She was transfigured with astonishing beauty – even her slave harness gleamed as though formed of precious stones.

We kissed the chaste but passionate kiss of mother and daughter, something we had too rarely done in life. Separating at last, we lifted Tuerquelle between us in silent communion between three generations of slavery. Facing, now, the terrible deed of my personage, I found it understood and forgiven. In presenting my mother with Tuerquelle, she was touched by the sublime perfection of the child’s submission – something we were denied for ourselves, but which fulfilled us both.

The vision had been of threes – in which my mother had assumed the goddess’ place – and I awoke to a third triad. My mistress lay to my left, Passibelle to my right, their hands clasped upon my belly. Reaching out, I stirred the sleepers, and the three of us made love lazily – assured of one another’s affections, there was neither urgency nor effort. It was not clear to me at what point our half-waking caresses passed into those of dream.

The following day, pleased to be assigned to some hard work, I was donkey stoning the front steps, while Tuerquelle followed with a bunny cloth. Nearby, Fiona was smoothing soil over the roots of shrubs, singing wordlessly as she did so. Beyond, restoration started on one of the fountains – a magnificent of fantasy of winged lions who had once spewed their jets from snarling jaws[4]. The ornamental covering had been lifted from some of the pipes and, whilst Barguin smiled and held the wrench, Diqui was obviously fascinated by the complex plumbing.

“Mummy,” Tuerquelle said after a longer than usual silence, “I had a dream last night.”

“Yes, my love?”

“You were there – and Our Lady of the Lamp, mummy. There was another slave, too – a lovely one in a shining harness.”

“Sweetheart, she was my mummy.”

“I thought so, mummy. Was it just a dream?”

“It probably was a dream, my love – but not just a dream.”

“Mummy, could you tell me a story about your mummy?”

“Yes, of course I could, my sweet. Once, my mummy took me on a picnic in the forest. Nanny Spencer was there, too…”

“Who was Nanny Spencer, mummy?”

“She was a kind lady who looked after me when I was little. Nanny Spencer told me lots of the stories I’ve told you, darling. Like the slave who would be good and the cat who flew to the north… It was sad that my mummy didn’t look after me more than she did – I wish, now, that she’d told me the stories…”

It was thus that I started to tell Tuerquelle something of my childhood, so different from hers. Nor was my daughter the only one to whom I was telling my story. Lady Isobel frequently asked for snatches of it, especially late at night, after we had done with making love, and lay quietly in one another’s arms. Sometimes she laughed, at other times she cried.

“So there I was, mistress,” I told her one night, “stood like a naughty child, made to watch my fiancé shafting the governess.”

“Do you think, Tuerqui, that Surrenity was in her – or was that horrible man what she really wanted?”

“It’s hard to say, mistress. Life is often complicated. Miss Miles certainly enjoyed whacking girls – and there was something sexual in that. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure that she also enjoyed having him inside her.”

“Tuerqui, this is priceless. You’ve lived an extraordinary life. And you can write well enough. Your pillow book’s my favourite – and not just because it’s you.”

“Thank you, mistress. I enjoy writing. It can be almost like carrying another baby.”

“Then, starting tomorrow, you must set it all down. Write your memoirs for posterity – and for my delight.”

“It’s not all a delight, though, is it mistress?”

“There can be delight through tears – and not just with the whip.”

“In that case, it would be a pleasure, mistress. I think I can recall the twelve laws of composition. Would you like it in quadriform prose[5], mistress?”

“Quadriform is well suited to descriptions, but speeches need to be a bit more free.”

“Mistress, I’m not much of a prose stylist – would you please correct my efforts with your whip?”

“If you’d like me to, my love. I don’t think it’s really necessary, but you could call it stinging literary criticism.”

“I’d like it very much, mistress, but of course it’s up to you. I’m your property, and wouldn’t wish it to be otherwise. Do you have any commands – about what I should write, mistress?”

“Thinking about it, Tuerqui, there’s one thing that I don’t wish you to tell me – not now, not ever.”

“What’s that, mistress?”

“Whether you and Lisa-Louise were lovers. I don’t wish to know – and I don’t want you to write it in your book.”

“Then I won’t write it, mistress.”

“Good – perhaps I’d be jealous if I knew. I believe that Louise-Louise and I are the only persons you’ve ever truly accepted as your mistresses. Others have owned you, but there’s been part of you they couldn’t reach. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, mistress. And, mistress, I think that it’s true.”

“But – to speak the truth that’s sacred between mistress and slave – jealousy is not my main reason. Perhaps it’s not a reason at all – I’m not sure.”

“Mistress?”

“In my quiet moments, Tuerqui, I sometimes like to finger myself. And, when I do, perhaps the best fantasy is of you and Lisa-Louise together – as mistress and concubine. It would ruin it if I knew that you two had never made love – or, perhaps worse, if it was different from the ways I imagine.”

The next day, I started work on these memoirs – that was Litnight 12th of Year One under the Majesty of Berenice, Empress of Surrey. More than twelve months have passed since then, bringing us into Berenice’s second regnal year. We have, through Lady Isobel’s bounty, marked my twenty-eighth and twenty-ninth birthdays. Tomorrow will be Thunderhead 26th, the day on which we celebrate Tuerquelle’s birth – she’ll be eight years old.

While I’ve been writing, Modesty has been campaigning – helping to place all of Essex under Berenice’s just rule. She has, I am told, conducted herself with courage and honour. Accordingly, my former companion has been decorated for gallantry and risen to the rank of captain. Her current command is an independent company[6] of light cavalry.

Occasionally, I see Lisa-Louise and Jane – both of them excelling as University students, wise in sciences that will always be a mystery to me. Twice, so far, I have accompanied Lady Isobel to the Imperial Spa, where a smiling Tipsi dispenses beauty and relaxation treatments to great ladies – it’s a joy to see her so content. Having restored the fountains, Diqui saw that similar principles could be used for domestic plumbing – my mistress calls her a professor of hydraulic sciences. Always followed by Barguin, she has supervised the installation of pipes ensuring that the slaves of this house no longer have to lug heavy water pots.

Naturally, I’ve continued with a domestic slave’s normal duties whilst recording my life – nor could I wish it otherwise. My work is an affirmation of my treasured slavery – a token of being my mistress’ property. The naturalness of being owned leads me to wonder whether I was, as an infant, exchanged for a slave child – there is more to tales of the fell folk than some persons suppose. Considering my mother, happily harnessed in the World to Come, perhaps she was a victim of fairy mischief, rather than me.

My mistress, who has kept her promise to correct my errors, deserves what praise there may be for this book. Were it permissible to think such a thing, I might sometimes have considered that she whipped me less than my prose deserved. My half-formed thought, here, is clearly wrong – as it would be a great wickedness for a slave to disagree with her mistress, and I hope that I’m never guilty of such a thing. Clearly, if I ever doubt her judgment, it’s because I’m an ignorant bondling who knows no better.

Deeply fulfilling as my life at the University of Pain is, most of it would make a wearisome narration. It would be vain to attempt the history of every time I’ve donkey stoned the step. More interesting, perhaps, are the many times I’ve taken a tumble in my mistress’ bed. These are set out in sufficient detail in my pillow book, and do not belong in this place.

Two great happenings stand out from the others, as well as a few smaller ones – my choice of which to narrate first is made not only because it is the earlier, but owing to the respect due to our empress[7]. It began, for me, when I helped to pack Lady Isobel’s clothes, sandwiching beautiful dresses between layers of tissue paper. The task saddened me – previous experience suggested that she would leave me at home. Nothing had been said of where she was going, but the choice of formal gowns suggested a state occasion, rather than Tipsi’s Imperial Spa.

“Whatever’s the matter, Tuerqui?” my mistress asked, surprising me, leaving me no time to compose my features more cheerfully. “Why the long face?”

“I’m sorry, mistress. I didn’t mean to look miserable, but I’ll miss you while you’re away. What’s a slave without her mistress? In any case, mistress, it reminds me of when you left, and the pollygoggers came…”

“But you’re coming with me!” She sounded astonished, evidently believing that I’d already been told. “You and Tuerquelle both!”

“Are you taking us to a slave show, mistress? We’re not pedigree slaves, mistress. We haven’t even learnt show ring techniques. I’d hate to disgrace you.”

“The show we’re going to is a bit more highfaluting than Kilder’s[8],” she said, laughing. Then, more seriously: “I don’t think either of you would disgrace me – I trained you myself, and you’re as lovely as any pedigree slaves. I’ve chosen you because I need the best. This is no tuppenny ha’penny slave show – it’s Berenice’s coronation!”

“Berenice’s coronation, mistress?”

“Yes – Berenice’s coronation – you as fan bearer, Tuerquelle taking my train.”

Of course, I knew that Berenice was now empress of Surrey and, if I’d thought about it, would have realised there must be a coronation. It was natural for my mistress to be invited – she was Chancellor of the University of Pain, Governess of the Slavery Protection Board and had been amongst the final empers of the democracy. For all of that, it seemed astonishing that Tuerquelle and I were to serve as her retinue. Not only did I consider myself unworthy of the occasion, but there seemed a pressing reason why we should not be included.

“Mistress…?” I began hesitantly, a fearful thought forming more clearly.

“Yes, Tuerqui?”

“Isn’t it the custom, mistress, to exchange gifts on these state occasions? When you received your electorate, that was why I couldn’t come with you.”

“You don’t have to worry about that, my love. If there was any chance of either of you being given away, you’d most certainly stay here. Gifts will be exchanged, of course, to mark our loyalty, and the empress’ favour. But they’ll be confined to small, easily handled items – mostly documents representing the title to lands or privileges.”

“Oh, I see, mistress.”

“You still sound uncertain, Tuerqui. I don’t think you get the picture. It’s going to be a huge occasion, involving every great lady of Surrey – and our allies as well. Exchanging slaves or other livestock would be chaos.”

“If I might ask, mistress, what will you give?”

“The deeds to some land, a part share in the Imperial Spa and a few gemstones. Berenice will present documents of worth – titles, honours, rights, grants of land, also deeds against fugitives.”

“Deeds against fugitives, mistress?”

“Yes – against the time when they’re arrested and enslaved. Receiving the deed to Nadine Next would be the greatest honour, although unlikely ever to be enacted. Deeds to Nadine’s followers would convey less honour, but might produce actual slaves.”

When I told Tuerquelle, she seemed to think me the inevitable choice for fan bearer. Her own selection, to carry Lady Isobel’s train, was clearly more of a surprise. It is unlikely that she had any clear idea of how glittering an occasion the coronation was likely to be. If it came to that, my ideas on the matter were extremely vague.

Lady Isobel, Tuerquelle and I travelled to the coronation field in the beautiful carriage drawn by high stepping platinum blondes. This was the first time I’d seen more than one or two of the haughty draught slaves since the departure of my mistress to receive her electorate, about nine months before. Hitherto uncertain as to whether the team had survived the troubled times, I was much pleased to see them intact – and as proud and lovely as ever. Our baggage followed in a cart drawn by slaves more sturdy than beautiful, although they were matched, and clearly not selected on the basis of being cheaply available.

We arrived in the late afternoon, as the sun’s rays caught the splendid scene almost horizontally. There were hundreds of tents, all but the largest of them brightly coloured – no two alike. Over each floated a banner picked out with metallic threads, gleaming like sunbeams upon ruffled water. Dwarfing all others was Berenice’s great black tent, but even that shone as the light caught its satin panels and sombre embroideries.

On a flattened hilltop stood a curious structure, the function of which I couldn’t yet imagine. It was a huge framework without canvas or silken covering, an enormous horizontal hoop supported upon a dozen or more lofty pillars. The construction seemed to be filled with a spider’s web. Subsequently, I discovered that this was formed of stout cords, although – from a distance – they seemed gossamer threads.

A team of stalwart slaves, presumably supplied by Berenice, unpacked Lady Isobel’s tent from the baggage cart. Sooner than seemed possible, its royal blue walls formed part of the coronation city. Taking my eyes from the blue and silver banner atop our temporary home, I saw that the gang were already erecting another not far away. The new arrival was striped cherry red and golden yellow.

After Tuerquelle and I helped to unload the smaller baggage, both the cart and carriage returned to the University. There was no room, upon the coronation field, to house draught slaves – not even the loveliest of them – nor was there space to store vehicles. Another week remained before the coronation itself, and the great ladies continued to arrive for several more days. Before the last of them had pitched camp, a round of masques and balls had commenced, any one of which should have been the sensation of its season.

Our mistress seemed to me the finest of all the ladies – her costumes the epitome of the dress maker’s art, a riot of gorgeous colours, every tuck and pleat perfect, the stitches the tiniest I’d ever seen. Tuerquelle and I attended her, strapped into harnesses of peach coloured leather, our brows adorned with tall plumes. With unexpected ease, I came to see myself as worthy of the splendid setting, slipping naturally into the hauteur befitting Lady Isobel’s slave, the looking glass repeatedly assuring me of my loveliness. Tuerquelle, too, assumed an habitual expression of lofty distain – although sometimes her youthful grin broke through like a shaft of sunlight piercing an imposing cloud bank.

If all of my mistress’ costumes were exquisite, the finest was saved for the coronation itself – the colour her own royal blue, the cut severe, understatement its secret force. The decoration was of real silver wire, her jewellery also silver – finely wrought, set with sapphires and lapis lazuli. Although unostentatious, by the standard of her ball gowns, the effect left me open mouthed. As I paused – doubtful as to my worthiness of being owned by such a lady – she smiled, seemingly amused, speaking to me kindly, gently.

“Come on, Tuerqui, my love. There’s no time to gawp. It’s not just me –you and Tuerquelle must be worthy of the day.”

On Lady Isobel’s instructions, I opened six boxes that had remained sealed all week. The first of them held two harnesses, more splendid than any I’d seen before – one in adult size, the other for a child. The leather, dyed to match our mistress’ dress, was supple but very strong, and must have been cut from a noble skin. The locks, bells, rings, tiny goddess figures, and other fittings were all of real silver, inlaid with more sapphires and lapis lazuli.

The second box held our bracelets and anklets, matching perfectly the harness metalwork and Lady Isobel’s jewellery. The third and fourth contained our headdresses. The silver fillets were set with yet more lapis lazuli and crowned with royal blue plumes. Never before had I seen the like of those feathers.

“They’re plucked from a mythical bird called an oz-dredge,” our mistress told us.

“An oz-dredge, mistress?” Tuerquelle asked, her eyes already growing round with wonder.

“Yes – an oz-dredge, sweetheart. It lives beyond the edge of the world, nests in the golden fruit trees of the sun, and will eat only sapphires.”

“Won’t they even eat lapis lazuli, mistress?”

“No, darling, that would give them dreadful tummy ache.”

The final two boxes held the fan I was to bear during the ceremony – the head of more oz-dredge plumes, set in silver. The handle, made in sections that joined without discernable seam, was of a lustrous black wood called ebony. There were several carvings of the precious material in the treasure of Osrick, preserved in the Palace Victoria. The largest carving was scarcely a tenth of the size of the smallest fan handle section.

“Is it wood, mummy?” Tuerquelle whispered.

“Yes, my love. It’s called ebony and comes from a tree that grows only in the garden of night, beyond the edge of the world. The tree’s formed of the very substance of night. Since night is harder to catch than day, the wood costs more than gold.”

At the coronation, Lady Isobel was accorded the honour of a place in the second row – allowing me an excellent view of the proceedings. Silently, we stood on the flattened hilltop, in front of the great ring mounted upon pillars. Standing close to the structure, now, I could see that it was larger than I’d supposed. The columns were perhaps sixty feet high, supporting a ring-shaped platform on which a large number of women stood.

Staring at the figures above our heads, I saw that they wore diaphanous robes that fluttered in the morning breeze. Many were masked and, after but a moment’s consideration, it was clear that they represented the goddesses of Surrey. By chance – or the bounty of the goddess – she who represented Our Lady of the Lamp was clearly visible from our vantage point. Her skirt slit almost to the waist, as the wind took it, I was almost certain that she was without underwear.

Each priestess held a silken cord of a colour appropriate to her goddess – Our Lady of the Lamp’s was scarlet. The threads met at the centre of the ring, where they supported a gleaming black figure of a double headed eagle – Berenice’s symbol. It occurred to me to wonder whether this mythical bird was the same thing as an oz-dredge. Perhaps twenty feet beneath its claws, raised on a dais in the centre of the circle – was Berenice’s black throne –sited between racks, the purpose of which I couldn’t yet guess.

Berenice entered the circle – preceded by two dozen warrior girls – the soldiers naked but for vambraces, greaves, helmets, and sword belts – diagonals across the curve of their breasts. For three or four heartbeats, the empress stood, wrapped in a cloak of cloth of gold, before casting the garment aside. Now, she was dressed much as on the first time I’d seen her, a little less than eight years before. Dark hair loose, cascading down her back, everything she wore was of glossy black – a tight-fitting garment that left her arms and legs bare, thigh boots and gloves that extended to the upper arm.

The soldiers formed themselves, a dozen on either side of the throne, while Berenice mounted the dais to seat herself. Singing a hymn to the glory of the empress, the priestesses – acting on behalf of the goddesses of Surrey – lowered the double headed eagle. Reaching up, Berenice snatched the crown from its talons and placed it on her head. A great, all but deafening, cheer burst from every throat assembled – from that of the empress herself to those of slaves such as Tuerquelle and me.

One by one, the assembled ladies presented themselves at the throne. The first twelve were attended by four slaves apiece, then came twenty-four attended by three, Lady Isobel was the third of the forty-eight worthies with two attendants. As each lady reached the empress, she presented and received gifts – conveyed to and from the racks by Berenice’s slaves, who darted like summertime swifts. Words, too, were exchanged – although I was unable to hear any of the conversation until our turn came.

Approaching the throne, at last, the almost naked soldiers were simultaneously intimidating and bewitching. To my surprise, I found that my gaze could meet Berenice’s, so assured was I in my slavery. The smile with which the empress greeted my mistress told me, more than words could have done, that they had been lovers. Slaves took several legal documents and small casket of jewels from Lady Isobel’s hands, and gave to her six or eight sheets of paper, each bearing the same large seal of black wax.

The crown, I saw, was a plain golden band, an inch and a half wide. Its only decoration formed by a single glossy black stone in line with Berenice’s nose. Rulers of lesser lands bedeck themselves with ostentation. The empress of Surrey is above their gewgaws.

“Isobel,” the empress said, “and every bit as lovely as the last time I tumbled you.”

“Thank you, your majesty. You are more beautiful than ever.”

“Of course I am – I’m empress, now. I see from her brand that your fan bearer is the famous Tuerqui. She used to be my property, I believe, and I drank her milk. I like the pride with which she looks me in the eye – a great lady’s slave should be proud.”

“Thank you, your majesty,” I said.

“Tuerqui – you’re the first attendant slave to have spoken to me. Aren’t you afraid?”

“No, your majesty. I expected to be terrified, but see compassion in your eyes, as well as severity. I also see love for my mistress.”

“That was well said, slave – I admire your bravery, as well as your pride. There was a song about you that my soldiers sung in the war. A good song – filled with yearning for lost love – is worth a thousand troops. From your grief, Isobel, sprung strength for my warriors – each fighting for her own love – that’s the way it works.”

“If my tears aided your victory, majesty,” Lady Isobel said, “I’m glad to have shed them.”

“Prettily spoken, my sweet. Would it surprise you that I know where the pollygoggers are – the ones who snatched away your slave?”

“Nothing about you surprises me, your majesty. Perhaps not a leaf falls from a tree in your realm without your knowing.”

“That may be an exaggeration, but an empress needs to keep a grip on her realm. The pollygoggers are living in my western lands, unaware that I know their secrets. What to do with them was a problem. They deserved punishment and yet – for inspiring that song – I felt that I owed them some reward.”

“With your subtlety, majesty, I’m sure you resolved every difficulty.”

“I did, indeed – by ensuring that the pollygoggers’ ladies were given important posts. The women have wealth and power, while their men folk struggle to make a few coppers by their own efforts. Their domestic lives will not easy.”

“A punishment wrapped in the reward, majesty. You are, as always, a marvel.”

“Yes, I am, Isobel. But I’ve spoken with you longer than any other lady. We must move on before you’re in danger of a jealous hand toppling your head.”

Turning from the throne, I found myself simultaneously frightened by Berenice, and liking her. Particularly, I was struck by the contrast between her way and my father’s of punishing the pollygoggers. His was blunt – handing down sentences of enslavement – hers was subtle – subjecting them to the scorn of successful girlfriends. In this, I felt, lay the heart of her being an empress whose conquests would multiply – while he would know only disappointment and defeat.

“What do you think of our empress, Tuerqui?” Lady Isobel asked on the way home.

“She is terrible and she is wonderful mistress. I was wrong not to be afraid when I met her eye. I can see why young women lay down their lives for her, and I can see how she will demand that they do it.”

“You’re right, Tuerqui. I wouldn’t care to be her enemy – or a subject of whom she demands too much. At the same time, some of these boons she has given me… You’ll love this one!”

“What is it, mistress, if I may ask?”

“You may ask, by all means, Tuerqui. But I’ll keep it as a surprise until I’m able to collect on it.”

In the event, I would love more than one of Berenice’s boons – but I think my mistress was referring to that on which she collected three weeks later. Passibelle, and several others, knew about it before I did – giving me knowing looks they wouldn’t explain. On the point of subjecting Honeyminge to a tickling she’d have been unable to withstand, I relented when Switi summoned me to our mistress’ study. Lady Isobel held a cane, long and very supple – it was no torment instrument, but would obviously hurt a great deal.

“Tuerqui,” she said, “this is for you.”

“Yes, mistress. Thank you, mistress. Where would like me to bend, mistress?”

“Silly, Tuerqui! Do I sound cross?”

“No, mistress, you don’t. But if you’re not going to hit me, mistress…?”

“Tuerqui, I’m giving you a bond locker.”

“But, mistress, if I may say so, you pioneered modern slave training – doing away with the old nonsense of bond locker and bond mistress.”

“You may say so, Tuerqui – and it’s perfectly true. But, once in a while, the old fashioned ways are best. Take the cane and follow me.”

We descended the main staircase, through the back hall and out into the carriage yard, the gravel sharp under my feet. Crossing the open space, my mistress conducted me into a shed where Passibelle and Honeyminge held a woman – filth-encrusted and clothed in the rags of what had once been a fine gown. Standing at a bench, a sober suited lady had ready a branding iron, with loose letter slugs, and what must have been a slave registry book. Tuerquelle and a dozen of my friends leaned against the walls or squatted on the floor.

“A fugitive,” my mistress explained. “At the coronation, her majesty gave me the title to the wretch. Now she’s captured and, my love, she will be your responsibility.”

“But who is she, mistress?”

“Don’t you recognise her, Tuerqui?”

At first sight, the bedraggled creature had been unfamiliar, but – on closer inspection – she aroused a fugitive memory I couldn’t quite catch. Resentment came more quickly than recognition, allowing my first pleasurable anticipation of wielding the cane. Reaching forward, I brushed the unspeakable rats’ nest of tangles from her face. At last I could put a name to the captive.

“Henrietta Heartless!” I said.

“Such was her name in personage, my love. What she will be called from now onwards is up to you.”

“Mistress, I can think of no name more demeaning than the one she gave herself – let her be Hartlisse.”

“How would you like that spelt, Tuerqui?” the sober suited official asked, already selecting letter slugs for my bond locker’s brand.

The shed smelt of musty straw and pungent carriage grease. Struggling unavailingly in my friends’ grip, the new bondling gave voice to an inarticulate cry, more that of a beast than a person or slave. Fondling the cane, I enjoyed its well sanded smoothness, and marvelled at how easily it flexed. The brazier, ready for the branding, left the shed uncomfortably hot – the first dribble of sweat rolled down my left arm.

[1] The Empress Berenice Scholarships, designed to promote the empire as a centre of learning, were set up within days of Nadine’s defeat. Those awarded to Lisa-Louise and Jane were probably the very first of them. Endowments in the will of Berenice I ensured that the scholarships have continued until the present day. The annotator, in her early days, was a beneficiary of this excellent scheme.

[2] This, of course, was to be the Imperial Spa. It opened soon after this date in temporary buildings, and soon became an important meeting place for the great ladies of Surrey. The current spa buildings date to the reign of Berenice V.

[3] The institution of protective slavery had been codified under the Statute of Slavery Protection. Under its provisions, persons under protective slavery orders could not be branded, although they were usually tattooed. They were immune from slaughter as blesh, and could be assigned only to a limited number of types of work – specifically excluding any sexual use. Gardening or horticulture were the usual occupations of those enslaved under these provisions. Less often they were assigned light industrial work.

[4] The winged lions were cast in metal. This is not the same as the fountain currently in the University gardens with winged lions carved from stone.

[5] Quadriform prose – a prose style employing paragraphs each composed of four sentences – reflecting the encapsulation of each point in four distinct parts. In formal quadriform prose, each sentence is assigned one of four each of positions, modes, voices and inflections. This gave quadriform prose, theoretically, 256 possible types of sentence. In the most technically correct versions of the prose style only 64 for these were permissible, although another 27 are found in the looser forms of quadriform prose.

The most rigid quadriform rules were observed in the prose epics of the sixth century YD. The best known of these, perhaps, is Julie of Chipstead’s Dark Lady at the Gates of Dawn. It is fair to say that such works are now more admired than read. Quite apart from Tuerqui’s quadriform prose not extending to dialogue, some of her sentences do not conform even to the 91 forms permitted in the loosest version of the style. She evidently made at least intermittent efforts to conform to the rules, but sometimes seems to have considered it sufficient to have four sentences (of any kind) to a paragraph. Julie of Chipstead would certainly not have regarded a large proportion of Tuerqui’s paragraphs as truly quadriform. As far as the modern reader is concerned, this probably enhances Tuerqui’s readability.

[6] Independent company – a group of soldiers working independently of larger formations, in particular independent of the regimental structure. Officers viewed as prospective candidates for promotion to higher rank were placed in charge of independent companies. Such a command tested the officer’s ability to make independent decisions.

[7] This is an extension of the idea of listing people in order of importance (see Chapter 46, note 6). In some narratives of this era, the episodes were placed in a sequence determined by the importance of those involved in them. These can be difficult to follow, and Tuerqui’s chronological sequence is better suited to comprehensibility.

[8] Kilder’s – the premier Surrey slave show of this era. Through most of the last two centuries of the democracy, it had been an annual event. The YD 730 show was cancelled owing to the uncertain political climate. Thereafter, the next show was not held until Berenice’s second regnal year.

For Chapter 50
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