Chapter 2: Tuesday

“Is this better for you, wench?” asks the ship’s captain, as he tears my bodice open, freeing my breasts from their tight prison.

I immediately regret complaining about my stained dress. The captain isn’t the least bit interested in the state of my clothes, and I realise he is about to resolve my problem by simply ripping them from my body. I cringe at the closeness of his body. His strong manly smell from the sweat on his bare chest competes with the reek from those around me. Not that the smell around us seems to bother the captain as he kneads my breasts and pinches my nipples. I feel ashamed that his attentions are making my nipples as hard as iron.

One-eyed Jack is no stranger to me, nor are many of the crew of the Red Hawk. Captain Jack’s a frequent patron of the inn where I work ... or rather, worked. I’ve a horrible feeling I’ll never see the Banded Parrot Inn again. Nobody knows for certain how the inn acquired its name, since there are no parrots, banded or otherwise, native to my home country. The inn is more commonly known as the Dead Parrot.

Working for Groat at the Dead Parrot would never be any girl’s first choice of employment. But he at least provided me with a home and work when I had neither. Ever since I turned eighteen, I’ve waited tables and served drinks at the Dead Parrot. Six years of service. The inn is always popular with sailors and dock workers who frequent the bustling harbour nearby. They aren’t the most gentile of people, particularly towards the serving wenches. Being slapped, spanked, groped and fondled all go with the territory. I’ve lost count of the number of hand jobs and blow jobs I’ve given kneeling on the floor under one of the tables.

Groat left it up to me to decide whether I joined the whores who worked upstairs. They provide the inn’s wealthier customers with more intimate services than I can provide under the tables in the public bar. I’ve been tempted at times when business is slow and the tips from waiting tables have been meagre. But I’ve stood my ground, waiting for my dashing hero who will sweep me off my feet and take me away to exotic lands. Now it looks like I’m off to some exotic land, but not in the style which I dreamed about.

For the last three days I’ve been held in this ship’s hold with about fifty other prisoners. I and eight others were arrested on the orders of Prince Ethelred for the crime of witnessing the murder of his father by the prince’s bodyguard. I don’t know why some of the others are here, or why we have been moved onto this ship rather than being kept in the castle dungeon awaiting trial. I’m no stranger to discomfort, but sitting shackled to all these other people is demanding on both my muscles and my nostrils. The stench of the human misery locked in this hold is almost unbearable.

The man sat to my right, Harris, was drunk when we boarded. He’s sober now, and in a very unhappy mood. Since he can’t lash out at our captors, Harris is making life a misery for those chained next to him. The serving girls at the Parrot know him as ‘Groper Harris’. He’s run his hands over me a dozen or more times since we boarded this ship. Margaret has had to endure worse, although that’s partly her own fault. She should have let Harris grope her. Now he thinks she’s playing hard to get and he’s determined to fuck her at every opportunity.

The captain is making an inspection of his cargo when I take the opportunity to complain about my dress. I know better than to complain about Harris as he will only take his revenge on me later. Still, my futile complaint about my dress must have some effect on the captain.

“This hold stinks,” says the captain to the three sailors standing guard over us. “Get this lot on deck and clean them up. Then detail some of them to scrub their filth out of my ship’s hold.”

The sailors don’t seem very enthusiastic about carrying out the captain’s order, but they nevertheless do as they are told. Because of the cramped conditions in the hold, moving us all on deck is no easy task. We are all shackled to one long chain which has become tangled as some of the captives have tried to move about. It takes the best part of half an hour to get us all on deck.

I thought our conditions were bad in the hold, but they pale into insignificance compared to the plight of the poor woman chained to the mast. She is naked and exposed to the lustful stares of the sailors while they work. But I can’t spare long worrying about her because our coffle of prisoners is lined up facing the ocean and we are told to strip. Many refuse, but I’m not one of them. After Harris brought up his last flagon of beer all over Margaret and I on our first day in the hold, my soiled clothes are a burden which I’m glad to be rid of for a while. The sailors don’t force the unwilling prisoners and simply throw buckets of seawater over us, clothed or not.

“Unlock every fifth one in the coffle and send them into the hold to clean up their mess,” orders Captain Jack to the sailors. “And watch them carefully! They’re each worth more than your sorry hides in Puskin’s slave markets.”

It’s the first time many of us realise that we aren’t simply prisoners, but that we are about to be sold as slaves in one of the most notorious flesh markets in the world. It comes as a great shock to us all. A couple of women resort to wailing, while several men complain and vent their anger. I let the captain know my own feelings on the subject in no uncertain terms. Perhaps that wasn’t the wisest thing to do in my current situation and Captain Jack takes particular notice of me.

“And bring the mouthy blond to my cabin,” snaps the captain, unnecessarily pointing at me. Even the dimmest sailor must know whom the captain means.

I don’t know whether to count myself as lucky or not. My position in the coffle means that I’m one of those the captain ordered to be sent into the hold to clean up. Harris ends up going in my place; something which he’ll undoubtedly look for recompense later. I grab hold of my clothing and allow myself to be frogmarched naked into the captain’s cabin at the stern of the ship. I hold my clothes to my chest so as to protect my modesty, although in reality it is only a token resistance. I’m made to wait under guard for ten minutes until the captain arrives.

“I’ve seen you in the Dead Parrot,” comments Captain Jack when he enters his cabin. “Your name’s Judy or Trudy or something like that.”

“Ruby,” I say.

“So what crime did you commit, Ruby? Stealing, I bet.”

“No. I was a witness to a murder,” I reply defiantly, knowing it won’t make any difference to my fate.