The flushed face of Prince Laurent, bound to the cross with his legs straight out, his protuberant sex as hard as ever, stared straight up at Beauty. She saw his eyes wide and seemingly still, the mouth quivering on the thick leather that bound the head flat to the top of the beam, the bound legs shuddering with the cart's uneven movement.

The sight riveted her even more strongly than it had the night before, from this new perspective. She watched the slow progression of the cart and looked at the odd expression on the Prince's face, so devoid of panic. The roaring of the crowd was as bad as it had been at the auction. And as the cart turned round the well and back towards the Sign of the Inn now, Beauty saw the victim fully from the front and she winced at the welts and bands of reddened flesh that covered the insides of his legs, his chest, and his belly. Two whippings more he'd had and a third promised.

But an even more disturbing sight absorbed her as she realized that one of the six slaves harnessed to the cart was Tristan. He was passing directly beneath her again, and it was Tristan without mistake, his thick golden hair shimmering in the sun, his head pulled back by the bit in his mouth, his knees rising sharply. And streaming out from the cleft of his handsomely shaped rump was a sleek black horsetail. No one had to tell her what held it in place. It was the phallus inside him.

Beauty covered her face with her hands, but she felt the familiar secretion between her legs, the first clarion of the day's torments and raptures.

"Don't be so foolish," said Prince Roger. "The runaway Prince deserves it. Besides, his punishment hasn't even begun. The Queen has refused to see him and has sentenced him to four years in the village."

Beauty was thinking of Tristan. She felt his c**k inside her. And she felt a mad fascination in seeing him trussed and pulling the cart, and seeing that appalling tail dangling behind him. It confused her and made her feel she had betrayed him.

"Well, maybe that is what the runaway wanted," Beauty sighed, speaking of Laurent. "He was contrite enough last night, however."

"Or maybe it's what he thinks he wanted," said Roger. "He has the turntable now to suffer, then round through the village again, and the turntable again, before he's handed over to the Captain."

The procession circled the well another time, the drum causing Beauty's nerves almost to snap. Again she saw Tristan, marching almost proudly at the head of the team, and the sight of his genitals, and the weights hung on his ni**les, and his beautiful face pulled up by the leather bit caused a little torrent of passion inside her.

"Normally the soldiers march fore and aft," Prince Roger said as he picked up his broom again. "I wonder where they are today."

"Looking for mysterious raiders," she thought, but she didn't say it. Now that she had her chance alone with Roger to ask about these things, she was too enthralled by the procession.

"You're to go on down to the yard and rest on the grass," said the Prince.

"Rest again?"

"The Captain won't have you worked today. And tonight, he's hiring you out to Nicolas, the Queen's Chronicler."

"Tristan's Master!" Beauty whispered. "He's asked for me?"

"Paid for you in good coin of the realm," said Roger. He went on with his sweeping. "Go ahead down," he said to her.

And her heart pounding, she watched the procession move slowly into the broad lane that led back to the other end of the village.

TRISTAN AND BEAUTY

She couldn't wait until dark.

The hours dragged as she was bathed, combed, and oiled roughly but as thoroughly as she had ever been at the castle. Of course she might not see Tristan tonight. But she was going to the place where Tristan lodged! She could not quiet herself.

Finally darkness descended on the village.

And Prince Richard, "the good little boy," she thought, with a smile, was ordered to take her to Nicolas, the Chronicler.

The Inn was strangely empty, though all else in the deepening twilight seemed regular. Lights flickered in the pretty little windows along the narrow lanes; the spring air was fragrant and sweet. Prince Richard let her march fairly slowly, only now and then telling her to show a little more spirit, or they both would be whipped. He walked behind her with the strap, only occasionally licking her.

She could see wives and husbands at table through low windows, naked slaves rising from their knees in quick darting motions to set plates or pitchers before them. Slaves bound to the walls moaned and pumped vainly.

"But something is different," she said as they came into a broader street, full of fine houses, almost every iron bracket with its manacled slave hanging beside the door, some tightly bound and gagged, others in quiet obedience.

"No soldiers," Richard said under his breath. "And please be quiet. You're not supposed to talk. We'll both finish at the Punishment Shop."

"But where are they?" Beauty asked.

"Do you want a licking?" he threatened. "They're all out searching the coast and the forest for some imagined raiding party. I don't know what it means, but don't breathe a word. It's a secret."

But they had come to Nicolas's door. Richard was leaving her. A maid greeted Beauty and ordered her down on her hands and knees. And in a frenzy of anticipation, Beauty was led right through a fine little house and down a narrow side corridor. A door was opened for her, and the maid bid her go in and closed the door behind her.

Beauty could scarcely believe her eyes when she looked up and saw Tristan before her. He reached out with both hands and lifted her to her feet. Beside him stood the tall figure of his Master, Nicolas, whom Beauty remembered well enough from the auction.

Her face was crimson when she looked at the man, because both she and Tristan were standing and embracing each other.

"Calm yourself, Princess," he said in an almost caressing voice. "You may remain as long as you like with my slave, and in this room you are free to be with each other as you please. You will return to your regular servitude when you leave me."

"O, my Lord," Beauty whispered, and dropped to her knees to kiss his boots.

He allowed this courtesy, and then left them both. And Beauty rose and flew into Tristan's arms, Tristan's mouth opening to devour her kisses ravenously.

"Sweet little one, beautiful little one," Tristan said, his lips feeding upon her throat and her face, his organ pushing against her naked belly.

His body seemed almost polished in the dim light of the candles, his golden hair lustrous. She looked up into those beautiful violet-blue eyes and rose on tiptoe to mount him as she had done in the slave cart.