Author's note: This quasi-historical fiction includes ambition, buggery and thuggery, scarification, and betrayal. All sex involves humans aged 18+. For readers' convenience, non-Anglish language speech and signals are presented in loose Anglish translation.
** THE GIRL
It was unintentional. Quintilla had not set out to become a villainous queen. It just sort of happened, y'know? Or maybe it was inevitable.
Quintilla was a most unlikely prospective queen. Her father, Centero the cooper, pounded and banded great oaken barrels to be filled with oils, beers, wines, spirits, and other fine goods. His profound deafness was an occupational hazard.
Quintilla grew to be extraordinarily beautiful, and intelligent, and ambitious, and desperate, longing for a life far from a barrel-maker's clangor. Her tired young stepmother Marsala totally sympathized and assisted the girl's plots.
Quintilla schooled herself to move far beyond the social circles of a modest artisan's family in the kingdom's capitol. She learned skills and secrets of seamstressing and decoration and decorum. She learned smarmy upper-class accents and jokes. She eavesdropped and cajoled and imitated and sometimes seduced - innocently, of course.
"How far did you go with that novice, dear? You know he's already taken vows."
"Oh, only far enough. He doesn't yet know all a priest's nasty tricks."
"Well, don't neglect to douche before and after, just to be safe. Nettle tea is best."
"Ha! No worry! That boy doesn't know a cunny from a handjob!"
Quintilla's ambitions grew along with her mounting skill and knowledge. Sophistication drove her. She set her sights high, very high - the highest possible. None could surpass her target: the small realm's fat Crown Prince, Rupert the Red.
** THE PRINCE
I suspected him a sturdy begger, faking sacred epileptic seizures to gain pity and alms, especially alms. Many such infest our serene kingdom in this, our year of the Lord fourteen hundred and twelve, have mercy! Our realm surely has gone to shit.
But I digress. The ill-clad and bristly fellow flopped around for a bit on the flagstone court before me, and then lay still but for deep breaths, panting like a rat-bitten hound. I turned to my bailiff, Danilio Laurent.
"Signore Laurent, how would you determine the validity of a spastic such as this?" I nudged the filthy figure's ear with my boot. "How can we tell if he is genuine?"
"Highness, I have always found that a painful amputation can be a powerful stimulant to confession."
"Yes, signore, that sounds reasonable, quite reasonable. And where would you commence your investigation?"
"Well, your Highness, allow me to fetch my dagger and hatchet and don my work gloves, and I shall first remove the big toe of his right, no, of his left foot, for his is a dexter dope and that shall unbalance him more."
Danilio prepared himself and moved to the paltry player's foot. He examined his naked, filth-encrusted target, and nodded with satisfaction. "Yes, a simple chop should do the trick." He hefted the hatchet, then stomped down on the quivering ankle and raised his arm for the downward hack.
"No! No! Stop! I confess! I was only playing a game on you! I was only having fun with you! Ha ha ha! It's so much fun, isn't it, fellows? You don't need to hurt me! I will go away!" The fake spazz squirmed
Danilio looked to me, his master. "He has really done us no wrong, Highness. He has done nothing to deserve becoming a lame mendicant."
I snorted. "He will only do this again if we do not punish him. No, cut it off anyway. That will teach him."
Danilio raised his arm again. I clapped my hands together loudly.
"Wait! Stop, signore. To cripple him would only make him a true beggar gimp. We need some other method."
Danilio considered. "How about the testicles, sire? Lacking those will bring him no advantage except in certain bars and baths. The boys may like him."
"Excellent!" I clapped my hands. "Yes, do remove his balls! But wait. My royal sister Thalia will want to watch this too." I pulled the bell cord to summon her.
Our game was always fun. This would be entertaining.
** THE FUGITIVE
Crossbow bolts fired by the troops below clattered behind him as he raggedly ran across rooftops under the savagely grinning full moon, ducking and swerving, jumping the gaps and different levels, breaking a few tiles in his haste. One bolt creased his tunic; too close!
Comte Iano of Cuneo cursed his damnable luck. His seduction of zaftig Princess Thalia had gone so well! The precious jewels she had gifted him with rattled in a leather pouch swinging from his rapier-belt. She was quite the lady. He enjoyed bending her over her cushioned settee and taking her inviting ass. Ah, that sweet puckered rosebud! No, she would
not
be embarrassed by pregnancy.
He had even tapped her royal mother. Yes, the queen was his, too, have mercy!
But then that damnable fat Crown Prince, his over-ripe sister Thalia tagging behind him, had chanced to turn the corner of the long palace hallway at the wrong moment. An anteroom door had swung open. Rupert saw his mother the Queen on her royal knees before the Comte, tickling her healthy tonsils with his noble glans. Rupert had shouted, drawn his sword, and waddled with surprising speed toward the cocksucking. Thalia stood and stared.
Iano managed to stuff his frustrated ferret back into his codpiece as he fled for the nearest balcony and lept onto a passing hay-wagon. Good luck cushioned his fall. Bad luck aimed the wagon directly into the palace courtyard.
Iano leaped again, to the cobbles, and ran past the sleepy guards at the gatehouse. A shout from the portly prince on the launching balcony roused the liveried laggards but Iano was already around a corner.
Pursuit drove the Comte to his rooftop run and possibly to his ruin. How long could he dodge the arrows? What would be Rupert's retribution if he was captured. Iano had heard of the Crown Prince's love of castration. Were that his only punishment, he could count himself lucky.
** THE GIRL, AGAIN
Mimicking the wealthy and noble was not enough for Quintilla to gain admission to their circles. No, she needed to look the part, too, with fine clothes of rich fabrics decked with gaudy jewels and thin precious-metal chains. The cooper's daughter was no heiress; she could never afford such costly, necessary adornments.
What the cooper's daughter lacked, the bandit princess could acquire. Quintilla had learned many skills from teachers high and low. She paid with beer and sex to be taught the secrets of lockpicking, pickpocketing, wall-climbing, dagger-thrusting, pouch-slashing, and similar useful arts.
"Never shout or speak in your normal voice. Never let any recognize you. Oooh, a little faster please. Oh yes, just like that."
The courtesan and thief moaned as Quintilla's crafty tongue circled and teased her aroused clitoris. Fingers pinched nipples. A long, engaging orgasm washed over her.
"Ahh, nice. Next, we'll talk about distractions. Ah, do that again. Ummm..."
Carefully disguised, a black domino over her eyes, working only under dark skies, Quintilla assembled a small team of bandits. Their simple task was to clumsily rob merchant households to draw away and distract city guards while she stealthily stuck richer targets elsewhere. She prided herself on strategy.
The strategy worked almost every time. This time, she was unlucky. She happened to slide down her doubled escape line from the rich silk-merchant's stronghold with a pouch of gold coins just as a city patrol happened around a corner, not far enough to avoid their notice. The gleam of her eyes in their torchlight gave her away.
The first crossbow bolt nearly caught her before she reached her planned escape route. That route led to the nearest high rooftops. More bolts rattled the roof tiles as she ran. If she could only make it to a building junction ahead, she could slip into the Thieves' Quarter and thence to her hideaway.
** THE ENCOUNTER
Comte Iano of Cuneo heard crossbow bolts landing closer behind him - but also further, in front. He heard footsteps dashing toward him. Oh shit, was he caught?
Quintilla the bandit princess heard the same sounds as she dashed and sometimes stumbled. Oh fuck, was she caught?
They rounded a tower at a junction of buildings... and crashed headlong into each other. Both fell.
Quintilla saw a stranger in nobleman's garb. "You're not a guard," she whispered.
Iano saw a masked young woman in tight black tunic and pantaloons. "They'll kill me, or worse," he gasped, and pushed himself up.
She accepted his offered hand and made a snap judgement.
"Follow me," she murmured, and led him to escape.
Down dark alleys, over challenging walls, across ominous courtyards, dodging candlelit windows and torchlit gateways. Not far into the flight, Quintilla stopped and pressed her hand to Iano's chest.
"You're a noisy pig. You'll have dogs barking and giving us away. You need to be silent. Here, walk like this," she whispered, and quickly showed him how to walk stealthily but hastily.
"Not like that, dummy. Heel-to-toe, gently, steadily. Yes..."
They moved through dark passages to her hideaway under a pestilent tavern at the edge of the Thieves' Quarter but not far from the district of wood- and metal-workers. The noxious hide-tanners and soap-makers were further out, have mercy!
Quintilla barred the room's door and lit a tallow candle. Its smoky light revealed a small chamber with the crudest furnishings and a hanging rack of clothes. Quintilla looked at her companion.
"The guards will be searching for us. We can't stay here - I must return to my family house - and you can't go out looking like that. A priest? No, you have too much hair, so we can't do the priest-and-nun charade. You'll dress as a craftsman and I'll be your whore. Take off your clothes and put these on," she said, sifting the costume stash and handing him a commoner's tunic and pantaloons. She stripped off her own ninja-like garb.
Iano stared as the naked wench wrapped herself in indecently translucent sashes. She turned, saw his eyes, and slapped him.
"You want to die? That's easy. You want to live? Get dressed, you moron. And forget your rapier. Artisans don't carry those. This dagger on your belt will do. Leave any valuables, too."
She pulled his jewel-filled pouch from his belt. That, and her own coin pouches, she hid in a chamber cut into her rough table.
She slapped the staring noble again. "Move, idiot! And don't talk. Not a word."
Iano shook himself and complied. Reconfigured, Quintilla pushed him out the door.
