The Darkest Knight Ch. 03

'A Cunning Plan'

The fierce heat could be felt in waves on the Princess' skin as the branding iron came towards her, but fear had rendered her mute. The 'S' brand glowed a mesmerising bright white now and made the prettiest patterns as it travelled forth in the Priestess' hands.

Rosalind's eyes followed its slow progress almost in a trance. The air around them felt hot and humid, causing beads of sweat to trickle down her neck. One last try was attempted to howl, to scream; to SHRIEK, but all that emitted from frozen lips was an unfamiliar gurgling sound as her tongue lolled on the back of her throat.

Without warning one of the slave traders stuck a firm piece of wood between her stiff lips.

'Bite,' he ordered, 'or risk biting your tongue off.'

There was no energy left inside to spit it out, to disobey. Her body shook in uncontrollable tremors as she hung there, unsupported from her slack wrists high above.

Due to the fact the Princess was highborn, her brand would be embedded on the inner thigh; unlike the common slaves who wore their 'S' mark on the wrist, visible for all to see. In so far as the privileges of rank went, that meant a degree of privacy and a whole world of pain.

The Priestess arm shot forward to end the suspense, amidst her now loud, wailing chants and the iron struck home. For a mere second, utter silence reigned in the spell bound room.

Then Rosalind found her voice.

The high pitched screaming sound that ricocheted of the walls set nearly every man's teeth on edge and fingers could be seen everywhere gripping into tight fists. Lucius was one of the few who remained unscathed by the vicious screeching noise.

'She's got a remarkably fine pair of lungs on her,' he commented, to no-one in particular as a glance at Byron found him with his eyes tightly closed and his hands over his ears.

'Honestly, you're worse than a girl,' Lucius muttered to himself. His dark eyes once more found themselves on the Princess. 'I give you five seconds,' he thought, counting back softly in his head.

Rosalind could hear screaming, but wasn't at all sure where it was coming from. Then there was sizzling, burning flesh; the stench of which filled her nostrils and nearly made her choke. There was also pain, her whole body was alight with the awful grip of blinding agony and finally... there was a blissful appearance of dizzying blackness.

'3, 2, 1. Bingo.' Lucius smiled to himself, as the Princess' unconcious head rolled forward.

'We'll have to work on that pain tolerance,' he added as an afterthought.

There was a collective sigh of relief around the room as the screaming ceased. Lucius gave his valet a nudge in the ribs to wake him, then another much sharper one when that didn't work.

Byron, groaning, tentatively opened his eyes and pried a careful finger from his ear. He sighed in appreciation as the room was once again relatively quiet (as quiet as lecherously growling, beer swilling buyers of naked Princesses ever got anyhow). The Priestess was just then making her exit as one of the traders stepped forward, clapping his hands for attention.

'Gentlemen,' he began, 'due to our new slave's unconscious state, the thrashing you've all been waiting for will, unfortunately, have to be cancelled.'

This was met with collective roar of discontent and much groaning from all parties concerned.

'Damn thoughtless, these goody two shoes Princesses' remarked Lucius.

Byron grinned as he replied, 'Yes, and I'll bet she was looking forward to a damn good whipping too.'

The trader continued, virtually yelling amongst the chorus of unhappy protests.

'MAY THE BIDDING BEGIN!'

Then all hell let loose.

'10 Gold pieces,' was heard from the back.

'20,' sounded from the large merchant at the front.

'30,' a wealthy noble.

'60,' had it back with the merchant again.

And so it swung back and forth. The room Vs the velvet robed man with far too much money it seemed.

Lucius turned to Byron, his eyes narrowing.

'You're going to have to get rid of him for me,' he drawled, pursing his lips thoughtfully.

Byron's face was a picture of undignified horror.

'What... KILL him Sire?' he said, eyes nearly popping out of his head. Then the stammering started. 'B..b..but think of all t...t...these witnesses. They'll hang me,' he cried out in protest.

'Always remember hanging is a far preferable fate to being hung, drawn and quartered by me,' Lucius raised an eyebrow and continued 'and no, not kill him you idiot; just remove him from this room and find him another for the foreseeable future.'

'How?' came the plaintive response.

'I don't know or care how!' said Lucius, positioning his booted foot to hook the underneath of Byron's chair, swiftly yanking it forward to watch the spluttering valet make a rather swift, if most undignified exit.

*

Not five minutes later found Byron nervously pacing up and down the stone corridor outside the auction room, trying to decide between several quickly formulated 'cunning plans.'

These were those:

Cunning Plan number 1: Trip over annoying fat arsed merchant and then be forced to challenge him to a duel outside.

Upside: Would probably work.

Downside: If he wasn't initially flattened and killed by the humungous man falling on top of him, he would be in the duel. The sword was strictly for show. Plan 1 wasn't going to be brilliant.

Cunning Plan number 2: Pretend large bottomed merchant's wife had come to town and required immediate attention in some form or another. No-one likes to be caught buying a virgin Princess for a slave when one's wife is about.

Upside: Utterly ingenious.

Downside: Don't know merchant's name. Don't know merchant's wife's name. Actually don't even know if merchant has a wife. No-one was in the immediate vicinity to bribe and find out. Plan 2 definitely had its draw backs.

Cunning Plan number 3: There was no cunning plan number 3.

'Arse, damn, bugger, shite,' in the midst of this tirade of swearing (which had many more new and inventive words yet to be added) he nearly tripped over a servant scurrying forth with some lotion, potion or other.

'Dreadfully sorry,' he apologised, watching the steaming liquid slop all over the shining silver serving platter.

'Damnit,' moaned the harried servant, looking at the mess on his tray. 'Now I'll have to go fetch another sleeping draught for His Majesty. I can't take this one now,' he muttered as a long suffering sigh accompanied his lugubrious look.

'Bingo,' thought Byron. There was now a cunning plan number 3 and bedashed if it wasn't exceptionally cunning.

*

Lucius meanwhile, was back in a unfortunate bidding war that showed no signs of abating any time soon.

'400 Gold pieces.'

'450 here.'

'500.'

His temper was starting to fray slightly at the edges, with just himself and the lecherous merchant as duelling partners. Where was his manservant and more to the point, what the hell was he doing? The question it seemed was soon to be answered as Byron chose that moment to stagger into the room singing 'Henry the VIII I am, I am.'

Lucius' face darkened. While Byron might not be Henry VIII, he may well get to share a good deal in common with one of his wives shortly.

Tripping over his own feet, the sozzled valet stumbled into the otherwise occupied merchant and nearly knocked the poor man's tankard of ale over.

'I's apologise,' slurred Byron heavily and virtually crawled back over the aisle to sit behind his Master.

The bidding continued, the auctioneer used to such things and unperturbed.

'YOU'VE BEEN DRINKING,' bit Lucius out of the corner of his mouth, whilst bidding '550' in his next breath.

'If only,' came the unslurred whisper in reply, but his body was still swaying happily from side to side. Honestly, thought Byron, this was one of his better performances and if Oscars had been invented he certainly deserved one.

'650,' continued Lucius to the auctioneer, whilst directing, 'and you sound remarkably coherent for a drunk,' towards Byron.

'700 h..e...r..e,' came the reply from the merchant, although somewhat slurred. He looked strangely at the tankard of ale in hand, taking a moment to wonder just where this beer had come from. It packed quite a punch.

'Seems he's caught whatever you had,' said Lucius thoughtfully and then, '750.'

The merchant made to answer, opened his mouth in a wide 'O' and then crashed to the floor, taking several rather shocked attendants with him in the process. One poor soul fell right under him, waggling arms and legs in a furious upturned ladybug style, as his face went beet red in attempt to draw in air.

'Can't t..t..take his beeeeer,' slurred Byron, adding a hiccup for good measure and the room erupted in guffaws of laughter. Good job he hadn't tried plan number 1, Byron thought thankfully.

The auctioneer looked around for any last bids, thinking that the Princess in question was a bit of a bargain, but after a dutiful 10 seconds pause banged his hammer resolutely down.

'SOLD to Prince Lucius.'

Applause sounded as the Prince made his way forward to put quill to paper and claim his prize. He was faced with the awkward dilemma of how best to wake the Princess up from her unusual midday slumber. The best course of action was always a kiss, right?

Lucius slid a hand around the back of her neck, holding her lolling head upright; his fingers entangling themselves in the long pale locks as he stroked her gently. Lips gently teased at hers, sucking softly whilst his free hand went to work on the dagger still embedded inside her.

Slowly, very slowly he gently thrust it back and forth. Up and down, up and down went the handle... beginning to coat itself in her sticky juices, as his lips pressed firmly against hers. A soft moan was his reward as Rosalind's lips began to respond against his unthinking. The crowd jeered in encouragement.

Still her eyes wouldn't open and he needed to see them.

A stray finger worked itself up to the juncture of the Princess' thighs where the still warm brand adorned her. He pressed his finger cruelly against it. Eyes flew open, shot through with pain and she tore her head away.

'Bastard!' Rosalind shrieked, rattling wrists and ankles furiously, almost gurgling with pain as blood rushed back into tortured limbs.

What a splended picture she made there like that, spread eagled; gloriously naked with such delicious fire shooting sparks from those eyes. Her training was sure to be a challenging and a hugely pleasurable undertaking by anyone's standards.

'You will address me as 'Master' henceforth,' Lucius drawled as his fingers tightened around her slim neck, making the point clearly with his eyes which darkened to wide orbs of black onyx.

Rosalind mumbled in reply as her eyes widened.

'I am waiting,' Lucius said as his fingers gripped ever tighter, restricting her airflow, not allowing her to breathe.

Still no response as her eyes set determinedly.

'Let him strangle me,' Rosalind thought feeling her thigh throb and pulse in agony. Damned if she would give him the satisfaction of grovelling at his feet.

'Gentlemen,' said Lucius turning to face the crowd, 'seeing as how my new slave is a little on the disobedient side, how would you all like to see that thrashing you thought you'd missed?'

The last few words were drowned out as the sound of tankards slamming and foot stomping deafened him.

Rosalind's eyes flew wide and her body shook with turbulent rage. How DARE he? When her horrible tormentor turned to face her once more, she spat at him.

Lucius only laughed in response, wiping the slowly dripping spittle on his face casually away with his sleeve.

'I can see I am going to have my work cut out for me, slave,' he said, returning one very dark gaze towards her before returning to the crowd in front of him. 'Anyone by chance, have a sturdy crop handy?' he enquired.