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Of Bondlings and Blesh
a novel

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Golden Goddess and Bloody Times
A work on religion and spiritual autobiography

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Of Bondlings and Blesh Epilogue

Epilogue

In the archives of the University of Pain are twelve notebooks inscribed in small by perfectly legible letters. There is reason to believe that they are more than eight hundred years old. Each is marked:

From the Blood Victoria
Of Bondlings and Blesh
Being the memoirs of Tuerqui
Transcribed by P F Jeffery

In spite of diligent efforts, my staff and I have been unable to discover the identity of P F Jeffery. But without the work of this unknown scribe, it is fair to say that the present text could not have been compiled. It would be unjust not to retain her name on the title page.

For the present text, we have, as far as possible, returned to the original manuscripts – unfortunately, not only they are incomplete, but extremely confusing. Tuerqui’s handwriting is so poor that many words would have entirely defeated us but for the P F Jeffery transcripts. In only seventeen places have we seen any reason to change the early transcriber’s readings. Three of these involve adding a paragraph omitted from the transcripts, five involve changing words or phrases, the remainder are corrections to the punctuation. Almost a tenth of Tuerqui’s manuscript seems to be missing, and we have relied entirely on the P F Jeffery notebooks to supply the lost portions. What is more, the manuscripts are not preserved in the correct sequence of pages, and are mixed with several other texts.

The papers believed to be in Tuerqui’s hand were amongst the manuscripts to be bound in royal blue leather about two hundred and fifty years after they were written. There are 127 such volumes, with Tuerqui’s handwriting scattered almost throughout. The neat exterior of the books belies the chaos inside. The confusion is compounded by the fact that each volume is made up of sheets of the same size paper. Tuerqui wrote on sheets of several different sizes, possibly with an eye to economy – this leads to adjacent pages being widely scattered. At one point, four consecutive pages are in volumes 114, 23, 119 and 6.

Only about a fifth of the pages in Tuerqui’s handwriting belong to her memoirs. Other works include some folk tales, travel sketches and what appears to be a novel, as well as many sheets of paper that stand alone.

At several points, the manuscripts include variant texts, but we considered only one of these sufficiently significant to be mentioned in the footnotes.

I wish to express my sincere thanks to the senate and staff of the University of Pain, without whose cooperation and help this text would never have been assembled. In particular, I would like to thank Susanna Birch, the present Vice Chancellor, and Millicent Price, the chief librarian. The archive assistants who worked with me on the project – Alison Kent, Louise Grey, Catherine Spencer and Melanie Griffin – deserve much of the credit. Such errors as have crept in are entirely my responsibility.

Also my responsibility are the idiosyncrasies of the notes. The empire has changed a great deal since Tuerqui’s time, and some points do need clarification for the modern reader. It is often difficult to judge what notes may be useful or necessary, and I am aware of having been inconsistent as to what requires comment and what may be passed in silence. Two chapters seemed to me too beautiful to be marred by my explanations.

Little is known of Tuerqui’s immediate family beyond what is recorded in her memoirs. After the fourth battle of Lundin, Jenna Javelin made an effort to destroy all records of the former ruler – and was largely successful. Tuerqui’s father is known to history as Usurper II, his name unknown. His father (now known as Usurper I) was the bastard son of Leofrith and Madame Villiers, a courtesan. Both Usurpers claimed the title of Chieftain of the Blood Victoria, and were de facto rulers of Lundin. The only reason we know that Usurper II had a son is that Tuerqui sometimes refers to my brother. It is likely, although not certain, that both Usurper II and his son were enslaved after the fourth battle of Lundin. The same fate is likely to have befallen Phoebe and Mary, whose names are known only from Tuerqui’s memoirs.

Tuerqui’s mother was evidently a daughter of one of the Earls of the East Wood. Nothing is known of her, not even her name, apart from what is stated or implied by her daughter.

Until the 7th regnal year of Berenice I, the empire recognised Jenna Javelin as the legitimate Chieftain of the Blood Victoria. After the fourth battle of Lundin, she was appointed as Lady Protectress of Lundin. In her seventh year, Berenice I determined to break the power of traditional hereditary titles. Accordingly, the title of Chieftain passed to the empress herself. Jenna was moved to the post of Lady Protectress of Brister, a city with no traditional links with the Blood Victoria. She held the post of Lady Protectress of Brister for eighteen years, until her death – the result of a fall from a horse.

Turning to some specifics of Tuerqui’s memoirs, the Laughing Phallus never re-opened. All brothels in Surrey proper were banned in the first regnal year of Berenice I – although they were not closed throughout the empire until Year 2 of the reign of Berenice III. The restrictions Berenice I placed on brothels seem to have been prompted by three considerations. In the first place, she certainly saw such action as an easy way to please the more radical ladies of Surrey. Also, she viewed whorehouses as places where men might meet to complain at their increasingly debased legal, social and economic position – and possibly to plot treason. Perhaps most importantly, she was concerned that the houses might serve as focuses for slave discontent. Whores from three brothels (at East Born, Redding and Ail’s Bury) had revolted during the civil war, and become savage freebooters. In Berenice’s first regnal year, Feral Fuquibelle, the leader of the East Born whores, was given command of an independent company called The Whoredom Volunteers, often known as the Arbies, because of their RBS marks. This unit included whores from all three revolts, and elsewhere – some from the Laughing Phallus. The Arbies were deployed only against Surrey’s more disliked enemies. The former whores had a grim reputation as the empire’s most savage and ruthless troops.

Madame Scurf was probably the same person as Molly Scoff who ran a bar and eatery in Leatherhead during the early years of the empire.

Lord Higate, whose plotting was instrumental in Tuerqui’s enslavement, achieved the title of Duke of Warrick, but received little benefit from doing so. In the sixth regnal year of Berenice I, King Trevor of the Meadowlands succumbed to pressure from Surrey and conferred the title upon Lord Higate. Unsurprisingly, the previous duke refused to surrender either his lands or his armies – and Berenice declined to place any real pressure upon him to do so. It seems that Berenice was deliberately fomenting civil war in the Meadowlands, so that the kingdom would be easier to conquer. If so, her plan was successful. The old Duke of Warrick supported Albert, a pretender to the throne, while the Duke of Lester (with Lord Higate as his lieutenant) supported King Trevor. When she judged the kingdom sufficiently weakened, Berenice invaded, along with her East Anglar allies. At that point, Lord Higate vanishes from history – it is unclear whether he was killed, enslaved or retired into obscurity.

At least two other significant figures from Tuerqui’s memoirs were involved in the Meadowlands war – Modesty Clay and Bob Bosset. Having distinguished herself (with the rank of major) during the fourth battle of Lundin, Modesty Clay was promoted to colonel and given command of the Lundin Imperial Light Cavalry Regiment. In the final battle of the Meadowlands war, Modesty’s troops fought Bob Bosset’s at Burbingham. General Bosset was probably killed, although it is possible that he escaped and lived quietly thereafter. The future General Misty West was a young captain serving in Modesty’s regiment. This passage from her memoirs may be of interest:

Sergeant Crosby brought me the captured wife and children of an enemy general. Thinking that they might have important information, I took the prisoners to Colonel Clay. It much surprised me when the Colonel addressed the general’s lady as Fluff, clearly delighted to see her. I asked whether Colonel Clay knew the lady. She replied: I designed her wedding dress. On the Colonel’s orders, the lady and her children were allowed their liberty and given as luxurious accommodation as we could provide.

That was during Litnight of the twelfth regnal year of Berenice I. We are fortunate to have a mention of Fluff dated to a little more than three years later. My illustrious predecessor, Naomi Trenchcliff, acquired for the University of Pain archives some frontier guards’ logbooks containing mentions of Isobel Ironhand. One of these has an entry dated to Glarehaze 24th in the 15th regnal year of Berenice I. It records a large party entering Wales:

Departing the Empire
Party of 16 – 8 persons and 8 slaves
20 ponies, including pack animals
Lady Isobel (Ironhand) together with 2 young daughters & 8 slaves
Lady Fluff together with 4 children
Declared to be carrying no prohibited items, declaration accepted without search.

Clearly, Fluff joined Lady Isobel on at least one of her journeys. Some persons have speculated that General Bosset survived the battle of Burbingham, escaped into Wales and that Fluff was on her way to join him. Whilst this is possible, there is no evidence that it was so. We are on much firmer ground if we speculate that Tuerqui and Tuerquelle were amongst the eight slaves. In Year 12, a more thorough frontier guard had recorded the names of eight slaves travelling with Lady Isobel:

Gusibelle, Hartlisse, Honeyminge, Passibelle, Spanqumi, Switi, Tuerquelle, Tuerqui

We may note that they were arranged in alphabetic order by the tidy-minded guard. Of course, the eight who accompanied Lady Isobel and Fluff three years later may not have been exactly the same group.

Fluff, seemingly, had no slaves at that time. Her former slaves Queuti and Norti were probably restored to personage. Shortly after the fourth battle of Lundin, Cunaughtie’s walking stick and umbrella emporium opened on High Whole Bun. Early mentions of the shop agree that it was run by twin girls. It is not too far fetched to see, in the title of the business, the names of Queuti and Norti, especially as their father was in the same trade. The shop, amongst the oldest established businesses in Lundin, still flourishes.

Tipsi remained with the Imperial Spa until it was time to enter an honourable retirement towards the end of the reign of Berenice I. The frontier guards’ logbooks contain four mentions of her as travelling with Lady Isobel during the reign of Berenice II and two under Berenice III.

Modesty Clay, having retired from the army in the twenty-third regnal year of Bernice I, also joined several of these expeditions.

Adopting alliterating names in imitation of Surrey electors, Diqui Drainsetter and Barguin Bathlayer, went on to a distinguished career in drainage and water supply. After the fourth battle of Lundin, they designed a new water and sewage system for the city. Although their pipes have long since been replaced, their work remains the basis for today’s water mains and sewers. Invariably, Diqui Drainsetter took the lead, and deserves most of the credit for their achievements. Tuerqui’s memoirs seem to show Barguin as the more relaxed of the pair.

Lisa-Louise went on to become a prominent pioneer photographer, specialising in portraits. Many of her pictures survive, including some of Lady Isobel and her concubines. These images must include Tuerqui, but her face has not been identified with certainty. Some years ago, Kimberly Price advanced convincing arguments to identify all of the slaves in the pictures. These identifications were generally accepted until, two years ago, Louise Grey magnified one of the images to discover the letters Pa on what was supposed to be Tuerqui’s right thigh – making this, fairly certainly, a photograph of Passibelle.

Jane Armstrong, who never dropped her father’s surname, went on to become a distinguished gynozoa scientist, famous for having pioneered numerous improvements in technique. Her fertilisation methodology proved vital in making gynozoic reproduction widely available from the 11th regnal year of Berenice I.

The gynozoa daughters, whom Tuerqui and Lady Isobel were carrying at the end of the memoirs, were destined to become two of the more notable ladies of their age. The older sister, Amelia of Pain, must have been the child carried by Tuerqui. Her works are, of course, treasured amongst the classics of our literature. Amelia quotes extensively from Tuerqui’s memoirs in Both of My Mothers (the title of which must have had more impact in the early days of gynozoa).

Felicity of Pain, the younger sister and foremost philosopher of her age, also quoted from Tuerqui’s memoirs – in Freedom, Personage and Slavery. Catherine Spencer has drawn to my attention some notes Felicity made during the preparation of this book. They include page references, making it clear that she worked from the P F Jeffery transcript rather than her mother’s handwriting.

On the death of Lady Isobel, ownership of Tuerquelle passed to Amelia. Like her mothers, Amelia travelled widely, and Tuerquelle died in Wales. After more than eight centuries, Tuerquelle’s memorial stone is no longer legible. Fortunately, the inscription was included amongst those collected by Nicola White, an archivist of the University of Pain during the reign of Berenice V. The epitaph read:

Tuerquelle, ever faithful. Returned to the land of her fathers. Laid in peace Year 4 Berenice IV by her adoring mistress, Amelia of Pain – proud half sister.

Lady Isobel continued to hold the title of Chancellor of The University of Pain until her death. (Thereafter, it passed to Empress Berenice III, whose successors have held it ever since.) The administration of the University had been transferred to the vice chancellor and administrative secretary several years before the accession of Berenice I. The chancellor was, and remains, a figurehead with little responsibility for running the University.

After Year 8 in the reign of Berenice I, Lady Isobel’s governesship of the Slavery Protection Board became increasingly inactive. Thereafter, she travelled widely, accompanied by her daughters, occasionally by other persons, and always with a retinue of slaves. For this, we have three forms of evidence. The frontier guards’ logbooks, preserved in the University of Pain archives, record her repeatedly leaving and re-entering the empire. We have, too, Tuerqui’s travel sketches, describing many of the places they visited. In addition, Isobel being a prominent lady, numerous memoirs record meetings with her, in widely scattered locations.

The weathered stone on the hilltop above the University of Pain, now known as Founder’s Rock, is the pyramidal tomb of Lady Isobel and sixteen slaves. It is no longer easy to see that the rock was once inscribed, but Nicola White preserved the words that were cut into its surface. All of those buried under Founder’s Rock lived into old age – these are amongst the death dates recorded:

Hartlisse: Thunderhead 12th Year 19 Berenice II.
Gusibelle: Chillflurry 9th Year 22 Berenice II.
Passibelle: Swellbelly 17th Year 1 Berenice III
Honeyminge: Thunderhead 23rd Year 6 Berenice III.

Lady Isobel survived longest – her epitaph read:

Here lies Lady Isobel, formerly named Ironhand, honoured founder of the University of Pain. Taken to the goddess 14th Iceflake of Year 9 under the majesty of Berenice III, Empress of Surrey.

Tuerqui’s epitaph was:

Here also Tuerqui, most faithful slave who ever breathed. Beloved concubine, adored mother of Amelia and Felicity of Pain. Taken to the goddess 8th Mistream of Year 6 under the majesty of Berenice III, Empress of Surrey.

Of Bondlings and Blesh Chapter 50

Chapter 50

Fat honey bees buzzed, a robin trilled, the air perfumed by honeysuckle and roses – the gardens returning to flower. Tufts of grass emerged from the gaps between paving stones – soft and hard textures under my feet. Towering cloudbanks dominated the sky to the west, suggesting rain for later in the day. A zephyr, and warmth from the early sun, caressed my skin – another good morning to be harnessed rather than clothed.

Hartlisse was working hard, donkey stoning the steps, my responsibility to supervise. Her bottom, thrust up in my direction, bore only two fresh weals from my cane. During her first couple of weeks as my bond locker, she’d received a great deal more. Now, not only did she give less cause for complaint, but my anger was spent.

“You’re not making too bad a job of that, Hartlisse,” I said.

“Thank you, bond mistress.”

“You can call me Tuerqui, if you like.”

“Thank you, Tuerqui.”

“Hartlisse – why’re you working so hard?”

“Truthfully, Tuerqui?”

“Of course, truthfully. An advantage of slavery is that it liberates you from lies. A wise person once said to me that a slave lying to her mistress would be a treason against her submission. A mistress to lying to her slave would be beneath her dignity.”

“Whatever. The reason I’m working hard is that, if I don’t, you’ll hit me. Why else?”

“How about loving our mistress and valuing your slavery?”

“Yeah, right. As if! Well – I’d better not say what I think of Isobel Ironhand.”

“Hartlisse, I promise you this – I’ll never punish you for speaking the truth. Did you meet our mistress while you were in personage? I suppose you didn’t much like her.”

“Of course we met! We were both empers. In the top ninety of Surrey politics.”

“Oh, yes, Hartlisse, I was forgetting. Truthfully, what did you think of Lady Isobel?”

“I hated the bitch! She’s so far up Bernice’s arse!”

“Hartlisse, last week I wouldn’t have told you this, because I still hated you then – but it’s not in my nature to keep that up for ever. You’re just making yourself miserable. The only way you’ll ever find happiness is if you can love your mistress and value your slavery.”

“Like I’m ever going to value my slavery. I was a great lady!”

“And a right mess you made of it, too. You caused me so much misery – and plenty of other slaves, too. Then you fell out with Berenice and got mixed up with Nadine. Looks to me like you were a slave all along, and went crazy without the authority of a mistress.”

“Yeah, Tuerqui. What would you know of being a great lady?”

“I was a princess – the daughter of the usurper of the Blood Victoria. But it feels now as though I was a slave all along. And, although you weren’t a slave from birth, it’s hard to see how you won’t be one till you die. If you can’t, at least, accept slavery your life’s going to be miserable – but it doesn’t have to be.”

“Thanks, Tuerqui, I know you’re trying to help. And I’m sorry.”

“Sorry, Hartlisse, sorry for what? Your negativity?”

“Yes, I am. But that wasn’t what I meant. I was thinking of the misery I’ve caused you. And, somehow, you seem to’ve forgiven me.”

Switi emerged from the house before I had time to respond to this, leaving me wondering whether I’d really forgiven Hartlisse. No revenge, in all my life, had left me feeling better for more than a brief period. Admittedly, as a child, that was largely owing to the way in which action against Judith invariably misfired, sooner or later. The question remained as to whether no longer desiring vengeance amounted to forgiveness.

“Mistress wants you in her study,” said Switi. “If you like, I’ll keep an eye on your bond locker while you’re gone.”

“Yeah, do that, Switi, but don’t be too hard on her.”

“How can I be too hard on her? She’s every slave’s enemy.”

“She was every slave’s enemy. Now she’s one of us. It’s about time she started to accept her slavery. Work her hard, but be nice.”

Glancing back as I entered the building, Switi was staring after me, while Hartlisse continued to donkey stone with undiminished effort. Tuerquelle, taking a bunny cloth to the balustrade, smiled in my direction – I ruffled her hair in passing. Veronica Melchet appearing round a bend in the staircase, I paused to allow her to pass, and curtsied. A few moments later, I knocked upon Lady Isobel’s study door.

“Enter!” she said, and then, as I obeyed, “Ah Tuerqui! Now that it comes to it, I’m not sure where to begin.”

“Mistress, I don’t suppose it helps – but, I wasn’t sure where to start my memoirs.”

“And, if I remember rightly, you eventually settled on your earliest memory. No – that doesn’t help. I’ll start with the coronation. You remember Empress Berenice giving me several documents?”

“How could I forget, mistress? I was your fan bearer! In any case, one of them was the deed to Hartlisse.”

“Another was a licence have gynozoa produced from my substance and another woman of my choice. This is a precious opportunity that may not come my way again. Do you understand that, Tuerqui?”

“Yes, mistress… At least, I know that gynozoa is a way to produce babies from the essences of two women. But there’s something I don’t understand about what you just said, mistress.”

“Yes, Tuerqui?”

“The University is where they’ve done to the gynozoa research, mistress. And you’re the Chancellor of the University. Is it an opportunity that may not come your way again? Mistress, do you really need a licence?”

“Yes, Tuerqui, I most certainly do. There was the idea of making gynozoa available to any woman who wanted it. The radicals wanted all the men in Surrey-held territory to be trimmed so that they couldn’t have children. Then, all babies would have been from gynozoa, and all would have been girls.”

“Mistress, that doesn’t seem a bad thing to me. I’ve liked a few men – but, by and large…”

“I take your point, Tuerqui. But when Nadine wanted a gynozoa daughter, Berenice wasn’t prepared to allow such a thing, except for a heavy political price. That led to Nadine’s troops attacking the University.”

“Yes, mistress, that’s why the regiment was camped here.”

“Exactly, Tuerqui. After that, Nadine sided with the radicals, and Berenice wanted gynozoa restricted. That’s why I need a licence. And if I mess up the opportunity, I may not get the chance again.”

“And if you had gynozoa produced without permission, mistress?”

“Berenice would not be amused. It would be abuse of my position at the University. Enslavement for sure.”

“Of course, she might not find out, mistress.”

“A leaf may fall in Surrey without her knowing – but not much escapes her imperial majesty. You remember that she knew where the pollygoggers were?”

“Yes, I remember, mistress. So this might be your only chance to have a child – apart from doing that horrible thing with a man?”

“Precisely, Tuerqui. So I need to be careful about my choice of co-mother. Who is she to be?”

“I don’t know, mistress,” I answered, perplexed – she looked as though expecting an answer from me. “A great lady, I suppose.”

“Well, I thought about the ladies of my acquaintance – and there are many. But you’re the one I love best. You’re the natural choice, my love.”

“Mistress, you can’t mean… But they said that I couldn’t have another baby.”

“People say a good many things, Tuerqui. Some of them are true, but more than half are wrong. Maybe you can have a baby, maybe you can’t. We need to find out.”

“Oh mistress! If only… But what would persons say, mistress?”

“Never mind that. There’s nothing in the world you’d like better than another baby. I can see it in your eyes. I’m right, aren’t I?

“Yes, mistress. There’s nothing in the world I’d like better than your baby.”

“And there’s no one in the world I’d rather have my baby. The next question is whether it’s possible. Eliza Downtree is the one to answer that.”

The gentle vet had given me a general health check soon after my return to the University – she had found nothing worrying, and there had been no cause for a further examination. That afternoon, she commenced a series of intrusive and uncomfortable gynaecological probes, although not as painful as some previous ones conducted by both vets and physicians. My thinking that this was a step towards having my mistress’ baby simultaneously helped and hindered. The thought gave me determination, but the worry that I might no longer be able to bear a child left me very tense.

“Tuerqui,” Miss Downtree said during my second examination, “this would be a lot easier if you could relax.”

“I’m sorry, miss, but this is my baby – or not.”

“I know it’s hard, Tuerqui, and I’m trying to be as gentle as possible.”

My third examination, and most of them thereafter, was conducted in a surgery in the vet’s compound – a whitewashed building set in a quiet garden. It took me several minutes to recognise the slave working as Eliza Downtree’s assistant. Only after noticing her RBS mark did I identify her as Giggli – my friend from Berenice’s whip-making tent and the Laughing Phallus. She looked much older, but was obviously well, and receiving good care.

“Giggli!” I said. “How are you? It’s been so long.”

“As you see, Tuerqui. And my mistress is wonderful. How about you?”

“I’m great, Giggli, apart from my fertility.”

There were about twelve of these sessions, spaced over three weeks – Eliza Downtree was, clearly, not arriving at an ill-considered prognosis. The vet was unwilling to reveal her conclusions to me, but naturally I attempted to gauge them from her manner. Sometimes it appeared that she was taking a pessimistic view, at others she seemed cheerful, while the fact of her making so many examinations presumably implied that my case was neither hopeless nor easily resolved. When, finally, I was summoned to Lady Isobel’s study, and found Miss Downtree with my mistress, some sort of resolution had clearly arrived.

“Ah, Tuerqui, my love,” Lady Isobel said. “Miss Downtree’s just given me her prognosis. She thinks that you could carry another child, but… Well – maybe she’d better tell you.”

“Tuerqui,” the vet began, “someone’s made quite a mess of you – possibly when Tuerquelle was born. I recognised the problem quite quickly – mostly, I’ve been making sure that nothing else was amiss. Now, I’m sure there isn’t a second trouble – and I can repair the damage. Unfortunately, it’ll mean surgery.”

“Surgery, miss?”

“Yes, surgery, an operation. I need to cut you open to reach your fallopian tubes. Of course, I’d give you cordials to grant oblivion. It would hurt afterwards, though, and there is the possibility of your dying under the knife.”

“If you survive,” my mistress added, “you’ll be too weak to work for a while – or do anything very much. As your owner, I could order you to have the operation, but several things hold me back. For a start, I’m afraid of losing you.”

“I’ll still be yours in the World to Come, mistress.”

“I suppose so. But my daughter must be conceived in love, there will be no coercion at any point. Miss Downtree tells me, too, that your chances of survival depend on your will to live. What do you say, Tuerqui?”

“Mistress, you honour me as no slave was ever honoured before. Nothing would give me greater joy than to carry your child. If I may be allowed the surgery, I’ll take the chances gladly.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to think it over, Tuerqui? Miss Downtree will cut as gently as anyone could – but there’ll be pain, and you may not pull through.”

“No, mistress, I don’t need to think. I’ll willingly endure any pain or weakness, and put my faith in the goddess against death. She’s delivered me from danger and personage – if she wants to take me now, so be it, but I don’t think she will. In any case, as I said, I’ll still be yours in the World to Come.”

“Tuerqui, you put all my doubts to shame. The only other thing to consider is the legal position of our child. Do you know why Tuerquelle is a slave, for all of her father being a high born ally of Surrey?”

“I think, mistress, that slavery or personage is inherited from the mother. Since I’m a slave, so is Tuerquelle.”

“That’s right, according to the laws of Surrey, everything, property as well as slavery or personage, descends through the female line. But a gynozoa child has two female parents. Berenice’s decree says that the mother – for purposes of inheritance – is the woman granted the gynozoa licence. Which ever of us carries the child, I will legally be counted as the mother.”

“Then our daughter will be a person, mistress?”

“That’s right, Tuerqui. How do you feel about it?”

“My only worry is how Tuerquelle would feel about having a person as a half sister.”

“Then you must ask her, Tuerqui.”

“Eventually, I suppose, our baby would own Tuerquelle.”

“I suppose so, Tuerqui. Tuerquelle is my personal property, and would pass to our daughter when I die. If it comes to that, so would you, if you outlive me. How would you feel about being your daughter’s property?”

“Who better to own me, mistress, if you should die before me? Of course, she would need to accept that I’ll be your property in the World to Come, not hers.”

“These are important questions, Tuerqui. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a bit longer to think about them?”

“No, mistress. If Tuerquelle is happy, I’ll have no doubts.”

“In that case,” said Miss Downtree, “Tuerquelle willing, I’ll take you into my care tomorrow and operate the day after.”

Rarely, in the course of human affairs, has so much rested on the reactions of a seven year old slave child. There was a challenge in explaining matters so that Tuerquelle could understand, whilst remaining reasonably accurate. Paradoxically, I was aided by her knowing little of ordinary, two sex, reproduction. The idea of two women producing a child didn’t seem to strike her as unusual.

“Mummy,” she said, “you’re the best slave in all the world, and Lady Isobel is the best person. How could I be owned by a better person than your daughter?”

“All the same, my love, something’s worrying you, isn’t it?”

“Mummy it’s just that… Well – you wouldn’t love me less for having a baby person?”

“Of course I wouldn’t, my treasure!” I exclaimed, clutching her tightly, eyes filling with tears that were neither sorrow nor joy.

When night came, aware that this was likely to be my last time for several weeks, Passibelle, Honeyminge, Gusibelle and I all shared Lady Isobel’s bed. Group sex involving a person and four slaves requires a great deal of care, if no one is to feel neglected – to be candid, it usually seems more trouble than it’s worth. On this occasion, I was glad to have the complexities of four other people’s feelings with which to contend, as a way of taking my mind from the forthcoming operation. Fivesomes rarely work very well for all of those involved, but I believe that session was the exception – each of us needed distraction from troubling thoughts.

After breakfast, I spent some time with Tuerquelle, who seemed to have no clear conception of the dangers involved in surgery. Briefly, I wondered whether she should be told, but could see no purpose in distressing her. Rather, I trusted to the goddess to deliver me or, failing that, to extend her protection to my daughter. Parting from the child, I handed care of Hartlisse to Honeyminge, thus settling my affairs.

“Honeyminge,” I said, “correct her when she needs it, but don’t be too harsh. Whatever she may once have been, Hartlisse is now a slave like us.”

“Don’t worry, Tuerqui,” said Honeyminge, “you can count on me.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “I appreciate it.”

“Thank you, Tuerqui,” said Hartlisse. “You’ve been so kind recently. I really hope your operation is a success.”

“Thank you, Hartlisse. I do my best. Accept your slavery, and try to be happy. Honeyminge is lovely.”

Smiling over my shoulder at my friend and my bond locker, I passed through the front door, and down the steps. Thence my way took me through gardens in full flower, and past Fiona who, as always, sang wordlessly to the plants. A green painted door in a red brick wall, on which clematis ran riot, took me into the quiet of the vet’s compound. Elisa Downtree sat on the step of the whitewashed surgery – the venue for my more intrusive gynaecological examinations.

“Tuerqui,” she said, “welcome! Your operation isn’t till tomorrow, but I need you here until then. I have to monitor your heart and bodily functions, calm you and make sure you don’t eat.”

“I can’t eat, miss?”

“No, Tuerqui, I’m afraid not. Being sick on the operating table could kill you. But I’ll give you a relaxing cordial… Giggli!”

“Yes, mistress,” said my old friend, appearing at the doorway.

“Fetch Tuerqui a two gill measure of the number twelve relaxing cordial, please, Giggli. Then, perhaps you could sit with her, out here in the garden. She needs to be calm for tomorrow.”

“Yes, mistress. Of course, mistress.”

With only occasional orders from the vet, I was placed in Giggli’s care for the remainder of that day. She took my pulse and my temperature repeatedly, listened to my chest, and plied me with doses of the relaxing cordial. In between these duties, she sat with me in the garden and we talked of our lives, hopes and fears. After perhaps the first half hour, I slipped into a dream-like state, still able to talk and enjoy my friend’s company, but feeling cocooned from the world, almost numb.

During the afternoon, in a moment of clarity, I realised that I’d been talking nonsense for quite some time. Oddly, I felt detached from the realisation, as though observing the ramblings of another slave. Then darkness fell after what seemed a matter of minutes, but was probably several hours. Eventually, Giggli gave me a measure of a different, much sweeter, cordial and I fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

Awakening to bright morning sunlight, Giggli was handing me the medicine glass again – this time, it tasted bitter. Fully immersed in dream, now, nothing around me had the air of reality. When the next dose of cordial arrived – it could have been seconds or weeks later – my mouth seemed too swollen to receive it. Making a supreme effort, I gulped the liquid down – after that, oblivion took me.

Then I awoke, seemingly seconds later, without any definite sensations. My first thought was that Eliza Downtree had changed her mind, and not performed the operation. Lying on my back, I wondered what was happening until, levering myself up, my belly came into view. A large piece of blood-soaked gauze, taped into position, told me that the vet had cut me open.

Not long afterwards, the pain began – as though someone had danced upon my stomach, whilst my arms had been ripped from my shoulders and inexpertly replaced. Trying to move, supposing that nothing could hurt more, I discovered myself to be mistaken. After that, I lay still until I heard a door open and close. Shifting my head in curiosity, attempting to ignore how much that hurt, I saw Eliza Downtree standing over me, Giggli a pace behind.

“Don’t move, Tuerqui,” she told me unnecessarily. “I’m pretty sure I’ve fixed your trouble, but you’ll have to take it very easy for the next three weeks, at least. You’re a good slave, I know, and you’ll want to return to your duties as soon as you feel a bit better, but you mustn’t – is that understood? And how’re you feeling?”

“Hurts,” I croaked, answering her second question first, painfully and with difficulty. “Unnerstan’.”

“Good girl… Now, don’t try to talk any more. Giggli will give you something to send you back to sleep. When you wake, you should feel a little bit better.”

Giggli pressed something hard to my lips, I gulped with difficulty and my mouth was filled with an acrid taste. It felt as though more of the cordial dribbled round the corners of my mouth than went down my throat but, however little I swallowed, sleep soon closed my eyes. Awakening, I did feel a little better, although not much. It occurred to me to wonder how much time had passed, but speaking even a few words was so painful that I didn’t consider asking.

“You’ve got to eat,” Giggli said, proffering a bowl and spoon.

“Cah,” I replied, “hur…”

“I know it’ll hurt. Maybe you can’t eat, maybe you can – but you can certainly try. You’ve got to build up your strength.”

It hurt a great deal to lever myself up into a convenient posture for eating, but I accomplished the task. Extending a hand to take the bowl, I would have dropped it, had Giggli let go – as it was, only a little was slopped. There was insufficient strength in my hand to support an ordinary size portion of food, but I was able to grip the spoon. Bringing the utensil to my mouth, much of its contents dribbled down my chin, but a little passed my lips.

“Swi,” I said “goo swi…”

“It’s good, but it’s not swill, it’s a special broth, just for you. Prescription food. Eat as much as you can, Tuerqui.”

After I’d eaten as much as possible, Giggli remained with me, talking. Able to follow her remarks only intermittently, I was nevertheless comforted by the flow of sound. Eventually, I must have drifted off to sleep again – something that might have escaped my notice had my bedside company remained constant. Giggli seemed to vanish suddenly, to be replaced by Tuerquelle and my mistress.

“Mih,” I said, “Tuer…”

“Don’t try to talk,” Lady Isobel said, “we’ve just come to see how you are.”

“Get well soon, mummy,” Tuerquelle added.

Remaining in the vet’s surgery for another week and a half, it was soon clear that I was on the mend. Eliza Downtree examined me morning and evening, her touch always gentle. Lady Isobel found the time to visit me repeatedly, and was kind enough to allow Tuerquelle and my friends to come every day. My daughter seemed to have the idea that I was already pregnant – something it seemed better to neither confirm nor deny.

Lisa-Louise, Jane, Diqui and Barguin all appeared at my bedside – and even Tipsi came, taking a break from her duties at the Imperial Spa. Jane, who was working on gynozoa science, told me a great deal of how I could carry Lady Isobel’s baby, but unfortunately most of it was beyond my comprehension. Lisa-Louise’s studies were taking her into an entirely different field – to do with the properties of light and chemicals, and how they could be combined to make images in an art, lost since the Old Time, called photography. While grateful to be told about such things, I wasn’t sorry that my other visitors restricted themselves to topics that were easy to understand.

The first couple of days having passed, I spent quite a lot of time out of bed, pleased to be able to sit in a chair whilst chatting to visitors. Four or five days after the operation, I was permitted to leave the building, to enjoy the soft breeze on my skin in the quiet garden. Much of my time thereafter was spent on a bench under the leafy canopy of a horse chestnut tree. It was while seated there that I had a surprise visit from Hartlisse.

“Hartlisse!” I exclaimed, as she appeared through the green door in the red brick wall.

“Hello, Tuerqui. You sound really pleased to see me. I thought maybe you wouldn’t.”

“Why ever not, Hartlisse?”

“Because I treated you so… well… heartlessly. Separated you from Tuerquelle, sent you to market, where you were bought by a whoremonger. You’ve plenty of reason to hate me, Tuerqui.”

“Yes, I have, now that you mention it. And, when our mistress put you in my charge, I did hate you. But now that’s passed. In the service of a common mistress, we can be friends, I’m sure.”

“Would you like to be my friend, Tuerqui?”

“I’d like it very much, Hartlisse,” I said, twitching the hair back from her eyes, and realising that it was true.

“You’re lovely, Tuerqui. And, to tell the truth, for the first time in my life, I really need friends. I’m sorry about everything, really I am.”

“Well, it’s worked out well in the end. I think maybe you should try to make your peace with Giggli while you’re here, though. She was also your victim.”

“Yes, Tuerqui, I’ll try. I was a very bad person, but I’m trying to be a good slave.”

“You didn’t think it was possible, but I reckon you may be starting to value your slavery.”

“Tuerqui – it’s strange. I really think I am. Like I said, I was a dreadful person. Now I have a whole new chance at life.”

“I’m so glad to hear you say that, Hartlisse. You’re doing good – and I think we’re friends now. Really!”

“I hope so, Tuerqui.”

For most of my waking hours, I had Giggli’s company – our friendship blossoming afresh. We talked, amongst other things, of how we’d once been lovers although, for many reasons, neither of us now wished to lie with the other. Her time in the Laughing Phallus seemed to have deeply scarred Giggli’s attitude to sex, which left me wondering why it hadn’t had the same effect on me. For my own part, I was in too much pain to consider love making – and, in any case, felt entirely satisfied with my mistress and her concubines.

Back in University House, after ten or eleven days, I expected to return to work, but was disappointed. Another three weeks of enforced idleness passed before I was permitted even the lightest duties. Each afternoon, during that time, I wandered back to the surgery, to chat with Giggli as she went about her work. One of my pleasures, when not in my former lover’s company, was to see Hartlisse, now so well settled as a slave, working hard and making friends.

“You know, Tuerqui,” my mistress remarked, “as a pioneer of modern slave training, I shouldn’t say this… But Hartlisse seems to vindicate the old bond locker methods.”

“Mistress, I think it’s just that being enslaved helped her see what a bad person she’d been. Now, she’s taking her second chance at life. It’s rather lovely, mistress.”

“Yes, it is, Tuerqui. And you had a big part in her transformation.”

When finally permitted to do so, there was a great joy for me in returning to work, whatever my restrictions. Tuerquelle was very supportive, giving me a new measure of respect for my daughter – not even my mistress’ child could take her place in my affections. My friends – the concubines and household slaves alike – vied with one another to help me in my tasks, something that usually involved them in hard work. When someone donkey stoned the front steps, I was assigned to follow with a bunny cloth.

Three or four days after my return to work, a clearly important lady arrived, in a carriage drawn by high-stepping matched slaves. The coach, together with the harnesses and fittings of the team who drew it, was claret and gold. The girls at the shafts and the lady herself were curiously similar – tall, beautiful, with cascades of flame red hair tumbling down their backs. Hartlisse opened the door for her, while Tuerquelle and I hovered in the background, applying polish to wooden panels.

“Slave,” the visitor said, “tell your mistress that Lady Melanie of the Rock is here.”

“Yes, your ladyship,” Hartlisse replied, turning to obey.

“Wait, girl! You seem familiar. Before you go to your mistress, turn and face me.”

“Yes, your ladyship.”

“Good goddess! You are! You’re Henrietta Heartless! To think that we used to be lovers – before you took up with Nadine and her treasonous cabal.”

“Yes, your ladyship. That is, I was Henrietta Heartless. Now, I’m just Hartlisse, redeemed through slavery.”

“Redeemed through slavery? Yes you are – I see it in your eyes. Well, if anyone knows how to train a slave, it should be your mistress. Off you go, girl, and announce my arrival.”

Naturally, I wondered about Lady Melanie of the Rock, and what her business was with Lady Isobel – questions that were to be answered the following day. Working in the laundry yard, Hartlisse had her hands in the tub, washing clothes, Tuerquelle passed the clean things through the mangle, while I hung them to dry. When the door from the house opened, I assumed that we were being joined by a fourth slave – persons were seldom seen in that place. To my surprise, the newcomer was Jane.

“Tuerqui,” she said, “I’ve come to take you to the gynozoa sciences department.”

“I don’t suppose you want me as a student. It must be time to take my substance to make a baby.”

“We don’t usually put it quite like that – but, yes. Come on!”

She led me back into the house, out via the University door, through the botanical sciences garden and into the study and research building. As Lady Isobel’s personal property, I’d never previously had any business in this place – the corridors severely functional, immaculately clean, but with no surfaces that needed polishing. Ascending a staircase, Jane brought me into a spacious, well-lit room, smelling of disinfectant. It was occupied by six women – my mistress, four I recognised as members of the academic staff, and Lady Melanie of the Rock, the last incongruous in a clinical white coat.

“Tuerqui,” my mistress said, “these persons are members of the gynozoa sciences department – apart from Lady Melanie of the Rock, who is Her Imperial Majesty’s Inspector General for Gynozoic Reproduction.”

“Are you sure you want a common slave as a co-mother?” Lady Melanie asked.

“Slave, Tuerqui certainly is,” my mistress replied, “common she is not. She’s special – and she’s my choice.”

Lady Isobel and I lay on hard couches, in an undignified posture, our feet raised in stirrups. My position didn’t allow me to see much of what happened, but either someone’s hand or a probe of some sort was inserted deep inside me. The process would have been uncomfortable at the best of times but – after my operation – it hurt a great deal. Biting my lip, I tried not to show my pain, and the business was done soon enough.

The following day, Jane brought us four gynozoa cultures, a slightly cloudy liquid combining Lady Isobel’s essence with mine. Each was in a tiny bottle swaddled in thick quilted material designed to prevent the precious substance from growing too hot or too cool. After that, it was a matter of counting the days from my period, to determine when I would be most fertile. Finally, my mistress squirted the contents of the first bottle deep inside me whilst I convulsed in orgasm – not only was this likely to increase my receptivity, but we needed our daughter to be conceived in love.

“I’m sorry, mistress,” I said between sobs, when the pregnancy test proved negative. “You should have used a proper fertile slave. I’ve ruined your chances of a daughter. I’m not fit for blesh stew!”

“Nonsense, Tuerqui, don’t be so silly. You were lucky to click first time with Tuerquelle. That’s why we have four cultures. Dry your eyes, and that’s an order – we’ll try again next month.”

When, the following month, a second attempt failed, Eliza Downtree thought that I might be too tense to conceive. Accordingly, she prescribed a cordial that relieved my heartache. It also made my days merge into one another, leaving me half in the land of dreams. In spite of not being properly present in the world, I didn’t neglect my prayers, aware of how sorely we needed the goddess’ bounty.

The night Lady Isobel squirted the precious fluid for a third time, I seemed – curiously – to have emerged from my month-long dream. My mistress worked well, leaving me thinking no greater extremity of pleasure possible, then the culture came, wet inside me. Instantly, I knew that I was pregnant, although it’s impossible to say how. At that moment I wept in joy, but, when a pregnancy test confirmed what I already knew, my reaction was merely a satisfied smile.

Knowing that I was going to have another baby, I contemplated my still flat belly in wonder and pride. Somewhere inside me, my second daughter was growing slowly. Soon enough, I began to swell like a ripening fruit. Awe struck, Lady Isobel ran her hands over my belly.

“Is she really in there?” she asked.

“She really is,” I replied.

Never, in all my life, had I known such bliss. The ill-effects of pregnancy came soon enough, of course – back ache, sickness, there’s no need for a complete list. No symptom could dent my delight – carrying my mistress’ daughter is the most wonderful thing in the world. My friends look enviously in my direction, but there’s nothing malicious in that.

“Tuerqui, I envy you,” my mistress said, echoing the feelings of the others. “You carry the best gift in the world.”

“Mistress, it’s perfectly true… But there’s always the fourth gynozoa culture.”

“Yes, Tuerqui, I’ve been thinking about that. I’m torn – I’ll be beyond consolation if I don’t conceive. On the other hand, I won’t conceive unless we try it. Tuerqui – I put myself in your hands – what do you think?”

After only a moment’s thought, I responded: “Mistress – give yourself to me, as I gave myself to you, and I’ll do my best to fill your belly with love.”

There doesn’t seem much to add. My mistress gave herself to me and, at the height of our passion, I squirted the culture deep within. Now we are both carrying our babies – the fruit of what seems to me a perfect love. We are mistress and slave, we are lovers, but – beyond that – there is between us the deepest bond two women could share.

A moment ago, sitting at this desk, pen upon the paper, I felt my new daughter stir inside me. On the other side of the room, Tuerquelle, Passibelle and Hartlisse, flicking feather dusters at picture frames and ornaments, harmonise with a wordless melody. Beyond the half open window, rain has left glistening droplets on nasturtium leaves, now sunshine breaks through the clouds. Perched on a fork handle, a cock blackbird calls – four high pitched squeaks, before a burst of glorious song.

For the Epilogue
click
http://bondlings.blogspot.com/2008/02/of-bondlings-and-blesh-epilogue.html

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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