Three knights, armor shining, crested a hill. Their horses panted heavily in the hot sun, laboring under the full armor of their riders. Sir Aloric, the youngest of the three, had proposed they wear the armor as they arrived at Count Mevenmein's court. The others had readily agreed, envisioning a grand entrance, but that had been when they believed themselves less than half a day's ride out. By the time they realized a landslide in the night had made the foothills hell to cross, they were already sweating in what were increasingly feeling like metal coffins.
"We can still make it before nightfall," Aloric said, taking off his helmet. Sweat poured from his ginger hair over his youthful, fair face. He tried an optimistic smile as he looked at the other two.
"Hrmph," Gastogne snorted, his anger making his already serious face look dour. "We would already be there if it weren't for all this damned luggage." He stared back the way hey had come, at the baggage train trundling along. Two carts, stacked high and heavily laden with goods, were pulled by teams of slaves chained to it like oxen. These were no trussed-up pony girls though. These were labor slaves, wearing only a rag on their head to keep their hair up, if they wore anything at all. Around them were the dominas -- loyal slaves who carried whips and urged the others on, and a few squires on horseback. Behind the last cart were another thirty slave girls, shackled and fettered in lines and rows. They each carried a sack -- the slaves were responsible for carrying their own supplies. The carts were solely for the three knights and their squires.
Gastogne watched them all with increasing frustration. The first cart paused as it hit a hole in the road, and the slaves strained to push it out as the dominas encouraged them with whips and shouts. "Lazy cunts," he muttered, looking up. The sun was just past its zenith.
"Come now, sir Gastogne," the third knight said. He rode at the head of them, and it was his family crest that adorned both carts. Of the three, only he still looked fresh, the sweat on his brow barely a trickled, despite how warm his long, blonde hair must have been. Sir Moldred of House Gyvain smiled, and Gastogne couldn't help but let some of his anger evaporate.
Moldred said, "Don't tell me you'd prefer to travel like the knights of old? Roughing it out here, on our own? I can hardly piss without a slave girl holding my cock," he laughed.
Gastogne smiled. "It woudn't be so bad. We could paint Sir Aloric's lips and eyes. He'd be a bit flat, but he could pass."
"At least from behind," Moldred added, and both of them laughed as Aloric stared at them aghast.
"I'll fight you both. Right here and now," he said.
"Calm yourself, Sir Aloric," Moldred said, still chuckling. "Sir Gastogne and I are just jealous. I've seen the way the slaves crowd you." Aloric sighed. If anyone had said it he would have drawn his sword then and there, but he was used to Moldred's bad jokes. Moldred turned back to Gastogne and said, "And Sir Gastogne, why the hurry? Even if we arrive tomorrow morning, it will make no difference. Mevenmein has no knights in his realm. He only possesses an invitation to the King's Tournament through some ancient decree. Regardless of when we arrive, in two days that invitation will be yours."
Gastogne took a deep breath and said he agreed, but continued to watch the carts. Moldred would never admit it out loud, but he was more anxious than either of them. Gastogne was a commoner, the son of a charcoal maker who owned only two slaves and who was only able to have a child after saving for years to rent a pureborn from Moldred's father. He had only been able to afford her for one year, but, luckily, she bore a son in that time.
Despite this common birth, Gastogne was born a knight -- able to wield a crest. Uncommon, but not unheard of. What should have been unheard of was how, despite being a knight, the man had still had to scrape for everything. If Moldred hadn't discovered his talents he likely would never have gained a crest of his own. Moldred fumed at the unfairness of it. In his opinion all men should be judged by their merit, not their class. That a man like Mevenmein could hold three crests and one of the most profitable lands in the kingdom, despite his fallow blood, was an injustice.
Tired of watching the slaves push the carts over the rocky path, Moldred said, "Let's ride ahead." The other two agreed, and they took off -- the cool wind on their faces. They made it around the bend, before having to once again stop. A boulder blocked the path. Clearly knocked loose the night before, it was taller and wider than the carts. A crew of six cunts were hacking at it with pickaxes, while a short, fat man in a tunic lounged in a chair watching them. A seventh cunt was crouched between his knees. From the faces the man was making, she seemed to be making more progress than the other six combined.
The three knights stared at this, until Moldred finally said what they were all thinking:
"Fuck."
-
Eve was not dead. This was something of a surprise to her as there were multiple points where she was sure the blonde bitch's potion burning through her body would kill her. It didn't though, and somehow, despite feeling like it would turn her insides to ash, she was left feeling better and more energized than ever.
She stood at the cleaning yard, a corner of the grounds near the river where small rocks had been laid down to keep the ground from turning muddy while the slaves cleaned themselves. With a bucket of water, some lye, and a rag, she slowly tried to wipe off the shame and disgust that still covered her body. She was alone. She had ordered the slaves that came to pick her up away. When she entered the cleaning yard she ordered everyone out. A few slaves spluttered something about being ordered to clean up, but they weren't compelled. Besides, one look in her eye told them she didn't need a cock to beat them.
None of this would have been possible without the potion. She would have been dragged off by slaves, who would roughly clean her while she lay there, unable to move. A further embarrassment after an already humiliating ordeal. There was a downside to the potion though. The exhaustion and pain had fit how she felt. Mentally she still had the disgust, the humiliation, but physically the only thing she was left with was the arousal. She told herself that was likely from the potion, but she knew that wasn't completely true. She could still remember the feeling of Christophe first entering her, and though it made her want to vomit, it also made her wet.
Faye dunked her head in one of the larger buckets, holding her head under the water as she ran her fingers through her hair -- trying to undo the tangled, cum-coated knots. The cold water helped clear her mind, but she could only hold her breath for so long. She wanted to scream, but there were other slaves and men around. There was nowhere she could go to be alone. Even bathing, she had no privacy. So, she shut her eyes tight, and began to scrub her skin furiously.
-
"Aye my lords," the fat man said, the belt of his trousers still hanging open. "Rock slide last night. We been workin' at it all morning."
Moldred stared down at him. The peasant man's crew of cunts looked weak and malnourished, skin tight around their ribs. They swung their tools, sweat dripping down their nude bodies, with a strength that would make a young boy laugh. At the rate they were going they would be 'workin' at it' all week.
