Bound & Bound – the Curse and the Captives – - 4. Chapter 4: Arbitrary

Chapter 4: Arbitrary

THE MOST SOARING OF VAULTS can enclose the deepest of pits. Where above, noble ambitions plot intricate and ever-rising schemes, down in cellars moulder the simplest dream of mankind – the wish for freedom.

They had arrived in the early morning hours, and saw their rope bindings replaced by iron shackles, both hands and feet. Then they were tossed into their subterranean cell without a word.

Meanwhile, above their heads, the castle's day had started in its usual manner, irregardless of the slaves existing there or not. The freshness of last night's spring rain had cleared out gullies and conduits and given a sparkling clean glint to the stone cobbles of the fortress.

Chambermaids were up first, and scampered along the dark corridors as quiet as church mice. In their grips were bundles of kindling and metal spark pans with long wooden handles. With these supplies they lit fires in the chambers of the master and mistress, and moved on in descending order of title and rank to transfer their protected embers to ministers, courtiers, the nobles' most trusted advisors, and finally to the respective chambers of the pageboys and ladies-in-waiting.

Scullery maids had revived the kitchen fires, and soon sleepy cooks arrived to prepare the fuel the entire community needed to operate on – porridge.

Bowls and wooden spoons of which were carried up to the lord and lady's personal attendants. These young men and women needed to be roused and able to attend to the wants of their master and mistress.

Ladies-in-waiting were both servants and companions. Minor nobility in their own right, the teenage girls hurriedly dressed each other, ate and waited upon the designated signal that their mistress had arisen. After necessaries were seen to, Lady Maria led the other young women by slipping their mistress into fine silk undergarments. Then they assisted the sixteen-year-old chief lady-in-waiting by lifting the billowy gown of the same exotic fibre over her ladyship's head and letting it settle onto her shoulders. They needed to be efficient, for outside of her chamber attended two items for noble attention – a steward with her ladyship's repast, and Razvan, a manservant to whom she trusted all of her most delicate and pressing commissions.

The lord of the place had his teenage-boy pages. They likewise were the sons of petty but ambitious aristocracy, and their fathers were men who readily subserviated their second and third-born sons to see about the off chance of rising in court. They could do this via the lucky happenstance of the boy becoming the lord's 'favourite.' While waiting to catch a possible sparkle in their master's eye, these young men provided all that was necessary and required of them, and his lordship had rank and categories for his attendants. There was for example the 'Steward of the Pot' to hold it for him while he pissed, and a 'Steward of the Sponge' to wipe his ass after he made stool.

The lad best trusted and beloved from amongst the lord's pages was known to be his official favourite by holding the most coveted title of all – 'Steward of the Basin.'

The service that Louis, the lord's most belovèd page, provided him was common knowledge, but it was rarely alluded to. Although as open as open might dare to be, the tendency to regard the duties of the Steward of the Basin as simply one of vulgar bodily function – akin to the requirements of the boys holding the pot and working the sponge – might be harboured by a few, yet no honest person doubted that the lord's favoured lad was favoured because he was fond of the young man and enjoyed his company on a deeply personal level. This basic fact refuted all prudish attempts to negate a 'favourite' to simple catamite status, for most of these young men returned their lord's fondness with the deepest of their own, natural sentiments. That position of near equality returned respect on it own merit, and the other pageboys performed the most blatant mention of the station in the form of the envious looks they rained down upon Louis as the lord's chosen lad. In their jealous rebuke lay a personal desire to one day be called upon to attend their master's most intimate requirements, and receive his lordship's fawning attention as reward.

This young man would stand with a towel over his shoulder, supporting a shallow basin with his left hand, while the fingers of his right would slick themselves in fragrant clove oil and perform the grasping ministrations required to relieve his master of pent-up anxiety and sexual frustration. This duty usually being served to his lordship in the morning, the privileged lad had free time to simply be his master's companion for the rest of the day, whether horseback riding in the country, carousing with tavern maids as incognitos, or playing a stimulating game of chess within the castle walls. The 'favourite' however, was always on call in case his master should require the basin and some relief.

Meanwhile, the emerging light of this particular morning had eked its way into the forgotten dark of the cell where two strangers stood alert and apprehensive. To their ears, all the faint and strange sounds of activity filtering down through the stone walls of their captivity were crushing. Despite the singular and unifying feature of their joint imprisonment, neither of these men thought he could confide in the other. Thus, their hours passed in watchful mistrust and silence.

Upstairs, the lordly levées of the respective master and mistress of this place were underway. Food was supped while counsel and news from outside the castle walls were provided by standing advisors. Razvan too, once they were alone, bowed and kissed the symbol of authority that rode his ladyship's finger – as was his custom – and then proceeded to relay updates concerning the lady's more secret initiatives.

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The noonday sun flooded the courtyard with near-shadowless light. All the morning freshness from last night's rain had evaporated off of the cobblestones.

From where he stood on the second step of the grand flight that led up to the state apartments, Lord Laszlo listened to the approach of his guards and two new slaves.

In his head he considered how the iron links of their shackled wrists and ankles made a grinding sound akin to the sleep of an anxious man. In such a way, loose teeth and clacking iron rings sound the death knell of a man's happier days.

Laszlo was snapped out of his reverie when the escorts stopped the prisoners a good distance away from him and then compelled the men to their knees. He silently winced to think how the sharp edges of the cobblestones bit cruelly and unforgiving into the flesh of the men's kneecaps. He watched as the guards who had done the shoving followed with a swift kick to the shoulder blades to make the men bow.

After a minute or two of commanding silence, Laszlo waved for the warders to step back, and the more burly of the two prisoners dared to raise defiant eyes towards the forced objective of their deference.

This man was clearly a professional soldier, a man like the lord of this place, but perhaps seven or so years older than Laszlo's twenty-four years. He wore the colourful clothes of an officer in the elite infantryman corps of the Ottoman Sultan's army, and had a full and dark beard. Looking at him now, if Laszlo had to guess, he assume this man's thoughts were calculating a way to obtain a sword – like the one the lord's hand rested upon by his side – and kill each and every one of them; Laszlo felt sure the man would make a martyr of himself too, if need be.

This soldier's fellow captive was a younger man, with fairer hair and skin, and perfectly clean shaven. He was also plainly not a soldier, and the black cassock he wore, plus his introspective manner, made him seem to be a monk of some description.

Lord Laszlo felt his wife descend the stairs behind him and come to a resting stop above and to his left. She brought with her two functionaries, so now he could begin.

"I was told," Laszlo spoke up, his tone reaching every back recess of the courtyard. "That one of you can speak my language."

The lord of the place observed the burly prisoner furrow his eyebrows in confusion, as if he had just been assaulted with gibberish.

The other exhibited no reaction at all.

Laszlo continued with clipped intensity. "Do you know how much Turkish slaves cost? I paid twenty-four solidi for you predicated on the fact that one of you understands me. That is enough gold coinage to buy one fine stallion, so tell me, have I wasted my money on the pair of you?"

The lady stepped down to her husband's side. With a loud voice she reminded his lordship, "The bears in the bear pit, my dear…" She latched onto his arm, and her tone dripped with bloody innuendo. "Have not tasted live flesh in a month. Your investment will not be wasted as entertainment if they do not speak up."

Her grip became insistent upon Laszlo's elbow. He glanced at her, and then trailed her sightline as she slightly tilted it towards the younger of the two prisoners. She must have perceived a barely inflected reaction to her words. As he watched him, he too could read his admittal in the form of a more deeply bowed head, and a slight shifting of the weight upon his knees.

"Right," he said briskly. He inhaled as he stepped down and began striding up to the shackled men.

Lord Laszlo moved behind them, and stood still.

Then he saw the soldier ask something to the other in quiet and hurried tones. The younger one hushed him, and Laszlo did not need to speak Turkish to know the larger man had asked what was going on, and his compatriot had told him to shut up.

The lord of the place began to pace behind his new human property. He put his hands behind his back, and said boldly, "I have bought you. You were caught on the fields of battle, invading Christian lands, and you have paid the price for that crime with the loss of your liberty. I own you now."

He bent down to speak directly into the ear of the younger of the two captives. "I am your lord now." He stepped back and did not have to wait long.

The young man of the black cassock said in flawless Hungarian, "There is but one lord, and the Lord God is his name."

Satisfied, the nobleman returned to stand by his wife.

Again, Laszlo caught the more burly captive ask what was going on, and again, the younger one shut him down without answer.

Laszlo announced, "The Lord of Abraham, or the Lord of our Blessed Savior, and so too the Lord of your Mohammad are one and the same. Let him rule heaven, but within the walls of this castle I am your lord and master. I decide what you wear, if you eat, if you sleep, or whether you are ever to be free again."

He snapped his fingers and one of the functionaries stepped away from Razvan's side. This man came to his lordship, and Laszlo put his hand confidently on his shoulder.

"This is Stefan Karolyi. He will be your taskmaster and daily supervisor. If he ever even so much as hints that you are shirking your duty, the ground of the bear pit will be the final patch of earth you see."

He advanced to the younger of the two men, and snapped fingers above his head until he looked at him. "Now, tell your fellow slave what I have said."

The man of the black cassock glanced to the soldier and began to speak in a stream of Turkish.

Satisfied again, Lord Laszlo began walking to the far end of the court. He signaled, and the guards hauled the prisoners to their feet. The captives and their escorts trailed after the lord of the place.

Laszlo walked on and said in a loud tone, "My father began building this bastion to subdue a hostile land, and I have completed it." He turned on the men, and stopped with a downward gesture to where he stood. "Completed it for the exception of one necessary. Water; a secure supply if this place is ever laid siege to." He momentarily delighted in how surprised the younger captive looked. "My soothsayer used his divining rods and declared this spot in the court will provide water." The soldier queried his companion for an update. Laszlo interrupted to continue, "You men – dig. Dig to hell itself, and then through it if need be, to get me my water. Understand?!"

The soldier prisoner distracted the other with questioning words.

Lord Laszlo walked straight up to the younger one.

"Do you understand?"

The intelligent eyes of the Turk momentarily disconcerted Laszlo. The slave held his gaze self-assuredly, and said, "Yes, you want us to dig."

"Yes, what?"

Laszlo watched the slave blink.

For a moment it seemed the young religious ascetic had forgotten all about his captivity. His eyes stared frankly and honestly as if the person he saw – he, Lord Laszlo, the treasured son of a father who had been a great leader and had raised his boy to be commander over all he surveyed – was his equal.

Laszlo lightly touched the hilt of his sword.

Then, after another blink, it seemed the shackled man finally understood what Laszlo wanted him to say.

The slave averted his gaze, and bowed his head. His lips formed a contrite-sounding murmur. "Yes, My Lord."

There appeared to the master of his castle a magnetic balance of attraction and repulsion about this younger of the two slaves.

Rarely had anyone dared to speak to him, let alone dared to affront the station he held as the brother of a king. But this man had.

Now that he was close he observed that not only was this Turk's skin fair – fairer than many of the Romanian and Magyar he dealt with on a daily basis – but his complexion was smooth and free of any defect. Perhaps it was partially owing to this alabaster translucence that Laszlo perceived that this man wore a great reserve of nobility on his shoulders to trump the one Laszlo wore with his clothes.

Who had ever dared speak up to him before – but, this slave had done it to invoke God, and not even the brother of a king could rebuke him for that.

Laszlo gestured to Stefan Karolyi.

"Come, men!" the overseer commanded. "Back to your cell."

The guards roughly shoved the prisoner to a stumbling position, and the headed them back down the length of the courtyard. As they made their way down it, they stumbled in their shackles and Laszlo again found himself thinking about loose teeth and how cruel a mistress is fate.

He began striding towards the staircase and to where his wife waited. He saw her give a quiet command to Razvan, that functionary kissing her ring, and then departing with a bow.

When he got to the step she was standing on, Laszlo extended his arm and the pair ascended up to the open loggia together.

He spoke softly to her, leaning sideways for a greater display of intimacy. "Gretza, I hope your notions prove true."

"Notions, husband? You do not believe in my powers of divination after four years of marriage?"

They arrived at the top landing, and turned right to proceed down the tall-columned loggia outside the state apartments.

He squinted at her with mirth. "Your mancy of various efforts have served our ends well, so far."

She deliberately slowed him down by exerting a greater drag on his arm. Laszlo's hand went to comfortably rest on the hilt of his sword.

She stopped completely, and leaned against the smooth stone wall. Her eyes briefly scanned the passage up and down to ensure they were alone. Her mouth erupted into a wicked smile, and delicate fingertips played with Laszlo's doublet to draw him into her.

She licked seductive lips, bent at the hip to drive her torso into him, and lightly stroked his cheek.

In his mind he recalled that this woman had been a ravishing beauty when he married her. Four years on, and that late blush of youth had now deepened into the stunning hue of a full-blooded woman.

"I know," she said with mock tenderness. "You do not wish to know about my arts of 'mancy,' as you call them, or divination as I know them – but trust in the information that I am given."

He took her hand, opened her fingers, rotated them round and kissed her wrist. Laszlo lingered on the tender flesh there, and slowly applied a light suction with which he hoped to drive her mad with lust.

His gaze drifted straight up into her green-eyed stare. "I do trust it. So when you say Turkish slaves must dig our well, they arrive to do your ba-bidding."

"Our bidding, yes. You are a good husband."

He stood, grabbed her by the inside of her forearms and guided her against the wall. He pressed the side of his body into her. Laszlo slowly gripped her tighter and tighter around her silk-clad waist.

"The ottoman swine capture Christian defenders and enslave them without regard for human decency. They do not care who they ta-take."

"Yes, Laszlo – I have heard the same, but why do you mention it now?"

He felt her frame grow uncomfortably rigid under the strength of his grip. Suddenly, Laszlo felt that old slight palsy return to him when he got too confrontational with his wife. It manifested itself in a slight stammer of his words and a fainting weakness in his knees.

He tried to pull her closer. "Because, Lady Gretza, the va-very cruelty of slavery lies in-in its arbitrary nature, It's-s a force to rob and reduce a human ba-being to a thoughtless machine. An-and how ungodly is that?"

"Non-noble life is cheap, Laszlo," she said with a flush of passion. "It is a commodity to trade, use, or use up completely if need be. There will always be more of them than us, and we will always own them." She turned out of his grip. Her features regrouped her emotions, and slid on an oily leer.

"Are you so cold, my da-dear?"

Lady Gretza did not back down. She reengaged her husband physically, but on her own terms.

Laszlo felt his wife stand against him, and her upper leg pressing between his; his crotch grew involuntarily hard with this tactic. Somehow he knew that she assumed it would.

He then felt her guide him to turn and press his back against the wall. Reapplying the magic pressure down below, he felt her two hands pick up his; right first, left second, and then he felt her pinning them by his ears against the stone blocks.

"Arbitrary," she whispered cunningly. "Arbitrary, my dear belovèd Laszlo is the mistake of Nature." He felt her lips brush against his. "The mistake that saw your inferior brother assume the position that he has now."

Laszlo laughed. He moved his head out her touch, and tried to lower his arms away from the wall, but Lady Gretza pushed him back into position with full force.

His erection stiffened mightily with his anger. "My brother is the legitimate heir, I am…the…"

"The bastard, my dear? But you are five years his senior – they gave the throne to your brother Mátyás when he was fifteen, at a time when you were already a grown man with battle-hardened experience gained by fighting next to the side of your father, all while that 'boy' was still coddled at home."

"Gretza, pa-please."

Her eyes narrowed in calculating appraisal. "He's legitimate, so you say he is better too..?"

"No, I – "

She cut him off. "Arbitrary, husband, is that a great man like you allows his weakling brother to sit on the throne of all the Hungaries, while you – my darling – are assigned governor of this pathetic colonial hinterland."

Laszlo swallowed hard; she was rubbing his cock with her leg. He closed his eyes and stopped resisting.

Lady Gretza leaned in with her soft, crimson lips and stroked his ear with them.

His breathing became erratic as she caressed him through the layers of their silk attire. In his mind, he knew how she used the burning brush of silk on nether regions to stimulate him.

As Laszlo gripped down hard, and released suddenly to allow himself a shuttering climax, the lady of the castle murmured suggestively, "But he won't be king for long – my lover – for you are destined to replace him."

He convulsed and panted helplessly as she drove him to release his seed with relentless stroking.

And in his shutting-down mind, he saw a floating vision her impossibly beautiful blue eyes, and he knew he both feared and loved this woman with every strand of his immortal soul. He loved her for good or ill.