Beauty's Release - By A. N. Roquelaure & Anne Rice Page 0,85

rode him with the candle.

“Harder, my Prince, harder, or I promise you I will whip every inch of you with the strap!” she whispered, biting his ear, his hair covering her face. Then she came in a white explosion of mindless ecstasy, barely conscious of his juices flooding her.

Only a few moments of slumber. She pulled the candle out of his body and kissed his cheek. Had she done that long ago with Tristan? What did it matter?

She rose and put on her gown again, snapping the hooks impatiently. He too struggled to his feet.

“Get dressed,” she said, “and go, Prince. Leave the Kingdom. I won’t marry you.”

“But Princess,” he cried. He was on his knees still, and he flung himself at her, catching her skirt.

“No, Prince. I told you. I refuse your suit. Leave me.”

“But Princess, I’ll be your slave, your secret slave!” he implored her. “In the privacy of our chambers—”

“I know, my dear. And you are a good slave, without question,” she answered. “But you see, I don’t really want a slave. I want to be one.”

For a long moment, he stared at her. She knew the torture he was enduring. But it didn’t matter, really, what he thought. He could never master her. She knew it, and whether or not he knew it wasn’t important.

“Get dressed!” she said again.

And this time he obeyed. But his face stayed red. He was still trembling even when he was fully garbed again, with his cloak over his shoulders.

For a long moment she studied him. Then she began to speak in a low, rapid voice.

“If you want to be a pleasure slave,” she said, “go directly east of here to the Land of Queen Eleanor. Cross the border. And as soon as you are within sight of a village, take off your clothes and put them in your leather traveling bag and bury them. Bury them deep so that no one can find them. Then approach the village, and, when the villagers see you, run from them. They’ll think you’re a fugitive slave, and they’ll catch you quick enough and take you to the Captain of the Guard for punishment. Then tell him the truth, that you beg to serve Queen Eleanor. Now, go, my love, and take my word for it. It’s worth it.”

He stared at her, more amazed by her words perhaps than by anything else.

“I’d go with you, if I could, but they’d only send me back,” she said. “It’s no use. Now go. You can reach the border before dark.”

He didn’t answer. He made some small adjustment to his sword, his belt. Then he came nearer to her and looked down at her.

She let herself be kissed, and then she clasped his hand tight for a moment.

“Will you go?” she whispered. But she didn’t wait for an answer. “If you do, and you see the slave Prince Laurent, tell him that I remember him and I love him. Tell Tristan too....”

Futile message, futile link with all that had been taken from her.

But he appeared to weigh her words carefully. And then he was gone, out of the room and down the stairs. And in the soft afternoon sunlight, she was alone again.

“What am I to do?” she cried softly to herself. “What am I to do?” And she wept bitterly. She thought of Laurent, how easily he had risen from slave to Master. She could not do it. She was too jealous of the suffering she inflicted, too eager for the subjugation. She couldn’t follow in Laurent’s footsteps. She couldn’t imitate the example of the fierce Lady Juliana, who had gone from naked slave to Mistress, apparently without batting an eye. Maybe she lacked some dimension of spirit that Laurent and Juliana possessed.

But had Laurent been able to pass back again into the slave ranks as simply? Surely he and Tristan had met with dire punishment. How had Laurent fared? If only she knew. If only she knew a particle of the discipline he suffered now.

As late afternoon came on, she went out of the castle. As her courtiers and ladies-in-waiting trailed behind her, she walked through the village streets. People paused to bow from the waist to her. The wives came to the doors of their cottages to pay their silent respect.

She looked at the faces of those she passed. She looked at the stolid farmers and the milkmaids and the rich burghers, wondering what went on in the depths of their souls. Did none