The Princess and The Pirate

Jacqueline squirmed in the hay, biting at her gag. The man in the cart with her hadn’t stopped caressing her helpless feet. The entire, bumpy, itchy ride was almost unbearable. Every irritation she attempted to soothe only resulted in more hay-related agony. It poked her eyes and jabbed her skin.

Again, she tried kicking his hands away but he only made her legs still again.

“No no no,” he warned her softly and then went silently back to rubbing.

The Princess just hit her head against the wall of the buggy, almost driven mad by the situation.

The hay wagon approached a populated road. Toll guards stood watch, torches warming and lighting their station.

“Whoa there, farmers,” one said, holding his gloved hand up, “Toll is two gold pieces and an inspection.”

“Two gold pieces! It’s robbery, is what it is,” said the grimy driver, shuffling into his satchel for the funds.

Two more guards lazily walked to the back of the cart.

“You don’t want to go back there, mate,” chimed a passenger cautiously, “Our friend had too much to drink.”

Jacqueline felt her feet crammed into the hay and a heavy mass suddenly occupied all the space above her. She was crushed down to the bottom against the rough, salty wood floor.

The guards just chuckled and laughed, perhaps remembering their own inebriated times. “I hear that, brother!”

They lifted the canvas and found a large man, naked from the waist down, pants around his ankles, sleeping. He was sweaty, hairy, dirty, and snoring atop a huge harvest of hay. Empty jugs of liquor lay strewn within the shallows of the straw pile.

Jacqueline whined, but was drowned out by the nasally snoring of her current keeper.

Both guards curled backwards, appalled by the sight of the vulgar, filthy day-laborer’s manhood just hanging out for the world to judge. They quickly dropped the canvas, bee-lining back to their station.

“Their load is fine.” They called out, paler than they were before the wagon arrived.

The leader rolled his eyes and looked up to the driver. “What kind of horse is this?” he said, motioning to the sad swayback dragging their goods.

“Uh, a grey one?” The man holding the reins said, confused.

“Well, the toll is three gold pieces; for the old grey horse tax,” he said, leaning his arm on the hilt of his sword.

The driver looked the guard up and down. The absolute nerve! “What? That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It’s four pieces now, for wasting my time,” the guard replied more sternly, “Or me and my men can toss you for more.”

The two soldiers stood up, seemingly to find their resolve.

“Are you extorting us? US?” The driver said, appalled at the notion. Just before he was about to press forward, or go straight into a fist versus sword brawl, his comrade elbowed him.

“Brother, just pay the man. We really can’t afford to get tossed,” he said with a soft nudge.

Flaring his nostrils, the driver slowly dropped four pieces into the man’s hand. “It’s for the good of Rocqueburne, is it not?” He sneered and snapped the horse to go forward.

Smiling, the leader held the coins in his fist and gave a small wave to the group. “Have a fantastic night, gentlemen!”