Tiffany Clare: The Surrender of a Lady

Every man who looked her over had torn more of the meager clothes she wore, all in an effort to see her in the flesh. She tried to cover the exposed parts, but it did her no good. Most of her nightclothes were shredded or gone. All that remained was her undershirt and drawers, soiled from the grime crusted on every surface. They’d even taken her slippers and stockings. Her left heel had blistered something fierce on the first day, when she’d tripped over the chain nailed into the floor.

At first, she’d begged and cried that they spare her some privacy. All to no avail.

Having had enough of her antics, the guard had hit her so hard in the stomach she’d fallen over gasping for air. The pain still bothered her, a low persistent ache, but it lessened as the purplish bruises faded to an unsightly green. She had learned her lesson that night.

Now she only cried out her misery when the slaves bedded down on the hard earth at night. She didn’t beg to be released after that, realizing they might do worse next time. If they did treat her any worse, she might never escape. Not that she knew how she would escape.

“Yes, but she’s used goods. They don’t like their women in this state in the high court.”

The other man said this and then grasped one of her engorged breasts, squeezing the areola and nipple until milk flowed down her torso. She let out a cry of distress and pain with the release of built-up fluid. Mostly it was a cry against the abject humiliation of being handled in such a fashion. That milk was for her child. Her child that she might never see again.

God, she did not belong here. She could not survive here much longer.

Her whimpers had the slave guard yanking the rope around her neck, forcing her to silence as she was pulled back a step. She wedged her fingers beneath the collar so she could breathe. Her neck probably sported the same bruising displayed on her abdomen. It ached and itched so much from the incessant tugging and sweating through the hot days.

She stood as tall and straight as she could and stared defiantly at the two men.

Could they see the hatred in her eyes? The English one looked at her thoughtfully.

Assessingly. She didn’t like the flicker in his gaze; it looked too much like desire. It repulsed her to be looked upon so lecherously. What did they think to do with her?

Then their words registered. High court. Did they mean to purchase her for the Sultan? She wouldn’t cooperate with any of them; she was English, not some slave they could do whatever they pleased with. Though if one were to look upon her now for the first time, they’d see nothing but a dirty, half-naked woman taking on the stink of a chamber pot. Her skin was crusted with dirt. She couldn’t even scrape the soil out from under her nails, as much as she tried. Even the beautiful curls of her hair hung limp, greasy and tangled around her like a banshee’s wild mane.

She’d been forced into something less honorable than her worth. Made worse because any attempt to stand up for herself would earn her another beating. She didn’t think they cared whether she lived or died. It made her want to fight, to scream, to hurt these men who treated a human so low. These men kept her away from her child. She despised them.

The Englishman called over the slave trader, whom she now knew was Ali Admen, the devil her husband had wagered all but his soul to. He sat at a great wooden table conducting a transaction with a Turk. When he rose, he strode toward them on light, silent steps. A trained warrior would walk in this manner, as if on the very air. Silly thought that, but her mind had taken some unusual turns these few days. Bound to happen, being deprived food, water, and any privacy to spare a scrap of her modesty, or her sanity for that matter.

The older man said something in Turkish. She only caught a few words: private and goods. And those two words were enough to frighten her. She shrank back a small step. The slave handler didn’t notice this time, so did not reprimand her with another tug.

She didn’t want to be under their scrutiny anymore.

The buyer wanted to look her over. In private. Others had left the main area under force and were taken to the door at the far end of the room—she heard their whimpering, crying, and sometimes their screams. All from no more than a dozen feet away. She didn’t want to know what happened in there.

Why didn’t one of her servants come and find her? Had her husband still not paid them? Surely one of them would be kind enough to spare her this evil, this life she didn’t belong to. Wouldn’t they help her for her child’s sake? Her husband wasn’t coming for her; it would be a servant. Otherwise, Robert would have been here days ago. He was probably lost in his cups watching the horse races, losing more money they didn’t have.

What was left to barter? Another human being? Their son? He wouldn’t dare.

She closed her eyes and made the slave handler drag her to the room. If she could have done it unscathed, she would have dropped to the ground and clawed her hands into the packed earth in pure defiance. But she didn’t. The guard would have no compunctions about strangling her to prove his supremacy, her worthlessness.

Once inside, a cursory glance told her the room was empty. Was this a good or a bad sign? She didn’t know. There were no windows to escape through should they leave her alone, just four stark walls with lit oil lamps set into them. The guard led her to a wooden bench and motioned her to sit with a jab of his finger. She did as ordered. The guard came around to her side and looped the rope through a metal ring at the end of the bench.

Was that to prevent her from defending herself? She wasn’t fool enough to think she could escape this place. She wasn’t strong enough. She saw other slaves held down and beaten for disobedience in their desperate attempts to flee.

There had to be another way to escape, someone she could bribe into releasing her. She was desperate. She’d been away from her baby too long. But she had nothing of value to offer for her freedom.

The Englishman stepped into the room, saying something commanding to the guard in Turkish. Then he looked her directly in the eye. “I’ve asked him to leave us in private. Will you behave if you’re left unchained?” He spoke English.

Elena swallowed hard and stared up at the Englishman’s unforgiving stance. She gave a small nod in agreement. She couldn’t run, but she would defend herself with her free hands if he took advantage of her vulnerability.

The guard turned and left. The Englishman came forward with no readable emotion on his face.

Fingers prodding into her neck, he looked over the blisters and scrapes made by the collar. Instinctually, she jerked away, not wanting to be touched. He moved gently.

She guessed he didn’t want to hurt her more than necessary. Tilting her this way and that, he inspected her cuts and bruises with care. He had her open her mouth so he could check her teeth, his fingers pushing them to see if they were loose or rotted. Nothing was left untouched except the private area between her legs, a small thing to be thankful for. He palmed her dispassionately, kneading around her aching, heavy breasts, under her arms, over her stomach, looking closely at the bruising there and pressing into it. She couldn’t help but cry out in pain and hunched forward, protecting her belly.

“Bleeding seems to be on the surface,” he said. “That’s good.”

He lifted her bare feet next, almost toppling her from the bench, to examine them toe by toe. Then he stood to inspect her hair, picking through the knots, looking for lice.

She held herself inert and closed her eyes against the degradation. She wanted to remain strong. If she fell apart now, what good was she to her son? But her body was sore, stiff, and hurt worse than anything she’d ever experienced.