To Train a Queen

When Count Casimir overthrew the King of Bartavia, and had Princess Christine and Lady Emily dragged off to the dungeon, the two girls’ troubles had only begun. Casimir planned to make himself the new King, and he would choose one of them as his Queen but only after training them to see which of the two 18 year old noble beauties could best sate his sadistic appetites.

~~~~~ PG Excerpt ~~~~~

The four soldiers advanced, carrying the two girls as effortlessly as if they were straw— stuffed effigies, until the hems of their skirts were brushing the toes of Casimir’s cavalry boots.  Although they were not related, they were often taken for sisters by strangers, so similar were their appearances.  Both girls were 18 years old, had delicate, straight noses, high cheeks, eyes that were almost shockingly blue, long, fine hair and attractive, curving forms beneath their dresses.

Emily was the daughter and heir of the Duke of Fernhill, the wealthiest, most powerful noble in Bartavia, and the King’s right hand and closest friend.  His wife had died when Emily was only five years old, and she thereafter spent most of her childhood in the household of the royal family with Princess Christine, being raised almost as though she was in truth a second daughter to the King and Queen.  The two girls became fast friends from the moment they first met, and now were inseparable.

Emily was taller, had hair of spun gold, and a shape that was more frankly womanly, while the shorter Christine had tresses the color of molten copper, and a more slender form, but one that was in no way less attractive.

“I trust you are in good health, Your Highness, My Lady,” Casimir said, bobbing his head amiably.

His words seemed to bring the dazed Princess Christine to life.  “How dare these men lay their hands on the daughters of the King and Duke Fernhill, Casimir?  Order them to release me at once… both of us!” she shouted.  Without waiting to see if he would obey this royal command, she continued, “Do not concern yourself with the state of  our health, villain. You would do better to consider your own.  Have you despaired of life that you would presume to place your low-born posterior on the Lion Throne of Bartavia?  You may count yourself fortunate if you are merely beheaded instead of being drawn and quartered as you deserve, after the King hears of it!”

The soldiers exchanged sidelong glances.  Count Casimir normally did not tolerate being harangued by anyone, especially a mere slip of girl half his age.  He had a short temper, a violent disposition, and he was no respecter of rank, age or sex when he believed there was an insult to be repaid.

But rather than striking the Princess dead with his mace, Count Casimir smiled.  That is, the corners of his mouth turned upwards to display the tips of his teeth, which technically constituted a smile, although it far more resembled the expression on the snout of a shark the instant before it rips a mouthful of flesh from its prey, than it did any normal human expression.

“Well, perhaps he will not hear of it,” he said easily.  “In sooth, I should be astonished if he did.”  He bent to reach over an arm of the throne, and plucked a stained burlap sack from the floor.  “It is said that dead men tell no tales, so by analogy, I must conclude that they cannot hear them, either.”

With this, he gripped the bottom of the bag and emptied its contents on the floor at the feet of the two girls.  They both screamed hysterically and frantically threw themselves backwards, away from the two gruesome objects now laid on the flagstone before them: the severed heads of the Prime Minister of Bartavia, Duke Robert of Fernhill, and his sovereign King Charles Gustav II of Harenburg.