This story, a collaboration with the ultra-talented Planets-Of-Orion, is intended to be light-hearted but contains depictions of sexism, humiliation, groping and bondage. Please don't read if those things are likely to upset you.
1. Isabella
My name is Isabella Valett, and I dare say you can imagine me if you try. Picture a raven-haired, hazel-eyed beauty with long, lithe legs, a buxom and yielding figure and a tight heart-shaped rear often clad in leather. Can you see me in your mind's eye? No, no! Much prettier than that. Very well: that's better.
I came to court three years ago after spending some years abroad with the Countess Delacourt, my sponsor and patron and one of the most debonair noble ladies one could possibly imagine. A skilled duellist of the Red Sash school, I was at first known instead for my great beauty, my foreign dress mixed with homegrown good looks creating a sensation at court. That all changed when a respected knight attempted to impress upon me his importance and I challenged him to a duel. At first he tried to take it easy on me, but within a minute he was fighting for his life. He yielded quickly after being run through in the leg and I made a small fortune from his ransom.
You are not familiar with ransoms? Then let me explain. Court duels are traditionally fought for a purse held by the seconds and handed over in the event of a yield. In practical terms this is the reward for the victor.
In theory
they could choose to keep the loser as a captive and hold out for a larger sum, but while this is legally permissible, it is very much not the done thing in modern circles. For my part, I always won, always left my opponent alive, and always took the ransom. After a string of successes against noted duellists I became known as the "Lady's Blade", taking up arms in defence of any insulted woman who had no recourse to vengeance or justice. The women of the court knew me as their protector, and I made a goodly amount of money picking these fights.
I was considered unbeatable... or at least difficult enough to beat that the court's finest duellists would not want to risk the humiliation of losing to a pretty woman in a tight blouse and high-heeled boots. Countless clumsier and less experienced swordsmen, by contrast, thought to make a name for themselves by defeating the Lady's Blade, so my rapier remained busy, and I grew in confidence and reputation. I was so active, indeed, that it would have been a simple matter for a perceptive observer to watch me fight three times a week and learn everything he needed to know about my style and its weaknesses. But who would do such a thing?
2. Charles
Any fool could see the girl was no fencer.
I presume she realised that her reach and strength were no match for those of a man - and they plainly were not - so she developed a crude and lazy counterfighting style. She would sit back and wait to be attacked, hoping for an opportunity to either wound her overstretched opponent or, if that failed, sit back again and let him tire himself out. Many men, either trying to impress her or embarrassed to be fighting a mere wench, would walk into her trap by overattacking, so she was able to snatch a few victories. But her actual skills were mediocre.
As, for that matter, was her stamina, which was shockingly limited for a professional fighter. I perceived at once that she was moving far less than her opponent, and began to struggle with her breathing whenever she was properly exercised - something that I imagine was exacerbated by the absurd corsets she wore to the duelling grounds. By this time, however, it was obvious to me why she dressed in this fashion. On the rare occasions when the girl was forced to go on the offensive, she would preface this with a cheap distraction: a twirl which set her silly red sash fluttering, a low duck giving her opponent an eyeful of cleavage, a bladebind where her legs would rub sensually against her opponent. The momentary advantage would give her the opportunity needed to score a critical cut, and this accounted for the remainder of her wins.
Nobody else seemed to have realised, but it was obvious to me how the Lady's Blade could be beaten. When she was low on stamina, biting down and walking forward would be straightforward, and the wench was entirely too weak to do even decently in the grapple. She was dangerous, perhaps, but eminently beatable by the right man.
3. Isabella
It was the usual caddish behaviour that led us to the duelling grounds. He had compromised the honour of one of my closest friends, and when challenged, went so far as to speak slightingly of the Countess Delacourt. Naturally, I sought satisfaction, and looked forward to receiving it. Although it seemed more likely that the coward would leave town.
Yet here he was.
"You dare to face me! How very feisty of you," he said, with quite remarkable insolence. "And how very foolish.
"I know you think you are unbeatable, pretty wench, but I advise you to run on home while you still can. Duelling is a profession for men, not little girls who can barely lift their daddy's sword."
I smiled, sinking back to stand with all of my weight on a single hip. I looked to all intents and purposes like a cat, the slight jumping of my long leg like a tail's swish before pouncing. The fool had no idea of the danger he was in.
"Good sir, I've heard this twaddle more times than I can count from arrogant perverts like yourself who think I'm fit to do nothing but pour your drink and bat my eyes prettily. Duelling already is my profession, and I have nothing to prove to you. Yet you'll find this feistiness shall be more than enough to overcome a rat such as you."
The man was vermin. Yet stood here, before half of the court - including several women I held in high esteem - I admit to feeling a smidge of stage nerves at the prospect of losing to such a reprehensible lowlife cad. There wasn't the faintest chance of it happening, but even the idea was intolerable.
4. Charles
My barbs seemed to be stinging the girl, I noticed, as if they struck a chord from something long ago. Nothing was betrayed on her face, precisely, but there was something about her posture that told me she was unsettled. Presumably her father did not approve of her profession. What an insecure little creature she was. How best could I turn that to my advantage?
"You may think you have nothing to prove, my dear, but I suspect you have been having to prove yourself ever since you entered the world," I drawled. "Even now you are concerned about how you appear. This is a duel, not a parade. You are playing at being a duellist, and the game ends tonight.
"I suppose you will wish to know, incidentally, how to address me as you beg for mercy. You may continue to call me sir, the correct mode by which a serving wench speaks to her master, and you have no need to use my name. Nevertheless, it may interest you to know to whom you are about to lose a duel, and your dignity."
5. Isabella
I shook my head frustratedly. I addressed all of my opponents as sir, and could think of nothing else to call him.
"I have little enough interest in dead men, sir," I said. "But feel free to speak your piece. When you've had your turn my blade will speak for me."
I heard two of the gentlemen laugh to one another. My hand came to rest on my blade, the familiar rapier comfortable in my hand, as I tried to tell myself that they, and what they thought of me calling any man sir, meant nothing to me in this moment. The fool was smiling too, enjoying the fact that his little joke had paid off.
"My name is Sir Charles Rakesteel, girl," he said, "and I imagine you have heard of me, and very likely thought of me in your more intimate moments. I look forward to teaching you the rudiments of fencing tonight. We should begin with that amateurish stance of yours."
I knew of him, of course. Sir Charles was a notoriously dissolute young scoundrel whose behaviour had scandalised half the continent. He was known for heavy drinking, high-stakes gaming, reprehensible slipperiness when it came to love affairs and ladies' honour, and a total unwillingness to ever work hard. I could barely believe he had read a book from cover to cover, let alone learned how to fence. But he was, I had to admit, a strikingly tall and handsome figure, with dark stubble and bright blue eyes. Perhaps there was some strength in those well-muscled arms - but surely no skill to be worried about.
I drew my eyes away, shaking my head as I tried to ignore his undeniable good looks. I could see my good friend Miss Davenport looking from the sidelines and blushing. How could this man have treated such a fine lady so callously, only for the two of them to be found together in an alcove, his hands around her wrists and his lips against hers? The question made my blood boil, and I knew that he would answer for it!
"My style is clearly unknown to you, sir," I said. "You have not known a Red Sash Blade Dancer before. But rest assured, you shall know one now. As for anything I have to prove, it sounds like you have naught but postulations and theories! You seek to undermine me, but it shan't work."
In spite of my confidence, I felt myself tense and correct my stance slightly as if instructed, drawing my blade and holding it level with his own, my weight resting on my back foot, both of my arms up as I sat down slightly into the stance. I moved more fluidly than this normally, yet I felt compelled to now show this man how a fencer of true skill conducted herself.
"Oh, we are here to dance, are we?" he said. "Now there at least is an occupation where wenches are almost as good as men. Perhaps you could dance for me while I sit and drink some ale. Go and fetch me a mug, and quickly."
Sir Charles clicked his fingers and smiled at the ripple of laughter from the many onlookers. I had never been considered obedient, but flinched at his command and felt a frustrated blush cross my creamy cheeks.
6. Charles
I was thoroughly enjoying the wench's obvious embarrassment and rising temper. She was delightfully easy to provoke.
"Sir," said she, "were you on fire I would not give you a mug of ale with which to douse yourself! You have crossed lines that should not be crossed, and this court shall not welcome you or accept you into its bosom any longer. You will be gone, and you will stay gone, once I have collected your ransom. If you come back I shall merely keep collecting your ransom until you haven't the money for the carriage out. Then again, perhaps I should say it is your father's ransom? I doubt very much you have earned a penny of it."
"I assure you, my dear Bella, I have been accepted into plenty of bosoms in this court, some almost as pert and inviting as the one you seem to be trying to distract me with," I replied. "A most enjoyable tactic. Do carry on.
"As for earning... well, only fools spend their lives working for a living, don't you think? I
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