The Circassian (closed)

Marcel gave chase, knowing that time was on his side even if distance was not. The horse Marcel rode was accustomed to having far more weight on it than it carried at the moment; whereas, the horse that was carrying Katirah away would not be accustomed to having two riders.

Marcel inexorably closed the distance until he was close enough to slash at the man who ducked under the tip of the sword.

Swords flashed and clanged as they rode on, the bandit smiling less with each exchange as Marcel beat him down again and again. Seizing an opening, Marcel flicked his wrist, causing the bandits sword to fly up in the air. Shock was replaced by horror, as Marcel's sword flashed again, removing the bandit's neck, spraying blood all over Katirah's naked body.

Grabbing the reins of the other horse. Marcel stopped both horses and pulled Katirah off her horse into his arms. Looking her over he saw no serious injuries and asked, "How did he find you so quickly?"
 
Katirah's ears were ringing from the blow to her head and the jostling from the wild horseback ride. She buried her face in the Comte's chest. She collected herself and looked up at him and winced. She put a hand to her head.

"He went to The Comte's tent because he thought it looked richly appointed. He thought to steal whatever he could find." She wiped tears and blood from her cheek. "He found me instead and thought I was a better prize. I had my Comte's dagger...I tried to stop him." She leaned heavily against his chest and closed her eyes. She felt woozy.

((I don't think she has anything as serious as a concussion, just a little shaken up. Literally.))
 
Marcel almost breathed a sigh of relief as Katirah leaned in against him. Looking down at the dead bandit Marcel saw the pommel of his dagger protruding from the man's belt.

"My dagger..." he said voice trailing off.

His mind replayed the night before and then he asked, "Wasn't my dagger across the tent from where I left you?"
 
"Not _so_ far across the tent. And with your abandoned clothes. I thought to dress and arm myself--just in case. Then I heard someone outside the tent. I defended myself as best I could, but--My head pounds where he struck me."

Katirah did not want to talk. She wanted to lie down. To drink tea. To have a proper bath. She shivered in the morning air.

((Oh my, she's done it again, hasn't she? She really doesn't follow orders very well. I think life with the pasha and in the harem was far too lax.))
 
Marcel's eyes narrowed as he hissed, "You willful disobedient slave." The shock on Katirah's face gave him no pause at all as he continued, "Do you think I give orders to hear my own voice?"

His face began to flush, eyes widened, as he yelled, "You THOUGHT?! I gave you an ORDER TO HIDE!!"

His face was completely red by the time, " Today you will learn to obey!"

He turned to his horse and mounted then grabbed the reins of the extra horse.

"You will walk back to the camp as you are. Once there you will put on shoes or boots, nothing more, and walk with the rest of the slaves."

He eyed her, his face contorted as he said, "You will stay with the slaves, naked, until which time I believe you have become obedient. Tonight you will feed the men."

Turning back toward the camp he uttered, "Now go, lead the way to camp."
 
"But..." Katirah began. Then the Comte exploded at her. She cowered back in surprise and fear. His loud yell made her head pound more. Her eyes grew wide when she heard his pronouncement for her. She opened her mouth to protest and close it again. She thought to kneel in the dirt and kiss his foot and beg forgiveness. But his mien was so fierce she held her tongue. There would be no speaking to him in this state.

She blinked tears from her eyes and walked in front of the Comte's horse. If the man wished to parade her around the camp, so be it. The men could look and gawk. She was not ashamed of her body. She drew herself up and sang a song to herself. It gave cadence to her walk and an extra sway to her hips. It took her mind off her pounding head.

The camp seemed further away than she had thought. The ground was rough, her feet were already protesting. The sharp stones bruised and cut. her feet would be bloody by the time they returned to camp. Katirah huffed to herself. What difference did that make to the Comte. He preferred her on her back anyway.

She walked on trying to avoid the worst of the stones. She would have Samara wash her feet and put on soft socks. There would be time for her to rest before serving the midday meal. That was if they were staying in this spot. If they were moving on, she could rest until they stopped in the evening. She would not ask the Comte what the caravan would be doing. Perhaps his temper would cool as he rode behind her watching her bottom as she walked.
 
Marcel rode behind Katirah, allowing her to pick and choose her steps, an effort to preserve her feet from damage. A fruitless one at that.

It took much longer to get back to the camp than it had to chase down the bandit. It gave him time to reflect; time that convinced him that this course of action was indeed the correct one.

Katirah had to learn to obey, and that obedience training would begin in earnest now. Even in her naked state, men staring at her like slack jawed teenagers, she held her head proudly.

A pride that was both infuriating and endearing.

A pride that needed to be held in check more than it was currently.

He saw Samara heading their way and he stopped her with a look. "You will attend to my needs Samara; Katirah will take care of herself."
 
Katirah's feet hurt with very step. They more than hurt. It was like walking on broken glass by the time they were back at the camp. her head pounded, she was thirsty and hungry. She struggled mightily to keep from crying. She tried to distract herself by thinking of the many ways in which she could kill the Comte. She was so hurt and angry.

The women she passed looked at her with disgust. The men ogled and leered or just stared, spellbound. She straightened her posture again. If this was what the Comte wanted--to parade her naked before these unwashed men who could never dare to dream of seeing someone like her, then so be it. She had thought he wanted to keep her all to himself, but clearly he did not.

What if she had stayed under the furs. The bandit might have slain her without even looking to see who was under the furs. Or he may have pulled the furs off her and taken her as he had done.

Her face brightened a little when she saw Samara. Katirah would have her fix tea and see to her feet and the Comte would tell her all was well and she could stay in her wagon.

The the Comte spoke. His voice was firm. Katirah's heart sank and she nearly folded onto the ground in tears. She fiercely wiped her tears away. her feet would be ruined and she would never be able to dance again and it would be all the Comte's fault. She hoped he would be happy when she was a cripple. Her worth had probably dropped by half because of this. Her anger kept her upright and banished her tears.

Samara looked from the Comte to Katirah and back again. "As the Comte wishes." She made a bow. "Does the Comte wish something now?"

Katirah headed for her wagon to attend to her feet--without Samara's help.

((I guess I'll pause here and have Katirah deal with her injured feet in my next post. Also, if she's walking naked in the hot sun, she is gonna get one helluva sunburn, but I'm going to assume she has some sort of ointment she) can put on to protect her skin at least a little. I do have some plans for the walking she needs to do with the other slaves if the Comte doesn't have a turn of heart. Tough Katirah is wishing a turn of ankle on his right now.))
 
Marcel sat for a brief second before responding to Samara. "Yes. Find Katirah a dress like what you wear, and shoes as well."

Marcel rode forward until he pulled even to Katirah, "You ars to enjoy none of the privileges you had until you have learned your lesson."

Without waiting for a response, the Comte spurred his horse forward to see to the dead and injured. Though there was only one fatality, nearly every man was injured in some way. Seeing Henri, Marcel walked over and grimaced inwardly at Henri's injury.

A sword had sliced down his face barely missing his right eye, leaving an angery red slash that ran to his jaw line. It would leave an ugly scar.

"I think your wife will not forgive me, your injury," Marcel said.

Henri laughed a slightly derisive snort as he responded, "She always did want a warrior husband."

Marcel smiled and asked, "She likes her men all scarred up? Why didn't you say so, I would have accomodated that years ago."

"How many deaths?" Henri asked, changing the subject abruptly.

"None yet. There are some that have lost arm or legs, two that have been scewered by spears. The two scewered I worry about, the rest will live as long as they take care, I think."

"My, Comte?" Henri asked.

Marcel suppressed the groan that threatened to escape him. Whenever Henri addressed him so formally, there was soon to be a question that Marcel would not like.

"Yes?"

"Is she worth the effort and deaths we will suffer on the way home?"
 
Samara thought the Comte would ask for food, but he must have other business to attend to. Many people had been attacked in the raid.

Samara did not understand why the Comte would want Katirah to dress like a lesser slave. Perhaps he meant to protect her by having her not look so special. But surely a woman like Katirah could shine like a ruby even when covered in blood and dust. Samara had seen her return to the camp walking naked, regal like the Queen of Sheba. It was not for her to question.

"As the Comte wishes." Samara said. She bowed and went to Katirah's wagon. Katirah herself must have something to wear that was old and unadorned, and old shoes as well. Slaves rarely had any clothing to spare and never more than one pair of shoes. She took the long way round to get to the wagon and spoke to some slaves on the way to confirm her thoughts. She did not want the Comte to think she was waiting on Katirah.

Marcel rode forward until he pulled even to Katirah, "You are to enjoy none of the privileges you had until you have learned your lesson."

Katirah could see her wagon and her only thoughts were of the interior where she could wash and tend her feet. She glanced at the Comte briefly and looked down to keep him from seeing the fire in her eyes. The act of subservience may even soften his heart.

She wanted to scream at him. She was an almeh of great price and the Comte had damaged her. Even he had said he could not find a replacement to give the baron in her stead. And what of the Baron? She had kept thoughts of the Comte's lord at bay so she would not have to think about parting from the Comte. But now...what would the Baron say when Katirah told him of her treatment? She wished to see the Comte flogged so that his back was as ruined as her feet.

"As the Comte wishes." She mumbled to his retreating back.

Katirah climbed into her wagon hissing in breath at the pain. She laid on her pillows and cried for many minutes. She did not have the energy yet to wash.

Finally she sat up. Samara had a fire in the brazier and there was water in the tea pot. Katirah made herself the special tea to prevent the Comte's seed from taking hold and getting her with child. Then she set the basin on the brazier to heat water for her to wash.

Katirah did not secure the tent flap, what matter now if she was to walk naked with the slaves? Anyone who cared to could come and get their fill of her. She wondered briefly if the Comte would make good on a previous threat and let his men have her. She shuddered at the idea. The Comte seemed far too possessive to allow that, she was sure of it.

The water was warm enough. Katirah washed the caked dirt and blood from her face. her back had gotten the worst of it when the Comte killed the bandit. Without Samara to help, she would have to do the best she could.

Katirah was staring into space washing her legs, saving her feet to the end, when Samara came in. She looked at the girl. "The Comte said you are to attend him, not me. Go before he decides to punish you as well."

"The Comte bid me fetch a dress and shoes more fitting for someone like me and give them to you." Samara said. "Of course, no slave has anything to spare...I thought you might have something--"

"The clothes I have been wearing are the simplest I have. I did not want to ruin my best clothes on this journey."

Samara tied the tent flaps shut. She took the wash cloth from Katirah and gently set about washing her foot. She paused sometimes to make sure all the grit was out of a cut. It made Katirah cry but she knew it had to be done.

Katirah wiped tears away with her hand. Her eyes would be swollen and red to match her feet. "Then you shall wear one of my dresses and I shall wear yours. In fact, choose more than one. For your kindness. The same with shoes. I think we are of a size."

Samara slid over to the chest that contained Katirah's oils and balms, shampoos and perfumes. She chose one that would soothe and help heal the woman's feet. She daubed it on gently. Katirah pulled her foot away more than once with a whimper.

Samara was about to put the ointment away and get gauze to wrap Katirah's feet when Katirah stopped her. "I know many were hurt in the attack. Please take this jar and the other and bring it to the Comte for those injured. I have more, but it is packed away in th storage wagon and I cannot get to it while we are on the move. her own feet were feeling much better, but she did not think it would last once she had to walk again.

Katirah put on thick socks over her bandaged feet. "You should give me your shoes and take off your dress. Am I to wear the dress now? The Comte told me I was to walk naked. And serve the men dinner tonight. He said I have to learn my lesson." Katirah sounded like a sulky child.

"He cannot mean that, can he? He worries that the bandits will abduct you, but what of all the men of the caravan. After seeing you like this, all of them will covet you." Samara said. It was not her place to understand the Comte's motivations. "I will leave my dress here for you. He must mean for you to wear it at some point soon, else why tell me to fetch one?" She slipped off her shoes. They were sturdy leather.

Katirah put on the shoes wincing a little. She sighed. "I must go take my place with the slaves." She opened the tent flap. "My skin will be as ruined as my feet. Perhaps you could find out if the Comte still intends for me to walk naked... Do not court his anger, I would not have you join me in my punishment." She gave Samara a quick kiss on the cheek. "Also, the Comte did not like his dinner last night, if you could find something more palatable for him from one of the merchant's perhaps it would soften his mood."

Katirah left the wagon and asked the nearest guard where the closest group of slaves were. He looked her up and down for a long time before pointing the way behind him.

Samara left soon after with the jars of ointment and went in seach of the Comte.
 
Marcel was talking to one of the more grieviously wounded soldiers when he saw Samara coming toward him carrying one of Katirah's pots.

Samara looked uncomfortable wearing Katirah's outfit and despite his general displeasure smiled at the young woman encouragingly.

"Katirah asked that I bring this over for the wounded men."

Marcel nodded and said, "Take it to the leecher, he should be able to use it."

Marcel turned back to the young knight and paused, seein Samara had not yet begun to leave. "Is there something else?"

"A thousand pardons, Comte, but is Katirah supposed to wear the dress I gave her or is she supposed to walk the day naked?" Not seeing any immediate negative reaction from the Comte she hurriedly said, "Her skin is so fair, sir, that surely the sun would ruin her by the end of the day."

Marcel laughed and asked, "Forever her servant, eh?"

He looked over at a large group of slaves and could see how the males were leering at her. Katirah's discomfort at such an emboldened audience was clear, even at this distance. "She may wear only the dress you gave her," Marcel said.

Before he could say anything else, or change his mind, Samara took off, pot clutched in her hands.
 
Marcel laughed and asked, "Forever her servant, eh?"

Samara bowed in agreement. "Katirah has been very kind to me." She bowed again and dashed off to deliver the ointment and take the dress to Katirah.

Samara took the containers of ointment to the leech. He looked at the woman who was taking him away from the wounded. "Effendi, I have ointment to soothe and help heal wounds. Not for very bad wounds, but it will help. The ointment is from Katirah, the Comte's slave." Samara said. She handed the pots to the man and dashed off.

Katirah's feet were tender, but the ointment and socks helped protect them. It was hard to walk like a queen when her feet hurt. The male slaves leered at her. One was so bold as to grab her bottom and squeeze. "Don't _touch_ me!" She pulled away from him and hitched a breath at the pain in her feet. "The Comte will hear of it if anyone touches me."

"The Comte does not seem to care since you are walking here with all your wares on view." The large slave said to her. He leered again.

The female slaves sneered at her, happy to see one of her stature brought low.

"Enough talking, save your energy." A slavemaster said. "We have distance to cover today." He put his hand on the whip at his belt.

Samara ran to Katirah carrying the dress. "The Comte says you may wear this to protect your skin."

"The Comte is very kind." Katirah said sarcastically. She took the dress from Samara which was just a simple cotton chemise. She pulled it over her head and adjusted the neckline pulling the drawstring. "Thank you, Samara. I hope I will see you later."

Katirah watched Samara go back to her duties then moved along when the slave master gave her a stern look.

--

After some time, Katirah knew her feet were bleeding again, at least some of the cuts had rubbed open. The hot sun had started her head pounding again. She went to the slave master, a limp evident in her normally graceful walk. "May I have water, effendi?" She asked. "I have not has anything but tea and no food earlier."

The man looked at her. "You will eat and drink when the rest of the slaves do. Which will be when the caravan stops for the night."

"But, effendi, I cannot wait that long. The sun... and no food. I shall be sick." She told him. How dare this man? What good were slaves who were half-starved and sick? He only looked harshly at her. "As the effendi wishes."

She went back to walking, limping really, and she was slowing down. She wished to be out of the sun. She wished to eat and drink. She wished to rest. She tried to keep to the shade, but it was not always possible as wagons rolled by and the sun moved overhead. She could not keep pace with the wagons even if she wanted to. She had to stay with the slaves.

Katirah She stumbled and cursed at the pain. Her face was hot. She was sure to be as red as a poppy in a mandarin's garden. She walked on limping very badly now. With great effort she went to the slavemaster. "Effendi, please. I need water." She put a hand to her pounding head. Then she collapsed.

((If I've moved this along to fast, or if oyu have other ideas, let me know and I'll edit. I just thought a spoiled slave would be able to handle a day in the hot sun.))
 
It was mid afternoon when Marcel heard about Katirah's collapse while walking. It hadn't come from the master of slaves, but instead one of the squires had seen it, and reported it to his knight who in turn brought it to Marcel's attention.

"Send for the master of slaves," was Marcel's only reply.

When the portly man arrived, he said, "Yes, effendi?"

Marcel replied by smashing the man's nose into his face with a punch from his mailed hand. "I am not your friend."

Blood streaked from his nostrils as he said, "Of course, Comte, no offense was intended."

"Offense was taken," Marcel replied curtly. "You will do well to remember your place, which seems to be a common thread for your people."

The man bowed, and said, "Yes, Comte."

"What happened to her?" Marcel asked.

"She collapsed, Comte. I think she is acting overly much."

"Have you been allowing the slaves to drink as they walk? The days are indeed hot."

"No, Comte. That would slow them down overly much."

"Having them collapse is faster?" Marcel asked, sarcasm dripping from his question.

Fear crossed the man's face as he replied, "No, Comte."

"No," Marcel echoed. "Know this, if she dies while in your charge, so will you."

The portly master of slaves paled noticeably at the threat and began to blubber something when he was cut off by the Comte, "For that matter if any slave dies while under your charge, I will have your life in payment. So treat them well, Master of Slaves, or I will replace you."
 
Katirah was roused when someone put a water soaked cloth to her mouth. Her lips were dry from the sun. She should have thought to put carmine on them. Her eyelids fluttered open.

One of the slavegirls propped her up so she could drink from a cup. Another was changing the bandages on her feet.

"We did not know who you were until the slave master returned. He was most upset, frightened even." the girl whispered. "We were all given a water when he returned."

The girls left Katirah to rest and drink more water. One of the slave master's guards came to tell her to walk again. But he assured her they would be stopping for the night again very soon. He helped her out of the wagon. It was one with fodder for the horses.

Katirah brushed the dirt from her as best she could. She wondered if the Comte would let Samara attend her when she was back at her own wagon. But no. She remembered she was supposed to serve the men dinner. Naked. She shoulders slumped. She was accustomed to dancing for a cery long time, the pashas parties could go on for days, she would sometimes dance for hours and hours with other almehs. But there was a technique to it. One dancer would always lead while the others were little more than background. When she began to tire, another would step up to lead the dance. The movements and positions of the arms took little energy to maintain. But this! Walking in the hot sun. One foot in front of the other. She was angry at the Comte again.

The slaves received more water before they finally stopped to set up camp. One of the Comte's men came to escort Katirah back to her wagon. She wished he could carry her.

She climbed into her wagon and closed the flap. She just lay in the soft coolness for awhile. She would cry, but she had no tears. She finally sat up and, one thousand blessings on Samara, saw there was water for drinking and washing, food, fresh bandages laid out, and lotions for her skin. She picked up her miror and looked at her face, red from the sun. Her neck and chest were red and the line of her dress was well defined on her skin.

She stripped off the dress and slowly washed. She slathered the lotion on her face and all of her skin, paying close attention to the areas not protected by the dress. She could not imagine if she had to remain naked for the entire day.

She ate some fruit and drank more water. She removed the bandaged from her poor ravaged feet. Samara had also gotten more of the ointment for her.

Katirah could smell the evening meal being prepared. She had lingered long enough. She did not want the Comte angered further.

She stepped out of her wagon, naked but for her socks and shoes. She asked a soldier for directions to the food wagon.

"I am to serve the Comte's men tonight." She told the chief cook.

"So I've been told. Lucky men to be served by the likes of you. But I doubt food will be on their minds." He leered at her. "The stew isn't ready yet. Take the wine and bread. This one," he jerked his head toward a slave girl, "will help."

Katirah picked up a large jug of wine and put it on her head. She smiled a little. She could dance standing on goblets while balancing such a just on her head. Her feet would not be able to do so now. The other girl took the basket of bread. The two walked to where the men were assembling around a fire. The group went quiet when they noticed Katirah. Then someone broke the silence.

"Girl! Here! Bring me some wine!" He made no effort to hide it as he looked over her ripe body.
 
Marcel watched Katirah closely as she approached the fire carrying the wine. Her limp was noticeable, but she no longer bled with each step. For the span of a heartbeat he felt somewhat sorry for her, then squashed. He firmly believed she brought her travails upon herself.

He was happy that Katirah looked strong, despite her trying day. It would be devastating to him if he lost her.

The sun had burned her slightly, giving her skin a blush of color he found attractive.
 
Katirah had not noticed that the Comte was at the fire already. She was busy filling tankards and blocking out the ribald comments about her breasts, her backside and most of all her hairless mound. Apparently women of the west were content to be as hairy as monkeys.

"What say you dance for me tonight and I carry you off to the nearest tent?" A soldier said as she filled his cup. Her cheeks burned in embarrassing thinking about the night before. How much had changed between the Comte and her since then. The solder laughed loudly and tried to grope her as she passed by. She moved out of his way not nearly as gracefully as she would normally have done. She limped to the next man.

She finally saw the Comte and wondered how long he had been there. She skipped some of the men to serve him. The jug would be empty soon.

She leaned forward to fill his proffered cup. Her breasts hung like two bunches of grapes. She would not meet his eyes but kept them on her work. She was afraid if she looked at him he would see the anger and hurt she currently felt toward him.

She turned to fill the cup of the man on the Comte's right. It was Henri. She saw the wound on his face and her stomach clenched. It looked to be stitched to keep it together. He should use her ointment if the chirgeon had not given him any. The wound looked red and painful.
 
Marcel watched Katirah's face as she looked at Henri. He stood while the shock slowly faded and said, "Unless you learn to listen and obey, fates worse than what you have suffered today await you."

Turning on his heel without waiting for a comment Marcel left to inspect the defenses.
 
Katirah's eyes flashed anger at the Comte's retreating back. She filled Henri's cup. "If the chirgeon did not use an ointment on the effendi's scar--from a blue earthen jar, please let me know and I will bring one to you, or have someone bring it... I gave some to the chirgeon. It helps wounds heal and the scars are not _so_ bad." She ignored the man next to Henri waiting for his tankard to be filled. "I brought many jars with me. I have used it on my feet, but even so, it will be a long time before I am able to dance again." If I am able to dance again. Katirah catastrophized her situation, but she had never suffered more than some beatings with a flail of silk, the fabric had net even been knotted. Having never suffered a real injury, she had no idea how long the healing process might take or what the long-term effects might be.

Katirah looked in the direction the Comte had taken. She wondered briefly if she was to sleep with the other slaves tonight as well and walk with them again in the morning. "I am sorry." She said to Henri as if she were the cause of his wound before moving to the next man and emptying her jug.
 
Marcel completed his inspection of the guards moving them further away from the camp, giving the camp more lead time if bandits did indeed return.

Coming back to the camp proper, Marcel was notified that one of the men who had been speared in the stomach had died, and the other was hanging on, but his future did not appear bright.

Returning to his tent, Marcel poured a drink for himself and the dead knight. Toasting the knights memory, Marcel drank onr goblet while pouring the other out.
 
Katirah limped back to the food wagon to refill her jug. One of the cooks to the opportunity to brush by her and grab her between the legs from behind. She squealed and splashed some wine on the ground causing the head cook to verbally abuse her for being so clumsy while the other man walked off looking innocent. Katirah gritted her teeth and said nothing.

"Katirah!" Samara came to her carrying a tajin, a fired clay pot with a lid used for slow cooking many dishes including stews. Katirah could smell the savory spices and her mouth watered. She wondered when she would be allowed to eat.

"You asked me to find something more palatable for the Comte to eat." Samara said, "I have this. I am sure it will suit him better than last night's fare."

Katirah nodded her thanks. "Will you bring it to him? he left the fire. I do not know where he is."

"I am bringing food to another group of soldiers. I thought you would...?"

"Yes. Thank you for bringing it. Perhaps it would turn the Comte's mood." She balanced the wine just on her head with one hand and took the tajin from Samara with the other holding it against her hip as women do. "I do not know where I am to sleep tonight. Please avail yourself of the comforts of my wagon--someone should." She looked weary. She gave her friend a wan smile. "I must go."

Samara shook her head. The Comte had taken the songs from Katirah's heart. She watched Katirah limp away.

Katirah returned to the campfire and looked for the Comte. She placed the tajin where he had been sitting. "Effendi, this is for the Comte, should he return. Or I will bring it to him once I have served the wine." She refilled Henri's cup. Other slaves were busy handing out bowls of the same gruel that had been the evening meal the night before.

Katirah limped to the next soldier and filled his cup her face stony in the face of his openly lewd comments. At least he did not touch her.
 
Henri looked at the pot tyen at Katirah, "I don't think he will return ti the fire tonight."

Henri could see the hurt and confusion on Katirah's face, and continued, "When he fails to protect us, he beats himself up over it. Regardless of ultimate outcome, he thinks, feels, that he failed us all."
 
Katirah thought it was the soldiers who failed to protect them not the Comte. But he was their leader and so the responsibility fell to him.

"I will take it to the Comte when I have finished serving this wine."

She went around the circle of firelight refilling tankards. The men were louder and bolder. She doubted they were actually drunk, she did not think the Comte would allow it, but many seemed determined to make light of things in the aftermath of the attack. They used the darkness and flickering fire to surprise with their groping hands and fingers. They enjoyed taunting her about the night before saying they could hear her screams from one end of the caravan to the other. One was even bold enough to tell her he was even bigger than the Comte and made as if to show her. She limped away quickly back to Henri.

"I leave this with you." She set the jug down and picked up the tajin. "I would rather be damned for bringing the Comte food than stay and listen to this and be damned for letting the Comte go hungry." She paused, "Get the ointment for your face from the chirgeon or if not, tell Samara and she will fetch some for you."

Katirah turned and walked to the Comte's tent. She had to ask directions once early on, but she remembered the way from their leisurely walk the night before. It was not long before she came to the Comte's tent. She went to the opening and cleared her throat. She should have had some of the wine herself, her throat was dry as dust.

"Sir?" She said at the entry. Katirah felt nervous. She did not wish to bring more of the Comte's anger down on her. He had not forbade her to bring him food. But she was not sure now that she was here, if he would take out his anger on her further. Some men were known to take their anger at themselves out on those around them.
 
Marcel could hear the taunting ribald commentary directed at Katirah and made mental notes whom he would have to talk to once Katirah righted herself again. He wondered briefly if any of them would be bold, and stupid, enough to try and take her for a night.

He was still contemplating that, and sorting out what his reactions would be when he heard her enter the tent. His eyes roamed over her body, ravishing it. He noticed the clay pot in her hands and dismissed it almost immediately. "What have you learned today, Katirah," he asked.
 
((Posting from phone, excuse typos.))

-That my comte would ruin my worth simply to prove a point.- "i have learned that the life of a common slave is one of misery, sad and harsh." katirah said still keeping her eyes down. She shifted her weight. there was no comfortable way for her to stand. both of her feet were tender, but her right foot hurt more than the left so she favored it.

katirah was wearing her hair down. she did not have the time that morning to put it up. that and it gave her a small feeling of privacy since it was long enouugh to offer some cover for her beasts and she could hide her face behind her curtan of hair when she chose.

she wondered if her place would be restored or if she would have to continue her life as a coommon slave. she did not dare ask. she could not tell the comte's mood from his tone and she dare not look at him lest he see the traces of anger and hurt she carried with her.

The night air was getting colder. a breeze raised gooseflesh on katirah's bare skin. her nipples hardened in response almost painfully. she wished to be near the warmth of the camp fire, or moving in some way to keep warm. standing still made her notice the chill air all the more. she berated herself not for the first time, for not stying hidden in the furs. but zurely the bandit would have discovered anyway. would the comte have blamed her for that as well? she wished he would have whipped her with the slken whip in her box and have down with this. how long would this punishment go on?
 
Last edited:
Marcel snorted at Katirah's initial response, and replied, "You should have know that already. It seems another day, at least, as a common slave is in order."

He walked around her, looking at her carefully making sure that she had not suffered any permanent injury. Nodding in satisfaction, he said, "Show me your feet."
 
Back
Top