Lord Stefan sat back and closed his eyes. A long shudder passed through him. Obviously he was overcome with gratitude. Yet he was afraid. He was tense. He was still anxious.
“But you do realize, my lord,” said Beauty. “That this may be far more difficult for you than you now realize.”
“I have explained the terms on which I will accept this,” said Tristan gently, gesturing with his open palm. “I have told Stefan that there will be no special rules for him, or special allowances.”
“And you are right. There cannot be any special allowances,” said Beauty. “For the discipline of the kingdom is the citadel of all slaves and their masters or mistresses.”
“I understand, my queen,” said Lord Stefan. “I have every confidence that Tristan, my new master, will allow no half measures.” A deep blush came over Stefan’s face. He glanced at Tristan, then lowered his eyes. Such pain. Such fear.
“And Stefan understands as well,” said Beauty, “that he will not be shielded from the eyes of others in any certain safety in your house, does he not, Tristan? He cannot be closeted away there with any guarantee of perfect privacy. Once he becomes a slave of the kingdom, inevitably this will be known, and someone sooner or later, someone of his former kith or kindred, will see him in his new state. From that he cannot be protected. It is a practical fact as well as a matter of propriety. No slave is given special concealment.”
Tristan glanced at Stefan.
“I do understand,” said Stefan under his breath, gazing at the Queen. But she could see the timidity, the uncertainty.
He is taller than me, Beauty thought, yet he tilts his head so that he is looking up at me. That is his manner, always to be looking up even at those who are shorter, smaller than he is. Very pretty and in a slave irresistibly charming.
“Frankly, it terrifies me,” said Lord Stefan. “I cannot but think of being seen by those at Court, I cannot bear to think of ever being brought into the gardens and displayed, I cannot bear to think of those who’d supped with me and talked with me, and hunted with me and lived with me suddenly having me naked and at their feet. But I have no choice but to pursue this path, and I have no hope except that Tristan will bring me along with gentleness and indulgence and some mercy on me for my fears. I cannot—” He broke off helplessly.
Tristan nodded silently at Beauty. There was a trace of a smile on his full lips. His blue eyes were filled with patience and understanding, and when he embraced Stefan again it was tenderly.
“Well, my lord,” said Beauty, “no man in the kingdom knows more of what it means to master and to serve—no man except the King—than Prince Tristan.”
“Yes, my queen,” said Lord Stefan. His eyes were thick with tears. “I am so grateful to you.”
Then why are you still so miserable, thought Beauty. And why am I so afraid for you?
“And may I then take my Lord Stefan with me now?” asked Tristan. “My servants may pack up all that belongs to him and store this safely in my house? And then we need trouble you no more with this.”
“Ah, not quite so simple,” said the Queen. She was thinking, pondering, thinking of all the great ways of Bellavalten and the principles that lay behind them. She looked at the cold and comely Becca who was staring forward as before, as if she heard nothing when in fact she heard everything.
“I shall tell you how it will be,” Beauty said. “In that you have come to me for an innovation, I shall set the terms of it.”
Her eyes moved idly over the distant window, and over the many objects of the room waked by morning sun, as she continued speaking.
“Given that you are who you are, I shall arrange it for you. Now, tonight, or tomorrow night, or the night after—Tristan, you decide—the King and I, before the usual grand feast, will come down to your manor house, and there in a garden grove or fountain court of your choosing, you will present your new and naked slave to us for anointing. We will hear his vows—to serve with his whole heart for six months—and then we shall leave him to you. And then it is in your hands, Prince, as to when, if ever, you bring him into the great gardens of the castle with you, or what you do with him on all accounts.”
No one spoke. But the casual lift of Beauty’s right hand held them in abeyance.
“In three nights,” said Tristan earnestly. “Please, my queen. Give me three nights to work with him before he’s to be anointed. I can turn him out beautifully in three nights, surely.”
Looking around the room as before, Beauty continued:
“Very well, three nights it shall be. But he must be anointed.”
“Yes, my queen.”
“And I give you now the benefit of my experience.” She lowered her voice as if to underscore the importance of her words. “Be strict, very strict, and don’t wait too long, Tristan, to bring your obedient slave to Court, and whip your charge yourself along the castle Bridle Path.”
Lord Stefan flinched. He stared forward, his lips quivering. Beauty caught this though she was not looking directly at him.
“Choose a late hour if you like,” said Beauty, looking at the distant window. “When not many are about, for the first time. It doesn’t matter. But don’t wait too long. And at the end of six months, I trust to your judgment that this must be a perfect novice to take his vows for another two years. Do not present him for that moment if he is truly unworthy.”
Silence.
Slowly Beauty turned and looked at Lord Stefan. The color had drained from his face and he was staring at her. His mouth, so tender and boyish, so vulnerable, was still quivering. But there was a wild gleam in his eyes that was more than his tears sparkling in the sunlight.
“I understand,” said Tristan. “I understand completely. And if I cannot put Stefan forward as a worthy slave at the end of six months?”
“Well, then that will require extraordinary measures,” said Beauty. “A period of retirement perhaps from the kingdom or a year of gentle imprisonment in Lord Stefan’s old quarters. I do not know which. I cannot say. But I say only that Lord Stefan will not be permitted to serve if he cannot serve, any more than any other slave who fails at it. And we shall have no hybrids here, no creatures who are half slave and half master. We shall have no breakdown of ritual or discipline which could spell ruin for all. What I allow, I will allow. But it shall be enshrined for all to know, and shall have its consistency and its principles.” She sighed. “I owe this,” she said, “to every single slave in the realm. I owe this to every single master as well.”
“I understand,” Tristan hastened to say again.
“Lord Stefan?” Beauty looked at him expectantly.
“Yes, my queen,” Lord Stefan said. His voice was low. He swallowed. “I am your grateful servant.”
“Be certain you do understand.”
“Yes, my queen.” His voice was barely audible. But she would settle for it. “My queen, I’ve had years to think on this, years to suffer over it, years to dream of a moment such as this.”
Beauty nodded. She smiled.
“You may go, my lords,” she said. “On the third night, at dusk, Prince, have your slave ready for us. The Lord Chamberlain will appear with us bearing the sacred oils for the anointing.”
They were on their feet, both of them, bowing to Beauty.
“And what of this grave Egyptian cat here?” asked Beauty pointing to Becca.
“I shall give her over to Lord Gregory, my queen,” said Stefan without so much as a glance at Becca. No affection there obviously. “Unless Your Majesty wishes me to do something else to make future arrangements for her. She’s served faithfully and well for two years.” He clearly didn’t want to say more or reveal more and he was not going to look at Becca.
“I shall see to her then. Leave me.”
Beauty turned again towards the window. She loved the play of the sun on the furnishings of the room—on t
he ornate silver vessels on the sideboard, on the mirrors in their gilded frames, on the polished wood of the bed, the chairs, the table.
Slowly her eyes fixed on Becca, who at once glanced down, though it was plainly obvious she’d been studying Beauty.
How cool and unruffled she appeared, her breasts heaving just a little.
Then slowly Becca looked up, and unbidden spoke in a deep cold voice, her eyes burning as she stared at Beauty.
“And now shall I be your harsh and secret mistress as well!” She sneered.
Beauty was silently stunned. She marveled. But she held the girl’s gaze effortlessly.
“Don’t be a fool, my girl,” said Beauty calmly.
At once Becca looked down and the fingers of her right hand began to tremble.
So that is all it takes, thought Beauty, just that little show of strength and dominance and she is undone, is she?
“I know your game,” said Beauty in the same calm voice. “I know what your service to Lord Stefan has been like. You were given a chance when we took the twin crowns to declare whether you chose to remain. And choose to remain you did. But you were your master’s secret mistress then, his secret tormentor. And obviously for all the latitude allowed you by your lord, you didn’t teach him to love you or to need you.”
The girl made not a sound, but her face changed completely. Her eyes grew bright and then narrowed and her lips moved and then she bit her lower lip but nothing else about her changed.
“Yes, my queen,” she whispered. It was a low fearful whisper. A terrible sadness came over her face as she stared at the floor, or perhaps at Beauty’s slippers.
“Well, now that the unique conditions of your life have changed,” said Beauty, “I give you another chance to leave the kingdom. Is that what you want? I’ll see that you’re dressed, paid out, and gone before dusk. Or would you have another night or so to contemplate your decision?”
Silence. The sun was moving high in the sky and the entire chamber was filled now with light. The mirrors were sheets of reflected gold. And a great starburst of light emanated from one of the jeweled goblets set out on the sideboard.
“No, my queen,” said Becca. “I need no further time to decide. Forgive me.”
“You’re in my hands as you were before?” asked Beauty. She drew her eyes away from the sparkling goblet and looked at the girl.
“Yes, my queen, inalterably, forever.”
“Ah, now that is a tone I like,” said Beauty. She made it a point to be polite. She took no exultation in the girl’s miscalculation. “Ring the bell there for my attendant.”
The girl obeyed, quickly pulling the long embroidered sash that hung beside the bed, and then she returned to her former position. There was a bloom to her cheeks. And a small blue vein throbbed in her temple. Her hands were definitely trembling.
“My queen,” she whispered, her head bowed, her dark smoky eyebrows drawn together in obvious distress. “May I speak?”
“Yes, you may, but be wise when you do,” said Beauty.
“I am so sorry that I have offended you.”
Well, I know precisely why you did and what you thought, Beauty mused to herself. But she said nothing.
“I beg to be restored to your good graces.”
The young attendant Tereus appeared, who had become Beauty’s favorite of late, the boy who knew just how to make all things pleasant for her, and how to fulfill her wishes. A freckled boy with tousled strawberry-blond hair, he did not possess great beauty, but was profoundly appealing with his sweet smile, ruddy cheeks, and his natural tendency to protect and support the Queen in all matters great and small. And others did speak of him all the time as “delectable.”
“Tereus, send a messenger to the village and to Prince Dmitri. Ask the Prince to come to my chambers here. Tell him when he arrives that he is to take this girl under his authority.”
She wondered if the girl understood the implications of this summons.
Only two nights ago, she’d seen Prince Dmitri, resplendent in his glistening tunic of Baudekyn, attending to his duties as the minister of the Place of Public Punishment. She’d seen his fierce scowling face and swift gestures as he spanked a quivering slave boy furiously towards the Public Turntable. She’d heard his strict and menacing voice as he’d pulled the boy up to look into his flinching eyes. “Play games with me? I’ll see that every ounce of rebellion is purged from you!”
The Captain of the Guard, on the sidelines, had been the picture of admiration. “He’s a terror,” he confided to Beauty. “He’s perfect. He descends on them like a windstorm!”
“Yes,” Laurent had said as he stood idly by with Alexi and Lady Eva. “A windstorm of blows and carefully chosen words. And words do mean so very much in the proper training of slaves.”
“Everyone, from the whipping masters to the lowliest grooms,” Alexi had said, “to the humblest villager and the greatest lord, is in his thrall. He’s made of mundane punishments a nightly pageant.”
Becca, though her hands trembled and her eyes were glazed, gave no indication that she knew what awaited her. But then, thought Beauty, she is very clever, clever enough to know I share Lord Stefan’s inclinations. She knows. And therefore likely she had heard and seen much. And perhaps she is resigned to it.
“I’m giving you to Prince Dmitri,” Beauty said. “And only when he tells me that you are chastened and tuned to a new song, will I summon you back to Court.”
“Yes, my queen,” the girl whispered. She started to say something else but stopped.
“Pray, continue,” Beauty said. “Say what you will while you have the chance with me.”
“My fault is one of bitterness,” the girl said. Her voice was thick now, quite a change from her iron tone earlier. “I am guilty of resenting my former master.” This was a shocking admission yet it came easily to her as if some faith in the truth of her words guided her. Her forehead was creased with an anguished frown.
“I know,” said Beauty. “I understand quite completely. And that’s why I gave you an opportunity to reaffirm your decision for the kingdom. Trust in me that the kingdom will not fail you.”
Tears. The girl could hold them back no longer. But this reply had taken her aback. She was unsettled.
“Come here to me, Becca,” said Beauty.
Becca approached on her hands and knees and Beauty received her with tender gestures, pressing the girl’s face gently into her lap. She stroked the girl’s thick fair hair—so like her own—and her flawless naked back. “Come,” she said softly. “Kiss me.”
At once Becca obeyed, rising up on her knees and offering her mouth to Beauty. Her kiss was firm, not yielding, an unhurried offering of intense fervor. And Becca’s long hair mingled with Beauty’s hair.
“Such a reservoir of devotion to be drunk from this precious cup,” said Beauty. She smoothed Becca’s hair back from her forehead, and the girl’s eyes fixed on her, as if deliberately inviting reprimand.
“Yes,” the girl whispered. “Oh, yes, my beloved queen, and he never wanted it! Never asked for it, never—” She stopped, ashamed, and broke into silent sobs. She closed her eyes and waited, it seemed, for what might come.
Such anguish.
“I know, my darling. I understand.”
There was an air to Becca of utter silent submission—submission to the moment, submission to Beauty, submission to the kingdom, but, more significant, submission to her own nature, her own soul.
Gradually, she opened her eyes. A deeply probing expression came over Becca, and she searched Beauty’s face.
“If only I might take my time myself with you,” said Beauty. “But there are others now waiting on me, more decisions to be made, audiences to be given. Don’t take lightly your time in Prince Dmitri’s hands. Don’t be so foolish as to waste what he offers you. I deliver you to him with
love of you, my dear, as certainly as I have delivered your master to Prince Tristan. You understand?”
“My queen,” the girl said. The words came out like a deep sigh. Without permission, she inclined towards Beauty, and carefully lay her head on Beauty’s shoulder.
Beauty found her huge breasts irresistible. She lifted Becca and moved her back so that she might kiss her breasts slowly, savoring the texture and fragrance of the skin. The coral nipples were like raisins.
Vaguely, it occurred to her that Becca might have gotten from Beauty precisely what Becca wanted. Of course. She smiled. How could Beauty have confused or surprised one so experienced? The girl’s limpid grace and thoughtful expression intrigued her. She longed to lay bare the complexities locked within the girl, the subtle entangled secrets that Lord Stefan likely had never found compelling.
“No,” said Beauty, “you won’t waste Prince Dmitri’s precious heat, will you, because you yourself know what it means to have been wasted.”
The softest bitter laugh came from the girl’s lips, not a challenge but an affirmation. She smiled, and her eyes closed, and tears welled from under her long lids, and she said again, “My queen,” as Beauty kissed her.
The mysteries of her own heart troubled Beauty.
But she knew that, whatever the case, she had done right this morning by this girl, and by Lord Stefan, and by her beloved Tristan. And if that was so, then she had done right by herself, her troubled and tremulous self.
Slowly, she extricated herself from Becca’s embrace and gestured for her to kneel in the customary place beside the hearth. It was an agony to let her go, to see her drawing away, to lose the warmth and fragrance of her.
A most important conference had been called this morning. Beauty must dress for this, and for the audiences in the great hall after it. So many demands. But then such was her life and she was eager for it.
She rose and moved past the girl indifferently and into her small parlor. There on her writing desk were her sheets of parchment and her ink and quills trimmed and prepared by Tereus.