Beauty's Release - By A. N. Roquelaure & Anne Rice Page 0,74
slaves. That is what Gareth calls pony blood. And the pony life will simplify everything for you; it will quite literally and symbolically harness your strength.”
“Yes, Captain,” I said. I stared in a daze at the long row of stalls, the backsides of the pony slaves, their horseshoed boots on the hay-strewn earth. “But will you ... will you ... ?”
“Yes, Laurent?”
“Will you let me know now and then how it goes with Lexius?” My dear and elegant Lexius, who would soon enough be gathered into the Queen’s arms. “And Princess Beauty ... if you hear any word.”
“We don’t speak of those who leave the Kingdom,” he said. “But I’ll let you know if there is any gossip.” I could see the sadness, the longing for Beauty, in his face. “As for Lexius, I’ll tell you how he fares. And you can be sure, both of you, that I’ll see you often. If I don’t see you trotting every day in the streets, I’ll come looking for you.”
He turned my face towards him and kissed me, rather hard, on the mouth. Then he kissed Tristan in the same fashion, and I studied the two rough-shaven faces together, the mingling of the blond hair, the half-lidded eyes. Men kissing. Such a lovely sight. “Be strict with them, Gareth,” he said as he let go of Tristan. “Train them well. When in doubt, whip.”
And then he was gone. And we were alone with this robust young stable-boy Master who was already making my heart trip.
“All right, my young steeds,” he said in the same cheerful voice as before. “Keep your chins high and move down the row to the last stall. And do it as ponies always do, at a brisk march, arms tightly folded against your backs, knees high. I don’t want to have to remind you of this ever again. You march with spirit at all times, whether shoed or not, whether in the streets or in the stables, with pride in the strength of your bodies.”
We obeyed, moving down the long line of stalls, and came to the last one, which was empty. I saw the feeding trough beneath the window, with its bowls of clean water and of meal, and the two broad, flat beams crossing the stall, over which we had to bend at the waist, one beam to suport our chests, the other our bellies. Gareth pushed us to the far sides of the stall so that he could stand between us, and he ordered us to bend over and we obeyed, resting our torsos on the beams, our heads right above the feeding bowls.
“Now lap that water, and do it with enthusiasm,” he said. “I won’t have any vanity here, any holding back. You’re ponies now.”
No soft, silken fingers here; no perfumed ointments; no tender voices talking in that impenetrable Arabic tongue that seemed so suited to sensuality.
The wet scrub brush hit my backside and started its vigorous work immediately, the water trickling down my naked legs. I felt a rush of shame as I lapped the water, hating the wetness against my face, but I was thirsty and I did as he said, amazingly eager to please him, liking the smell of his rawhide jerkin, his suntanned skin.
He scrubbed me well, ducking under the beams and coming up between them or in front of them when he had to, his movements firm and brusque, as he did his chores, his voice reassuring. And then he turned to Tristan, just as our food was brought to us, a good serving of thick meat soup, which he told us to finish off completely.
But I had taken only a few morsels when he stopped me.
“No. I can see we need some training immediately. I told you to eat it, and I mean for you to devour it and fast. I’ll have none of those dainty manners here. Now let me see you go at it.”
Again, I was blushing with shame to have to pick up the meat and vegetables with my tongue, to have the stew on my face, but I didn’t dare disobey him. I felt an extraordinary affection for him.
“Now, that’s better,” he said. I saw him patting Tristan’s shoulder. “I’ll tell you right now what it means to be a pony. It means pride in what you are, and a loss of all false pride in what you are no longer. You march briskly, you keep your heads high, your cocks hard, and you