Harkness dropped the brush to the ground, and shook his head wearily. “We don’t neither of us have no choice, My Lady. This here is the Count’s orders.” He slapped Emily on one cheek, leaving a red handprint in the satiny skin, then followed with a backhand to the other side.
“No more, I pray you, no more sir! I shall do as you bid!” Emily sobbed out her surrender.
Harkness retrieved the brush and resumed the cleaning, beginning in her armpit. Ignoring her cries, he told her, “My Lady, if’n you go on like this with My Lord Count, I promise he’ll hurt you, he’ll do you a real harm. Listen to me, My Lady. Count Casimir has ways of making a girl sorry she ever was born.”
He worked the brush vigorously down Emily’s flank, across her belly and over her sweet breasts. Wherever the brush passed, it left the girl’s flesh pink and glowing. Emily wept continuously during the process.
After he finished with her upper body, Harkness ran his brush vigorously over the front of her thighs. Then he tapped the little triangle between her legs. “Open wide, My Lady. I must clean you down here too.”
“Must you, Master Harkness?” she asked. “Could you not use a more forgiving implement in that place at least? For I fear you will injure me terribly.”
He did not reply, at least not with words. Instead, he took her ankle in his hand and drew Emily’s leg up until her foot was higher than her head. He then clipped the manacle around her ankle to an overhead hook, leaving her standing precariously on one foot, with her legs split as wide apart as they could go. To still her screeches, he reached into his pouch and took out a long wooden penis, which he jammed into Emily’s mouth and tied it in place with a strap.
Then he recovered the horse-brush and began to scrub the softness of her inner thighs, which was now fully accessible. When he moved on, running the stiff bristles over her nether lips, Emily twisted madly but could not escape. She hopped up and down even more vigorously when the brush swept through the valley between her parted globes, rasping her delicate bottom-hole, her shrill cries of distress muffled by the gag.
Christine watched Emily’s torment, her heart torn by her inability to intervene. But a small part of her wished that Emily could show at least a little courage. It seemed to Christine that Master Harkness was trying not being any crueler to her than his instructions required, and Emily’s cowardice was forcing him to hurt her more than necessary. She very nearly shouted out, “Emily, don’t be such a baby!” but restrained herself.
When Harkness was finished, he stepped back to inspect his work. As he had predicted, the Duchess’ flesh now had a bright pink, healthy glow all over. To Christine’s eyes, she was more beautiful than ever.
“There now, My Lady,” Harkness said as he released her leg, allowing Emily to stand on both feet again, “you’re fresh and clean for My Lord Count. He’ll have nothing to complain of on that score.” He finished up by drying her briskly with a square of wool, which had probably been a saddle blanket in its better days. Emily yipped and twisted as the rough cloth rubbed her already sore flesh.
Harkness then adjusted Christine’s chains so that she was displayed as Emily had been when he began to wash her. The Princess was stoical throughout the process. She had made up her mind to show the other girl how a noblewoman handles adversity, hoping that Emily might regain some of her pride by watching her example.
When Harkness doused her with the first bucket of icy water, Christine tensed and closed her eyes, but suppressed a squeal of distress that rose in her throat, enduring the soaking in silence. Again, while she was not able to restrain herself from writhing a little as he applied the horse-brush to the gooseflesh covering her shivering body, especially when the boar bristles chafed her stiff nipples and nether regions, Princess Christine remained in place, never once for asking Harkness for mercy. The only sounds she made came from the involuntary chattering of her teeth. After Harkness was finished drying her with the old horse blanket, her flesh burned as though she had been rolled in red-hot coals, but she spoke no word of complaint.
Instead, she let him know that she understood that he was performing his assigned work with as much forbearance as possible. She had not abandoned the thought that he might still be brought around to becoming their ally. She nodded her head gravely, and said, “I thank you for your courtesy, Master Harkness.”
He studied her face for a long few seconds, then reached a horny hand out to touch her cheek. There was a strange expression on his face. “You know it’s not needful to be thanking old Harkness, Your Majesty,” he said at length, gazing into her dark eyes. “There’s little enough courtesy I’m showing you, and less than I would. If I could, I would treat you more gentle in memory of all what I owe your father, but now I see you, brave as a warrior and prettier than a flower, I would do the same for your own sake. If I could…” He turned away. “If I could…” he repeated.
Hope rose in Christine’s breast. “Perhaps Master Harkness, perhaps there is a way you might make a quittance of your debt to my father,” she said softly. “For ensample…”
The Princess was obliged to abandon her attempts to undermine the executioners’ loyalty to Count Casimir when they heard a voice bellow. “Harkness! Master Harkness! Count’s business!” reverberated through the dark chambers.
Chapter Eight
Harkness straightened up and rushed off immediately, calling out, “Coming, My Lord.”
Soon after, there was the sound of clinking of chains and heavy footsteps. Back into view came Harkness, now deep in conversation with Captain Boynce. With them was Boynce’s squad of soldiers, escorting a manacled female captive. When the prisoner’s face appeared from out of the shadows, Christine and Emily both cried out in shock, for they both well knew the woman. She was Lady Arabella, who was at once Queen Charlotte’s younger sister and wife of Duke Ormund, a powerful noble and Emily’s uncle, and thus, an aunt to both girls and one of the most famous beauties in Bartavia.
Lady Arabella was wearing an expensive gown, which had obviously seen rough use. The left shoulder of both the dress and the underlying chemise had been ripped nearly down to the waist, exposing an expanse of Lady Carrabelle’s creamy flesh, including one elegant breast. The back had been sliced open to just above her shoulder blades, so that the cloth flapped apart with each step she took, to reveal the graceful curve of her back and shapely oval bottom-globes. There was a darkening bruise on one cheek, the livid line of a shallow cut or scratch running the length of her forearm, her heretofore invariably perfect hair was in wild disarray, and she walked with a halting gait, the result of having a shoe on only one foot, but from the proud angle at which she held her chin, one would never have guessed that she was a chained and helpless prisoner.
Emily shouted, “Lady Arabella!” while Christine exclaimed, “My God, Aunt Ara! What mischance has befallen you?”
On hearing the Princess’ voice, Lady Arabella stopped in her tracks, bringing the entire procession to a halt. She leveled her imperious glare on the English mercenary officer. “I would have speech with my nieces, Captain,” she said. “Even a villain so uncouth as yourself would be not be so discourteous as to keep me from holding converse with my own kin.”
Boynce considered the matter for a moment, and then nodded his head. “For a short while you may,” he agreed, “until I have finished speaking with Master Harkness.” The two men walked off together, quickly disappearing into the gloom.
Lady Arabella turned back to her captive nieces. “What has befallen me?” she repeated. “Take but brief thought and I little doubt that you can guess it, Christine.”
“Count Casimir?” the Princess asked, and her aunt nodded sharply. “I am so sorry, Aunt Ara. Since we were taken, I have been concerned with the troubles of Emily and myself only, and have given thought to no others. Please pardon my selfishness and, I beg you, tell me what you would.”
Her aunt smiled. “You have done naught that needs forgiveness, dear Christine,” she said. “I will tell y
ou and Emily what the time allows. This morn, a company of soldiers appeared at Harrowdale whilst Lord Ormund and myself were breaking fast. Although we hold dear in our hearts the memories of your father and my poor sister Charlotte, there was naught we could do to oppose Casimir with the army behind him, and we pledged on our honor to trouble him not. But Count Casimir, it seems, is less than a trusting soul. He ordered My Lord Ormund be taken into custody, and our lands be placed under the supervision of the Crown until the Count was satisfied with our fidelity to the new regime, which I do not doubt would be never. My Lord Ormund named Casimir a foul thief and usurper, then unwisely drew his sword. Ormund’s temper was always his weakness. Casimir’s men bravely fought My Lord six against one,” Arabella said, her lip curling in disdain, “and though they could have disarmed My Lord husband and taken him alive with ease, they instead cruelly slew him before my eyes.” For an instant, her eyes closed in pain as she recalled that terrible moment. Then the impassive mask, which had slipped for a brief moment snapped back into place.
Emily bent her head and wept, mumbling, “Uncle Ormund, Uncle Ormund…” again and again. Christine’s eyes filled with tears. “I am so sorry for you, Aunt Ara,” she said. “Did they dare lay hands on you as well?”
Arabella looked down at her clothing, as if noticing its ruinous condition for the first time, then said lightly, “This? It is nothing, my dear girl. I objected to the way that Casimir’s scum had abused our hospitality, and was perhaps a bit too forceful when I attempted to instruct them in gentle manners. This gown is nothing; I have a dozen others just as fine. I shall have Casimir defray the cost of a replacement.”
At that moment, Master Harkness and Captain Boynce returned, with the former apparently not well pleased with his new assignment.
“The Count told me himself just yesterday that these here girls is to be taught like he wants, and I was to let naught else come before,” Harkness said, shaking his head doubtfully.
“And as I tell you for the third time, Master Harkness,” an obviously frustrated Boynce said, “Count Casimir has evidently changed his mind, and he now desires that you interview Lady Arabella concerning the whereabouts of the late Lord Ormund’s secret treasury immediately. The education of Princess Christine and Duchess Emily must needs wait.”
When Harkness still seemed unconvinced, the Captain said, “I have done my duty conveying My Lord Count’s instructions to you, Master Harkness. Whether you choose to follow them is your own affair. I shall go.”
“Oh well, when you put it like that, there is naught but one thing I can do,” Harkness said, and throwing up his hands, he turned and began to walk away. “Bring the Lady Arabella along, if you please, sirs,” he said to the soldiers. “I have an empty table over here where we can have a nice talk without nobody to bother us.”
When one of the soldiers made as if to grasp her elbow, Arabella’s scowl caused him to snatch his hand away as though it had been burned. “I shall not need your assistance, sir,” she told the abashed trooper with icy courtesy. She turned back for a final word with her nieces. “Goodbye, children,” she said. “I pray you will come to a better end than I.” With this, she walked off into the darkness, surrounded by her escort of men at arms, her chains softly clinking.
“Goodbye, goodbye, Aunt Ara,” Christine and Emily called to her departing back.
Soon after that, Boynce and his men returned and marched back up the stairway to the upper world. With them was Harkness, in an agitated state.
“Throws off the whole schedule, is what it does,” he mumbled to himself as he unhooked the chains that held the girls’ arms overhead, and reattached them to rings set in the stone floor. “And supposing he changes his mind again, who will he go to blaming then, when you girls doesn’t know how to do what he wants? Old Master Harkness?”
Suddenly, he seemed to recall that he had an audience listening to his complaints about his employer, and he stopped. “Now, My Lady, Princess, I won’t be working with you today, on account of My Lord Count wants me to talk with the Lady Arabella straight off,” he said. “You two are on your own ’til dinner when Count Casimir comes down, and likely enough after, too. There’s naught I can do about it.” He acted as though he thought they would be as unhappy about the change in schedule as he evidently was.
“Be at ease, Master Harkness,” Christine assured him. “Lady Emily and I shall manage somehow.” He nodded and walked away.
They watched Harkness go in silence and remained unspeaking, staring off after him for a long time. At last, Emily spoke for both of them. “What do you think he will do to her?” Her face and voice were filled with apprehension.
Christine hesitated, considering what she could possibly say to allay her friend’s fears. “Well,” she began hesitantly, “perhaps he…”
She stopped when she heard a scream come from the direction of where they had taken Lady Arabella. It was a sound that could only have been torn from the throat of someone suffering unbearable agony, and it went on and on, reverberating through the great cavern, tearing at their ears.
Christine and Emily pressed close together, trying to comfort each other. “Arabella… Aunt Ara… poor Arabella…” they murmured when the terrible sound finally faded into silence.
There was another scream, sounding like the cry of a lost soul being tormented by fiends in the Pit. The girls hugged each other, their hearts wrung in pity for Lady Arabella. The screams continued at irregular intervals for the next several hours. The only other sounds were heartfelt shrieks of, “No! Merciful Jesus above, no more, I beg you!” and similar sentiments, followed by more wordless howls of anguish.
The screams continued at irregular intervals for an hour, when Harkness re-emerged from the darkness carrying a metal bucket. He handed the girls their bowls, and then filled them with the contents of the bucket. This proved to be a mixture of partly chewed meat fragments, stale crusts of bread, what might have been lentil soup, and other stuff that, in Christine’s opinion, was better left unidentified.
“This here’s your sup,” Harkness explained, rather unnecessarily. “I told the kitchen to send me down as what the servants left.” The servants’ dinner consisted of whatever scraps remained from the feast in the main dining hall, so they were eating the leftovers of leftovers. Christine started to frame a sarcastic thank-you, but swallowed it when he continued, “It didn’t seem right, two girls like you getting no more ’n porridge to eat.”
Once again, the executioner was showing signs of sympathy for their plight, and Christine had no intention of allowing any opportunity to strengthen his friendly feelings towards them. “I thank you, Master Harkness, for your kindnesses, which I shall not forget,” she said. “Were it ever to come within my power to show my gratitude, know you that I would do so with open hands.” This last was came as close to offering Harkness a bribe as she cared to risk doing at that moment. If she were too bold, Christine thought, he might well decide that she was playing him for a fool and report it to Casimir.
Emily added her two pence worth to the buttering-up process. “Good Master Harkness, I know how it must pain you to cause me to suffer so, holding my dear father so high in your regard as you did,” she said, which Christine thought might be a bit too much. “But I beg you to think of that not when you must do your duty by your master, the Count. Perform your tasks with your usual skill, and I pray you not place yourself in a false position by showing us favors.” That last part was better, Christine thought, indeed almost clever. She wondered if she had underestimated Emily all these years.
Harkness did not respond to either the Princess’ veiled suggestion or the Duchess’ extravagant flattery. “Eat all as what I gave you,” he said. “You’ll want all your strength when the Count starts to have his way with you.” He turned and headed back to where Lady Arabella unwillingly awaited the resumption of their “talk”, and the sounds of her pathetic cries soon resumed.
A half-hour after supper, they heard the creak
ing of the upstairs portal opening, and the thump as it was shut behind a visitor. Soon after that, although they heard no sounds of footfalls, Count Casimir suddenly appeared.
He smiled at the captive girls. “You both appear to be in the best of health and quite as desirable as ever. Sadly, I have not the time to sample your delights this eventide. I must needs have words with My Lady Arabella straightaway, as our business will not wait. But despair not, my dears. Mayhap there will yet be time for social call, though it be a fleeting one.” He made a mocking little bow, and then strode noiselessly on, to be swallowed up in the dim recesses of the hall.
A short time after Casimir’s arrival, the Lady Arabella’s vocalizations began to change. Instead of incoherent pleas or wordless screams of agony, they now could hear her talking in a much lower tone. Her voice was so low, in fact, that though they strained their utmost to hear, neither Christine nor Emily could make out more than a very occasional word. But, if they could not hear the particulars, the girls agreed that Arabella’s tone was urgent.
After Count Casimir had been with Lady Arabella for perhaps an hour, the girls heard the sound of chains rattling. The sound grew louder and louder, until Arabella, Casimir and Harkness became visible in the semi-circle of light produced by the flames of a nearby forge.
To Train A Queen Page 7
