To Train a Queen
by Commander James Bondage
Copyright 2015 Commander James Bondage
Published by Strict Publishing International
Chapter One
The sounds of fighting from the courtyard died away as the last of the loyal guards were overwhelmed and cut down one-by-one by the Count’s men, to lie bleeding their lives out on the gray flagstones. Up in the throne room, all that now could be heard of the combat was a few faint clinks as steel sword met steel shield, and an occasional faint cry of agony as a soldier received his deathblow. The big man with the black beard and mustache dressed in half-armor and a bloodstained white wool cloak, sitting with his body slumped uncomfortably across the elaborately carved throne, was too preoccupied to pay the sounds any heed; indeed, it was doubtful if he even heard them.
It was clear that the man, Count Casimir LeBonne by name, was waiting for something or someone. The Count was making no effort to conceal his impatience; the steel tips of his gauntlets rapped out a steady, nervous rhythm on the arm of the throne while he stared at the open archway that was the entrance to the room, glowering menacingly at anyone who moved into his line of sight.
After what seemed to Casimir’s underlings to be approximately forever, there came the sound of voices in the corridor indicating that someone, or several someones, were approaching. Casimir sat up straight, and the scowl fled from his face to be replaced by a broad grin as the voices became louder and more recognizable.
Through the pointed archway and into the high-ceilinged chamber came a squad of Casimir’s men, accoutered much like their commander in white cloaks over steel plate armor. With these men were two girls, whose hands were tied behind their backs and had soldiers firmly gripping their upper arms, one on each side. The girls were in dressed in brightly colored kirtles that looked somewhat worse for wear, and from their glassy-eyed expressions, were rather the worse for wear themselves.
The captain of the squad, an English mercenary named Boynce, shouted, “Attention!” His men snapped into position, stiffening as if ramrods had been suddenly thrust up their fundaments, as did Boynce himself.
“My Lord,” the captain said, thrusting out his chest and bellowing as though he wanted to be certain that no person on the castle grounds could not hear him, “I wish to report the capture of the Princess Christine and her companion Lady Emily of Fernhill!”
Casimir, who was accustomed to his man’s volume, did not turn a hair. He nodded his head, and said, “So I see. Excellent work, Captain Boynce. I shall not forget you when the spoils are distributed.”
He crooked a finger at the four men holding the girls. “Bring them up to the foot of the throne, if you please, gentleman. I should like to converse with the Princess and her noble friend, and one can hardly have intercourse with them when they are so far away.”
The four soldiers advanced, carrying the two young women as effortlessly as if they were straw-stuffed effigies, until the hems of their skirts were brushing the toes of Casimir’s cavalry boots. Although they were not related, they were often taken for sisters by strangers, so similar was their appearance. Both had delicate, straight noses, high cheeks, eyes that were almost shockingly blue, long, fine hair and attractive, curving forms beneath the dresses.
Emily was the daughter and heir of the Duke of Fernhill, the wealthiest, most powerful noble in Bartavia, and the King’s right hand and closest friend. His wife died when Emily was only five years old, and she thereafter spent most of her childhood in the household of the royal family with Princess Christine, being raised almost as though she was in truth a second daughter to the King and Queen. The two girls instantly became fast friends, and now were inseparable.
Emily was taller, had hair of spun gold, and a shape that was more frankly womanly, while the shorter Christine had tresses the color of molten copper, and a more slender shape, but one that was in no way less attractive.
“I trust you are in good health, Your Highness, My Lady,” Casimir said.
His words seemed to bring the dazed Princess Christine to life. “How dare your men lay their hands on the daughters of the King and Duke Fernhill, Casimir! Order them to release me at once… both of us!” she shouted. Without waiting to see if he would obey this royal command, she continued, “As for our health, you would do better to consider your own. Have you despaired of life that you would presume to place your low-born posterior on the Lion Throne of Bartavia? You will be lucky to merely lose your head when my father the King hears of it!”
The soldiers exchanged sidelong glances. Count Casimir normally did not tolerate being harangued by anyone, especially a mere slip of a girl half his age. He had a short temper and a violent one, and he was no respecter of rank, age or sex when he believed there was an insult to be repaid.
But rather than striking the Princess dead with his mace, Count Casimir smiled. That is, the corners of his mouth turned upwards and he displayed the tips of his teeth, which technically constituted a smile, although it far more resembled the expression on the snout of a shark the instant before it rips a mouthful of flesh from its prey.
“Well, perhaps he never will hear of it,” he said easily. “In sooth, I should be astonished if he did.” He reached over an arm of the throne, and plucked a stained burlap sack from the floor. “It is said that dead men tell no tales, so I cannot credit the possibility that they can hear them either.”
With this, he gripped the bottom of the bag and emptied its contents on the floor at the feet of the two girls. They started to scream hysterically and frantically tried to throw themselves backwards, away from what lay on the ground before them: the severed heads of the Prime Minister, Duke Robert of Fernhill, and Charles Gustav II of Harenburg, King of Bartavia.
The girls continued to scream until their spittle was pink and Casimir was developing the beginnings of a headache. Finally, he seized handfuls of hair from the two heads, and returned them to the sack, which he tossed aside. Then he gestured to Captain Boynce, who nodded and crammed handkerchiefs into the girls’ mouths, securing them in place with lengths of twine, which he tied behind their heads.
The Count began to speak again. “Now, as it happens, I…” He stopped when he realized that he did not have the full attention of either Princess or the Duchess (with the death of her father Emily had inherited Duke Robert’s titles and properties), if the way their eyes were rolling wildly around in their sockets and the muffled noises of panic and grief they both made was anything to go by. He leaned forward to slap Emily lightly on the cheek, and then did the same to Christine. As he was still wearing his metal gloves, even these comparatively light chastisements were sufficient to snap the heads of the recipients violently sideways and raise colored lumps on their cheeks, which almost immediately began to darken into bruises.
“I need you to pay close heed to me, My Lady and Your Highness. This is important,” Casimir said. “Have I now your full attention?” He raised his gauntleted hand again.
Emily cringed fearfully, her eyes on the gauntlet as she nodded her head in answer. Christine nodded her head as well, but her eyes were locked on the Count’s in a glare of unalloyed hatred. He returned the glare with a smile and a wink before continuing.
“Good. I mislike repeating myself,” Casmir said. “Now, as it happens, I should like to make the transition from the old dynasty to the new as uncomplicated as possible for my new subjects, and for that I must needs have a member of the old royal family for my Queen. That way…” He trailed off again, as the two girls burst into muted, incomprehensible, but obviously heartfelt protests.
Rather than battering them into silence again, Casimir nodded, and said, “Ah, of course, you were not aware that reign of the
Harenburg family is at an end, and I shall be the new King.”
Emily reacted by screwing her face up and bursting into tears. Christine, on the other hand, shook her head and made a noise like “Nnnnn!”
The Count nodded his head. “Oh yes, it’s quite true. Shaking your head will change nothing, my dear,” he said. He raised his mailed hand again. “Now, do you need a refresher, or will you still your clamor, Majesty, that I might be permitted to finish?”
The threat was sufficient to make the two girls fall silent again. “As I was saying, the uncertainties that might result from the change will, I judge, be much reduced if I take a Harenburg to wife. My first preference would have been your mother, Queen Charlotte, who became eligible after the unfortunate demise of Charles. But when she learned of the King’s defeat and death, she took to her bath and opened her veins with a dagger. You, Princess Christine, are the last of the direct line, so if I wish to have a Harenburg bride, there is but one choice. On the other hand, there is much to be said for a union with the late Duke Robert’s daughter, is there not? Your estates… mine, if I espouse you… are twice the size of the Harenburgs’, and more valuable by far. I could raise a much greater army with Fernhill gold at my command than without. So, there is a much to recommend both of you. But which will make a more suitable match when it comes to the bedroom? Which of you lovely young girls will be more solicitous of her King’s pleasure, hey?”
He stepped down from the throne, and stooped low over Emily, studying her face from an inch away. She whimpered in fear. “What would you do, my fine little Duchess, to avoid the scourge, the hot irons, the pincers, the rack, the needles and all the rest?” His mailed hand clamped on the collar of her dress and he pulled down sharply, ripping the front of the garment away, leaving the blonde girl clad only in a thin silk chemise embroidered with flowers. He released the ruined dress and let it fall to the ground, then reached up to untie the string that held the neck of the girl’s dainty undergarment closed. “Would you crawl to my bed like a well-whipped bitch?
“Let us see what you conceal under here, My Lady Emily,” the Count said, slipping the straps of the chemise over her shoulders so that it slid down over her body, catching for a moment on her nipples, then drifted to gather in a pile at the girl’s feet. She made a broken sound deep in her throat, closed her eyes and turned her head to the side. A blush began in her forehead, and spread to her cheeks neck and breasts. Although it was May and the room was not particularly cold, she was shaking so uncontrollably that she would have fallen, had the two soldiers not held her erect.
Casimir’s eyes drank in her beauty. He had enjoyed not a few women in his life, but he had never seen one more magnificent than the eighteen-year-old Duchess of Fernhill. Her skin was flawless, a smooth expanse of alabaster perfection. Her breasts were full, round, womanly, but surpassingly firm and resilient. Her legs were long and shapely, well muscled from riding, and overlaid with just the right amount of soft flesh. Her mound was wonderfully formed, with pink lips seeming to beckon from beneath a few golden hairs.
The Count took her chin in his steel gloved hand and turned her back to face him. “Look at me,” he commanded, and Emily opened her eyes. He shook off the gauntlet from his free hand, and asked, “Would you bear the torture to preserve your chastity? Would you endure the rack for hour on hour before besmirching your family’s honor? Would you die for your virtue before coming willingly to the bed of your father’s killer?”
Emily stared back at him, unable to look away, unable to think, in her terror.
“Raise your chest and offer me your noble titties,” he commanded. “Show my men the courage of a daughter of the famed House of Fernhill.”
Emily was in many ways a typical girl of the high nobility. She had led a pampered, protected existence, and was accustomed to being treated with attentiveness and respect by her many male admirers, and with instant compliance by her servants. Her days were spent reading poetry, sewing, and learning the arts of managing the kind of great household that she would someday marry into or inherit. Other than horseback riding, she had not engaged in rough sports or dangerous activities, or done anything that might be thought of as unladylike since she was very young. She had no real personal experience with violence, and the sight of her father’s severed head together with the Count’s bloodcurdling threats overwhelmed her. She felt as if her will had left her body, and she was being operated by some outside agency. Without any conscious thought, she obediently forced her shoulder blades together and arched her back, thrusting her breasts out to Casmir’s waiting hand. She shuddered, but did not pull away when the Count’s hand cupped the creamy flesh of her left breast and his callused palm scraped her dark pink nipple.
“So, you would be my dog for the asking, Lady Emily?” Casimir sneered. “All I need do is describe what awaits you in the dungeons, it seems, to make you crawl to me.” The fingers of his mailed hand now closed around her right nipple, and she yelped in surprise at the chill feel of the metal, then winced in pain when he applied pressure to her blameless nub, pulling her up on the tips of her toes. “It is your misfortune, My Lady, that even your surrender will not excuse you from your fate. You must still be instructed in the ways of pleasure and pain, and be well schooled in obedience before you will be permitted to serve me.” He released her nipple, and she dropped back to stand normally, weeping as if her heart was broken.
Casimir ignored her, turning his attention to the other girl. He imagined he could feel her stare burning holes in his flesh, so forceful was her glower of hatred. While the Lady Emily was soft clay to be molded without effort into any shape he desired, he could see that the other one, Princess Christine, had spirit. This of course, would only make the process of breaking that spirit and using her afterward that much more pleasurable.
Casimir slid the twine down and plucked the sopping handkerchief from the redhead’s mouth. “And what of you, Princess Christine?” he asked. “Would it please you to be my Queen, the first of the LeBonne dynasty and mother to the heirs of my body?”
Christine resembled Lady Emily physically, but they were very different in many ways. The Princess had little or no interest in the typical activities of a girl of her class. She did not desire to learn the arts of painting, polite conversation or seduction, had no interest in being courted by boys, and preferred a vigorous outdoor life of climbing trees, hunting with the hounds and falconry, to the formal life of the court. Her father King Charles was unable to deny his daughter anything, allowing her to continue her tomboy ways long after she had reached husband-height and should have been preparing for her future role as a noble wife and mother. She was for these reasons far more resilient and difficult to intimidate than Lady Emily.
Princess Christine’s lips curled in a sneer as she answered. “It would please me no more than to be espoused to a wild boar and bear litters of his piglets. In truth, I would sooner do that than wed a cowardly traitor, vile criminal and oathbreaker, the murderer of my father, who was worth a thousand Count Casimirs. You will never have any other answer of me, whatever vile threats you make, so do what you will. Have your minions take my head this minute, if you like. I will gladly share the fate of the true King, for I will die knowing that you will pay with an eternity of torment for your foul deeds.”
Casimir drew a dagger from his belt, and pressed the point into the soft flesh under Christine’s chin, forcing her to lift her head up. “A very pretty speech, Princess,” he said, “and it shows admirable courage, although I wonder if you would say the same if this choice was truly offered to you.”
He lowered the dagger until it touched the flesh at the neck of her dress, and then turned it to catch both Christine’s outer and inner garments. There was a ripping sound as the sharp blade sliced through cloth as he swept it downward, and in a moment, the body of the Princess was exposed.
Although it was not as lush as her friend’s, Christine’s body was just as desirable as Emily’s in its own way. He
r breasts were less prominent; high, tight cones, rather than full, round globes, but the flesh was no less creamy and was perhaps even firmer. Her midsection and long legs showed not even a hint of fat, displaying a superb musculature won from many hours of running after game, jumping fences, climbing trees and other sport. The curves of her hips were not so pronounced as Emily’s, but they suited the young woman’s graceful, slim form, which reminded Casimir of a dryad or sylph. The lips of her sex were quite as plump and tempting as those of her friend, as the curling, coppery locks that decorated her mound did nothing to conceal.
Christine continued to stare straight ahead with her head held high, as if refusing to acknowledge that her nude body was on display for Count Casimir and his men.
The Count’s hand rested on her flat belly. “Will you open your legs for my hand, Princess Christine, so that I may stroke your little nest?”
Neither by word or action did Christine show that she had even heard the question. She remained standing as before, with her ankles touching and her thighs pressed together.
“No?” he asked. He moved the dagger to her throat again. “Not even now?” Christine remained unmoving, expecting any moment to feel the bite of the sharp steel. She imagined how it would feel when the darkness took her forever from this world.
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