“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.
Beauty sat down in the small carved chair and began to write:
Prince Dmitri,
This is a proud and haughty girl, thoroughly spoiled but capable of reformation. The harshest and most effective instruments of the village are recommended. I commit her to your authority and your judgment for as long as you think best. And she is not to be returned until she has completely surrendered to your utmost satisfaction.
To this Beauty signed her name quickly, and then blotted the note carefully. She rolled the stiff page into a small tight scroll, binding it with one of the many scarlet ribbons laid out for the purpose. Then into a small silver cylinder, she placed the note. And with a bit of wax and the impress of her ring she sealed the cap of the cylinder.
She approached the girl who had not moved an inch from her former position. Something about the girl from the back made her think of herself. It was not only the flaxen hair. It was the girl’s size and proportions. They were made from the same physical mold, it seemed, Beauty and this girl, though how different was Becca in temperament.
“Kneel up and open your mouth,” she said.
At once Becca did as she was commanded. Beauty slipped the silver cylinder sideways into her mouth, like a bit. The girl was shocked. Clearly no one had put a gag or a bit into her mouth in a very long time. But she held the cylinder between her teeth obediently. She began to shiver.
Tereus had only just returned.
“The message has been sent, my queen.”
“Give the little parcel here to the Prince when he comes,” she said. “My instructions are there.” She pointed to the cylinder.
Becca’s eyes were squeezed shut and she was crying. Yes, she is so like me, thought Beauty suddenly. This girl tugged at her heart, but Beauty only smiled. I know what she needs, she thought. I shall not fail her any more than I have failed Lord Stefan.
ii
Outside the council chamber, Beauty paused. She could hear the busy voices of those within. She knew that she was late. So many decisions had to be made. There was so much business every day. But she waited. She stood quiet, her attendants waiting unquestioningly behind her, and her beloved pet, Brenn, kneeling on all fours at her side.
Why had she not punished Becca for impertinence herself? It would have been easy enough to do. She knew how to wield the paddle. Why had it not given her pleasure to think of disciplining the girl into submission the way she herself had once been schooled in submission—through pain and pleasure? Beauty had surrendered utterly and sublimely to her punishments, glorying in them, grateful for cold implacable authority as much as for affection, grateful for severity as for ardor, hungering for engulfing discipline as much as love.
She had been tempted, yes, for just a moment. But the girl for all her anxiety and confusion had not really captured Beauty’s keen interest. If Beauty were ever to wield the paddle and the strap with passion it would be for a slave more like this one, Brenn, whose stout soul bewitched her, a slave she could break in the name of perfection rather than mere correction, a slave whose lust for discipline was his lure. And who knew, perhaps someday, someday she could do this. She did not know.
As she looked down at Brenn, at his soft curly black hair, and straight shoulders, a shadow fell over her, and she woke from her thoughts to see the King standing there.
“What is it, dearest?” Laurent whispered. “We’re all waiting. Just the usual matters, nothing more.”
When she did not answer, Laurent spoke to the slave beside her.
“Brenn, you go in now and kneel by the Queen’s chair.” He motioned to the attendants to leave them as well.
At once Brenn moved to obey, and the King and Queen, outside the doors to the council chamber, were alone.
“Beauty, what is it?” Laurent asked. “You’re not still troubled by self-doubts, are you, my lovely one?”
Beauty wished she could find words to answer, to explain.
“Forgive me, my lord,” she said. “I’m coming better to understand myself every day.”
“I have always understood you,” said Laurent. “You cannot be all things to all subjects, Beauty. You can only love them in your own way.”
She smiled. “My own way,” she said. “Yes, my own way.”
“Did Eleanor ever offer her slaves understanding or comfort?” Laurent pressed. “Did Eleanor ever grasp the power of loving discipline rather than severity and disdain?”
Beauty smiled. “No, you’re right. She never did understand the subtleties.”
“Beauty,” he said as he bent to kiss her. “Be the Queen of Bellavalten in your own way.”
It was enough for now, wasn’t it? She nodded. She put her hand into Laurent’s hand.
No sooner had they stepped into the council chamber, and no sooner had those gathered there risen to bow and to greet them, than she was the confident and smiling queen once more. Bellavalten, she thought, how deeply I do love you.
And how very odd, wasn’t it, that she had no doubt that Bellavalten loved her in return.
The enigmatic Lexius, tall, slender, dark skinned, and dark eyed—the silken and seductive steward of the Sultan whom Laurent had brought back to Bellavalten as a slave, was indeed coming. Two letters reached the kingdom before he did. And it was the opinion of Alexi that Lexius might arrive at any moment.
“Of course I want to hear the whole story,” said Laurent. “What did he do? What do you mean he broke the old queen’s heart?”
Beauty walked down the long corridor with Laurent, her left hand on his right hand, both of them sumptuously dressed for yet another day of official decisions, but headed now to a small hall where they could meet only with the inner circle, so to speak—Alexi, Dmitri, Rosalynd, Elena, and the indispensable Lady Eva. No important meeting took place without the attendance of Lady Eva, busy as she might be with the postulant slaves and the novices.
“If some scandal surrounds this man, we should know of it,” Beauty affirmed. “And I know, my lord, how he’s always fascinated you.”
“And you mean to say, lovely one, that he didn’t fascinate you?” asked Laurent. He was cheerful, in good spirits as always. He woke each single morning with a new enthusiasm for life, fully embracing his priapic duties with a stamina that amazed Beauty. But then Laurent’s stamina, in all forms, had always amazed Beauty, she had to admit, so why was she surprised at this?
“Yes, he fascinates me,” said Beauty. “But I was never drawn to him once you made him your plaything. But as I said, we must find out what actually happened.”
It was a lovely day of balmy breezes and blue skies, with only a thin mist streaking the sky over the valley here and there, and likely to burn off by noon.
All was well with the realm, but yesterday had been an exhausting day for the monarchs, with many audiences and decisions to be made. Three returning grooms—dismissed by the late queen—had asked for an audience, and the Court had heard their plea, along with the petitions of others, for hours on end. Two beautiful dark-skinned African eunuchs had come to the kingdom, begging for sanctuary, so to speak, and a strange and mighty northern lord appeared with two naked slaves trained by him in a remote castle whom he wanted to sell to the kingdom “for their own good.” Artists and merchants petitioned to be admitted to the villages and hamlets. So many different matters to consider.