A Little Slave Girl - Lucky 97 (best reads .txt) 📗

Little Slave Girl

Olivia Jones

****************************************

♪ Prelude ♪

"Marilyn!" a loud, booming voice reverberated around the elegant hallways, startling my lady. Princess Marilyn raised her slender neck in response, her mesmerizing icy blue eyes alert.

"Yes?" her voice was sweet, tender, like the tinkling of snow bells. She fingered her ornate, jeweled brush with a gloved hand, her head slightly tilted in the perfect listening position. Her long, blonde hair laid in tight coils down her back, perfectly curled, a wondrous masterpiece. Everything about my lady was perfect, from her gorgeous tiara, overlaid with rare jewels, to her fantastically high heels, made of pure silver, the only pair made in all of England. She defined beauty.

"Please come down to greet our guests!" I immediately recognized the obstreperous, rambunctious voice as King Henry VI's, a commanding quality laced through his every word. I didn't like King Henry VI at all, with his nasty breath and impulsive attitude. He was a dominating, controlling king who liked to stuff himself with delicacies while his subjects starved. But I couldn't voice my opinion, or I would be beheaded. King Henry VI would do it with just a snap of his golden ringed fingers. My life doesn't matter. I'm a slave girl.

Princess Marilyn stood up slowly, releasing the beautiful brush, examining herself in the mirror once more. "Perfect," she murmured softly to herself, then turned away, ignoring me as I vigorously scrubbed at the stained glass that Princess Marilyn had to have. It was an arduous job, for every speck had to be scrubbed off or the light would catch your mistake and magnify it onto the stone floor. And Princess Marilyn punishes people who make mistakes when wiping her stained glass severely.

She exited the room, her flawless back facing me. The whole time when she was in her room, she never talked to me. Looked at me.

I was used to Marilyn's cold treatment of me. I could understand it, really. She was a princess, with a reputation to uphold. She couldn't associate with low-life slaves like me.

But I couldn't help but feel saddened by it.

I walked over to her beautiful mirror, stepping into it's vision. I did not look anything like the stunning Princess Marilyn, with my hazelnut eyes that were way too big, and my short, scratchy dresses that turned my skin raw and cut off just above the knee. I wanted a floor-length dress with rubies and silk that made my skin scream with delight, but it was not to be. Slave girls could not wear beautiful clothing.

My nose was too straight, and my hair was straight also, running down my back like a river, way too level to compare with the gorgeous beehive hairdos that my queen so magnificently displayed. Everything about me was awkward and ugly, not a single attractive feature in my face or form.

The sounds of people laughing and chatting happily filled the castle, the guests from France obviously fitting in well with the court at England. They were here to negotiate with England for an end to the Hundred Year's War, and many of us were deliriously happy for their arrival. This war had gone on long enough, and many innocent men had been sacrificed. I was personally very joyful that they were here, both King Rupert and his son, the handsome Prince Lucas, because they might end the terrible war that killed my mother and my father. I had no expectations, though, of ever seeing their face.

The chief servant, Poe, a rather plump man, with a fat, doughy face and coal black eyes, appeared at the doorway. "Are you done?" he barked, his loud voice banging against the stone walls, hurting my ears with it's force.

"Yes sir," I replied, my eyes facing downwards. Poe always demanded me to look down when I was in his, or any person that was of higher social status's, presence. It was rude, Poe always said, for no one wants to look at an ugly slave.

"Then don't just stand there idly and GO HELP WITH THE KITCHEN!" he spouted, as was his normal habit. Poe liked to think that slaves should be working all the time, therefore we were constantly wiping floors, scrubbing dishes, and cleaning the outhouses, which was a terrible, horrible, torture that I, luckily, only had to experience once. If we were not working, Poe got very angry, spouting off like he did now. I guess this meant he was very good at his job, for because of him, the castle was kept in pristine condition.

"Yes, sir," I nodded, and in obedience, I slipped down the beautiful stairs to the serving room. The beautiful sun, framed by puffy marshmallow clouds, winked at me as I descended. A single dove shot across the horizon, its friends tagging along, a beautiful sight to behold. I smiled with delight. This was one pleasure the world couldn't take away from me.

Everyone was desperate for my arrival. Jacque, our chef, was speeding with energy, hurriedly making dozens of the tiny sandwiches that was the style here in England. He was a fabulous cook, one of the most wanted in the country. He had brown, curly hair, with sapphire eyes, very much like Princess Marilyn's, and was very handsome. However, he was one of the only people in the castle that was kind to me, which made me very thankful.

Amy, a servant, was scrubbing dishes furiously, and countless other slaves were working beside her. As I entered the room, she looked at me, fury in her gaze. "I can't believe these nobles are eating so much!" she huffed, her average body shaking with anger. I jumped back, frightened.

Amy caught my scared expression and smiled reassuringly. With a little laugh she said, "No, honey buns, I'm not mad at you." Then, she looked to the little window, where you could spy the feet of the nobles, and narrowed her eyes, "Those pigs up there are eating food like Jacque when he finally gets off one of his three day fasts!" Jacque was a very religious Catholic, and he often fasted for several days at a time to think more about God.

I smiled in response, not saying a word. Sometimes, I forgot I even had a mouth.

Amy grabbed a beautiful plate, topped with the little delicacies the nobles craved, and shoved it into my arms. "Serve this to the nobles upstairs," she demanded, quickly putting me to work.

"But I am not dressed properly, and nobles don't want to look at my ugly face," I said in surprise, with no trace of sarcasm. Serving the food was reserved for the servants, too good a job for the lowly slaves. And Poe all the time said that I had an appalling face.

"Desperate times call for desperate measures," she said carelessly. Then, as I passed her, she whispered, "Dear, your face is definitely not ugly. In fact, it is very beautiful," She looked back and shot me a smile.

Wow. My brain was struck dizzy with amazement, thankfulness, and incredulity. Someone just said my face was beautiful.

I knew what she said was not true, but it was nice, sometimes, to believe.


The huge archway leading to the ballroom loomed before me, like a forbidden gate I was not allowed to cross. In all of my eighteen years, and ten of them working at the castle, I had never set foot into the ballroom. Slaves had very limited access to anywhere that the nobles and the royal family stayed. Cleaning was their purpose, and they were expected to do so until they rotted with age, returning to the ground from which they came.

My heart was nearly jumping out of my chest with excitement. I was going to do what no other slave had done before. I was going to enter the magnificent and glorious ballroom.

I reached out with one foot to cross the invisible line...

But then the worst happened.

A pretty servant girl, her name unknown to me, appeared, a curious expression on her face. "What are you doing?" she asked.

I quickly remembered to look down, and I respectfully said, "I am going to serve this food to the nobles."

I suddenly heard a guffaw, and glanced up to see the servant laughing her eyes out. "You think you can serve to the nobles? What madness is this? The slaves must be rising up against us." Then she suddenly snatched away my plate, her eyes narrowed with disgust. With a final look of contempt, she snapped, "Go empty some chamber pots, little slave girl."

A blinding pain entered my chest, something totally unfamiliar to me. It wasn't her rudeness, I had been treated much worse, but something else.

Go empty some chamber pots, little slave girl.

I turned and ran like the wind. I didn't know where I was going. I didn't care.

Go empty some chamber pots, little slave girl.

I rushed to a small door I had never seen before. I was almost positive that it was a forbidden territory for a slave, but daring was pumping through me, and I, for once, was not afraid of anything. Let them punish me.

I swung the door open, stepping into a small area, a garden. It was absolutely beautiful, with weeping willows looming over a small fountain, purple flowers blooming around it reverently. The grass was green and crisp, and it crunched under my feet as I walked. I looked for a ledge, somewhere where I could sit down until the hurt went away.

Go empty some chamber pots, little slave girl.

A slave girl.

That's all I was, and all I was ever going to be. A slave until I die.

I bent my head, and the tears started to flow.


The air whistled as I heard the door fly open. I didn't look up to see who the person was. It was probably a noble. I wondered if they would faint at the sight of me, a miserable slave, occupying their perfect garden. Ruining their perfect world.

The tears were still in full force, a truly horrendous waterfall that poured down my cheeks, probably disfiguring my face even more than it already was by itself. I wondered if it was my hormones that was making my emotions boil. I had not cried so badly in my entire life. Why did I pick this night to bawl my brains out when the nobles were out and about around the castle?

"Don't cry," the most hypnotizing, lulling voice I had ever heard speaks, an interlude of notes squashed into two words. Yet, a deep, husky quality was to it that could only belong to a man.

I looked up to see the owner of the spectacular voice, and was stunned. He had a mop of golden hair that sparkled in the sunlight, and eyes almost exactly the same color. His lips were plump and not chapped like mine were, and his whole face was shaped in a perfect oval. He was slender, yet muscled, and he was very tall. He was pure perfection, Princess Marilyn's counterpart, her ideal match.

This must be Prince Lucas.

Startled and horrified, I jumped to my feet. I realized now that I had done