Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set

by Jill Elaine Hughes

  I sigh. This new time and place will take some getting used to. “Fine. Help me find something to wear, Bridget.” I have the sudden urge to pee. “And by the way, where’s the toilet?”

  Bridget gives me a blank look. “The what, milady?”

  I make a motion towards my crotch. “You know, where people go to pee.”

  Bridget smiles and nods. “Of course, milady.” She retreats into a corner and returns with a small copper pot. “Here’s yer chamber pot.I’ll clean it meself when ye finish. An’ here’s somethin’ fer yer personal wipin’, lass.”

  She hands me some dried brown leaves.

  I sigh. The people in the twelfth century might know how to fuck, but when it comes to personal hygiene, they’ve still got a ways to go.

  ****

  It takes me awhile to figure out the chamber-pot situation—that’s a tale best left untold. But I can sure get used to having my own personal lady-in-waiting. I haven’t had to lift a finger since I woke up. Hell, if Bridget were capable of peeing and pooping for me, she’d probably do that, too.

  In the past half-hour, Bridget has given me a sponge bath, washed and dressed my hair into the most elaborate and beautiful braided style imaginable, rubbed milk-and-honey salve into my skin, massaged my feet with scented oil, rimmed my eyes with kohl—the twelfth century’s answer to eyeliner and mascara—and colored my cheeks and lips with a rouge made of a mix of raspberry juice and lard.

  She’s also gotten me dressed. And given how elaborate and complicated my wardrobe full of new medieval outfits are, I’m sure there’s no way I’ll ever be able to get dressed without her. I’m wearing at least eighteen different layers of clothing—that I counted, anyway. I’ve got a double-layered lace-up corset-bodice thing on, too—it simultaneously cinches my waist down to near zero while shoving everything that used to be around my middle up into my boobs. As a result I look like a medieval Dolly Parton.

  The biggest irony of all is that underneath all eighteen layers of chemises, petticoats, underdresses, corset-bodices, over-tunics, and sideless surcoats, I am completely naked. No panties for me. “To keep you ready to receive a gentlemen always,” Bridget explained when I asked why.

  Because no matter how much I might look like a princess on the outside, no matter how many layers of beautiful silk, satin, and velvet I have on, underneath it all I am still a sex slave.

  A harlot. A harlot in the Hall of Harlots.

  And now, Bridget is leading me into the Hall of Harlots itself. It’s time to meet my competition.

  Bridget takes me by the arm and leads me out of my bedchamber into a narrow stone hallway. The corridor is silent save for the distant sound of dripping water. My satin-slipper-shod feet pad softly on the hard cobblestones as I follow Bridget around a corner and down a winding stone staircase. At the bottom of the staircase is a small door, low enough that I have to duck to keep from bumping my head as I pass through.

  I’m suddenly blinded by bright sunlight. I shield my eyes with one hand and try to adjust. Once I do, I’m stunned by what I see.

  The Hall of Harlots is at least as big as a football stadium. And it’s packed from wall to wall with beautiful women.There are hundreds of little stalls dotting the vast, oval room, half of which is roofed over with thick wooden beams, the other half open to the bright, sunny sky. Each little stall contains a carved wooden chair, a light velvet fainting couch—and a woman.

  By the looks of it, I’ve got at least seven hundred competitors. And they’re all beautiful.

  If I’m going to stand out, I’ve got my work cut out for me.

  Bridget leads me up and down the aisles, pointing out some of the choicer specimens. “That one’s Hermione the Husky,” she says, pointing out a voluptuous woman in a pale blue Greek tunic and leather sandals. “She’s from a faraway land of long ago. Quite popular among Lord Verdigris’ yard henchmen.” Bridget leans closer and gives me a wink. “I’ve heard that she likes to put pomegranates up her bum.”

  I wince. “Is that so?”

  Bridget nods. “She’s a strange one, that Hermione. Doesn’t know a word o’ our tongue, but the young ones, they love her, they do. She’s a devil behind closed doors, she is.”

  Hermione looks to be from Ancient Greece. I guess Lord Verdigris wasn’t kidding when he said he’s traveled throughout the ages in search of history’s most beautiful women. For all I know, Hermione was around to fuck Plato and Socrates.

  Sheesh. Talk about competition.

  I’m already intimidated. Besides Lord Verdigris, I’ve only fucked three loser guys from New Jersey. One was a shoe salesman, one was a postal worker, and one had the toll lane next to me on the New Jersey Turnpike. Not an ancient Greek philosopher in the bunch.

  A few stalls down, Bridget stops short and nudges me. “Here’s ‘nother one to be wary of, lass.” She nods toward a stunning, olive-skinned woman in a brightly striped tunic decorated with gold and sporting an elaborate, jewel-encrusted headdress shaped like an eagle’s beak. “That’s Madam Jasphet. She’s from a land even farther away and longer ago than Hermione. She’s poison, she is. Some o’ the lads that visit her of a night nivver return.”

  That gives me pause. “What do you mean, they never return?”

  Bridget glances over both shoulders and leans even closer. “I mean that she wenches ‘em to death. Her kiss an’ her cunny are both poisoned like a deadly asp, or so they say. Lord Verdigris once said that in her own time, Madam Jasphet’s love—or hate, as ye call it—tore whole kingdoms apart an’ sent kings an’ emperors into madness.”

  My eyebrows raise. I wonder if Madam Jasphet might be related to Cleopatra. For all I know, she might even be Cleopatra. By the looks of her outfit she’s definitely from Ancient Egypt, at least.

  “Her poison don’t scare Lord Verdigris off none, ‘tho,” Bridget goes on. “Madam Jasphet’s by far ‘is favorite these days. Lord Verdigris likes ‘em dangerous, he does. Somethin’ for ye to think ‘bout, if ye want to become a top harlot ‘round here yourself.”

  I have no idea how to be dangerous. The closest I’ve ever come to danger is the high-speed toll lane on the New Jersey Turnpike. And they don’t have any cars in the twelfth century. “I’ll ummm, keep that in mind,” I mumble.

  Looks like I’m screwed before I even get started.

  I trudge behind Bridget as we walk up and down the seemingly endless rows of stalls, a sinking feeling in my stomach as she points out a Chinese teahouse girl from the Ming Dynasty here, a nineteenth-century Japanese geisha there, quite a few women who look like they were captured en masse from a 1920s speakeasy, and even an Amazon tribal queen who could have walked off the set of Xena: Warrior Princess. But I don’t see anyone who looks even remotely close to coming from my own time. The 1920s speakeasy ladies are the closest I’ve seen to 2009 New Jersey.

  Then I wonder why Lord Verdigris has renamed me “Lady Louisa of the Crossroads,” branded me a member of the medieval nobility, and outfitted me with a lady-in-waiting and a wardrobe full of velvet gowns and corsets. Are twenty-first century women considered unsexy around here?

  It certainly seems that way. But I guess I can understand why. It’s not as if you see many thirty-year-old single New Jersey toll collectors gracing the pages of Playboy or Maxim. I suppose the same tastes apply even here in the twelfth century.

  Then another shocking notion crosses my mind. If I’m a twenty-first-century woman with a boring job and a dull life in my own time living in disguise here in the twelfth century, who’s to say that most of these other grandly costumed and coiffed women here in the Hall of Harlots aren’t the same as me? Who’s to say that Hermione the Husky isn’t just a convenience-store worker from Brooklyn who just happened to know enough Greek to pass as a princess from ancient times here? And who’s to say Madam Jasphet isn’t a social studies teacher from Kansas who just happened to know something about ancient Egypt?

  Or perhaps, just perhaps, Lord Verdigris fabricated their harlot pers
onas just like he fabricated mine? After all, I’m no more Lady Louisa of the Crossroads than I am Princess Diana.

  I chuckle softly to myself. If this is the sex game that Lord Verdigris wants to play, I can play it to the hilt. The only question now is, what is my next move?

  Chapter 4

  I’ve been following Bridget around the Hall of Harlots for over an hour, and all the faces, costumes, and reputations of my fellow Harlots are just starting to run together. I can’t tell Hermione the Husky from a Viking warrior-queen any more. I need to take a break.

  “Okay, Bridget, I get the idea,” I sigh, flustered. “I have a lot of competition, and if I expect to get anywhere while I’m here I need to distinguish myself. Can we go now? My feet are killing me.” The little satin slippers I’m wearing offer no cushioning whatsoever against the hard cobblestones underfoot; my feet feel like they’re walking on a bed of nails.

  “We’ll rest soon, milady,” Bridget assures me. “But first ye’ve got to meet the Harlot Guards. They keep all ye ladies o’ the night safe, ye know.”

  Harlot Guards? Well, I suppose that makes sense. The fact that all the Harlots in the Hall of Harlots are prisoners here against their will would probably make guards fairly necessary.

  Bridget leads me to the far end of the Hall of Harlots, where I see a large raised stage of sorts. Along the edge of the stage stand several burly-looking men, all armored from head to toe and carrying heavy weapons—pikes, maces, broadswords, axes. Why the guards need to arm themselves against a bunch of women in silk and satin is beyond me—unless the guards are trying to protect the women from something else. Like, perhaps, themselves.

  As if reading my mind, Bridget squeezes my shoulder. “Don’t even think ‘bout tryin’ to escape the Hall, milady,” she whispered. “If ye do, yer as good as beheaded. I’ve seen it happen many a time.”

  That’s enough to send chills down my spine. “So that’s why they’ve got all the heavy weapons, then? To keep us all in our place?”

  Bridget nods. “That’s the main reason, lass. But there’s another one as well. Sometimes the knights of the garrison take a few too many liberties with the Harlots without paying Lord Verdigris his due first, and when that happens, the guards ‘ave to step in.”

  “What do you mean, pay Lord Verdigris his due?” Though I can well imagine.

  “Lord Verdigris is lord an’ vassal over nearly a thousand knights, fighters, and mercenaries,” Bridget explains. “He gives ‘em shelter, food, an’ protection ‘ere in the castle. Not to mention use of the Hall of Harlots. And in exchange, lass, they must give Lord Verdigris ‘is payment.”

  “What kind of payment?”

  “Oh, lots ‘o different kinds, lass. They hand over their peasants’ crops, they give ‘im a share of whatever gold-n-silver they happen upon in their knightly missions. But that ain’t the chief way they pay Lord Verdigris fer ‘is protection, oh no. Mostly they go fight in battles all ‘round the countryside on his Lordship’s behalf—all without payment in coin. If His Lordship thinks one of ‘is knights or mercenaries ain’t pullin’ his weight, then heads will roll. And I do mean that literally, lass. Heads ‘ave rolled right here in front of me own eyes, they ‘ave.” Bridget shudders. “Keep that in mind whenever you have a notion to escape the Hall, lass.”

  I shudder. “Well, I certainly don’t have any plans to escape,” I say. Not at this point, anyway. If what Bridget says is true—and I have no reason to believe it isn’t—I’d be stupid even to try.

  Bridget walks me along the edge of the main guards’ platform and over to a small nook I hadn’t noticed before. “’Ere’s ‘nother spot ye need to know ‘bout,” she says. “These are the Harlots’ Personal Guards.”

  I glance into the tiny nook, where I see at least a dozen men crammed together up against one wall. Unlike the burly, armored guards upstairs, they look rather timid and altogether unhappy to be here—not unlike many of the Harlots themselves.

  “They don’t look much like guards to me,” I offer.

  Bridget purses her lips. “Well, that’s ‘cause they’re slaves themselves, just like you an’ me, lass. The Personal Guards are assigned to watch over specific Harlots who are a-gettin’ out of line.” She lowers her voice. “I’ve never been able to know this for sure, lass, but there’s a rumor roundabouts that says the Personal Guards are castrated if they try to escape the Hall. Or if they’re caught a-takin’ pleasure from one of the Harlots without prior permission from Lord Verdigris.”

  I’m horrified. If that’s true, no wonder all the Personal Guards look so miserable.

  “But His Lordship does let the lads ‘ave a free encounter with the lesser Harlots now an’ again,” Bridget adds. “His Lordship ain’t completely heartless, even if he seems that way most o’ the time.”

  My eyes settle on one particularly sad-eyed young man at the far end. His face is pale and wan—yet still attractive—while his body is trim, toned, and gorgeous. He has flowing brown hair in a ragged, layered cut with sideburns—the classical Regency hairstyle sported by Napoleon, Murat, George IV, and so many other famous men of the period. He’s dressed in a loose-fitting white silk poet’s shirt with a low, open collar that reveals the rippled chest muscles beneath, and breeches that cling tightly to his athletic thighs. He’s a stunning specimen of manhood. I’d love the opportunity to get my hands on him—forbidden fruit or not. But how?

  “What exactly would I have to do to get a Personal Guard assigned to me?” I ask, playing innocent.

  Bridget clucks. “Oh, lass, ye’d mostly have t’do somethin’ to make Lord Verdigris displeased with ye. An’ I wouldn’t recommend ye do anything to make Lord Verdigris displeased with ye. He can make yer life miserable if ye do, he can.” She glances over both shoulders and gives me a wink. “But if there’s somebody in the Personal Guards ye got yer eye on, I might could arrange it for ye on the sly. But if ye get caught, I had naught to do with it. Understand?”

  I nod. “See what you can do to help me meet the sad-eyed one there,” I whisper.

  Bridget touches a finger to her nose. “’Tis good as done, lass. An’ a good choice o’ lad at that. But it could take me awhile. Meantime, ye need to start attractin’ customers.”

  Attracting customers. Well, I suppose that’s easy enough.

  If I only knew how.

  Chapter 5

  I’m back in my bedchamber agonizing over what my claim to fame (not to mention essential tool for survival) will be in the Hall of Harlots when suddenly, it all comes to me.

  Here in this long-ago time and place, I’m called Lady Louisa of the Crossroads. So why not make my bedchamber a crossroads of sorts? Figuratively speaking, of course.

  Lots of things happen at a crossroads.Important things. Pivotal things. Sometimes, even dangerous things.

  I instruct Bridget to go hunting for some long leather straps, some rope, maybe even a few chains if she can find them. And some big, heavy wooden poles, the kind suitable for suspending people from. I tell her I’ll need a hammer and some nails, too. Or failing that, spikes and maybe a big heavy rock.

  Bridget looks at me like I’m crazy. But she doesn’t argue. “I’m here to serve milady,” she says with a shrug, and disappears down the hall.

  Why all the lumber, tools, and harnesses, you wonder?

  I’m somewhat embarrassed to admit that I was a CampFire Girl until I was seventeen. Not only that, I was the Elizabeth, New Jersey CampFire chapter’s chief expert on Campsite Construction and Mountaineering. I know how to build a permanent emergency shelter out of nothing but twigs, empty Ziploc bags, and leaves. And thanks to a backwoods sports competition the New Jersey State CampFire council sponsored, I also know how to construct outdoor gymnastics equipment out of logs, branches, and a little bit of rope. I never thought anything I did back in my CampFire days could possibly come in handy later in life—until now.

  I am Lady Louisa of the Crossroads. And “The Crossroads” will be the hall of sex
ual gymnastics I plan to build in my chamber—the centerpiece of which will be a giant wooden cross sturdy enough to support a person.

  Did I mention that I also spent a summer at a Catholic sleepaway camp when I was twelve? I helped build a life-sized crucifix for a passion play while I was there. And if I remember my medieval history correctly, they are wild about passion plays in the twelfth century. Absolutely wild.

  If things go my way, Lady Louisa of the Crossroads will be holding some passion plays of her own here in the Hall of Harlots, complete with life-size crucifix, whips, chains—and plenty of breathless, sweaty appeals to God Almighty. Though my passion plays will be quite different from the ones staged all over Europe every spring. On my stage, there will be a lot less faith and Catholic guilt, and a lot more passion.

  A lot more.

  God help me if the Spanish Inquisition were ever to set foot in here. Because I’m about to commit some serious blasphemy. The kind of blasphemy Mary Magdalene and Salome would probably approve of.

  I am no longer Louise Jackson, underemployed, overeducated highway toll collector and history buff. I am Lady Louisa of the Crossroads, the Hall of Harlots’ new reigning Queen of Passion and Submission. Any man who comes to my bedchamber seeking the pleasures of the flesh will learn that there’s a lot more pleasure to be had than just what the stuff tucked between our legs can give us. Because when one surrenders, body and soul, to the power of another, the possibilities for sensual satisfaction increase thousandfold, and beyond.

  I may be a sex slave, captured and held prisoner thousands of miles and hundreds of years away from my own home, but there are still ways for me to find a little freedom.

  I may be a sex slave, but I can have slaves of my own, too.

  It’s only a matter of time.

  The only question is, who will my first client be? I hope to hell it’s not Lord Verdigris. Even with as good a lover as the man is, the idea of being his captured-and-imprisoned property still turns my stomach.