Tales From The Golden Feather, Pt. 10

THE LADY'S TALE

The Golden Feather's common room was busy that morning. The snow had not yet fully melted, but had eroded into a watery slush that would surely prove no impediment to travel, and we were all eager to get on with our various journeys. We had all brought down our various bags, parcels, and packages, piling them here and there in the room; it looked as if an entire caravan had dropped its burdens there. The soldier and the Harper came in from the stables, where they had been checking their horses, and wiped clinging mud from their boots. The physician and the summoner were discussing the roads onward, for they shared a destination. All about me, my comrades, the now-liberated prisoners of the Golden Feather, were making their farewells to each other. It was a somewhat melancholy feeling to part with those one had shared so much with, but it was also exciting to be moving on. All that kept us at the inn was the prospect of the final story we had been promised, the one to be told by the demure young lady who had sat so quietly at the end of the table for these nine days past.

Some, though, had other things on their mind as well. Near me, the soldier was now speaking to the Webster, and I caught some of his words: " -- figure out just who was making that laughing in the night."

"What does it matter?" the Webster asked with a toss of her head. "You know that it was some of us. You even have a good idea of who it might be." Her gaze traveled to the Harper and the forester, then moved on to myself and our hostess, and finally fell on the physician. The soldier followed her eye, but shook his head.

"It's not that," he said. "All of you are welcome to do what you like, but the laughter started the very night we arrived here, did it not? Right after our hostess told the first tale. And I'm fairly sure that none of you were -- uh, together -- until at least a day or two later."

Our hostess joined the conversation with a snort. "What, so no one would have snuck into anyone else's room until they were better acquainted? As a woman who has spent her life working in an inn, I can tell you stranger things have happened."

The soldier shrugged, then scowled. "Something just doesn't fit. It bothers me. That's all. I'm not a moralist like the summoner, but I do like having answers."

Further argument was rendered unnecessary by the sound of a soft footstep on the stairs. Every eye in the place turned to the staircase -- and every mouth fell open in amazement as the young lady came into view. Gone was the delicate, demure young thing who I had thought might be a noblewoman traveling anonymously. Now she was taller, her shoulders broader, her hair that had been elaborately coifed bound in a simple braid with rawhide bands. Her clothes -- boots, breeches, jerkin – were all severely plain and had seen much hard wear. So had the massive sword and wicked, curved dagger she bore on her hips.

She smiled at our astonishment. "The time for my guise is long past. And I know my identity is no mystery to some of you." She looked over at the forester. "You know my name, do you not?"

The forester's stare was flat and unreadable. "Yes. You are -- " And he spoke a name that made us all gasp. It seemed incredible that the quiet woman we had known had been the one responsible for so many dark and fantastic feats. We all knew the tales associated with that name: how she had turned the Forest of ------ into a nearly impregnable fortress where even the King's law trod warily, how entire companies of brigands, bandits, and thieves paid her allegiance, how she had raided the town of ------- and carried off the burghers' entire treasury, how she had stripped the Abbot of ------ of all his gold, jewels, and furs and sent him stumbling naked back to his monastery, and more. Most of all, I thought of how every nobleman, headhunter, and bailiff who had ridden forth to bring her to justice had never been seen again. To judge from the grim scowl on the soldier's face and the way his hand twitched near his own weapon, I was not the only one thinking along those lines.

She noticed it, too. "Draw on me and you will regret it," she said pleasantly. "I admit that I had originally come here in hopes of finding a few fat pigeons to rob -- and some of you do seem to have more wealth than is good for you. But after all these days in your company, I know you for decent, honest folk, and I only make war on the corrupt and the greedy. You are all under my protection, and I give you my word that no one in the Forest will dare interfere with you. You may travel on in peace."

"The word of honor of a murderer," the summoner muttered.

"I care nothing for what you think of me," the lady -- the outlaw queen -- said. "But I have given you my promise that you are safe, and I will keep it. The only thing further I owe you is a story, and I will tell that to you now." And she began as we slowly sat down in our familiar positions around the table.

***

Likely you all know of the "right of first night" -- the ancient law by which the nobility may claim the deflowering of any just-married virginal women among their tenants. In these more enlightened times, few noblemen are arrogant enough -- or sufficiently blind to the risk of peasant revolts -- to actually make use of this law. On most estates it is simply forgotten; on some, the lord merely puts his leg in the marriage bed, declares his honor satisfied, and leaves the wedding couple to their pleasures. One such place was the estate I speak of; the lord of the land was the Count of ------. Even the leg in the bed was beyond him then, though, for he had sunk far into his dotage and was so bent with age that he would be unable to raise his leg far enough, even had he been able to remember his duties. The actual administration of the estate was in the hands of his son, a brutal and reckless young man named Geoffrey, who taxed the peasants heavily and beat them into submission when they protested. For Geoffrey, the peasant women were little better than vessels to be used and then discarded, and he took the right of the first night in full measure. More than one furious groom or outraged father had been crippled or slain by his cruel henchmen as he took his amusement, and more than one black-haired child in the villages of his estate bitterly bore the name Geoffrey.

The folk of that region know me and, unlike some of the people in this room, know that I can be trusted by those I consider my friends. So it was that when a girl named Christine came to the Forest when she knew Geoffrey planned to attend her wedding, his intentions plain, and begged me to save her and her husband-to-be from the young noble's attentions. This was a task I was willing to undertake, having heard time and again from young women whose lives were blighted by Geoffrey, and I felt it was high time someone brought him to heel.

So it was that on the wedding night, when Geoffrey crept somewhat unsteadily into a candlelit bedchamber and stretched out a lustful hand to draw the covers back from the female form in the bed, he came up short with a cold steel point at his throat as I smiled up at him. His men were of no aid, for their senses were fuddled with the strong drink Christine's family had plied them with, but my own were sober and ready, and it was the work of a few seconds to pop a sack over Geoffrey's head, bind him securely, and throw him over the bow of my saddle. That done, I left most of my men to dispose of Geoffrey's thugs while, with a few faithful aides, I rode out into the night.

It was early fall, and there was a chill in the air, which did not quite cool Geoffrey's temper as he struggled and protested. A few sharp raps in the proper spots quieted him, though. My destination was a small hill near the edge of the Forest, a place all superstitiously avoided, for on its top was an ancient, tumbledown circle of stones that had, in ages past, been used by the people of that time to perform whatever dark rites and magics their strange gods directed them in. Now it was overgrown with weeds, the stones leaning this way and that, the gods departed for wherever fallen gods go, but its reputation remained. No one would dare come to investigate any strange sounds, especially not on a full-moon night like this where the stars were high and bright and the wind a cold edge.

Dismounting, we dropped Geoffrey to the ground and, wielding our knives, helped ourselves to the jewels and ornaments he was wearing and then cut his rich clothes all away from his body without disturbing his bonds. He shuddered in the cool air, protesting and calling us names no peasant, no matter how meanly born, would ever have used. We ignored him and dragged him to one of the stones, forcing him into a kneeling position with his legs wrapped almost around it, spreading them so far his thighs nearly cracked. His ankles we lashed behind, his arms pushed up and then tied by the wrists to small projections in the stone that might have been designed with that purpose in mind. Finally, I removed the bag over his head as my aides faded away, leaving me alone with him.

He had been cursing steadily during the whole process, raving and threatening, but I silenced him with a slap. He stared up at me in dumb astonishment. "Be silent," I ordered him. "That will do you no good here."

He swallowed hard, then found his voice again, more controlled this time. "Whoever you are, if you harm me, you know that my father and family will turn all their efforts to seeing you hung."

I laughed at that. "He has already done that," I said, and saw Geoffrey's jaw drop as he realized who I was. "But I have no intention of harming you."

"What, then? Ransom?"

"Possibly. But right now, I have a more immediate purpose in mind. Justice for the women you have defiled."

He snorted. "Defiled? They should be grateful for the chance to serve their rightful lord--"

"That will be all I want to hear from you," I broke in. "Speak again and I will hurt you."

I knelt in front of him, my face level with his, and held his eyes with my own as I touched his knees lightly, then began to slowly run my fingers up his tight-strained legs. His reaction was immediate. He licked his lips and started to say something, but I tweaked the muscles of his thighs, and he let out a gasp and fell silent. In ten years, he would be grossly fat, his appetites consuming him, but at this time he was still healthy and young, with only a slight padding over his muscles hinting at the high living he favored. He gave an involuntary little squirm as my hands approached the point at which his legs joined, and I smiled, knowing he was already in my power.

"No," I said, "that's not what you're here for." And I shifted my hands upward, tracing over his belly. He squirmed again. "You're here for punishment, not pleasure. Like this..." And I dug my fingertips into the muscle beneath the softness of his belly.

He was in agony almost immediately. To laugh when tickled was utterly foreign to his concepts of his dignity and manliness, but he did not have the strength to resist his body's sensitivity either. He gasped, let out a few giggles, pressed his lips together, gasped again. His eyes screwed up, his head rolled as if it had suddenly come loose from its mounting. I had no intention of making it easy on him. I grabbed his chin and forced his head back down, tickling his belly with the other hand all the while. "Look at me," I barked. His eyes snapped open again, and
startled giggles jolted out of him. His body was trying desperately to squirm, but tightly constrained as it was, it could barely work up a shudder. "I know you're ticklish, and I intend to do this to you for a very long time..." I was working both hands up and down his belly again, and even in the dim light I could see his face reddening. "So you might as well start laughing and save yourself some unnecessary torture."

"You can't do this to me," he croaked. Hysterical laughter was boiling just below the surface of his voice.

"And yet, I am doing it," I pointed out. "And this, too." Reaching down, I touched him on the patch of skin just behind his manhood, directly between the legs, and drew a quick circle there with my nails. He yipped, and if the ropes had not been holding him, he would likely have jumped higher than the standing stone itself, so I did it again to an equally frenzied reaction. Before he could compose himself, I tickled him fast and hard on the stomach, digging into the muscles beneath, and was rewarded with a scream of pure laughter. "There, doesn't that feel better?" I taunted, tickling his sides just above the waist, provoking more laughter, then poked teasingly at his lower ribs. I alternated between ribs and waist for a while, moving quickly and staying in neither spot for too long. He could not guess where the next tickle would land or prepare himself for it, and after several minutes of this he was cursing and sobbing with frustration in between the peals of tortured laughter. "Can't you stop laughing?" I asked, knowing full well that he could not.

Now that he had been put in his place, I could afford to be more leisurely about my business. I began by putting my hands on his hips, sending him into shudders as he felt the delicate touch, and from there let my hands slowly travel up his sides, alternately dragging my nails and tapping or prodding with my fingertips. Geoffrey made one final effort to resist, but it was nothing more than a sham, and we both knew it. He was giggling almost as soon as I crossed the line of the waist, and he actually bleated when I reached his ribs, testing them again with my fingertips. "Stop it! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

I knew that, weak as he was, he would start pleading for mercy sooner rather than later, but I had no intention of granting it. "No, you aren't," I said, "but you will be." And I began to tickle his ribs in earnest, fastening my fingers in place. He laughed wildly, his back slapping against the stone as he struggled to escape. And then his laughter turned into a screech and I could see the sudden panic growing in his eyes even through his hysteria as I kept tickling without pause. Even in the dim light I could see his face was darkening through the shades of red toward purple. "And I'm not going to stop," I told him, fingers still digging in among his ribs as he screamed, "not for a very long time."

When I finally stopped, he sagged in the ropes, panting for breath, but jerked again as I almost immediately resumed the slow, light finger-crawl up his sides. "Please..." he got out amidst gasps of sudden laughter.

"Yes?" I asked.

"Don't tickle me any more. I'll do whatever you say...I will!" He yelped as I prodded a tender spot. "I can do a lot for you...anything you want will be yours...just tell meeeeee!" The last word was stretched out as one of my fingers finally found its way into his armpit.

"Oh, you're very generous," I said as my other fingers joined the first and he began to laugh brokenly, tears starting to spill from his eyes. His shoulders strained as he fought to bring his arms down, but I had tied him too tightly -- and he was already too weak from laughing -- for there to be any chance of him breaking free. I could just tickle and tickle away at my leisure, now fast, now slow, giving him no relief or chance to catch his breath. Every time my fingers slowed and he thought his torture was winding down, I began to tickle him fiercely again and he let out a despairing, mirthful scream, writhing with fresh vigor torn from somewhere deep within him. I was surprised, and rather pleased, with his endurance -- though sweat already slicked his body and his voice was growing hoarse, he was far from exhausted. Which was exactly what I wanted -- this would be no quick revenge.

"All I want," I told him, "is to see you suffer, as you have made so many others suffer." Smiling, I ran my fingers down his chest as he sobbed and panted for breath. His heaving gasps broke off in a yell as I quickly tweaked the great tendon that linked his thigh to his trunk, tightly stretched by his position. I tickled the tendon on the other side, and his whole body twisted in the bonds as he yelped again.

"Nooo!" he yelled, and then shudders racked his frame as I tickled his taut thighs, so lightly that there was barely any contact between his skin and mine -- but he felt it, all right, to judge by the giggling and trembling that overtook him, to say nothing of the goosebumps that rippled along his skin and the way every muscle in his body tried to tighten at once. He looked like he was trying to pull himself up the stone and away from my touch by the strength of his buttocks alone. I let my fingers range at will, from his knees to his lower belly and everywhere in between, and he squirmed, gasped, and squealed anew with every fresh touch. His streaming eyes were nearly blank -- he was completely in thrall to his body, and it in turn was enslaved by my touch.

At last, I drew back from him. He said nothing, only panted thickly, tickled beyond the reach of rational thought, beyond all threats and pleading and defiance. At last he raised his head, his unseeing gaze staring through me. I touched my chin, pretending to be thoughtful. "There," I said, "I think that's enough to teach you some respect. I think I'll let you go now..." His eyes flared, and I knew then that he was still not beyond hope. I moved around behind the stone, taking care to conceal the smile on my lips. This would be most enjoyable.

I tugged a few times on the ropes that held his wrists, to make him think I was working on the knots, then turned my attention to the upturned soles of his feet, tightly lashed together with a length of rope so that his ankles nearly crossed. Giving the ropes another tug, I reached down and scraped the nails of one hand down the length of his left foot. His scream of laughter and madness rang out across the hilltop, and was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard -- at least, until I gave the same treatment to his right foot and he screamed again, even louder. I laughed then. "Did you truly think I was done with you? You'll be here until the sun comes up..." And I applied myself to tickling his soles vigorously. Tied as he was, with his legs bent and his weight on his shins, he could scarcely move his feet, and I had no pity at all for his vulnerable state. I applied myself vigorously, raking my nails over every inch of his feet, and he responded with equal vigor. A commoner would no doubt have barely noticed my touch, but Geoffrey was of the sort who never walked when he could ride and never rode when he could sit, and his feet, like the rest of him, were nearly as soft as they were when he was born. A pity that his love of luxury was coming back to haunt him at this point.

The only regret I had was that I could not also be on the other side of the stone to watch his face while I drove him mad with laughter. But the sound was pleasant enough, as was the sight of his body jerking and twisting and the ropes snapping taut again and again as he fought to free himself. The balls of his feet seemed to produce particularly loud shrieks, and I focused my attention there, tickling away. "An entire night of this! Imagine what pleasures lie in wait for you!" I taunted, scratching the tops and sides of his toes as they curled in a vain attempt to protect his soles, then running quick fingers along their undersides as they jerked open convulsively again. "No matter what you try, it will never be enough to save you...you're so ticklish I can just surprise you again and again and again..." And I proved it by reaching around the stone and grabbing hold of his ribs as I slowly scraped a claw-hand up and down his feet. His laughter soared into inaudibility, and every muscle in his body locked tight so that he was suddenly immobile. An observer might not even have realized I was tickling him from his reaction, but I could feel in my fingertips the wild vibration of torment running through his muscles, and kept working without mercy. When I finally took my hands from his body again, he collapsed like an emptied sack.

I made my leisurely way around the stone until I stood before him again, taking in the crimson hue of his skin, the silver tracks of tears down his cheeks, the ragged discord of his breathing. Smiling, I said nothing, but stooped, drawing a long, well-pointed crow feather from my sleeve. The sounds he made when I ran its tip down his already hardened manhood are beyond my ability to describe. The closest I can think of is the bellowings of a sick bull. The feather stimulated him unbearably, but it was also too light to drive him to release. Not content with that torture, I began to lightly and quickly tickle his belly, sides, ribs, whatever I could reach, with my free hand as the feather did its work, and he began to struggle again, gasping, gurgling, and wailing thinly like a discontented baby. I knew then I had all but broken him entirely, and the knowledge pleased me.

"Perhaps you think I am treating you unfairly. Believe me, you know nothing of injustice. True injustice is to be turned out of one's home, shunned by one's family, humiliated and forced to turn outlaw or starve -- simply because some pampered brat has no discretion in how he uses this toy..." He moaned, his eyes rolling back in his head as he spasmed. "If you had not created me, if you had not done the same to other women, then you would not be experiencing this torment now. I am no philosopher, but I consider that a fine form of justice." I gave him one last long and slow caress of the feather, then dropped it and stood.

Geoffrey hung from the standing stone, his head drooping, in exhausted defeat. I waited. Eventually, he said in a cracking voice: "I...apologize for what I did to you...and I will never do so to a woman again."

I laughed at him. "Fool, do you think your apology means anything to me? I have had my satisfaction of you already. And I know you will never again destroy a woman's life for your amusement, lest I hear of it."

"Then you will let me go?" Geoffrey asked hopefully.

"In time," I said. "I am satisfied -- but they are not." And from the shadows of the stones came women, a dozen or more, in the garb of peasants. All staring at Geoffrey's trembling form, all hard-eyed, most with vicious smiles. They closed in around him, one picking up the feather I had let fall to the turf.

It is said that the hill still faintly resounds with the sound of screams to this day, especially on nights when the full moon is high.

***

After the lady had spoken, there was an uncomfortable silence. Finally, though, the Webster spoke: "You gave him better than he deserved." And most of us agreed, though the summoner still looked sour, and the physician obviously felt it would be beneath him to comment on a sordid tale of vengeance. But the lady smiled, and the tension was broken. We rose from the table, making our final farewells, but stopped as the soldier spoke up. "One last question."

"What?" the lady asked.

"Was it you laughing in the night?"

"Not I. My door was always barred, and I went to no one's room."

The soldier sighed. "Give it up," the Harper advised him again. "Some questions will always go unanswered."

"I just wish I knew..."

"It was me," said a quiet voice, one that none of us had heard before.