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   The Gray Duke
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                   by  Jean-Michel Maserati
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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
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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)
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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.


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


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Scene 3 - The Spoils of War (Eric)
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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.


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Scene 4 - Soldier of Fortune (Daniel)
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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, chre 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 tes 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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