Slave Princess

Praise for Juliet Landon

THE RAKE’S UNCONVENTIONAL MISTRESS ‘Landon’s understanding of the social mores and language of the era flows through the pages …’ —RT Book Reviews

A SCANDALOUS MISTRESS ‘.sensual and emotion-filled read.’ —RT Book Reviews

HIS DUTY, HER DESTINY ‘Landon has written a titillating and entertaining battle of the sexes, one in which readers cannot help but take sides—both of them.’ —RT Book Reviews

THE BOUGHT BRIDE ‘Landon carefully creates the atmosphere of the eleventh century, incorporating intriguing historical details.’ —RT Book Reviews

THE KNIGHT’S CONQUEST ‘A feisty heroine, a heroic knight, an entertaining battle of wills and plenty of colourful history flavour this tale, making it a delightful one-night read.’ —RT Book Reviews

‘Captives are rarely in a position to bargain about their future, and you’re no different, princess or not. You are my slave. Better get used to it.’

‘Then it would have been better to let me die at Eboracum with my maid, Roman. That way I would have been free.’ Throwing off the blanket, she stood up in one swift unbending of her body, intending to put more distance between them.

The soft mattress hampered her feet—the curve of the canvas was not designed for her height—and the long reach of Quintus’s arm caught her wrist in an iron grip, pulling her off-balance. Furiously she tried to throw him off, her eyes blazing with green fire. ‘No man may touch me!’ she yelled, competing with the roar outside.

‘Then that’s another thing you’d better get used to, Princess High and Mighty.’

About the Author

JULIET LANDON’s keen interest in art and history, both of which she used to teach, combined with a fertile imagination, make writing historical novels a favourite occupation. She is particularly interested in researching the early medieval and Regency periods, and the problems encountered by women in a man’s world. Her heart’s home is in her native North Yorkshire, but now she lives happily in a Hampshire village close to her family. Her first books, which were on embroidery and design, were published under her own name of Jan Messent.

Previous novels by the same author:

ONE NIGHT IN PARADISE^** THE WIDOW’S BARGAIN THE BOUGHT BRIDE HIS DUTY, HER DESTINY THE WARLORD’S MISTRESS A SCANDALOUS MISTRESS^* DISHONOUR AND DESIRE^* THE RAKE’S UNCONVENTIONAL MISTRESS^* MARRYING THE MISTRESS SCANDALOUS INNOCENT (collaboration with the National Trust)

* Ladies of Paradise Road

**linked to Ladies of Paradise Road trilogy

Author Note

For many years I longed to set a story in Bath, one of England’s most ancient and beautiful cities in the West Country, developed by the Romans for its famous natural hot springs. Like other natural phenomena, the springs were venerated by earlier Celtic tribes, but after the Roman invasion the place became known as Aquae Sulis (Waters of Sulis, the presiding Celtic god). Excavations have revealed exactly how the Romans built temples and healing pools to channel the waters, creating a spa for visitors from far and wide to bathe and make offerings in return for all kinds of help. It must have been an early example of a tourist town, with all amenities. The name of Minerva, the Roman goddess of healing, was then linked to that of Sulis (as Sulis Minerva) so as not to offend the local deities, of whom the northern goddess Brigantia is yet another counterpart.

Tracing the history of places back through the ages—like Bath, Lincoln and York, for instance—can be both fascinating and rewarding when so much has been discovered through archaeology to show us how people lived. The social history is what I find most interesting—particularly the various ways in which ordinary people sought cures for their ills through nature, in discoveries that reveal how closely their daily needs and hopes resembled our own. I hope that my story of how Romans and Celts co-existed during those difficult times of occupation will be the beginning of deeper research by the reader.

The Roman army packed up and left England two hundred years after this story, leaving our island with Latinised place-names that have since changed to the ones we know today. So Eboracum is now York, Danum is Doncaster, Lindum is Lincoln, Corinium Dobunnorum is Cirencester, Aquae Sulis is Bath, and Corieltauvorum is Leicester. Other places mentioned, like Margidunum, have now disappeared, being little more than staging-posts along the main highway.

Slave Princess

Juliet Landon

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Chapter One

Eboracum—A. D. 208

The slapping of cupped hands on oiled skin echoed off the stone walls of the gymnasium like lukewarm applause. It was interrupted, however, by a bad-tempered grunt. ‘Steady, man! That’s still sore.’

Fingertips explored a pink scar streaking diagonally like a ribbon across the muscled shoulder. It was healing well. ‘Where, sir? Just there?’ The fingers fondled.

‘Ouch! Yes, you imbecile!’

The slave grinned and continued his kneading.

‘If you were not such a good masseur, I’d have you flogged,’ the deep voice grumbled into the towelled pillow.

‘Yes, sir,’ the slave replied, hearing a smile in the empty threat. Quintus Tiberius Martial was not a soft touch in any sense, but nor was he given to floggings and beatings. Florian had been in the Tribune’s service since he was twelve years old and so far had only suffered tongue-lashings for his misdemeanours.

The Tribune’s back was long, tapering and sculpted, divided by a valley with hills and mounds of hard muscle rising on each side, the Titanic shoulders extending to arms as strong as tree branches.

His dice-playing towel-wrapped companions looked up from their game to smile at the tetchiness. ‘Time you had some exercise,’ one of them volunteered, softly.

From the slab, Quintus opened one dark eye to glare at his friend. ‘I’ve been exercising all morning, if you recall. Where were you?’

‘Not that kind,’ the friend said, winking at his partner.

The partner moved one of the pieces on the board and shuffled himself deeper into his towel. ‘Horizontal, he means,’ he said, helpfully.

‘Yes … well … this is probably as horizontal as I’m going to get until I’m properly mended,’ Quintus mumbled, crossly.

‘Rubbish!’ said the friend, wiping the sweat from his face with one forearm. ‘You are mended. Isn’t he, Florian?’

‘Indeed, sir. I believe our forthcoming trip to the hot springs in the south will complete the cure, but I see no reason why the Tribune should not take—’

‘Oh, spare me the lecture and get on with your pummelling, lad,’ Quintus returned sharply. ‘One punishment at a time, for pity’s sake.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Florian, lifting the towel from his master’s brawny thighs. ‘Will you turn, sir, if you please?’

Quintus obliged, staring up at the thick cloud of steam that hung in the curve of the vaulted ceiling. There were sounds of splashing and the deep bellow of men’s voices, the grunts of effort as heavy weights hit the floor, a distant laugh, the patter of bare feet on stone and the accompanying pants as two men wrestled over on the other side of the steaming pool. He caught the whiff of almond and lavender oil as Florian set to work on his chest. He closed his eyes, knowing that his two companions, Tullus and Lucan, would not let the matter rest there. His shoulder had responded well to treatment, but the damage to his knee was more serious, and it was that which had concluded his brilliant career as a military tribune and steered him instead towards administration. His abilities as an expert in the imperial system of record-keeping, accounting and taxes had been recognised even before he was fully recovered, and in record time the Emperor Severus had placed him in his personal service as Provincial Procurator directly responsible to him, not to the Governor of the northern provinces whose hospitality they were at present both using and abusing.

As a respected and successful cavalry officer, Quintus had wanted nothing more than a soldier’s life, and although his new position was both challenging and demanding, and lucrative, it could never compare to the heady excitement of command, continuous movement and brotherhood.

‘We have your best interests at heart, Quintus my friend,’ said Lucan. ‘This expedition down to Aquae Sulis will take quite a few days, and you know what will happen every time we’re offered a night’s hospitality.’

‘I’ve never known you to protest at an excess of hospitality,’ Quintus said, gruffly. ‘The girls you’re offered are never refused, if my memory serves me. What’s the problem?’

‘You are,’ Lucan said. ‘How many ways do you know of refusing? No, thank you. Not tonight. Too tired. My leg hurts. My shoulder is sore.’

‘You’re bound to give some offence,’ said Tullus, nodding.

The two friends were Assistant Procurators, junior administrators in Quintus’s office of scribes, secretaries and accountants. Younger by a few years than his thirty, they had no plans for marriage, mainly due to the roving nature of the job, but their experience of women from the countries through which they had passed in the Emperor’s service was, to say the least, extensive. No one understood better than they how hospitality worked on long journeys, how it was always assumed that a single male guest would need a companion for the night. Slaves were an ever-present commodity to be used at the master’s discretion, and for Quintus to be continually plied with this amenity while he was away could become something of a nuisance.

In his army days, he would have thought nothing of it, but these last few months had been physically hampered by pain and some anger at the turn of events, and though his recuperation had involved a punishing regime of exercises to tone his body, he had allowed himself no rewards. Not even the trip to Aquae Sulis was solely for his health; there was some investigating to be done, too.

‘Giving offence,’ he responded, ‘has never kept me awake at night.’ Flinging aside the hip-covering towel, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the slab, causing Florian to skip to one side. He ran a hand through his damp dark hair and scowled at his feet. ‘I’ll take a woman when I’m ready,’ he said. ‘I shall not be stuck for excuses.’

Lucan was tall and as lithe as a panther, his nose handsomely hooked, his mouth wide and often smiling, his Greek ancestry enchantingly obvious. Unwinding himself from his towel, he stood up to face his friend, giving the towel a kick, his eyes laughing with a distinct lack of sympathy. ‘You won’t need any excuses if you take a woman with you,’ he said. ‘She doesn’t have to be anyone in particular. Just for show. A slave will do, as long as she’s well bred. One you can pass off as your woman. A companion. She needn’t sleep with you if you don’t wish it. You just let it be known that you’re provided for, thank you very much. No more offers. No refusals. No offence. Everyone happy.’

Ready to dismiss the suggestion out of hand, Quintus held his tongue, recognising an element of good advice. Apart from a few romantic encounters, the hospitality to which Lucan referred had never been an issue in the army where women were taken, paid for and left on a more business-like basis than in civilian life. Outside the barracks, any single, wealthy, good-looking man of equestrian rank with the personal friendship of the Emperor, injured or not, was quickly regarded as husband material for the daughters, nieces and widows of good family. Already Quintus Tiberius Martial had attracted some attention from the women of the royal court surrounding Julia Domna, wife of the Emperor Severus. Clearly his two friends were beginning to think he was using his injuries as an excuse, though the fact was that his knee gave him more trouble than he would admit, and when the prestigious office had been offered, he had taken it immediately rather than see it given to someone else. The demands of such a high position were of a different order from the demands of making love, and Quintus had no wish to start making a fool of himself in a department at which he had always excelled.

Tullus pushed the game-board aside in disgust and stood up, vigorously tousling his nut-brown hair with the towel, emerging red-faced and serious. ‘He’s right,’ he said, eyeing his superior’s long limbs, noting how he sidled off the slab, gingerly testing the knee with the swollen joint. This man, Tullus thought, was a prime specimen, almost in the peak of fitness, with an intellect as bright as any he’d ever worked with, darkly good looking with a heavy-lidded insolence and steady eyes that made women blush and stammer. He would not be chaste for much longer, thought Tullus. ‘The Empress has some high-class slaves in her service,’ he said. ‘You have only to ask her. Just for the trip to Aquae Sulis and back. We shall be off tomorrow.’

‘I shan’t have time,’ Quintus said, dismissing Florian with a nod. ‘The Emperor wants to see me this afternoon. More instructions.’

‘More? I thought everything was arranged,’ said Tullus over his shoulder. He was poised on the edge of the pool, studying the ripples and reflections.

‘So did I,’ said Quintus, joining him. ‘He was pleased to be mysterious, but I believe he wants someone else to join the party.’

Standing between them, Lucan groaned. ‘Oh, Jupiter! Not another aged cripple with wobbly knees who needs spa treatment. We’ll never get there if we’re on escort duty to—’ His protest was cut short by a bellow as he was shoved unceremoniously into the water, hitting it with a loud smack and having no time to surface before two hefty male bodies landed on top of him, sending a tidal wave over the floor to wash Florian’s toes. Steam swirled around flailing limbs, engulfing them.

‘The Tribune Quintus Tiberius Martial,’ snapped the guard, opening the door of the Emperor’s newly whitewashed office.

Quintus stepped forward, his nose wrinkling at the pungent smell of medication that clung to the soldierly white-haired man who, despite the warmth of the April day, wore a fur-lined cloak and a pair of white-and-brown striped socks. ‘Your Excellency,’ Quintus said, bowing and waiting for the Emperor’s attention to lift from the scroll he was reading.

The tube of papyrus sprang upwards with a rattle. ‘Ah, Quintus! All prepared? Right,’ he went on, not waiting for any denial, ‘so I’ve had funds set aside for you in that box over there …’ he pointed with the scroll to a wooden brass-bound chest ‘… and there’ll be a two-man guard on it while you’re in transit. That’s for expenses. And here’s the final list of names and residences for the journey. They’re expecting you all the way from here to Lindum, Corinium, Aquae Sulis and all points in between, but it’s for you to decide the pace and where to pitch camp for the night.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’

Quintus had been in the Emperor’s inner sanctum many times since their arrival at Eboracum earlier in the year and was used to the sparse functional surroundings favoured by him and his two sons. As a Lybian, Severus found the harsh British climate not at all to his liking, but since his recent visit to Hadrian’s Wall, even further north, his chest complaint had been responding to treatment. Something, thought Quintus, must have agreed with him, apart from victory.

‘How’s the knee today?’

‘Bearable, sir, I thank you.’

‘Good. So you won’t mind taking along an extra passenger tomorrow, I take it.’

As if the entourage was not big enough already with attendants and aides, servants and slaves, bodyguards and bald Greek lawyers. ‘Just the one, sir?’

‘Ah … no. She’ll probably want to take her maid along with her, too.’

Inwardly, Quintus groaned. ‘A woman, sir? Not the Lady Julia Domna, surely?’

Severus sighed and rested his behind on a white marble table with gilded lions’ legs, his dark eyes straying briefly to the door and back to his sandals. ‘No, not my wife.’ His voice was subdued. The Empress would not have approved of his plan.

Quintus wondered whether there would be any point in objecting, but suspected not. Women always slowed a journey down, one reason why he’d been disinclined to accept his friends’ suggestion.

The Emperor wriggled his toes. ‘That battle last week,’ he said. ‘Remember?’

‘Indeed I do, sir. You killed the chieftain. It was well done.’

‘And if he’d been the only chieftain, Quintus, it would have been even better. But as you know, the Brigantes are the biggest and most powerful collection of tribes in Britain, even scrapping amongst themselves for dominance, and as soon as we remove one chieftain, another springs up in his place like bloody mushrooms. This time we have two of them. Sons of the last one. But we took the daughter captive.’

‘I didn’t know that, sir.’

The Governor of the northern province where the massive Brigantian tribes made such a nuisance of themselves had sent to the Emperor of Rome for help to put them in their place, once and for all. Severus, his sons, wife and a huge army had come post-haste from victories in Gaul and had already achieved some success.

‘I kept it quiet,’ Severus replied. ‘On the night the chieftain was killed, a party of our men sneaked up to their hill-fort to torch it while their backs were turned. They came back with the daughter and her maid. But I can’t keep them here indefinitely, Quintus. My eldest son is eager to bait them in the arena, but that would be asking for more trouble than they’re worth. I’d have the whole of the Brigantes united against us like a pack of ravening wolves. Subduing them one at a time is enough without provoking them still further. I wish he’d understand that.’

Imprisonment, Quintus knew only too well, was not an alternative form of punishment generally favoured by the Romans. Captives were either sold as slaves or killed. To keep them was an unnecessary burden on the state. High-status captives were sometimes taken in chains to Rome, displayed as trophies, but there was rarely a role for women in all this.

‘Would the two brothers not search for her, sir?’

‘Perhaps. But they’ll have a good idea of where she is, and anyway they’ll have their hands full sorting things out after their father’s death. I have reliable spies in Eboracum. Nothing has been seen of them after the battle. But I have to get rid of her, now, immediately.’ He leaned back, taking a deep breath. ‘Besides, there’s another reason.’

‘Sir?’

‘This woman’s tribe recently received a deputation from the Dobunni tribe down in the south. The spa Aquae Sulis is in their territory.’

Quintus was already beginning to understand. ‘Ah,’ he said.

‘A chieftain’s son, apparently. I’m told that it’s his father who favours an alliance with the local Brigantes, sending his son up here to make an offer for the daughter. I’m told she’s been promised.’

‘To the Dobunnii.’

‘Yes. It’s the kind of alliance that would give him some clout in the south.’

‘So he needs the Brigantes’s help. Is this the same troublemaker who’s building up a resistance army down there, sir?’

‘I believe it is. These impetuous young things take on all the advantages we’ve offered over the best part of two hundred years, all the trappings of Roman citizenship, but the one thing they can’t accept is that they’re expected to pay for our protection. One of these days they’re going to get a shock when we all go back to Rome and leave them to it, Quintus. But it always boils down to the tax problem. And this young renegade, so I’m told, has been recruiting young rebels to be trained for his resistance army.’

‘Jupiter!’

‘Quite. If he’s not stopped very soon, we’ll have more to do here in Britain than we thought. I don’t want to be stuck up here for years and have no wish to die here, either. We have to find this ringleader and put him out of action.’

‘So he’s disappeared, sir?’

‘Yes. We believe he was up here a week ago to make his offer, but now he’s fled, leaving the intended bride to eat her heart out in captivity. Not a very committed type. He obviously saw no reason to stay after the father was lost and the village destroyed. Perhaps the two sons are not so keen on an alliance. I don’t know.’

‘We’re sure he’s gone, then? Not in hiding? Waiting for a chance?’

‘Can’t be sure. But what I believe is that, if the woman is taken down to his neck of the woods, she’ll surely try to make contact with him. My hope is that she’ll lead you to him.’

‘Or he’ll learn of her whereabouts and try for a rescue.’

‘Then it’s up to you to watch and take him. Bring him back here with you or, if you have to, kill him. We’d have taken him earlier if we’d thought he’d abandon the mission. We thought he’d stay and fight with them, but he didn’t.’

‘And the woman?’

‘Oh, do whatever you like with her, lad. Just keep her from under my feet.’

‘Willing or not,’ murmured Quintus.

But Severus heard and threw back his head in a bark of laughter that was not wholly solicitous. ‘Hah! She’ll not be willing, I can promise you that. She’s the most unwilling wench I’ve ever … no … I should not say any more. I can see the idea of carting her off down to Aquae Sulis doesn’t exactly thrill you to the core, does it?’

‘I would rather convey a raging bullock, sir, if you wouldn’t mind.’

‘Unfortunately, that would not be quite so effective, Quintus. You going down there tomorrow happens to fill the bill perfectly. Besides, between you and me, I would rather my son was denied access to her. His manner of dispatching captives lacks finesse, I find.’

Quintus nodded, being too diplomatic to speak out loud on the sensitive issue of Caracalla’s disgraceful behaviour, even towards his own brother. ‘And the other business, sir? The tax fraud?’

‘That must be investigated thoroughly, once you reach the spa,’ said Severus. ‘The tax officials are expecting you, and they’ll give you all the assistance you need. You’ll have plenty of time for the healing and rest. No hurry. I want you to come back refreshed and ready for duty.’

Privately, Quintus saw his recuperation being gnawed away by a package of extra duties he’d hoped to be spared, the notion of being refreshed growing dimmer by the hour. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘Any instructions about the woman?’

‘Oh, her! Well, she’s apparently known as a princess, according to the maid, so she’ll certainly regard you as an inferior, Quintus. Very high status.’

‘Hmm! Does she understand our tongue, sir?’

‘So far, we haven’t had a word from her in any tongue, but I think she has a fair understanding of what’s being said. You can take her along as your slave, if you wish, or you may prefer to sell her to a merchant when she’s fulfilled her purpose. It’s up to you. You’d get a good price. She’ll have knowledge of cures and such. These tribal women often do, you know. She might even be quite useful to you, but just get her away from here. Far away.’

Quintus was puzzled. Where was the catch? There had to be one. ‘Would she be of no use to the Lady Julia Domna?’ he said, grasping at straws.

‘No,’ said Severus, irritably. ‘None at all.’

‘Does she ride, sir?’

The frown disappeared as the Emperor passed the scroll to Quintus and scratched into his curling beard. His white bushy brows, stark against the dark skin, lifted and lowered in time to the opening and closing of his mouth; Quintus saw that he’d been about to say something else about the captive before thinking better of it. He began to shuffle through a pile of scrolls, quickly losing interest. ‘On that score I have no suggestions to offer,’ he said, callously. ‘You may have to drag her there by the hair. Have you ever had the pleasure of trying to make one of these tribal women do something they don’t want to?’

‘No, sir. Not yet.’

‘Well, then, I have high hopes of you, lad. If a Tribune of equestrian rank can’t do it, I shall eat one of my socks.’

‘Only one, sir?’

Severus kept on shuffling. ‘Only one.’ He smiled. ‘Get somebody to take you down there. And don’t let me hear the rumpus.’

Quintus bowed. ‘Do we know her name, sir?’

The Emperor looked up with an unusually blank stare. ‘Damned if I know,’ he said. ‘See if the maid will tell you.’

No matter what standard of accommodation the captive had been given, it would not have found favour with her, for the heavy door was locked, confining her to four walls and depriving her of every Brigantian woman’s right: freedom. The room was, in fact, generous as prisons go, plastered walls, red-tiled floor, a barred window above head height, a low wooden sleeping-bench with a few blankets. That was all, apart from heaps of broken earthenware in the corners and one whole pottery beaker towards which one skinny arm was waving in the hope of attracting attention.

‘Please,’ a faint voice whispered. ‘Please?’

The bench had been pulled up below the window with the curled-up body of a young maid lying motionless at one end, covered with a rich cloak. Trying not to stand on her, her regal mistress of the Briganti tribe balanced on the tips of her toes to see out of the window where the spring sun beamed between scudding clouds, showing her that she was facing home, miles away to the north of Eboracum. The princess, a tall slender woman of twenty-two summers, swayed dangerously as she let go of the bar with one hand to look down at the poor waif. ‘Wait,’ she whispered.

The movement made her dizzy and faint, her legs trembling with the effort of reaching up, her usual robust energy sapped by hunger. Warily, she began her descent, clenching her teeth, commanding her feet to tread where they would do no further damage. In mid-step, she let go of the window-bar as the echoing rattle of a key in the door held her, poised and swaying like a reed, narrowing her eyes in anger at the intrusion. Every time the guard brought food, she was aware of the room’s appalling smell of unwashed bodies, rats, sickness and despair, the very idea of eating almost turning her stomach.

But this time, the armour-plated guard stood back to allow a stranger to enter, a tall white-clad man, obviously an official, who frowned at the sight of the young woman in the belted green tunic with a head of bright copper-coloured hair some way above his, glowing like a halo with the sun behind it. Her lips parted, then closed again quickly. The angry expression remained.

Years of discipline held Quintus’s initial reaction where it would not show, yet his eyes faced the sun and the captive Brigantian caught that first fleeting glimpse of shock before the haughty lids came down like shutters. Clearly, he would have preferred it if she’d been on his level, or even lower, but he took the opportunity her position afforded him to take in the intricately woven green-and-heather plaid, the borders of gold-thread embroidery, the tooled leather shoes and patterned girdle. There was heavy gold on her wrists and neck, a wink of red garnets through the hair, and the cords that wrapped her thick plait were twisted with glass beads from the Norse countries, cornelians and lapis from the other side of the world.

Pretending to ignore her perilous position, Quintus glanced round the room. ‘What’s been happening here?’ he said to the guard, indicating the broken pottery.

‘Her food, sir,’ said the man, expressionless. ‘Everything I bring in gets thrown against the wall. The rats like it well enough.’

‘How long?’

‘Since she set foot in the place, sir. The maid’s ready to pack it in, by the look of things. All she gets is water. Tyrannical, I call it, sir.’

‘Seven … eight days?’

‘Aye, sir. Look ‘ere.’ The guard pointed to his bruised cheek. ‘She threw a bowl at me. They can starve for all I care.’

‘That’s what you get if you don’t wear your helmet,’ Quintus said, dismissively. No wonder the Emperor wants rid of her, he thought. He’d not want her death here in Eboracum. Miles away, perhaps, but not here under his roof. Another glance up at the captive’s face, however, alerted him to the probability of that fate if something was not done immediately to reverse it. She was swaying dangerously, her eyes half-closed in pain.

‘Come down,’ he said, sternly. ‘Take my arm. Come on.’

The guard looked dubious. ‘She’ll not let you touch her, sir.’

But the stern command had reached through a cold haze as if from a long way away, and the hand she put out to steady herself touched something firm and warm that supported her, keeping her from falling. Not for the world would she willingly have allowed any Roman to touch her, nor would she have touched one, but now she found herself being placed carefully upon the floor and helped to sit unsteadily beside her maid’s feet that stuck out from beneath the gold fringe of a cloak. Seated on the edge of the bed, she felt her head being pushed slowly down between her knees in a most undignified manner.