base of solid rock, commanding an uncluttered sweep of somnolent Elysium below, surrounded by a huge moat where ivory swans sailed during the day, there was nothing in the tranquil façade of this magnificent pile to indicate that anything untoward or cruel ever occurred inside its prodigious bulk. Most of the tall arched windows were dark at this late hour. But even the few that remained torchlit suggested an impregnable haven of peace and rest.
In reality, deep within the sweating stone bowels of the castle, where there was always more darkness than light, manmade horrors were manufactured all the time, even as they transpired now, belying the citadel’s outward appearance of cozy bonhomie.
The whisper of diaphanous veils, a whiff of perfume, and the sight of curvaceous flesh was rare in this part of the castle. But the exotically beautiful harem girl who sinuously moved through it now seldom had cause to come here.
Elizabeth hated descending the spiraling stone steps to the gloomy dungeons below the castle’s upstairs opulence. They were scary and crawly with roaches and rats. Besides, ever since she was a little girl and had been given by her parents to the harem-mistress she had been a concubine, not a common slave girl. Which was why she so resented bearing a silver tray of carafes and ornate goblets of wine to the dungeons tonight. The girl regularly assigned to these menial duties was sick and she had been snared into substituting. That was why she wore veils and hardly anything more underneath, rather than the boring robes the ordinary slave girls wore. The only gratification Elizabeth received from these rare occasions when she visited the dungeons was the pleasure of seeing lust in the eyes of the guards when they saw her. If she was in a generous mood, Elizabeth might even let one of the guards cup one of her ample breasts or run a finger on the outside of her bushy cleft.
As she descended lower into the bowels of the castle Elizabeth tried to stop her ears to the moans and sporadic screams of the prisoners in the numerous cells. Poor dears. King Cromwell was bestially cruel, that was for sure. And he carried his taste for pain with him into the harem in the form of a short mean whip. But what could a poor girl like her do but submit to anything he desired of her, along with praying that the rebels would one day eject Cromwell from the throne?
As Elizabeth approached the huge iron door that led to the torture chamber, two thoughts flashed through her mind; the prisoner inside had to be very important indeed for the king himself to visit him at this late hour—and who could he be?
She raised the knocker and banged three times, metal on metal resounding throughout the dungeons. The door creaked open and Victor, the rough but well-endowed guard, ushered her inside, winking as she slid into the musty gloom.
A single bowl of fire on a mossy block of stone was the only light in the shadowy torture chamber. But there was no mistaking the king in his royal red cape, gold breastplate and hair like yellow wool. Nor did she have to strain her eyes to recognize the terrifying presence of Verdugo, the Royal Torturer; his large shaved head and massive bare arms and bare chest under a short leather vest often appeared in her worst nightmares. But who was the wretched young man strapped on two wooden crosspieces, his beautiful chest glistening with sweat and smears of blood and bruises, his brown soulful eyes mirroring hideous tortures just lived through?
“So, Prince Mikah,” Cromwell jeered the young man on the cross-rack, “are you ready now to tell me the whereabouts of Xusia?”
Elizabeth had to bite her lips to keep from gasping. Mikah! The leader of the uprising himself! The torturer and the sad prince watched Cromwell whisk one of the goblets off the tray and down the wine to its dregs in one lusty gulp. How she wished she could comfort Mikah’s parched lips with wine too!
Cromwell grabbed a second goblet
In reality, deep within the sweating stone bowels of the castle, where there was always more darkness than light, manmade horrors were manufactured all the time, even as they transpired now, belying the citadel’s outward appearance of cozy bonhomie.
The whisper of diaphanous veils, a whiff of perfume, and the sight of curvaceous flesh was rare in this part of the castle. But the exotically beautiful harem girl who sinuously moved through it now seldom had cause to come here.
Elizabeth hated descending the spiraling stone steps to the gloomy dungeons below the castle’s upstairs opulence. They were scary and crawly with roaches and rats. Besides, ever since she was a little girl and had been given by her parents to the harem-mistress she had been a concubine, not a common slave girl. Which was why she so resented bearing a silver tray of carafes and ornate goblets of wine to the dungeons tonight. The girl regularly assigned to these menial duties was sick and she had been snared into substituting. That was why she wore veils and hardly anything more underneath, rather than the boring robes the ordinary slave girls wore. The only gratification Elizabeth received from these rare occasions when she visited the dungeons was the pleasure of seeing lust in the eyes of the guards when they saw her. If she was in a generous mood, Elizabeth might even let one of the guards cup one of her ample breasts or run a finger on the outside of her bushy cleft.
As she descended lower into the bowels of the castle Elizabeth tried to stop her ears to the moans and sporadic screams of the prisoners in the numerous cells. Poor dears. King Cromwell was bestially cruel, that was for sure. And he carried his taste for pain with him into the harem in the form of a short mean whip. But what could a poor girl like her do but submit to anything he desired of her, along with praying that the rebels would one day eject Cromwell from the throne?
As Elizabeth approached the huge iron door that led to the torture chamber, two thoughts flashed through her mind; the prisoner inside had to be very important indeed for the king himself to visit him at this late hour—and who could he be?
She raised the knocker and banged three times, metal on metal resounding throughout the dungeons. The door creaked open and Victor, the rough but well-endowed guard, ushered her inside, winking as she slid into the musty gloom.
A single bowl of fire on a mossy block of stone was the only light in the shadowy torture chamber. But there was no mistaking the king in his royal red cape, gold breastplate and hair like yellow wool. Nor did she have to strain her eyes to recognize the terrifying presence of Verdugo, the Royal Torturer; his large shaved head and massive bare arms and bare chest under a short leather vest often appeared in her worst nightmares. But who was the wretched young man strapped on two wooden crosspieces, his beautiful chest glistening with sweat and smears of blood and bruises, his brown soulful eyes mirroring hideous tortures just lived through?
“So, Prince Mikah,” Cromwell jeered the young man on the cross-rack, “are you ready now to tell me the whereabouts of Xusia?”
Elizabeth had to bite her lips to keep from gasping. Mikah! The leader of the uprising himself! The torturer and the sad prince watched Cromwell whisk one of the goblets off the tray and down the wine to its dregs in one lusty gulp. How she wished she could comfort Mikah’s parched lips with wine too!
Cromwell grabbed a second goblet
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