Even the nobles call her the Ice Queen. Nineteen years old, spoiled, bored,
arrogant and corrupted absolutely by absolute power. Dressed in the finest
fashions, imported at shocking expense by steamship and clipper. Today Her
Majesty is trying and failing to amuse herself at the expense of a nobleman
from Burgundy. He is advised by the effete and dissolute Royal Chancellor
that today Her Majesty requires a slight addition to the usual court
protocol of kneeling at her feet. Today she requires that all visitors kiss
her shoes. "If you are really lucky she may even deign to let you lick them
clean." leers the Chancellor before taking another sniff of whatever strange
herb it is currently fashionable to be addicted to.
The Burgundian approached on his knees. This is his first time at court and
he is naturally nervous- no-one wants to lose their head over a slip in
protocol. He was warned that Her Majesty requires gifts before she will even
listen to a petition, so he has come prepared. After the bizarre ritual of
kissing her shoes, he offers her the two gifts that he has scrimped and
saved for months to purchase. He has dressed in his finest coat and his
servants polished his shoes and buckles for hours. She looks at the large
gemstone with something approaching disgust. She doesn't bother to look at
him at all.
"A gemstone. Purple. I'm not wearing purple. It's big enough I suppose" (it
was the largest in all of France) "but I think it has flaws. Don't you think
it has flaws, Chancellor?" The chancellor lazily extracts his hand from
somewhere in the depths of a lady in waiting, straightens his surcoat and
pronounces "Undoubtedly, your Majesty. Surely your keenest perception has
seen through this flim-flam. It might even be construed as an insult." He
has not even glanced at the stone- his eyes are still fastened upon the
dishevelled lady-in-waiting's bust.
"Well, the next present had better be better or I'll have you kicked off
The Burgundian gulps, since he's already in danger of losing his lands to
the legal machinations of his cousin's lawyers. He offers an exquisite box,
crafted by the best artist in Italy and filled with Italian pearls. It had
been his mother's, god rest her soul.
"A box. A box of pearls. Small pearls."
The Burgundian's heart is suddenly in his throat.
"I've had enough of this. Chancellor, take him away. You can have some fun
with him if you like." The Burgundian is sufficiently strong willed to go to
his doom with his head held high.
The Queen is left alone in the throne room. What to do? Dally with a strong
guardsman? Dull. Go and watch the Chancellor have his fun? Icky. Go and
shoot something? Too much effort. She sits and fiddles with her white
leather gloves. Then an idea comes to her and she calls for a scribe.
"Take this down. By Royal Order, all nobles in the Kingdom are demanded to
present Her Royal Majesty with oooh let's see at least a thousand gold
sovereigns on the feast of Saint Michael or be stripped of rank and title
and publicly whipped." That should get enough gold to buy some fun from down
in Egypt, and if the poor ones couldn't pay it would be mildly amusing to
watch them grovel. She signed the letter and handed it to one of her elite
The order was proclaimed by the town criers across the kingdom.
For the nobles who had sworn fealty to her, it was the last straw. Two weeks
later, on the feast of St. Michael, a small band of the nobles arrived at
the castle, dressed in their most formal and flouncy waistcoats and long
coats. They were wheeling a large old fashioned hand cart. The bored guards
waved them through, rifles propped up against the walls and probably not
even loaded. The Chancellor, lounging against the throne room door as a new
lady in waiting's head energetically pumped up and down at his crotch,
merely said "The Nobles" and waved them through.
The queen was a bit surprised at the hand cart, but then she supposed there
was a lot of gold there. They whipped off the covers... to reveal a pile of
rifles and rapiers! The queen recoiled, tried to flee as the men grabbed the
weapons and set about the hated Royal Guards with considerable enthusiasm.
The chancellor, his mind on lower things, was subdued by a single blow of a
rapier's pommel as the first gunshots sounded. As the gore began to flow,
the men rounded on the Ice Queen, hiding behind the throne. One good slap
from her father's most trusted advisor sent her to her knees.
So what the hell do we do now? We've all broken our solemn oath of fealty."
"One of us could take the throne. But I'll die before I let it be you, and
you'll die before you let it be me. It'll tear the Kingdom apart, and that's
the last thing it needs after two years under the Ice Queen."
"I can't BELIEVE you are doing this! Oathbreakers! Scum! I'll have you all
flayed and boiled in oil!"
"Oh, somebody please shut her up? Thank you."
"We could have an election, a parliament like in England. Or a select group
The nobles continued their conference as the Queen struggled, bound to her
throne. When they reached a conclusion, they turned and looked at her.
"Yes, but she'll have to go. Otherwise we'll have royalist rebellions for
"I will not be party to her death. Her father was a good friend of mine, and
I will not see her executed for political expediency."
"We could try her."
"A court. Try her for her excesses. We could even do it here and now.
Military court, or we'll be up to our necks in lawyers for years."
The sentence was handed down. A hundred lashes, the torture of the boiling
wax (because it had always been her favourite for minor infractions by
nobles, and most of them had suffered it) and permanent exile.
She was hauled off to the rooms so favoured by the now ex-Chancellor. Better
to do it while the blood was still surging, before they lost the nerve.
Revolutions never work if you stop to think about them.
Stripped naked for the punishment, just as each of the nobles had been, the
Ice Queen was bound by cuffs so that the whole of her delicious body was
available to the torturer. The torturer (who the nobles bore no grudge- hard
to find a good torturer, no need to waste one) rubbed his hands together in
glee. It's not often one of your most powerful fantasies comes to life.
The drips of scarlet wax started on the soles of her bare feet. The soles
are exquisitely sensitive, yet tough enough to suffer no lasting harm. Then
on to the hands, one of the most awful places to have searing wax dripped.
Not too hot, not hot enough to scar or burn, just hot enough to sting beyond
all endurance. She screamed and hollered, but no harm would be done.
The torturer brought the candle closer. The shorter the distance the was
fell through the air, the less time it had to cool. As she just began to get
to be able to bear the sting, the candle would move a few inches closer and
she'd be hollering and screaming again.
Then the torturer started to drip wax onto her breasts.