Chapter 19: Wedding Belle Blues

The day of the wedding for Princess Helena and Prince Lewis was soon upon us. The venue was the abbey built on the site of the battle which took its name from the town of Hastings some eight miles away. The abbey buildings, some ruined but with the Abbots lodgings converted into a splendid house, stood on the crest of Senlac Ridge; the site of the King Harold's final stand.

The assembled host in the abbey grounds atop the ridge was as great a gathering of the aristocracy as had been seen there for almost 1000 years. In the valley from where Norman warriors had pressed forward to cut down the pride of Saxon England, a throng of well-wishers swarmed. The crest of the ridge where Harold's House-Carls had stood their ground until overwhelmed was alive with colour as the wedding guests assembled for the ceremony.

Although I had done all I could, Helena was still not yet entirely manageable, a fact which had resulted in her being brought to the Abbey, much to her chagrin, in one of the Prince's horseboxes. Luckily with my understanding of those factors that most influenced her behaviour I was confident that I would be able to ready her for the ceremony as I had promised.

"You complete and utter shit!"

"Helena! Is that any way for a bride to talk on her wedding day?"

"What makes you shitting-well think I'm fucking marrying that pork bag? Couldn't he even manage a proper limo?"

It wasn't hard to see why she was so distressed. It can be few girls' dream of their wedding day to be taken there stripped naked, bound, gagged and left sprawled in the straw in the back of a horse box. However, I had little time to concern myself with Helena's dreams, unreasonable or not. There was a knock on the door beside the ramp used to off-load the horses.

"Dresser for Miss Voutrakis," a voice called.

"One moment please." There were a few things that I needed to do before handing over Helena to those that would make her ready for the ceremony. The most immediate requirement was to fit her with the harness that carried the plug I knew would ensure her compliance during the wedding itself. What happened after that would be the Prince's business. By now Helena knew what was expected of her as I approached her with the plug. At first she shook her head and whimpered but I knew that by this point in her training her objections were merely superficial and she would be unable to resist the addictive power of the sensations generated by the plug. I untied the rope from her wrists knowing that she would obediently press the plug into her anal passage. She bit her bottom lip as she reached out for the plug, its length and girth now carefully refined by my experimentation to exactly achieve the desired level of compliance. I waited as she obediently pushed it home. Helena's face shone beatifically. With the plug in place I was able to fit the harness that would keep it there and then attend to my caller.

I opened the door. "Can I see your identity pass, please," I asked. The girl fished in her bag and pulled out a small clam shell-shaped frame. One side held a daguerreotype image of the girl, the other the intricately printed form that identified her as an accredited member of the event service team. Security for the marriage was understandably tight. Members of the Household Cavalry were in attendance in ceremonial uniform but there were others there too, checking passes and tickets, opening bags, searching anyone that appeared in the least suspicious. The girl's pass seemed completely in order. Things were exactly as I had anticipated. I returned inside the horsebox, brought out Helena and handed her over to the dresser. Helena, as was always the case once she had been plugged, followed compliantly.

My own invitation did not include my presence at the wedding ceremony itself. Castwich had been apologetic but I was unconcerned. Religious practice and ceremonial pomp hold no interest for me.

When next I saw Helena it was when she emerged, her vows taken, to the cooing adulation of the crowd. Fortunately none had responded to the minister's urging to speak now or ever hold their peace with the cry, "Stop the wedding, the bride has an eight-inch rubber plug up her arse."

The reception that Helena and Lewis received was all that they and the assembled courtiers could have hoped for. The two were cheered and feted as they paraded along the walkway that ran along the crest of the ridge, waving to the crowds below them. The sun shone warmly. A soft breeze barely stirred the leaves of the great English oak trees that clustered around the ruined part of the Abbey. Nothing, it seemed could disturb the delight of the day.