Bondmaiden

by B. A. Bradbury

‘That’s that, then,’ he said. ‘Just one more thing before we leave.’ He unfastened his hose and took out his cock, which Lia saw was stiff. Alarmed, she stepped back. ‘Don’t be shy,’ he said with a sickly leer. ‘All I want is a wank. Nothing to fret about.’

  Lia shook her head, too horrified to speak, but Jarold just laughed. ‘Oh yes you will, or I’ll tell Holmann what you and Durwin got up to last night.’

  Lia stared at him, stunned and aghast. He stood there, stooping a little under the low roof, leering at her as he played with his cock.

  ‘Thought I was asleep, didn’t you?’ he said. He made a snoring noise, and she realised he was the one she’d heard as she lay there in the dark. Presumably he’d done it to fool Durwin – and it had worked.

  ‘You’ll get a thrashing a lot worse than the last one,’ he promised her. ‘There’s nothing our overseer hates worse than fornication. He’ll beat your arse black and blue for what you did, believe me.’

  Lia did believe him. She realised how much trouble she was in and started to tremble, nerves and nausea churning her insides. ‘W-what do you want me to d-do?’ she stammered.

  ‘Sit down for a start,’ he said. ‘Even a bumpkin with dung in her ears should be able to manage that, I reckon.’

  A plank ledge ran around two sides of the coop at roughly knee-height, and he made her sit with her back to the wall. He shuffled closer, his bobbing cock pointing up at an angle, right in front of her face. She stared at the long shaft with its purple head as though mesmerised.

  ‘Go on then,’ he sneered. ‘What are you waiting for? I know you know how to do it. Durwin’s been telling everyone all about your clever fingers.’

  She didn’t believe him. Durwin wouldn’t say anything. Jarold was just trying to make trouble between them.

  She reached out and took hold of his cock, and slid her hand back and forth as Durwin had taught her. Jarold groaned and began to push with his hips. She watched his face, concerned she wasn’t doing it properly. If she didn’t please him he might tell Holmann anyway, out of spite. But he seemed happy enough, for his eyes were half closed and his mouth hung open slackly.

  ‘Take your smock off,’ he said after a while, his voice hoarse.

  ‘My smock?’ she said nervously, fearing he wanted more than just her hand. ‘But—’

  ‘Just take it off,’ he snapped impatiently. ‘I want to feel your teats, that’s all. Come on, we haven’t got all day.’

  She didn’t trust him, but knew she had no choice. She wriggled her skirts out from under her bottom and pulled her smock up over her head. Jarold grasped her breasts and squeezed, making her gasp.

  ‘Carry on,’ he said.

  She took hold once more, and soon he was lost in his pleasure, moaning and thrusting ever faster with his hips. His fingers sank into her breasts, squeezing so hard she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. She knew what would happen next; she’d cleaned slime from the bed more times than she cared to remember while Helma was at the stream washing more of the stuff off her, and sure enough, Jarold grunted and squirted into the humid air. Most of it splattered onto the straw-covered floor, though a few drops hit Lia’s cheek and throat. He then pushed her hand away and fastened his hose, saying nothing and not even looking at her. She rose and put on her smock, wiping his slime from her face as she did, then he handed her the sack of eggs and grumbled, ‘Here, you carry these. And don’t break any or you know what to expect.’

  Chapter Three

  ‘You two took your time,’ Tilda muttered. ‘Anyone else but Jarold would be in big trouble by now.’

  The two young women were washing pots together at the sink in the corner, temporarily out of earshot of the rest. It had to be the worst task of all, Lia thought, and having not been back long from fetching the eggs, she was beginning to understand there would never be a second’s peace for the most junior members of the kitchen staff.

  ‘I was beginning to think Jarold might have something on his mind other than egg collecting,’ Tilda added, glancing at her suspiciously.

  Lia gave a guilty start, and felt heat rise to her cheeks. Tilda smiled knowingly. ‘Thought so,’ she said. ‘He wanted a special treat, didn’t he? For not telling Holmann about Durwin getting in bed with you.’ Lia’s mouth fell open and Tilda giggled. ‘What, it was supposed to be a secret or something? The way you were moaning last night I should think the whole palace heard. You need to be a lot quieter than that, or toads like Jarold will make your life here a misery.’

  Lia hung her head. There wasn’t anything else she could have done in the hencoop, but still she felt ashamed.

  ‘What was it?’ Tilda asked, seeing her shame. ‘A wank?’

  Lia nodded miserably.

  ‘Don’t feel bad,’ Tilda said, patting her hand. ‘I know you didn’t have any choice. Actually, you should be thankful it was only a wank he was wanting. When he knows you better and is feeling braver he’ll make you suck him off. He’s a slimy toad, our Jarold, always telling tales and creeping to the overseer—’

  ‘What’s going on here then?’ a gruff voice demanded. ‘Idling, is it?’

  Two heads whipped round guiltily, but it was only Durwin playing a prank. Lia let out a sigh of relief, and Tilda swiped at him with her cloth.

  ‘Idling?’ she cried with mock indignation. ‘We’re not all called Dagna, you know.’

  Her timing was unfortunate, for Dagna appeared just as she said her name. Lia doubted the woman heard everything clearly. Obviously she heard her name being mocked, but thankfully she merely told them to get on with their work, although bestowing upon Tilda a particularly venomous look.

  At noon lunch was carried up to the kitchen’s clientele, namely the royal family, their immediate household and servants, and the guards. The kitchen staff, Lia learned, always ate later, when everyone else was done and everything cleared away. Tilda and Lia were tasked with feeding the guards, and Tilda told her to fill a basket with bread, saying she would bring the stew.

  ‘You need fourteen loaves,’ she said, ‘one for each of the men and one for the sergeant and captain. We only feed the king’s personal guard, you understand; the one’s who live here in the keep, that is. Most of the soldiers stay in the barracks in town. They have their own kitchens, so they’re nothing to do with us.’

  As she spoke she ladled steaming, fragrant beef stew from a big cauldron over the fire into a smaller pot. When she was done she led Lia to a narrow spiral stairway in the back corner of the kitchen. ‘This is the servants’ stair,’ she explained. ‘We aren’t allowed to use the main stairs at the front; they’re for highborn and soldiers only.’

  They made their way up the steep stairs to the guards’ quarters, where a roar of approval and raised wooden flagons greeted their arrival. The men – a few in mail armour, the rest in ordinary attire – were sitting at a long table in the middle of the room. They seemed in boisterous good spirits.

  ‘As you can see,’ Tilda said ruefully, ‘they supply their own drinks. Obviously they started on the ale early.’ She set the pot down on the end of the table and shouted for silence. ‘This is Lia,’ she said, when the men had quietened somewhat. ‘She’s new, and she’s not to be manhandled. She’s a virgin, is what I’m saying, and you know what that means.’

  ‘We know, Til,’ a big man with a grizzled beard said. ‘And how about you, sweetheart? Are you to be touched?’

  He made a grab for her, but she laughed and stepped nimbly out of harm’s way. ‘Not by an ugly sod like you I’m not, Varrik,’ she retorted.

  The others howled in approval and banged their flagons on the table. Tilda looked at Lia and rolled her eyes. ‘We’d better get them fed,’ she said over the din. ‘They aren’t likely to sober up anytime soon. Stay close to me, all right? If anyone grabs you tip the basket over his head.’

  Lia gulped, wishing she could be as cal
m and relaxed as Tilda was about all this. She would almost have preferred to hand-feed a pack of wolves! She followed Tilda around the table, more than a little impressed by the way she managed to ladle stew into the waiting bowls whilst simultaneously avoiding the clutching hands. As for Lia, close on her heels, she just handed each man a loaf and thanked the saints she didn’t have to run the gauntlet herself.

  At the very end Tilda’s concentration seemed to fail her. A soldier reached out and she just managed to set the pot down safely on the table before being pulled onto his lap. Egged on by his cheering companions, he tugged up her skirts and nuzzled his face against her belly. Tilda squealed and beat her fists ineffectually against his broad shoulders, though it seemed to Lia a token resistance only. She couldn’t help noticing that the soldier in question was young and quite handsome, and she began to suspect Tilda’s lapse of concentration was nothing of the sort.

  ‘Go on, Terrell lad,’ the man across from him guffawed. ‘Let’s have her clothes off!’

  Others joined in the call and the young soldier obliged them, tugging Tilda’s smock up over her head and throwing it at the man who’d first goaded him, and what would have happened next was anybody’s guess if the two newcomers hadn’t appeared. They called for order and gradually peace was restored. The young soldier released Tilda, who sheepishly retrieved her smock and put it on. The newcomers – the captain and sergeant, Lia assumed – sat down and were given their meals.

  There were still three loaves remaining, which seemed odd, but Tilda explained that three of the soldiers were on sentry duty. ‘They come off shift soon,’ she said. ‘They’ll get their meal then. Just leave the bread on the table.’

  Tilda seemed none the worse for her ribald encounter. Just the opposite, in fact, for her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were shining. She dished out stew into the three empty bowls, then took Lia’s hand and led her out of there, though not without a backward glance at young Terrell.

  ‘He’s a handsome devil, isn’t he?’ she said as they made their way back. ‘I could eat him alive. The first time I saw him I—’

  ‘Tilda!’ a voice roared from below. ‘Get down here!’

  Both girls jumped, then hurried on down the stairs. Holmann was standing in the middle of the kitchen and he glared at them, red-faced and furious. Lia assumed it was because of what had just happened, but it turned out to be something else entirely.

  ‘What do you call this?’ he demanded, holding up an apple.

  ‘It’s… an apple, master,’ Tilda said, looking more confused than afraid.

  ‘An apple, exactly. And what might it be doing under your pillow, answer me that?’

  ‘My pillow, master? I don’t… but I never…’

  As her voice faltered her face turned pale and she started to tremble. Lia guessed this must be a serious crime, though surely one of which Tilda was innocent. The young woman seemed genuinely bewildered by this turn of events.

  ‘How many times have I warned you all about pilfering food?’ Holmann thundered, glaring at the others in turn.

  Everyone looked sheepish – everyone except Dagna, that is. She had a triumphant glint in her eye, and was clearly relishing the situation. Holmann stared at the assembly a while longer, then made his pronouncement.

  ‘This evening, at the vespers bell. And no shirking off, any of you. I want everybody in here promptly to witness punishment. Dagna, make sure Kerta and Clady know about it.’

  ‘What about Paxon and the others?’ Dagna asked. ‘They’re always keen to see a punishment, aren’t they?’

  ‘You’re right, good thinking. Let them know, too. Jarold, see to it the table’s cleared and covered, and get the pole and straps ready.’

  Tilda gave a faint moan of despair. Lia glanced at her and saw that her eyes had a haunted look.

  ‘Dagna,’ Holmann said, ‘you bring the stick.’

  ‘The heavy one, Hol?’ Dagna asked hopefully.

  ‘Yes indeed. She needs a hard lesson, this girl, and I’m going to see she gets it.’

  Tilda was subdued all afternoon, which was hardly surprising in view of what was in store for her. She said barely a word as she went about her duties, though her eyes spoke volumes. Delaying her punishment in this way was especially cruel, Lia thought, for a beating was bad enough without having to spend long hours worrying about it. Lia wondered if Holmann had planned it this way deliberately to increase Tilda’s suffering.

  The afternoon wore on, and when the cathedral bell rang to announce the evening prayers Lia assembled with the others. Some of the faces were new to her, and she tried to remember names as Durwin whispered in her ear, telling her who was who. There were two men, Paxon and Karl, who were bondmen to the king and Prince Baran respectively, and a haughty woman called Alda, who was bondmaiden to Princess Magdalena. The laundress Kerta was present too, looking no less tired than before, and plump Clady, the seamstress. Tilda was brought in by Dagna and led to the big kitchen table, which had been cleared as Holmann ordered and covered with several layers of sacking.

  ‘Take your clothes off,’ Holmann ordered.

  All eyes were on the victim who, tight-lipped and with her own gaze fixed firmly on the floor, slowly undressed. When she was naked Holmann ordered her to get on the table. She lay on her back, stretched her arms above her head, and raised her knees almost to her breasts, so that her neat curls of blonde maidenhair and pink labia were on display for all to see. The onlookers stared, none more so than Holmann.

  ‘Get the pole, Jarold,’ he said finally. ‘Paxon, lend him a hand. I’ll see to the bindings.’

  Paxon, the king’s bondman, was tall and thin, and with Jarold they each took one end of a stout ash pole, which they raised and placed behind Tilda’s knees. Holmann then proceeded to fasten her legs to the pole with straps just above and below the knee.

  ‘That’s that,’ he declared when done. ‘Now then, we need someone to hold her wrists.’

  He looked around at the others, and his stare rested on Lia. For one awful moment she thought he would pick her, but then his eyes moved on.

  ‘Berta,’ he said, nodding at the cook, ‘hold Tilda’s wrists tight. You two,’ he went on, nodding at Paxon and Jarold, ‘hold fast to the pole. She’ll squirm like an eel when the rod starts to bite, mark my words.’

  Dagna handed him a stick that was twice as thick at least as the one he’d used on Lia, and he touched it to Tilda’s bottom, lightly sawing it back and forth. He became still for a moment, then swung the stick and fetched her a hard blow across the fullest part of her rump. Tilda jerked and gave a muted yelp. He struck her again, this time to the back of her thighs. More strokes followed, alternating between the two targets, hard blows that smacked Tilda’s flesh with a wicked crack, and as he’d predicted Tilda was soon squirming violently, and the three holding her down were obliged to maintain a firm grip. The rod’s relentless assault raised wheals on her bottom and thighs as her white skin turned first pink, then a blotchy red.

  ‘She’s starting to feel it now,’ the overseer said with obvious satisfaction. ‘We’ll be hearing her sing soon, I don’t doubt.’

  He was right in this too, for as the beating proceeded Tilda’s gasps and groans became wails, and wails became shrieks. The swollen wheals turned purple and ugly, evidence of the violence of the beating, and Lia trembled as she looked on in dismay, for she had never been one to relish the spectacle of a public beating. When just a girl she had cried when made to watch the miller’s daughter, Ulrike, being flogged for disobedience to her father’s will. As the ash wand did its cruel work, and Ulrike writhed and screamed between the poles, Lia had pulled free of Helma’s hand and run back to the hut, risking her own punishment in the process, for the elders had decreed the whole village must attend, even the youngest. And now, as before, she found herself wishing she were elsewhere. She already thought of Tilda as a friend, eve
n on so short an acquaintance, and seeing her in such distress was almost more than Lia could bear.

  At last Holmann lowered his arm, red-faced and sweating from his exertions. Tilda’s frantic struggles ceased, and she slumped on the table sobbing.

  ‘Let that be a lesson to you, girl,’ the overseer growled. ‘Pilfering food is thievery, and thievery is something I won’t tolerate. You’re a bad girl, Tilda, and in my kitchen bad girls soon find themselves on their backs with a pole behind their knees. I’ll beat the wickedness out of you if it’s the last thing I do.’

  ‘She’s been a troublemaker right from the start,’ Dagna said. ‘And she’s been flirting with the men again. She took off her clothes and showed them everything she’s got, is what I heard.’

  Lia knew it wasn’t like that at all, and she would have spoken up in Tilda’s defence if it wasn’t for Durwin, standing alongside her. As she opened her mouth to speak he jabbed his elbow into her ribs, and the words came out as a gasp.

  ‘Eh?’ Holmann said testily. ‘What now?’

  ‘She coughed, master,’ Durwin said quickly, patting Lia’s back. ‘Maybe she’s coming down with a cold.’

  Lia scowled at him, but he just stared back intently as though trying to tell her something. He shook his head ever so slightly, and she understood. She looked across at Dagna and saw the malice and spite in the woman’s eyes, as she regarded the victim on the table. Lia knew then that Durwin had saved her from a terrible mistake, for she had come perilously close to making a dangerous enemy. And just how dangerous was soon made clear when Dagna, clearly not yet content that Tilda had suffered enough, goaded Holmann into action once more with her slanderous defamations.

  ‘She’s never out of mischief, this one,’ she accused. ‘When she’s not laughing at you and calling you names behind your back, she’s chasing after the men. She’ll do anything to get something hard inside her, the little trollop!’

  ‘I’ll give her something hard!’ Holmann snapped. ‘Hold her cunt open.’