Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
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   The Gray Duke

   ================ ---------------------

   by Jean-Michel Maserati

   --------------------- Warning ====== Just to make it perfectly clear up
front.  This tale contains explicit sex scenes; if you find such
descriptions offensive, I suggest you leave the site now.  Also, if for any
reason whatsoever you should not be permitted access to this material (for
example, due to your age and/or the laws of the area where you either live
or are currently staying) then you should quit now.  I can and will take no
responsibility for any consequences if you don't.

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   ------- Synopsis ------- An unspecified fantasy setting somewhere in
medieval Europe.

   The Gray Duke is a ruthless and power-hungry conqueror, warrior and
overlord with an army of equally tyrannical and merciless soldiery helping
him slowly to subdue the surrounding fiefdoms and unite them into one
country.  Two of his victims, poles apart socially but bonded by their
desire for revenge, end up in a partnership to plot against him.

   This is a longer piece with considerably more character background than
usual, working on the premise that the erotic elements are more effective
if you've had longer to associate and empathize with the figures involved.
As always, I'm interested to know whether this works for you or not...

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   ------------------------------ Scene 1 - Chanterelles (Daniel)
------------------------------

   It was my partiality to mushrooms of various sorts that saved me.  It
sounds trivial, but it's perfectly true.

   I had gone out early that morning, getting up before first light very
much against my nature and my usual habits.  I was going to go and look in
some of the favorite places for the various delicacies that might have
popped their heads above ground overnight.  That's all it takes: one
evening, there's nothing there and the next morning there's a bonanza.  The
village's harvest had only been completed a week or so ago, so it was still
really too early in the season.  But I still knew where I could hope to
find boletus and ceps as well as the ordinary mushrooms...  where the beech
and oak groves were hidden in what was otherwise mostly birch forest. 
Maybe even with a bit of luck the first morels.

   So I had kissed Beth and the baby gently and gotten quietly out of bed,
leaving the two of them sleeping there cocooned under the sheepskins. 
After dressing quickly, since the morning was chilly and slightly misty, I
poked the embers in the hearth into activity and then tore a chunk off a
loaf to eat on the way.  I went back into the other room of our cottage,
the bedroom, to whisper that I was going and would be back by around
midday. As always, my heart melted briefly when I saw the two of them lying
there asleep: the pretty young redheaded woman with her soft skin and
captivating smile, and our equally redheaded daughter of eight months, one
small hand clamped on a lock of her mother's hair and her diminutive face
nuzzled up peacefully against Beth's perfectly rounded pale breast. 
Reminding myself as always of just how lucky I was to have the two of them,
I picked up my things and closed the latch of the heavy wooden door
silently behind me.

   The village's one and only street was deserted at this early hour.  The
only other house where there was a light behind the windows was of course
the baker's, where Tom and his two sons would be well into their routine of
preparing the day's bread.  Very popular it would be too, with the fresh
grains from the recent harvest.  It certainly smelled good.  As I had
suspected, it had rained hard overnight, which was partly why I hoped to
find a good crop of goodies in the woods.  But it certainly also made a
clayey, muddy mess of the street surface.  So as I strolled along, I had to
pick my way past the puddles and avoid the ruts left by the cartwheels but
after five minutes I was through the village and heading for the woodland.
Once I was well out of sight, I took the map out of my pocket.  This was my
secret, the way I could find things in the woods that nobody else could: I
made maps on stray scraps and offcuts of linen, noting down what I found
and where and when so that I could return there the next season and get
more of the same.  Most of the villagers disliked the dark woodland, openly
admitting to a fear of bears and wolves in particular (though I had very
rarely seen either) and in most cases probably nursing a superstitious fear
of goblins or trolls or some other mysterious denizens of the forests as
well.  But as a young lad I had learned my lessons well from the local
pastor at the church school on Sundays and therefore was not afraid of such
figments of the imagination.  And the other thing the old man had managed
to teach me was how to read and write.  Unlike any of my classmates, who
had never gotten further than recognizing their own name, I could read and
write fluently and had a good grasp of the Latin language that was still
used so much in learned circles.  Not that it was necessarily a very useful
thing for a countryman to be able to do unless you wanted to go and live in
a monastery, but it had simply interested me.  But I read avidly and the
pieces of scientific and medical knowledge I could glean were on the other
hand well respected.  Indeed, they helped our meagre income considerably.
Not having the green fingers or the natural rapport with animals needed to
make a good farmer, nor being blessed with the stamina to make a good
laborer or with enough strength for the smithy, I had started out making my
living as a carpenter and builder.  But the doctoring had in time also
become a useful extra.

   As a younger man, I had actually ended up playing down my ability to
read and write, wanting to avoid teasing and bullying from some of the
others at the inn.  But it was accepted now, and just occasionally, my
skill came into its own; these homemade maps and notes for the forest were
one such.  It took half an hour to walk to the edge of the wild land, say
perhaps two or three miles away, and then most of the morning going deeper
into the woodland and searching.  I did very well: my large basket was
filled with a mixture of mostly golden chanterelles from under the beech
trees with just a few other tasty items thrown in.  Beth could undoubtedly
work wonders with these and that would be the yearly recurring problem of
our contribution to the harvest festival solved.

   I was in a thoroughly good mood as I set off homewards again.  A warm
late summer's day, sun climbing in the sky to greet me as I emerged from
the cool shade of the woods and walked over the brow of the small raised
patch of heath land on my route.  I saw a large plume of smoke two or three
miles away in the distance, clearly somewhere near the next village along.
It was undoubtedly not normal: this was no stubble burning or a bonfire.  A
building was on fire, and since they were wooden and close together this
often meant a big blaze could spread to several.  There would be people and
animals hurt, so I had no hesitation in setting off cross country to lend a
hand rather than go back home and wait to be sent for.  What I could do was
simple enough, but people for miles around knew that I was the one who
could set a broken arm so that it mended straight and could put salves on
burns that might stop infection.  With my precious basket of mushrooms on
my arm, I changed course and headed towards the scene of the accident.

   When I came over the last ridge and looked down onto the market village
from about a quarter of a mile away, it became abundantly clear that it was
no accident.  The place was being systematically looted and torched by a
group of forty to fifty armed and mounted soldiers.  They were not in the
red and white livery of the count who controlled these parts, but in the
feared black gray and silver of the Duke's men.  Villagers and country folk
were mostly not too fussed in those days about which particular lordling
claimed jurisdiction over them from his grand castle: the nobility were
generally mostly regarded with awe and fear.  They were a fact of life. 
You simply paid them your tithes and taxes as required, kept out of the way
of their bodyguards and armed sidekicks, and hoped you weren't conscripted
to fight once too often in their many petty border squabbles.  Nowadays of
course it's all one large kingdom, but before the Gray Duke came along
there were dozens of independent princelings and kinglets in a bewildering
and ever-changing array of alliances.  I had read what I could about it
all, most of it in the church and public records which were kept up at the
abbey near the castle (I visited the old pastor there once or twice a year
still).  But I admit I still found it mostly incomprehensible; the majority
of people understood nothing of it.  However, the count who ran the quiet
border area I came from was not too grasping in his taxes and not too
draconian in his laws, so his red and white livery and emblems were much
respected.  I was shocked to see any other soldiers, these in particular,
because it meant that the Gray Duke was carrying out his threats to invade
and destroy his smaller neighbor.  The count had refused to swear
allegiance to the more powerful lord on his eastern border, thinking that
his allies would surely help if it came to open warfare.  The response had
been a promise to raze every hamlet to the ground if he wasn't in control
by the end of the summer.  An example was to be made, in order to make sure
in future that others knew his ruthlessness was not mere bravado and his
threats were not empty.  And this was the result.

   There had been quite a lot of fighting, I could tell as I approached
cautiously.  In the common square at the center of the village was a line
of bodies laid out in row.  The four red-and-whites who were stationed
there as the area's sheriffs, policemen and tax collectors.  About a dozen
men of the village, maybe more.  And just three black and silver clad
guardsmen.  Looking further - though I couldn't see much at this distance -
I could see at least four more crumpled and bloodied heaps.  And as well as
the killing, there had been burning and looting.  Every single building,
from pig-sty to church, was alight.  People carrying their remaining
possessions were being herded towards the market square, screaming and
shouting and crying.  Many of them, the younger women in particular, were
naked or nearly so.  To the victor the spoils.

   A young lad of maybe ten or twelve suddenly dashed out of the group,
only to be felled within a dozen strides by an arrow in the back.  I
couldn't believe it - I had never seen anything like that before.  I mean,
it wasn't as if I had never seen dead bodies before: as a bit of a
doctoring man, I was faced with death all too often.  But that had always
been different: sad as it may be to see an old person reach the end of
their road, distressing as it may be to see a young child fall foul of some
illness and slowly fade away, this casual dispatching of a fleeing
youngster was a shocking order of magnitude worse.  A healthy young boy, a
full and rich future ahead of him, just stopped in his tracks.  One minute
he was holding the hand of a tall honey-blonde teenage girl who must have
been his sister, comforting the tearful older girl in the ripped
nightdress. Only to be mercilessly extinguished barely a breath later,
lying in the mud with the shaft and feathers protruding from his
shoulderblade.  I put down the basket of chanterelles and was physically
sick.  I slumped down out of sight behind a fence, unable to go anywhere,
realizing my life was forfeit if the soldiers saw me.

   But it was nothing compared to what followed.  The soldiers sorted
through the possessions and took what they wanted.  Some men and boys were
chained up and led off.  The rest were hung or speared.  The women were
stripped, the soldiers who had not already had their fill of rape did as
they chose with them and then again a number were picked out and bound up
as slaves before the slaughter continued.  Carts were loaded with produce -
the whole harvest was being confiscated, it appeared, to feed the Duke's
army.  The full ones went off one way, soldiers throwing sacks of booty
into the unladen ones and jumping in after them before heading off in a
different direction.

   My mind was numbed by the enormity of the deed.  The Gray Duke's men
were known for their utter ruthlessness and toughness, but this was
something so monstrous that I couldn't fully comprehend it.  The scale was
just too vast - at a certain level I could empathize with a family losing
its loved ones, feel the rage and fear when one of their womenfolk was
abused.  Three deaths, five, ten...  as the numbers get bigger, the sheer
extent of the tragedy takes it away from the realm of emotions you can
handle and turns it into something you can only record bluntly.  I spent an
hour or more after the soldiers had left, just wandering round the village
looking vainly for any survivors who had stayed hidden, checking the many
bodies for signs of life.  Sixty-three, I counted.  I raised my fist to
shake it powerlessly at the midday sun, cursing God that he could let such
things happen, tears filling my eyes in a futile rage as I sank to my
knees. And as I knelt there, blinking back the tears as they refracted the
brilliant rays into blurred shards of aloof and emotionless light, I saw
another pall of smoke rising on the horizon.

   My own village was only a mile off the road the Gray Duke's men had
taken.  With an incoherent roar of anguish, I ran the six miles home as I
have never run before, even though I knew all the way that I would be too
late.

   ----------------------------------------- Scene 2 - A dish best served
cold (Daniel) -----------------------------------------

   The soldiers were gone.  I found no survivors, but plenty of corpses. 
No lovely auburn women, no redheaded babies...  just far too many ordinary
people.  Folk I had known for all of my twenty-three years, harmless
pleasant people, jovial friends, a whole community.  Wiped out as if it had
never existed.

   It's easy enough to say - that last sentence gives you the unadorned
fact in just a few words.

   It's not even all that difficult to describe the scene, although I would
prefer not to.  Suffice it to say that it was hellish in the extreme.

   What's harder to put into words is the impact on the other senses. 
There was something chillingly wrong about the utter silence - no voices,
no work being done, no carts, nothing apart from the odd buzzing insect. 
But the worst thing of all was the smell, even to someone who'd grown up in
backward farming country, used to the butcher's yard and the tannery and
the cesspits.  Though nothing was yet rotting, there was already a reek
pervading the areas near the victims that churned my stomach: the smells of
the fires were tinged with an unhealthy whiff of burning hair and flesh,
underlaid by the acrid ammoniac of piss and shit, with the metallic tang of
blood sharpening the air.

   But what's impossible to describe is the emotional hole that this one
day left in my life.  Even all these years later, it's a harrowing memory
that still constricts my throat and leaves a hollow feeling at the bottom
of my belly.  The cadaver of a stranger is just a dead body; the mortal
remains of those you have slowly seen dying of illness or old age hold no
horrors; the corpse of someone murdered, the carcass of a human being who
you talked to just the other day...  that's a different matter altogether.

   My own cottage was a smouldering ruin.  I've no idea what I did that
night, but I do recall searching through it the next day.  I was hoping at
least to find some bones I could bury, but was not granted even that small
measure of comfort.  The blaze had been too intense.  I hoped they died
there in the fighting, rather than being taken away and abused.

   I walked away from the carnage, knowing deep down that I would never see
Beth or little Lizzie again.  I had never envisaged living my life without
Beth again - we had been going on so naturally from one day to the next, it
had not seemed like something that could ever end.  And if she was the
present, then our future was held in our firstborn Lizzie and all the
others we had hoped would follow her.  But that small spark of life had
winked out as well, before it had had the chance to grow and realize its
potential.  I had nothing left, neither in terms of physical possessions
nor as anything to look forward to.  If I hadn't been such a coward, or
perhaps if I had believed more in some kind of afterlife, I think I might
have decided not to go on.  I considered ways of doing the deed, but slowly
the void inside, the emptiness they had left, began to be filled by an
upwelling of unyielding determination.  Somehow I would make sure that
whoever had caused these macabre massacres would pay the price, these were
abhorrent and ugly crimes committed for no reason other than to enhance the
personal power of the man in control of it all.  Not just my pretty Beth
and our helpless tiny Lizzie - even then I could see that they were just
one tragedy among hundreds or thousands throughout the land.  It changed
me. My friends had seen me as the easy-going, gentle and phlegmatic young
man who was a competent carpenter and house builder, with his strange
penchant for book learning and herb-craft and doctoring, happy with his
life and unlikely to hurt a fly.  No longer: I had to lock away my grief,
stiffen my resolve, and use the drive for vengeance as the one reason that
would keep me going.

   I had nothing but the clothes on my back, since there was nothing in
left the entire village worth taking.  But what I did take with me was a
hard-hearted determination and a cold-burning desire to make amends.

   --------------------------------- Scene 3 - The Spoils of War (Eric)
---------------------------------

   Eric's heart had been racing as the platoon of soldiers set out in the
cold hours before dawn.  This was the first time he'd been out on a proper
operation, the first real job since he had completed his training.  He felt
at last that he was a real guardsman now, not just playing war games with
his brothers: he had a new uniform with a gray cloth jerkin and britches,
smart black leather boots and a proper helmet, in black too.  And all the
polished shiny metal pieces - just iron of course, only the Duke himself
had real silver - oh yes, he was pleased with it.  Not exactly proud, since
he knew perfectly well that it was terror rather than awe that it struck
into the hearts of the people, even when it was just the uniform of a green
sixteen-year-old recruit.  But it gave him power and strength and made him
feel he was part of the invincible team: it was his passport to success in
life.

   They stopped a mile or so short of the target villages, to put sacking
over the hooves of the horses and to wrap any jangling bits of armour or
weaponry.  Silently they approached: no alarm was raised.  Not so much as a
stray dog or goose greeted them as the advanced on the houses and the
people sleeping in their beds.  Eric felt pleased again: this was just the
kind of well-executed plan that the Duke's captains liked to hear in their
reports.  Minimal losses of their own, a job well done.  They stopped the
carts and the soldiers went in on foot, methodically moving from one house
to the next.  The first few were taken totally by surprise as they were
woken up, the next houses had a few people looking round blearily to see
what was happening and it was only towards the end of the round-up that the
troops met any resistance and had to fight at all.  After no more than an
hour or so, it was over.  Eric had loved every minute of it.  Just marching
into someone's house (even if it was just one of the squalid worthless
peasants from these parts) and being able to do whatever he chose.  He had
had a little orgy of destruction in one hovel, smashing everything he could
find in front of the horrified eyes of the owners while Jehan kept a watch
on them with his sword drawn.  And he'd speared their rotten mongrel when
it came at him too, that had been great.  He'd never liked dogs, and this
one got exactly what it deserved as far as he was concerned.  Why was it
trying to protect these low-life serfs anyway?  They had nothing worth
taking bar a few copper coins, so he and Jehan pocketed these and set the
place alight before taking the two old people off to the agreed round-up
point, in the market square.

   And then off to the next house, where the owner had now been woken up by
the noise.  They were greeted by a large pikestaff being thrust through the
doorway.  Eric nearly shat himself: careful boy, you could actually get
hurt here, he thought.  Jehan merely laughed at his inexperience.  They
threw torches onto the thatch and merely waited for the family to come out.
Pikestaff came first; but he immediately took one of Jehan's arrows and
collapsed on his doorstep.  Eric was delighted: that was the way to treat
people who tried to kill you!  Dangerous enemy one minute, worm food the
next.  He gave the dying man an extra kick, just to show him.  He poked his
sword into the corpse's leg, almost experimentally, just to see what it
felt like.

   The third house was easier, next to the bakery where the owner and his
brother and nephew had already been captured.  There was another dog, but
Jehan's arrows were good for that too.  And after that, the woman of the
household came to the front door and opened it.  Three small children were
at the bedroom door, two little girls and a slightly older boy, all
big-eyed and frightened.  On the main table was a sum of money and a few
gaudy bits of jewelry, a bible and some fine earthenware.  Their quick
search of the dwelling produced nothing else save some better than average
quality clothing, two bottles of cider and a good pair of boots.  "Please
Sirs, it's all we have," the baker's wife said, wringing her hands
nervously.  Eric decided he liked being called 'sir'.  Jehan stuffed the
loot in a surprisingly capacious pouch he seemed to have brought along for
the very purpose.  "What else?" he asked roughly.  "We need more than these
trinkets.  The Duke's army must be supported." He sneered at her
protestations that there was nothing more and then placed a hand on her
breast.  "You're a good-looking woman.  If you don't want your children
taken and pressed into his service, I suggest you find a way to pay." He
gestured at the big oak table.  Wordlessly, the woman nodded; she knew
exactly what the swarthy soldier intended.  She untied the laces at the
neck of her nightdress and let it slip from her shoulders and fall to the
floor.  Totally naked, she stood facing them for a moment.  Pale skin,
large breasts with big red nipples, thick tawny-brown pubic bush, much
darker than the honey blonde bun of hair up top.  Eric was staggered - was
it really as easy as that?  He'd heard of course that the soldiers would
often find a way of getting sexual favors as a reward, and indeed that was
a major bonus as far as a physically unattractive sixteen-year-old lad was
concerned.  Not that he thought this particular woman was anything special
(though undoubtedly had been pretty enough in the past) but he had never
really thought a woman could be so scared of him that she'd do what the
baker's wife was now doing.  "Come on, you know what I want," hissed the
dark-haired soldier through his unkempt beard.  "Show me." She bent over
the table, legs apart and presenting herself to Jehan.  Eric tried to get a
look: he revised his opinion she was still attractive enough, and he had
never had a chance to examine a naked woman close-up before.  The older
soldier
simply dropped his britches and began fucking her from behind, eagerly

enjoying himself.  "Don't worry, boy, I'm sure there'll be plenty left for
you.  Or if you can't wait, use the other end." The three children were
crying now.  Unconcerned, Jehan finished his vigorous violation of their
mother, buttoned himself up and sat back contentedly on one of the chairs,
drinking greedily from the neck of one of the cider bottles.  "Your turn,
lad.  Show me a bit of the old pork swordsmanship." Eric was keen enough,
but held back uncomfortably.  The older man grinned suddenly, "Are you
telling me you've never had a woman before?  Your wick had never been
dipped, as they say?" He called out, "Hey you!  On the table.  Spread
yourself and make it easy for him." Eric watched delightedly as the woman
did as she was told.  What an old tart," smirked Jehan through his beard,
"and in front of her children too." That got Eric thinking: there were six
chairs round the table, they'd seen four beds in the children's room, the
clothes they'd found were wrong...

   "No thanks, lady, you can put your cunt away," he said, hoping that he
wouldn't blush and give away to his mate that it was the first time he'd
ever said the word out loud.  Jehan sniggered.  The baker's wife looked
mystified and maybe a little relieved.  "I don't need the slops after my
sergeant's done with you.  Prefer fresh meat, I do." He walked off into the
children's bedroom and sure enough, in the window seat underneath the spare
sheets he found the missing person to match the extra clothes.  A terrified
youngster of maybe fourteen, tall and sturdily built and with the same
honey-blonde hair as her mother.  Feeling smug, Eric shoved her into the
main room and noted Jehan's wide-eyed surprise.  The naked woman turned to
him and screamed, "You promised you wouldn't take my children away. 
Please, don't hurt my babies." Jehan just pushed her away with the point of
his pike, until she was in the bedroom with her other children and then
slammed the door shut in her face as she began pleading.  "Who said
anything about taking her away, lady?" he called.  "Anyway," added Eric,
now getting eagerly into the role, "you can't exactly call her a baby
anymore.  Look at the tits on that."

   The girl backed away from him until she was up against the table,
leaning back onto it with her arms out behind for support.  As if to get as
far away from him as possible.  Eric advanced on the terrified youngster
and drew his knife.  A feeling of power and domination surged through his
veins as he saw her eyes widen in fear when he placed the sharp tip
underneath her chin.  He placed his free hand on her breast, feeling its
softness through the simple linen nightshift.  This was magnificent!  He
didn't know who she was, hadn't had to sweet talk her any, hadn't any need
to as much as ask her name.  And there he was, with his hand on the girl's
tit and she could do nothing about it.  He thought of Jehan a minute or two
ago, screwing her mother.  Oh yes, certainly, he wanted a bit of the same.
He let the tip of his knife slide down to the top of the plain nightdress,
where it was buttoned from her throat down to her breastbone.  She stood
there unresisting as he sliced the fastenings open one by one and then
sawed easily through the seam just above her heart.  Once that gave way, he
could slide the blade inside the nightshirt and with one movement rip it
open clean down to her belly.  Jehan gave an eager wolf-whistle.  His
victim squealed briefly until Eric held the tip of his knife to her throat
again.  He looked her in the eyes - big and soft brown, tear-filled and
pleading.  She was so scared of him she couldn't speak: it made him feel
strong and macho and in complete control.  He'd never felt a rush anything
like this before.  Her lips trembled, as if she were about to cry like a
baby.  There was an innocence in those eyes that brought an uncomfortable
lump to his throat.  For a moment, an unwelcome awareness rose in him of
what he was doing to her and how devastated and utterly terrified she must
be.  Just for a fraction of a second...  until Jehan reached in front of
him and slid the remains of the nightie off her shoulders.  "Right, girlie,
let's see what you've got." The nightdress didn't slide right to the floor,
since the girl still had her arms planted on the table behind her.  Eric
watched delightedly as her somewhat puppy-fat body was exposed: pale young
breasts, barely smaller and firmer than her mother's, a warm soft belly and
a tawny brown triangle of hair at the crotch.  He put his knife away and
used both hands to explore her rounded shapes and curves eagerly.  She
stood there sobbing, acquiescent and defenceless.  He could happily have
spent hours experimenting with this unbelievable newfound mastery of
another human being, but Jehan was getting impatient and they did have a
job to do.  And Eric had a splendid hard-on for her now.  He pushed her
back onto the table and unbuckled his trousers.  "Legs apart, girlie, and
show me your cunt." And she did - no frills, just as instructed.  Eric was
delighted - what a tale to tell.  He stepped to the edge of the table,
dropped his trousers, found her entrance and pulled her towards himself
before unceremoniously impaling her with one thrust.  He looked down to
confirm with his eyes what he already knew by touch: yes.  He, Eric, was
taking his first woman: there at the tip of the dark blonde pubic triangle
he could see his dick disappearing into his helpless victim.  Yes!  He came
almost at once and left the splay-legged teenager lying there for Jehan to
busy himself happily with.  Feeling a real man now, he cracked open the
other bottle of cider and drank deeply.

   ------------------------------------ Scene 4 - Soldier of Fortune
(Daniel) ------------------------------------

   I didn't mind whether my revenge took five days or five years, I was
going to have it.  And there was only one way I would ever get close enough
to the Gray Duke's lieutenants.  Let alone near the man himself.  I wanted
to find out who had given the orders, who had been involved in the
murdering and pillaging in the defenceless villages, who had thought up the
strategy of terrorizing the local populace with a targeted campaign of rape
and violence...  and when I had uncovered the truth and identified the
miscreants, then I would strike back.  Every bit as coldly and mercilessly
as they themselves had been.  The small sleeping baby, the mother and the
children who might have come...  that one spark of life might have led to -
who knows?  - discoverers, architects, bishops, guildsmen.  Now
extinguished, faded and taking the ashes of my future with it.  Oh yes, I
could take my time if I needed to.

   In the course of several weeks, I made my way far across the
countryside. Early autumn meant berries and nuts and mushrooms were
plentiful.  I will admit to having discreetly helped myself to a couple of
chickens and rabbits on occasion too.  Every now and then someone would
trust me enough to let me do a bit of laboring to earn a few coppers as
well.  I left the country where I had been born and brought up, heading
across to the large town that had once been the capital of a small earldom
neighboring the Duke's lands.  Affecting the local accent, I spent most of
the winter working long hours for a pittance for a local carpenter just to
make sure I had enough to live on.  My free time was spent reading whatever
I could find with the help of first the parish priest and later helping out
at the monastery where they appreciated not only my ability to fix chairs
in return for a good meal, but were thoroughly pleased to find an outsider
whose knowledge of herbs and medicines and doctoring could complement
theirs.  All in all, it was probably nearly two years before the right
moment came to enlist in the Duke's soldiery.

   There were always a small number of gray-and-silvers garrisoned in the
town, although by now there were relatively few.  It had been one of the
Duke's earliest and most bloodless conquests, meaning in turn that the
local population had not been severely repressed compared with the more
recently captured territories.  They knew me well enough at the barracks by
now.  In this town, there were a small number of quack doctors using
worthless promises to sell equally worthless elixirs.  Or if you wanted any
real treatment, you went to the monks.  However, the religious tenets of
the latter made them unwilling to treat certain illnesses.  To be specific,
those passed on by sexual activity.  From for example prostitute to
guardsman and vice versa.  There was little I could do, knowing only of sal
arsenicum as a treatment (much too expensive for the common folk).  The
preventative advice about washing before and after was laughed at
initially, but I later heard that it was taken on board anyway.  Once I was
seen as someone who actually knew something about doctoring, then all sorts
came to call on me.  Word spread fast: my knowledge was pretty much in line
with the highly respected word of the monks and I didn't ask for
extortionate payment.  Unlike the quacks and even the sin-eaters, who
preyed on the desperation of people watching their nearest and dearest in
suffering.

   When the main contingent of the Duke's army passed nearby, among other
things to change the garrison in the town, a young captain picked up word
of a competent doctor living in the area and came to visit me in my
lodgings above the carpenter's shop.  He brought along two sidekicks, an
ugly hunchbacked man in priest's clothing and an older but sprightly man
with white hair and beard.  The Duke's army needed men like me, he said, if
the reality matched the reputation.  They spent some considerable time
quizzing me - my knowledge of anatomy, of herb lore, of Latin, of the
scientific advances of the Arabs, of the siege engines of the Romans... 
anything I might have learned.  And then I was offered a commission on the
spot, to join up as a sort of all-round medical and technical assistant
with the rank of a junior lieutenant.  That was a superb offer.  They could
see I was delighted - no need to disguise the fact.  It was financially a
massive step up for someone who despite having a great deal of knowledge
and education was clearly by no stretch of the imagination one of the
officer class.  For a youngish single man, it was an offer that could not
have been refused - even if it hadn't been xactly what I had wanted.  Had I
marched straight up to the doors of the Gray Guards and enlisted two years
ago, I would in all probability still be a private soldier, a junior
dogsbody who would have to prove his mettle in the fighting before slowly
working his way up.  Instead, by waiting two years and establishing trust
and credentials as a man of learning, they'd taken me straight in at a
level it would have taken me ten years to reach by hard work from the
inside.

   I spent the next four years as a loyal lieutenant in the Gray Guards. 
In the beginning I was naturally enough an untrusted outsider, but it
didn't take too long to gain respect for the bones I set and the limbs I
saved.  The strategists and leaders also got to know me, since as one of
the officers I often sat at their tables, albeit usually segregated off
along with the priests and heralds and couriers, away from the fighting
men. I was always allowed access to whatever records and books were found,
in the guise of looking for more knowledge of medicinal nature as well as
whatever siege engines or other devices might be described.  And military
tactics was another field - I had been required several times to translate
something from the Latin for some commander who had no grasp of the tongue.
And slowly but surely, my opinions on these matters came to be respected as
well.  Not that they'd ever let me take command of any troops in the field,
but the realization dawned that I had a near encyclopedic recall of many
battles described in the past and that the points I made were often genuine
and valid.

   I became a peripheral member of the clique that helped determine the
tactical and political paths that the Duke's army would tread.  I met the
man himself on a number of occasions: a tall and broad-shouldered figure
with flowing dark hair and a thick black beard streaked with gray, a
substantial physical presence matched by an aura of power and confidence
round his person that seemed to radiate from the pale gray eyes.  This was
the prime mover, the man I was one day aiming to destroy: if I could do no
better, I would try to sneak a stiletto into a meeting despite his
bodyguards' attentions.  But ideally I would not just kill the man, I'd
find a way to ruin him first.  It took a couple of years before I had
enough information...  I was familiar with all his military and political
tactics, I had a wealth of detail about the designs of his castles and all
their weak spots, could easily decipher his codes or plant false ones to
confuse his commanders, knew where his forces were too thinly spread, could
recall every detail of the security arrangements for his treasury.  Oh yes,
with just a relatively small starting sum to get things moving, I knew how
to take him down.

   And finally I found the information that would let me make my move.  I
was ordered to reading up about the targeted family and their castle in the
next campaign.  At a convent full of terrified nuns (no, I wasn't the one
who terrorized them - and even the Duke's men didn't actually dare molest
them, but they certainly feared it), I was given access to some old scrolls
in a vault.  Really just looking to see what I could find about the
resources of the area and what treasures the Duke might expect to
confiscate.  But I came across a plan that must have been at least two or
three hundred years old, showing not only the ones we knew about but also
another secret way out...  miles through natural caves and exiting in the
inaccessible cliffs of a river gorge.  Next day I excused myself, taking
several ropes with me.  I managed to reconnoitre the area and observe that
the incumbents' flight plans had indeed been laid.  All I had to do was get
there first...

   --------------------------------- Scene 5 - The Fugitive (Ghislaine)
---------------------------------

   Ghislaine had slept fitfully that night, not really daring to doze off
at all yet so physically drained and emotionally traumatized that she had
no choice.  She was trapped until the morning anyway - her getaway was
planned and ready, but the little raft would be hard enough to navigate in
broad daylight, let alone during darkness hours.  She had no choice but to
wait and try to gather her strength and get a little sleep.  As yet, she
dared go no further anyway: she had barely managed to escape up the bedroom
chimney before the soldiers broke the outer door down.  Steam had hissed as
she had damped down the fire, and she had also dampened her skirts and
shoes and wrapped a wet towel around her hands to protect against the
scorching heat of the iron ladder before ascending.  Eight rungs, perhaps
ten feet up in all to the passage entrance.  Then she had just about
dragged the ladder up behind her and closed the trapdoor when she heard the
hinges crack and break.  It was a good bolthole, a clever one where nobody
would think of looking.  High up, inside the fireplace of a third storey
bedroom.  Escape passages were almost invariably in floors and in cellars,
but this one was different.  And also, most unusually, this one really was
secret.  Only the family knew of it: even her maid Sara who was in the
outer room of the suite had assumed she was just going to hide under the
bed or whatever.  In total darkness, Ghislaine went down the passageway. 
The floor underfoot was hot and made up of many tiny steps down - she was
actually walking in a space on top of the chimney duct, which was shaped
like an inverted Y.  What was the floor to her was the ceiling of the
chimney to anyone looking up from the storey below.  Inch by inch she crept
along until the passage turned right angles to the left and became cooler
and narrower.  She must now be inside a wall, she realized.  Just another
fifty feet or so and then it would turn right and then there was a vertical
shaft with a rope that went down inside one of the main wall buttresses,
all the way down to the limestone caves deep under the castle.

   But now she had to wait.  To get to the shaft, she had to cross the
ceiling of the Grand Hall.  One creaky board, a lump of plaster falling or
a wobbly chandelier could give her away.  So she stopped and huddled up in
her hidey-hole, where the secret passage ran high in one of the castle's
ceilings and fractionally ill-fitting stones and floorboards had offered
her unwelcome glimpses of the mayhem below.  And she waited for morning,
with the nightmare of the last three days turning itself into vicious and
harrowing dream sequences...

   She was no longer the princess.  In her nightmare she had suddenly taken
the place of a teenage lad, the messenger who had been with the six-man
guard-post at the border.  Being suddenly woken up from his first ever
hangover by the bluff, ruddy-faced sergeant who ran the unimportant
backwater toll post.  "Gray Duke's men coming, Kieran, and on the warpath
too.  Tripped over Jacko's wires, or we'd never have heard them.  Now, get
your arse in gear, take my horse and raise the alarm back at the city."
Frightened, she stumbled naked out of the furs and blankets and grabbed her
clothes.  The sergeant raising in her dream no more than an eyebrow at her
sudden change of sex - shoved her roughly at the door and slapped her on
the backside as she left.  "No time for that, girl, we're dead in a few
minutes, but they don't know you're with us.  Now get out of here." They
saw her go, let loose a volley of arrows.  She took one through the left
arm, then had a flickering, swirlingly semi-conscious ride through the mist
and the drunks and the farm animals ad the half-seen faces at the windows,
racing along with her long red-blonde hair flying out behind her...  until
arriving at the gates, faint from blood loss and covered in gore, cold and
naked, just as the young messenger had done.

   She was no longer the messenger.  She was one of the guardsmen on the
ramparts in the early morning, watching the enemy preparing for siege and
assault.  The guards were all very scared.  They knew they were going to
have to fight in earnest, and for many of them it would be for the first
time.  They were fiercely loyal to the old King, for sure, since this
little state was proud of its freedoms and its heritage and its plans for
the future.  They liked living here, no way would they want to exchange
this tiny independent and prosperous country for annexation to the Gray
Duke's realms: run by the army, bled dry by the Duke and his henchmen,
taxed into non-existence to support yet further conquests, everyone not
daring to speak their mind in the pub for fear of some snitch passing it on
to the Gray Guard.  No, they would fight all right.  But it didn't stop the
realization that they would lose unless some of the royals got out and
raised external help.  And if they lost, a significant fraction of their
number was going to die or be badly injured.  Their possessions were going
to be looted; their wives and daughters were going to be raped and beaten
if they couldn't hide, their animals and crops confiscated...  He looked
away from the coordinated and precise military activity below to see the
youngest of the princesses leaving the tower, with his own daughter behind
her.  A chambermaid to Ghislaine herself - the family had been so proud
when she had got that position.  And such a lovely girl; tall and slender
and sharp-featured like her mother, and she'd had similar dark chestnut
hair until recently.  Nowadays she'd had it dyed the same stunning
copper-blonde as her teenage mistress (the princess was less than a year
younger) and they looked quite alike.  Proudly, he saluted and turned back
to his post.

   She was no longer the guardsman.  She was her older brother, the crown
Prince Karel.  Planning an escape attempt with his men, out through the
tunnel into the stables outside the castle wall.  A breakout attempt, more
like: take word to the surrounding
kinglets and lordlings and try to get coordinated resistance - those who

didn't fight the Gray Duke could be sure their lands would be next. 
There'd be fighting in the stables, but unless they knew of this secret
route (which was more than possible - it was well known around the castle)
they'd have a good chance...  Attack!  Door bursts open, men pile into the
stables, hand-to-hand fighting.  Then the stables are on fire, flames all
around.  Arrows flying.  Metal clanging, muscles straining, lungs screaming
for air in the thick smoke.  She thrust her blade at on of the iron-gray
uniforms around her, rushed for the exit ready for fight or flight...  to
face a bristling ring of spears and lances.  Her last thought as they
stabbed and tore at the flesh was that the Duke had been much too well
prepared.

   She was no longer the prince.  She was Leon, her father's chief adviser.
Sitting there at the dining table with the whole family and a small number
of select trusties.  In the middle of the table was a wooden box. 
Containing the dead prince's head.  And the message with it: the Duke's
terms.  The King was to abdicate in favour of the Duke with immediate
effect, in return for which the takeover would be peaceful and the royal
family would be allowed to live in exile; in order to make the change of
power legal by international law, he would require the addition of the
princess Ghislaine to his harem in order that he should be the King's son
in law and thereby a legal heir.  Leon was reluctantly impressed by the
subtlety of the move; the man was a tyrant and a vicious one at that, but
also an accomplished schemer.  He had to tell the old man that it was the
only option, but his liege was having none of it and everything was getting
rather heated; finally the monarch laid his last ace on the table by
revealing that there was a fourth escape route from the castle.  The old
one under the drawbridge was standard - bowmen were watching that.  The one
under the stables had been fairly secret, but anyone who drew a map would
guess it.  And the one in the limestone caves that could be reached via the
well wasn't much of a bet: soldiers had found that before.  But the fourth
one was too clever.  It started high up a chimney in one of the towers,
just where you wouldn't look, came down above staircases and bedrooms, then
through the foundations of the cellars down into a second lower layer of
caverns, not accessible anywhere from the higher caves, and ultimately
exiting a full two miles away into the cliffs of the river gorge.  And even
if some lad climbing the cliffs for eggs found the hidden cave, he'd be
none the wiser - the last twenty feet of the escape tunnel were under water
and surfaced in a cold black pool at the back.  Leon was astounded: he
thought he knew everything about the castle.  But not even on the
four-hundred-year-old blueprints he'd seen was there the slightest mention
of this one.  His respect for the old king grew again, but it was still
hopeless.  Reluctantly, he turned the note over and read to his master what
had been written on the reverse.  Should he decide not to submit, the
castle would be taken by force.  A dishonourable fight would lead to the
surrounding town being razed and its citizenry enslaved.  Further escape
and flight attempts, a scorched-earth policy of destroying valuable
paintings and silks and jewelry and the like, booby-trapping doors and
rooms, poisoning food or the well were all not to be advised.  After an
honourable fight the Duke would restrict the looting and the plundering to
the castle itself.  The king and princes would be executed rather than
enslaved, though the womenfolk would have to put up with a few tricks on
their backs for the conquering soldiers.  The Duke knew how family-minded
the king was...  and therefore would again make an exception for his
youngest.  Ghislaine was by all accounts one of the most desirable young
women in the land, and though he found sixteen a bit too young and
preferred buxom dark-eyed jet-haired beauties to tall and willowy
green-eyed redheads, he would make an exception here.  He would deflower
her personally to consummate the victory celebrations.  Leon saw the king
knew the game was up.  He saw the old man looking wistfully at his pretty
little girl, suddenly looking far older now.

   She was no longer Leon.  She was Sara, dressed up in all Ghislaine's
fine clothes - an inch taller than her mistress, perhaps, and with eyes of
a hazel green rather than the pale emeralds of Ghislaine's own, but
nonetheless a startling likeness.  Not for the first time, Sara wondered if
her mother, who had in her time been a servant at the palace, had a secret
to tell...Sara had taken on the disguise willingly, knowing Ghislaine was
about to try to escape.  Many mixed emotions.  It was her duty.  It was
after all undoubtedly one reason why they'd given her the post.  And after
it was all over, there'd be a chance she'd come out of it all being thought
of as the real princess if Ghislaine were killed escaping or disappeared
into hiding or just got lost in the labyrinthine caverns and caves...  And
as a pretty chambermaid, Sara would be a target for the soldiers anyway -
but if she could wangle herself into the Duke's affections she might not
suffer too much.  And thank god she'd let Michael fuck her last month: at
least the bastard Duke wouldn't be taking her maidenhead too.  Oh, shit,
here come the soldiers!  "Quick, Lena," she whispered as she locked the
door, unthinkingly using the familiar shortened name normally reserved for
royal family members.  Then Sara helped Ghislaine stuff her pockets with
the jewels and gold; her mistress then ran off into the back and upper
rooms of her tower quarters.  "They won't find me," said the young
princess, looking far less sure of it than her voice sounded.  "I'll damn
well jump into the moat rather than be captured.  So, your highness" - she
gave a little fake curtsey to match the irony in her voice - "I'm sure
you'll play my role well, my friend." Then there were men banging on the
oaken door.  It would give soon.  Hurry...  Ghislaine took her crossbow and
rammed a bolt square in the middle of the door.  That would give them
something to think about, with the point sticking clean through.  Then she
handed Sara the bow, kissed her briefly, and disappeared up the spiral
stair to the sleeping quarters above.

   Ghislaine had seen the bodies of her father and his advisers and the
other two princes - married to her older half-sisters swinging from the
holm oak in the yard.  Her mind had registered the fact as just one more
datum for later analysis: the enormity of the massacre just would not sink
in at the minute.  Sometimes, she recalled her fencing tutor once saying,
it is easier to feel sorry for the death of a single animal than it is to
comprehend the scale of loss at a battle.  Maybe it was also the survival
instinct kicking in, who knows?  Whatever, something primitive in her mind
made her lock away the emotional shock until there was time to grieve for
them.  She would miss them terribly, for years to come, but right now they
were another group of corpses swinging and twisting gently in the breeze.

   She had seen the messenger boy picked up from his bed, feverish and pale
from the blood loss and probably infection, and thrown out of the
first-floor window to make room for three soldiers and a screaming kitchen
maid.  Soldiers running round, swigging from bottles, anything not nailed
down being misappropriated, men and boys being beaten, women hauled off. 
Coins and jewelry being thrown around.

   And in the hall twenty feet below her vantage point, the Duke himself
was holding court.  Even from this distorted perspective she could see that
he was a broad and powerfully built man, held very much in awe by all his
soldiers and servants.  Wine and meat had been found, and the victors were
feasting and drinking happily.  The Duke was sitting in her father's place
at the end of the High Table.  All the green and black upholstery had been
ripped off the chairs, the crests and portraits had been removed - but
otherwise everything was familiar.  It hurt her inside to see their
beautiful Hall being so defiled.  No guard of honor in green and black was
at the door: a number of tough fighting men in gray and black were on the
look-out, though not so much out of it that they didn't have a bottle or
two of wine at their sides.  Ghislaine - not willing to risk crossing the
shaky ceiling on equally shaky legs while the room was so busy and the
people were still comparatively sober, had no option but to watch and wait.

   After the Duke had finished eating, he made a brief gesture to one of
his lieutenants.  The ugly young man replied with a chilling grin that made
Ghislaine feel cold right to her bones.  Then he gave a signal to the
guards.  "Fetch the princess." The call was passed on.  A buzz of
excitement ran through the revellers and the tension grew.  The serving
staff looked worried and confused.  A minute or two later, Ghislaine saw
her friend Sara being dragged into the room...

   ----------------------------------- Scene 6 - Aftermath of Battle (Eric)
-----------------------------------

   After the Duke had finished eating, he caught Eric's eye.  The Master
was ready for his bit of fun, Eric thought, smiling happily.  He gave a
signal to the guards.  "Fetch the princess." The call was passed on.  A
buzz of excitement ran through the revellers and the tension grew.  The
serving staff looked worried and confused.  A minute or two later, the
captured princess was dragged into the room.  She was playing the part
bravely, making the most of her height and standing in a regal poise
opposite the conqueror.  Despite the dishevelled hair and the hands roped
together in front of her, she looked every bit a royal princess.  The Duke
smiled and wordlessly signalled that her hands should be untied and she
should be given wine to drink.  "Yes, your Grace," said Eric and did as
instructed.

   The girl was really very pretty.  Eric was pleasantly surprised: every
royal family always claimed that their princess was the most perfect
specimen of femininity under the sun, of course.  But this girl was
definitely very nice.  Eric wasn't really listening while the two talked.
It was all ridiculously formal language - "Sire et cher cousin" this, "Ma
demoiselle la princesse" that, all peppered with French and Latin that he
couldn't really understand.  But it was clear that she had thought that she
had been brought to him for some kind of negotiation and that the Duke was
humoring that conceit in the hope of learning more from her - who had
escaped, where the missing treasures were stashed, which relatives from
other lands might pay for her return.  Eric knew perfectly well what the
end result would be, as did most of the men.  Some were getting impatient,
others saw the joke in having the princess demonstrate what a lady of
learning she was...  but they all had heard what the final letter had held
that the old king had received.  And the haughty patrician girl in the
middle of the room was just being told what that missive had contained...
and he made it clear in no uncertain terms that the Duke as a nobleman was
not about to go back on his word.  "Vous comprenez, chère cousine la
princesse, que la noblesse oblige...?" She spat on the floor.

   "Will she scream in Italian, Latin or French when he fucks her?" asked
one wag.  "A gold ducat says French," wagered another.  "You're on,"
laughed a third.  "One ducat.  Her first words after the master's sword is
blooded will be in Italian." "And I'll bet that hair color's fake," came
another catcall.  "Redheads are browner than that, blondes are paler..."
"Nah, my brother's kids are like that.  I'll take you on." "Jesus, what do
you call that?  Orange.  Gold.  Copper.  I dunno - can't be natural.  Your
nieces' collars match the cuffs, Charlie?" "How does he know - even Charlie
won't fuck his nieces." "Fuck you.  I don't know cos they're only little
kids yet.  Who's taking the bet?" The Duke held up his hand.  "Silence."

   The princess was stripped unceremoniously by the Duke to an eager chorus
of jeers and catcalls.  She tried to fight it at first, but there was
little point: Eric and another two of the Duke's lieutenants held her down
while their master publicly violated his royal prize on the dining table.
Despite her pleas and offers to cooperate and be a good girl...  whatever
he wanted, if he would just not let her be taken by everybody.  Much
laughter and ado about the fact that the poor girl had dark pubic hair and
was not a natural redhead, shameless pleasure in joking about her small
breasts, a little consternation when he spreadeagled her thighs and
examined her intimately to discover she wasn't virgo intacta after all.  He
raped her eagerly and savagely, as if it were symbolic for the whole
captured country and then left the table.  "Half a dozen others to try out
tonight, girl," he grinned.  "Waiting under guard in the state bedroom. 
Still, even I don't get a princess on the end of my dick too often.  If I
still fancy having you permanently in my collection by the morning, I'll be
back.  In the meanwhile...  keep my officers entertained, my dear."

   Eric skipped rapidly round to the front of the table.  "You two," he
said pointing to a couple of guards.  "Hold her arms down.  Good." He stood
between the shell-shocked young woman's legs, dangling limply over the edge
of the table.  This was excellent.  "I've been campaigning with the Duke
for about seven years now," he stated to all and sundry, "But this is the
first time a full-blooded princess has been left for the men's amusement.
Let's make the most of it." He grinned as he unbuckled his belt and dropped
his britches.  "Spread your legs, please, your highness," he chuckled. 
Beaten and helpless, the young woman did as ordered.  It never failed to
delight him, the sight of his victims splayed defenceless before him. 
"What a sight for sore eyes.  Takes me right back to my first mission for
the Duke.  Softening up a few peasants out west.  I got my first girl that
trip.  Deflowered my first virgin in one village, shot her brother.  And
had a really tasty redhead in the next hamlet, before that lad's blood was
even cold." He laughed, "that was a real redhead too, lads, proper auburn
copper top and bottom - not this dyed red-blonde shite." "Oh shut up,
Eric," called another.  "Fuck her and get out the way, or I'm not waiting.
One minute, and I'll be coming up you from behind." "He bloody would, too,"
shrieked another in laughter.  Savoring the moment of supreme domination,
Eric guided his prick to the softly sobbing girl's slit and then drove in
satisfyingly.  So this was a princess beneath him, eh?  Felt just like any
other girl now...  bit bony and skinny, but prettier than most.  Just look
at those little titties jiggling...  yes, he was coming.  Oh, yes - well
worth waiting for!

   "Next!"

   A long and boisterous queue formed rapidly.

   ------------------------------------------- Scene 7 - Making the Escape
Good (Ghislaine) -------------------------------------------

   Shortly before dawn all had gone much quieter.  The hall below was
empty, other than a couple of drunken mercenaries sleeping their hangovers
off.  The half of the courtyard she could see had just four living souls:
two guards at the gate, watching a swarthy muscular little man amusing
himself with a tall blondish woman - it might well have been poor Sara -
who had been tied down at wrists and ankles to a heavy oaken door that had
been ripped from its moorings.  Ghislaine didn't want to see any more.  It
was time to go.

   Slowly and irregularly, as quietly as possible, she traversed the
ceiling of the hall.  About twenty meters, taking the longest fifteen
minutes of her life.  But she made it to the far wall, where steps led down
a passageway next to the chimney, steeply descending into complete
blackness and through a thickened part of the cellar foundations, seemingly
keeping on downwards until she felt as if she must have been halfway to
hell.  Then there were faint echoes to her scratching and shuffling little
footsteps.  She strained her eyes to see anything, knowing she must almost
have reached the end.  Nothing - just the random shapes and half-seen
scintillae generated within her own eyes.  Another two steps, then the wall
she had been running her hand along for balance fell way, she stubbed her
foot stepping down one last tread that wasn't there...  and there were the
ropes, thank God.  Remembering her father's instructions, she gingerly put
her weight on the thickest one of the three and began the slow and
frightening descent, not knowing whether she had another two feet to go or
two hundred...  it was still absolutely and utterly pitch black here.  And
then her feet came to solid ground and she let go, collapsing onto the
floor.  There she was, sat at the bottom.  There should be supplies here,
her father had said: in particular tinderbox, lamp oil, torches.  After a
lot of scrabbling around to find things and a number of increasingly
desperate attempts to get a spark to catch, Ghislaine finally had a torch.

   The other two ropes were for closing the escape route behind her.  The
one with a red tag at the end had to be pulled first: that swung a trapdoor
far above irrevocably shut by dropping a beam and several sacks of
builders' rubble in place behind it.  She couldn't be followed now, even if
they discovered the passageway behind the chimney and over the hall
ceiling. She tugged it hard, to no avail.  And again.  Suddenly it gave: a
hollow series of thuds and bangs echoed down the shaft, followed by a
shower of small stones and many fathoms of the thin rope snaking down in
coils to land at her feet.  And then the other rope, with the black
kerchief at the end: that would pull out a wooden prop that would collapse
part of the shaft where it went through the upper level of the caves ten
feet higher, blocking the entrance to these unmapped levels and making it
seem that the escape route had been through the catacombs in Castle Hill.

   She moved all the supplies to a safe distance and then put her weight on
the black rope.  It wouldn't budge, even when she put her entire weight on
it.  Nothing to twist it around to get leverage...Think, Lena, think.  She
tied a loop in the bottom end, climbed to stand two-footed in the loop and
tried jumping, landing hard and hoping the impact would do the trick.  Yes.
A thunderous report: stones and rocks everywhere, a thick cloud of dust. 
She stumbled and dropped the torch, which promptly went out.  Another
frantic moment in the dark, having lost her sense of direction after the
fall.  Where were the supplies, the tinder and the torches?  Circling wider
and wider, heart racing in ever-increasing panic - but finally her questing
hands found the bag.

   The light showed that the ropes had done their work well.  Where she had
just been, the whole ceiling of the caves seemed to have collapsed in and
fallen down to block the escape shaft.  There was no other entrance to
these caves, from above just the one way out two miles away, halfway up the
treacherous cliff face.

   Some distant ancestor had marked out the path through the maze of
tunnels, or she would never have found her way.  She had no time to admire
the spooky beauty of the twisted stalactites and the fluted limestone
columns that aeons of slow erosion had created.  She picked her way as
quickly as she dared, collecting up the trail of pieces of coal so that
nobody else could track her without dogs.  Within minutes she was far
beyond any potential pursuer.  Ghislaine began to feel more and more
relieved, until she noted anxiously that the torch was beginning to burn
down.  After what seemed like hours, the trail of coal pieces gave out. 
The tunnel appeared to have come to a dead end at a pool of water. 
According to her brother, it had once been a tunnel, but had been blocked
by icy water for the last three generations.  She would have to swim for
about twenty feet, after which it surfaced in a cave right near the exit.

   Methodically, Ghislaine transferred the jewels and gold she had managed
to bring with her into one of the leather bags, then put her shoes and most
of her outer clothing in there as well - as much as would fit.  Everything
would get sodden, but there was no choice: she had nothing else for now,
though she wasn't sure what was in the supplies stocked in the cave beyond.
She didn't want to leave any traces behind, so it all had to go with her.
The second bag was now suitably weighted down with the coal and so could be
sunk in the pool along with whatever she didn't need.  Doing her best to
repress the panic, she doused the torch in the pool and then fumbled in the
pitch blackness to tie it up inside the heavy bag.  Reluctantly, she cast
it with a deep-pitched splosh into the deep pool.  For a moment she could
hear it sinking in a fizz of bubbles.  And then it was her turn: dressed in
her underclothes and with the other bag around her waist, she put her feet
into the water.  It was desperately cold, but there was no other option. 
Certainly not now that the torches were gone.  She slid in, gasping
involuntarily as the icy shock hit her.  She couldn't take much of this. 
"The sooner it's over, Lena, the better," she said to herself through
chattering teeth.  A deep breath and then another, in and out until nearly
hyperventilating.  She wasn't a great swimmer, certainly not when burdened
by a bag and a load of petticoats and the like, so she made sure she had as
much air as possible.  Then head down and go.

   At first the bag was quite buoyant, and she couldn't force herself down
the channel very easily.  She ended up pushing with her feet against the
roof to make any progress.  After what felt more like eighty feet than
twenty the rough limestone ceiling of the tunnel began to rise again, by
which time the air in the leather bag had bled away and it had become a
dead weight round her waist.

   Increasingly desperate for air, she tried to swim upwards and forward,
pushing as strongly as she could and scraping elbows and fingernails on the
rock as she scrabbled her way to a still too distant surface.  Would it
never end?  Drive on up, Lena, come on.  Her field of vision was no longer
black - it was a bloody red, filled with dancing colored motes and patterns
as the pressure in her lungs built up to breaking point.  Come on, come on!

   She began to panic and realize she might not make it, but then a hand
caught her right wrist.  In disbelief, she grabbed its wrist in turn and
found herself being lifted to the surface where she coughed and spluttered,
gasping for the life-giving air her lungs and muscles were screaming for.

   ----------------------------- Scene 8 - The Pact (Ghislaine)
-----------------------------

   She was hauled out of the water and a blanket was wrapped round her
shoulders.  Gratefully she sat down exhausted to try to recover her
strength a little and only when she found her wrists suddenly tied together
did she notice she clothing of the man who had saved her.  Until that
moment, she had just gotten an impression of dark eyes and a heavy
moustache in a soft face framed by long dark hair.  But now to her shock
she saw the uniform - gray cloth, steel insignia, black leather and a short
no-nonsense crossbow aimed directly at her heart.  The man was however not
so much watching her as the pool, clearly waiting for others of the royal
entourage to appear.  Every move of hers was caught in his peripheral
vision: the bolt never
wavered from its aim at her chest, but his eyes would shift momentarily

to check she wasn't doing anything suspicious and then move back to the
silent black water.

   "So, Your Highness, it appears you alone made the escape," he said at
length as he put the weapon down.  Ghislaine didn't reply.  There seemed to
be no need.  "That changes things.  I had presumed to be able to ambush a
number of you one by one, find a considerable fortune in family treasures
and perhaps also cash in on the considerable price His Grace would
undoubtedly have put on your heads."

   He lit a small campfire at the cave entrance and both of them remained
silent while he prepared some kind of hot tea drink into which he poured a
tot of some spirit drink.  "You look like you could do with this, Your
Highness." He looked dubiously at Ghislaine, then the bow, then the knots
at her wrist.  She understood well enough.  "You have my word Sir, that I
you have nothing to fear if you release my hands.  I will not do any more
than drink that brew." Her voice was trembling and her teeth were
chattering, but her words apparently satisfied him.  Or maybe he had just
decided she was in no fit state to fight anyway.  He unleashed her wrists
and handed her the steaming mug.

   "With all respect, you'd be ill-advised to kill me even if you could,"
he said calmly.  "Without me, Your Highness, you've no chance at all." He
laughed, but there was precious little mirth in it that Ghislaine could
discern.  And it didn't take a genius to recognize the truth in his words
as he explained the situation.  The dinghy below was little more than a
cumbersome raft, which she would not have the skill to pilot to safety. 
Once the river was past the rapids and out of the gorge, it ended up in the
forests where survival would be difficult.  After that the flight route
went through the lawless hinterlands where a single woman would be an easy
target before finally reaching the neighboring fiefdoms where she might if
she were lucky find refuge.

   "I can pay you well for my protection," she said at length.  "I assume
you have already discovered the valuables that were hidden in this cave. 
You may keep that." "Naturally, Your Highness.  And I should assume that
the knapsack round your waist..." (he gestured at the sodden lump now lying
on the floor) "...contains the better share of such items." Annoyed that he
had seen through her so easily, she scowled.  "Fifty fifty," he said.  She
shrugged: no choice.  And then remained silent.
He downed his drink and poured them each a little more, this time

somewhat more strongly fortified.  Ghislaine tried another tack.  "You are
apparently deserting the Duke's legions, Lieutenant.  That must make you a
marked man the moment you get in the boat.  It strikes me, Sir, that you
won't be more than a fugitive yourself." He nodded.  "Yup.  That's why it's
make or break for me.  I can hand you over to the troops at any stage, for
which His Grace would undoubtedly reward me well.  Or I can slit your
throat and make off with all the loot anyway.  So why should I want to take
the risk of travelling with you?  Your Highness?" She was suddenly very
conscious of the fact that he had picked up the short crossbow again and
the steel bolt was once more pointed straight at her chest.

   Time to think fast.  "We'll be much better off travelling together," she
said, trying rapidly to come up with good reasons.  "I'm a princess, not
some peasant or army camp hanger-on." "More's the pity," he interjected,
then grinning at her confusion.  "They're mostly whores.  That'd be one
reason for taking a woman along.  Your Highness." The aim of the bow
dropped a few inches, from her throat down to where her breasts were
probably rather better delineated than normal because of the cold wet
clothes.  Flustered, she wrapped the blanket around herself and continued.
"I can fight with a sword if need be.  I can hunt with bow and arrow as
well as any man.  I can speak the languages we'll need where we're headed.
And I'm the one who knows the worth of each stone and trinket.  I can
negotiate twice the price you can, with ease." He nodded slowly and
carefully, weighing up the truth of what she said.  She sensed she might
have a chance here.  "Two travellers are less vulnerable than one," she
said.  "We can take turns on watch at night, where needed.  One guards the
camp while the other hunts.  Two are less suspicious than one: the border
guards may be on the lookout for me - if they ever discover I'm missing -
and they'll certainly have an eye open for such a high-ranking deserter. 
But if we're on the road together, suitably disguised, they're not likely
to spot us."

   The discussion went on for some while, repeating these and other similar
arguments.  Should she travel as boy or girl?  She was all for the former,
a seemingly adventurous and romantic escape story.  But he refused to
countenance it.  She was too lightly built, to pass as a youth, he said,
and her figure was too full and she was too tall to pretend to be a young
lad.  Furthermore, bandits were less likely to try to kill her if she were
clearly female - more likely to try to capture her for a bit of sport,
during which there'd at least be a chance of rescue.  She said she was a
princess and would rather die than face being made a sport of by brigands
and ruffians.  He just laughed and said that she might indeed now be queen
by birthright (after which his sarcastic form of addressing her switched
politely from 'Your Highness' to 'Your Majesty') but that mattered little
to the brigands and ruffians now.

   No, she refused flat out to travel as his daughter.  She wasn't going to
use her long-cherished chastity as a commodity, her body as bait.  To her
annoyance, he just laughed at that too and asked her if it wasn't just the
same as all the political intrigues about marriages and alliances at court?
Just couched in less subtle terms?

   In this venture they were a partnership and if in the course of the
partnership she had to sleep with a jeweler to get better prices or with a
courtier for information or even a robber to buy time, then that's the way
they were going to survive.  The sooner she learned the arts of seduction
and lovemaking, the better for both of them.  She laughed scornfully,
asking if he thought that he reckoned he was going to be the one to teach
her?  He smiled ruefully and finally disarmed the crossbow and put it down.
"Your Majesty, if had I wanted to take you, it would have been easy.  You
were cold and exhausted, hands tied up, already in your undergarments.  I
have no desire to force myself on you, but I think we could consider it a
part of the deal.  You may regard your virginity as being my little bonus
for saving your life."

   She looked up at him inquiringly, almost the first time their eyes had
met.  "Rape would make me no better than the thugs I am leaving behind," he
said, turning his gaze uncomfortably away.  "Yes, I have seen some long and
unpleasant campaigns while in His Grace's service and in order to fit in, I
have taken part in some brutal and ungentlemanly acts." He looked back at
her.  "Our deal is to be a partnership.  One cannot violate one's partner."

   Right.  Not as his daughter - then it would be as man and wife.  Safer
that way, anyway - they could share a room when they stayed at an inn or
whatever.  Better than being split up.  Man and wife were more likely
travelling companions than father and daughter, anyway.  And it would stop
every likely lad in town sniffing around her every time they stopped
anywhere.  Yes, he was convinced about it and he was adamant on the point.
That was the deal that was on offer.

   Partners, out of necessity.  Half the profits each.  He would swear not
to turn her over, she would promise not to harm him.  They would travel in
the guise of none too wealthy merchant and his young wife.  She would do
it, because there was no alternative and she was determined to do whatever
was needed to survive somehow: not for herself, but in order to find a way
to fight back.  Ghislaine said out loud that she was not going to be a
fugitive for long: she would tell the story exactly as it had happened and
would do whatever she could with the money she had fled with to set herself
up as a figurehead for insurgency or revolt against the Duke.  The soldier
opposite said nothing, but she saw his jaw line tense and his lips purse
tight.  It was abundantly clear that his intense hatred for his erstwhile
master was every bit as deep-seated as her own.  She pondered on that for a
moment, then heard him swear by his word as a gentleman and everything he
held holy that he'd do all in his power to help her escape the Duke and get
her revenge on him, protect her and hold her as dear as any husband would.
There was no absolute proof he meant any of it, but the words rang true
somehow.  She sensed that he was every bit as keen as she was to damage the
man who had wiped out her family and wondered at the story behind it.

   And at least there was one small satisfaction from the deal, she thought
to herself.  Her capture was still surely the most likely scenario and the
reward placed on her head by the Duke would undoubtedly be higher if she
were handed over unharmed.  She thought of her enemy and recalled his
annoyance at Sara not being a virgin...  imagined herself being caught...
stripped and examined...  her cruel opponent's ribald delight in
discovering after all that he could deflower the real princess...

   In turn, she gave her word of honor that she would play out the role as
intended and fulfil her side of the partnership bargain.  It was a word of
honor on her dead family's name, something that both of them knew was
absolutely sacrosanct and unbreakable for her.

   ---------------------------- Scene 9 - The Flight (Daniel)
----------------------------

   As soon as there was the faintest glimmering of dawn, we went down ropes
from the cave mouth to the small overhang at the river's edge.  A tug to
pull out the pins, and the rope ladder came tumbling down after us.  The
princess had put on the wet clothes from the small bag again, cold as they
were, and found a cape to put over them.  It mattered little: in the
splashing and spraying of the white water in the rapids we would both be
soaked to the skin in minutes anyway.  As much by luck as by judgement we
got down the gorge with a lot of bumps and bangs but no major incidents. 
The dinghy was cumbersome, which mattered little given how limited the
scope for steering was, but solidly built and virtually impossible to
capsize.  After perhaps two hours it was early morning and we were a number
of miles from the conquered castle and certainly beyond the immediate range
of any of the Duke's army posts.  In the course of the morning the land
slowly came down to the level of the gorge and the frothing white water
subsided to just a strongly flowing current, but it was still rocky and
unproductive land, uninhabited by people but slowly turning into sparsely
forested terrain.  By mid afternoon we were deep in the forest and would
indeed soon come out into the lands of the woodsmen.  Now did not seem the
best time to be travelling the open water past clans with uncertain
alliances, so it seemed best for us to stay low until nightfall.  And we
were exhausted anyway.  So, when we came to a spot where a curve in the
river had produced a small pebbly inlet where we could moor the raft easily
out of sight, I steered the unwieldy but sturdy little craft into the
shore. We hauled it up onto the edge of the grassy bank, then lay back cold
and wet and shivering, drained physically and emotionally, soaking up the
warm summer sun with a primitive almost reptilian delight.

   After perhaps an hour, I woke feeling much refreshed but nonetheless
still chilled to the bone.  I stripped off my uniform jacket and singlet,
the tough black boots and the brass-buckled sword belt, setting them out to
dry on the nearby rocks.  Back under the trees, I made a small fire.  The
leaf canopy above would dissipate the smoke so that no-one would see, but I
still took every precaution to make it as dry and smokeless as I could.  A
tripod over it, and I soon had a warm drink prepared.  Ghislaine needed it
even more than I did, I think.  She was pale and clammily cold, and it was
only with difficulty that I roused her at all.  I insisted she remove some
of the chill wet clothing, and she was too incoherent and uncoordinated to
resist as I helped her out of her useless and impractical ladies' shoes and
silken knee-length stockings, the sodden heavy weight of the velvet jacket
and the voluminous damask dress skirt, the two garments which were so full
of small and heavy valuables that I still don't know how she swam the cave
with them.  I brought her a blanket to lie on, but when I spread it out on
the grass next to her and rolled her onto it she reacted in half-dazed
alarm and tried to push me aside; in carrying her I had inadvertently got
one arm up under her petticoats as I lifted, so that my hand was on her
thigh, pale and damp and cold.  I let go and stood up, suddenly seeing it
through her eyes.  She lay back on the blanket on the sunny grass bank,
propped up on her elbows and finding herself dressed in what as far as she
was concerned was little more than her underwear, with a man she did not
know and did not trust standing straddling her feet, wearing only his
britches and a blouse open carelessly down the front.  I looked down at the
young woman, my blood stirring eagerly with the realization of how helpless
she was...  I could ruck her skirts up, rip her blouse off, tear her
knickers down and have her there and then.  And I could see in those big
green eyes that she saw it too, knew that she was defenceless, too weak to
resist.  She lay back, bit her lip, closed her eyes and waited wordlessly
for the attack to begin.

   It has to be said, after so many years in the service of the Duke, I was
afraid of becoming hardened and cruel like his entourage.  The majority of
both his common soldiers and his officers alike would have had little
compunction about taking a woman - indeed regarded it as great sport
whenever His Grace's rules of engagement for the current campaign
permitted. And as part of the victorious army, I joined in: it made little
difference to the girls in question whether yet another man had them or
not. Or occasionally I'd find some woman all too ready to pair off with me
for the duration as long as I ept the rest away from her.  And of course
the army camp always had its none too discreet cloud of tarts and loose
women hanging round like flies.  In the course of time, I admit I had begun
to see all women as just playthings, objects for male amusement to be taken
and discarded with no regard.  So yes, when she was lying there on the
grass in the sun in her underclothes, young and pretty and tempting, I
considered having her there and then.  It wasn't the fact that she was blue
blooded that stopped me, nor any allowance for the fact that she was
sexually so innocent.  She was taller than my Beth and much slenderer and
her hair was a much more golden shade of red than Beth's deep auburn.  And
of course even the princess' undergarments - blouse and bodice and
petticoats - were far finer than anything we had ever owned.  But despite
these differences, there was a similarity of situation that triggered
tender memories.

   An attractive redhead lying on the grass in the sun...  the bank at the
bottom of the lane where her father lived.  The sound of the water flowing
by...  the trout brook by the bank.  The smell of the campfire...  where we
cooked the fish.  She lay there, eyes closed and biting her lip...  the one
in fear of attack and the other in anticipation of foreplay, but the pose
was the same.  And in both cases, there was I standing in the sun with my
clothing loosened.  I suddenly felt like a complete barbarian.  How long
was it since I had last made love to a woman, my Beth all that time ago? 
Since then I had had the pleasure of female company occasionally, yes, but
it had all either been unwilling or too scared to resist.  Like Beth, this
was a young beauty to cherish.  I thought it over - this was the girl I
wanted to trust me, to be my business associate as well as my friend and
companion.  Taking advantage of a moment of physical superiority to violate
her wasn't the way to achieve that.  And there was no need; the agreement
for consensual sex had been made and I could easily let her stew in her own
juice for a bit, wrestling with her concepts of honour and tradition and
coming to the inevitable conclusion that we were stuck with each other.

   So I just left her there and busied myself making a little inventory of
the jewelry she'd brought along and the supplies we had with us.  Then
perhaps halfway through the afternoon, I prepared a meal.  The last good
one we'd have for a while, so I did everything we had: there was good wine,
various preserved fruits and meats, brandy and cigars.

   This was going to be a very pleasant and interesting afternoon.

   ---------------------------------------- Scene 10 - Cementing the Deal
(Ghislaine) ----------------------------------------

   When Ghislaine awoke later that afternoon, it was to find herself warm
and dry, face down on a woollen blanket with the sun blazing down on her.
Fingers and toes were pink and healthy, lips no longer blue with cold.  And
there was a spicy and enticing aroma of some kind of stew bubbling away
behind her, and the reassuring aroma of her father's favourite cigars... 
except that it couldn't be him, she realised as the memories of the last
days and nights flooded back.  No, sitting nearby on a boulder looking out
at the orange sun slowly settling over the other side of the river was the
lieutenant who'd deserted from the invading army.  Cantrell, that was his
name, she recalled, and with mounting horror she also recalled the
ungentlemanly deal to which she'd had to swear, the price of her chance at
revenge.  Oh my God.

   But he had not abused her yet, and he was certainly gentlemanly enough
as he offered her the wine-bottle (there were no glasses) and gave her a
bowlful of the warming soup-stew to help her come round.  She ate and drank
ravenously, genuinely surprised at how good it all was.  He merely laughed
from over by the cookfire and said that there was nothing to it when the
ingredients were good - make the most of it.

   Then, to her surprise, she saw what he was doing: the pot had been moved
away from the tripod and he was now draping her fine clothes and his
uniform over it - they wouldn't dry like that, they'd burn!  And sure
enough, within seconds they were blazing merrily.  He'd ruined the only
good stuff she'd brought with her!  He saw her consternation.  "Can't use
those again, Your Majesty, can we?  Might as well advertise who we are. 
Same goes for all the finery you've still got on - flash that satin
petticoat by mistake in a bar, or give the lace bodice to some washerwoman
without thinking, and we're in trouble.  We've got the disguise as
merchants; let's use it properly." He sat down again, back unconcernedly to
the blaze, and helped himself to a different wine and a chunk of fillet
steak.  "Help yourself.  Excuse the deliberate rudeness, but you'll have to
get used to the lack of servants." He made an expansive gesture with his
hand.  "And, Your Majesty, with your permission, I think the time has come
for us to drop the formalities.  It's not exactly the normal address of a
merchant to his wife.  We can keep your name, if you wish it's
comparatively common and won't get noticed.  You are now 'Mistress
Ghislaine' in public and...  what do they call you privately?"

   It felt very wrong, somehow, to be dropping the formalities and talking
to each other as if they were long-standing intimate friends, treating each
other as equals.  It surprised her just how much of a mental shell it
provided.  A means of keeping people at a psychological distance.  She told
him, feeling in that she was in some strange way opening herself up to him
- they had earlier been discussing sleeping together in a dispassionate way
as if it were part of some legal treaty.  Distasteful as that had been, it
had been straightforward enough to say.  But this was hard.  "To my closest
friends I was 'Lena' in private." There.  Done it.  "My name is Daniel, and
a good woman calls her man 'Master' in these parts." He grinned.  "Got
that, Your Majesty?" She nodded acceptance haughtily, "Yes, Lieutenant."

   He lay back in the warm sunshine.  'Right then, Mistress Ghislaine. 
When you next get up, lose some of the underwear.  Put the underskirt on
the tripod, will you?" She almost spat out a sharp rejoinder - 'No Sir, I
will not.  A lady will do no such thing...' such as expose her legs, she
realized.  But then, she was no lady any more.  She made herself comply. 
"Yes, Master," she muttered under her breath, and unwillingly stood up and
dropped the exquisite satin garment to the ground, before draping it over
the cooking stand to be incinerated.

   She took meat and stew for herself, and sat back down uncomfortably. 
The other wine bottle this time, and she recognized it at once.  One of her
father's best, a favourite that had been served at his Silver Wedding last
year.  A joyous family moment, memory triggered by the primeval senses of
smell and taste.  She cracked, suddenly and completely, needing the release
of grief.  She began sobbing, first to herself and then within seconds
uncontrollably on the shoulder of the bemused soldier, who slowly seemed to
understand and just held her tight and close, unmoving and letting her howl
the rage and terror and bitterness out of her system.  The grief and the
warmly sorrowful remembrance would come later, but right now the pent-up
tension had to be broken.  He stroked her hair and her shoulders, not
really saying anything but telling her to act naturally, let the tears
flow, and simply letting the sound of his voice soothe her.  And when
several minutes later he handed her more food and the bottle again, she was
relaxed and almost emotionlessly empty.  She ate, she drank, but she had a
void inside that needed filling.  Impulsively, she looked for comfort to
the one person around who might help, the understanding arms that had held
her just then.  Suddenly and as much to her own amazement as to his, she
found herself turning to him, putting her arms out round him and kissing
him on the mouth as she had seen Sara and Michael doing.  Eyes shut, she
parted her lips and explored the intoxicatingly wine-sweet teeth and tongue
with her own, feeling herself almost melt up against him, instinctively
searching for more contact, her long slender fingers sliding inside the
open shirt, her left knee draped wantonly across his hips.  It seemed to go
on for several minutes, but must only have been seconds.  Then she sat back
and looked up at the sun, her mouth slightly open and her huge
emerald-green eyes wide in astonishment at her own brazenness, not daring
to look at him.

   "Well, Lena," he said finally.  "If that's the appetizer, I can't wait
for the main course." He smiled at her gently, "Don't worry, girl.  You're
never going to be any more ready for it than you are right now.  Set the
rest of your clothes on the bonfire.  Rejoice in the fact that you're still
free.  Feel alive." He got up, pretended to dance around a little bit while
stripping off his beautifully tailored cotton shirt and scrumpling it into
a ball which was soon burning away.

   She stood up as well, undoing the last of her petticoats at the waist.
It was a shame to destroy something so fine, but he was right.  Onto the
blaze it went.

   He had undone his britches at the waistband, she discovered when she
stepped purposefully over to him again to see if the surprising passionate
animal response in her could be triggered again when she was less overcome
with emotion.  Strong arms around her, mouth kissing again - not the
overwhelming sensation of minutes ago but pleasant enough nonetheless.  Her
hands strayed over the broad back and down and to her surprise she felt no
shame at all in letting her fingers slide inside the trousers until she was
grasping the smooth muscular buttocks and pulling him close to her.  It
simply felt natural.  "That's not very ladylike, Lena," he said, coming up
for air between kisses.  One by one he began undoing the tiny pearl buttons
down the front of her blouse.  A momentary inbred reaction made her move to
stop him, then she felt the excitement building in her bloodstream, the
tingling in her breasts at the thought of exposure, a warm glow suffusing
her groin...  it was normally forbidden to her, but now there were not only
no real consequences but it as also what she had solemnly promised.  Moving
sinuously close to him and taking a half a step round to one side, she let
one hand stay at his backside to ease the trousers off his hips.  The other
slithered round to the front and dived in through a thick mass of body hair
to free his erection from its constraining clothing.  She stroked the angry
red member gently, in her inexperience expecting cold or slimy or squishy
rather than warm and hard and dry.  It seemed to pulse with life as she
held it tighter, stroking and experimenting with all these new sensations.
Their kissing was unbridled now: her upbringing and training rebelled
against it all, but her body was ready for more and wanted more, she
realized.  She stepped aside and sat on a convenient rock in the setting
sunlight, undoing more of the dozens of tiny pearl buttons down the front
of her blouse.  But she got more than a little distracted when he removed
his last clothes and set them on the fire, standing naked and unashamedly
exposed in front of her.

   "You want your little bonus, do you Daniel?" He looked nonplussed.  "My
virginity, for you saving my life," she reminded him.  He nodded with a
wide grin.  She stood up and walked over to him to stand in front of the
naked man.  "Let's fuck." Had she really said that?  She shut her eyes and
tilted her head back a little.  "No more words.  I'm yours.  Strip me. 
Take me."

   He didn't bother with the remaining pearl buttons, just ripping the fine
stitching aside.  The garment was going on the fire anyway.  She reached
round to untie the bodice at the back, but he moved behind to do it for
her. It came off at the front, in her hands, and she found herself clamping
it protectively across her chest while he stroked her now naked back and
shoulderblades, moving her long red-golden hair aside and kissing the
sensitive skin round her neck, thrills of unaccustomed sensation running
through her veins as his fingers went down over her shoulders, down to her
elbows tight at her sides and then on to her hips and the waistband of her
last garment, a pair of white lace knickers with frills going half-way down
her thighs.  And his fingertips were already inside, sliding in at the hips
and easing them down at the sides.  Still standing behind her, one strong
hand on her belly pulling her close and then the other tugging at the
waistband tie.  Oh my God, her knickers were coming down!  She found
herself with her right arm clasping the bodice frantically across her
breasts and her left hand reaching instinctively down towards her knees to
stop the last modesty-protecting garment from falling to the floor.

   He put his hands on her bare hips and pulled her close.  With a shock
she realized she could feel the warm hardness of his cock questing eagerly
at the cleft of her buttocks.  And she had no free hand to stop his fingers
roaming round the front, enjoying the soft smoothness of her stomach before
sliding down to stroke the coarseness of her bush.  Jesus - what an
indignity - no man had ever touched her down there, and nobody at all since
her mother and sister all those years ago in their private rites when she'd
reached womanhood.  And now his fingers were probing deeper and more
eagerly...  he was nearly there!  And to her horror she found she was
holding her breath in anticipation, waiting for the first featherlight
touch that would release the hot tension in her groin and turn her legs to
liquid.

   Gasping in wide-eyed astonishment at having come at such a moment, she
managed to push his hand aside and take half a step forward as the knickers
fell round her ankles.  She stood next to the fire, facing the flames and
with the soldier a couple of paces behind her.  Deliberately making up her
mind, knowing she was committed to going through with the arrangement, she
threw the lacework bodice into the blaze and then with a balletic flick of
the toes sent the knickers after it.

   "Very well, Daniel, I am now naked.  No longer looking like royalty, no
longer dressed up like a lady.  This is just Ghislaine, the girl
underneath, so I hope you like what you see." Blushing furiously, she
turned round to face him, forcing herself not to cover up; not knowing what
to do with her hands, she finally adopted a rather aggressive hands-on-hips
stance.  "Excellent speech, Your Majesty," he said with barely a hint of
humor and dropping both into formal address and court language.  "Vous êtes
incroyablement...  belle...  vraiment parfaite..." She felt like a small
and frightened girl, but realized as she stood there what an effect she was
creating.  The ruddy firelight was lighting her skin up from below, the
setting sun adding its oranges and reds and she was standing there tall and
proud on slightly higher ground than him, looking down from her
athletically poised stance with her legs a little akimbo and her
hands-on-hips pose hiding nothing.  For the first time he was seeing her
lithe slender torso, her pert young breasts with their large dark brownish
nipples, the vertical bar of red-gold hair at her crotch seeming almost
translucent in the matching red-gold light.  Could he see her jewel...  And
she suddenly realized she was still far from naked: before setting out she
had put on as much jewellery as she could fit on, rather than carry it. 
There was a gold armband round the biceps, a glittering diamond necklace,
bracelets and rings, flashing red ruby earrings.  A fine golden ankle
chain. Incongruously, all the petticoats and skirts having come off from
beneath it, she was also still wearing a thin belt of golden links with a
crystal-handled knife and sheath attached, which had dropped to a rakish
angle across one girlishly protruding hipbone with the dagger at the top of
her right thigh.

   Finally he gave a low whistle.  "Your Majesty, I love what I see," he
said.  "You look fantastic.  The girl underneath is naked.  But I've never
seen anyone before, clothed or unclothed, who looked every inch a princess
like you do." She blushed deeper, more out of pride at the compliments than
from embarrassment this time.  "Thank you kindly, Sir." The moment passed,
but he didn't hurry her.  She walked to the rock and removed the larger
items sheepishly.  "There you were saying you were totally naked," he
laughed, helping her to unclip the necklace.  "But still wearing a dozen or
more items worth more than a soldier earns in ten years." She had to smile.
"Ready?" he said finally.  She nodded, and walked over to where the sun had
made a warm dry spot on the grass and looked over her shoulder as a signal
for him to follow.  Within moments they were kissing again, this time with
his palms and fingers and lips eagerly exploring her breasts and nipples,
his hands grappling at her delicate frame and with the taut muscles of her
backside while she responded in kind.  She felt herself becoming ever
wetter between the legs, the human animal inside anticipating the coming
event even if her conscious mind disapproved of the deed.  That marvellous
orgasmic tension was building up again, fast.  It was time.

   She drew back and sat down on the grass, resting back propped up on her
elbows with her long legs stretched out before her as she looked out over
the river to the sunset.  He followed her down, kneeling at her feet. 
"Ghislaine," he said softly and encouragingly.  "This is a beautiful
moment. It's so long since a girl gave herself to me, instead of me having
to take.  It means a lot." He looked out over the water as well for a
moment, before turning back to her.  "I never planned my revenge this way.
Lena, you are full of surprises."

   She didn't want more talk.  She was ready!  She drew her legs up, knees
together with her feet a little apart.  He moved forward to kneel between
them.  "There's one more surprise for you," she smiled.  "A family
thing...my mother chose an emerald because I've got green eyes." And she
separated her knees a little in an invitation that no man could refuse.  He
put his hands on the insides of her knees and she unresistingly permitted
her thighs to be spreadeagled for the first time.  A light growth of
golden-red hair came down from the pubic bush to surround her engorged pink
labia, but she knew it was her mother's coming-of-age present that he was
staring at open-mouthed.  An exquisite golden ring pierced her clitoris,
with a single multifaceted green gemstone, small but flawless.  Smugly
satisfied with his reaction at the display, she shut her eyes and felt the
delicious cool breeze and warm sunlight on her sex.  But only for a moment
- the sensation was soon replaced by a much better one: sensitive fingers
were probing at her vagina, parting the lips, tapping and pulling gently on
the ring until she was early frantic for release.  But he held back, and
then repeated it all with his tongue, again seeming to stop just as she had
been ready to explode.  The third time, she knew, it would be his prick,
warm and hard and dry but with her own juices to make it slide in.  Yes, he
was there, probing and pushing, almost right...  she splayed her long pale
legs wider, bucking her hips up to offer easier access.  Tightness, come
on...  an exquisitely tormenting mixture of pain and delight, and then he
was inside her.  He penetrated her to the hilt, and she was no longer a
virgin.  It was her first fuck, and it wasn't the Gray Duke raping her, and
she was giving herself freely and loving every moment of it.  She crossed
her ankles behind his backside and pulled the two of them closer together,
hauling him on as he rode her delightedly until she climaxed again, lying
back spent just moments before she felt his cock pulsing and spasming as he
emptied himself inside her.

   It was fantastic, she thought afterwards as she slowly came down from
the adrenalin high.  The man lying naked next to her on the grass was
clearly falling for her charms - a week or two of this and she'd be able to
wrap him round her little finger.  Especially since they shared a common
goal and the same enemy; their paths were interlinked.  And if it stayed as
good as this, she'd have no objection whatsoever to the weeks and months in
his company, playing out their roles.  This partnership might be the best
thing that had ever happened to her...  and him...  They were fugitives, on
the run.  But they were free.  Alive.  Unbeaten.

   She rolled over onto her side and then knelt up to straddle him.  "Come
on, Daniel, you needn't think I'm finished with you yet!"

  
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   All original work, copyright (c) J.M.Maserati, 2002.

   May be freely disseminated for non-commercial purposes

   as long as the author is clearly identified and copyright stated. 
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